So Much
by
Blue as a Cat
Disclaimer: They're not mine, wish they were, lovely characters. All done in Good Fun and no animosity intended for Marvel.
Author Note = Feed me back, please.
Oh, and the team listing is based on my own twisted literary needs, not any actual team. And I have no idea how high the mansion roof really is from the top of the steps.
So much darkness these days.
Of course, everything in the X-Men was 'so much' of something... exaggeration was a part of their lives, a curse and benefit of living on the fringe of society, of having these exaggerated bodies and abilities. Whatever one was, one was to excess.
Scott... so much clean-cut, so much leadership. Jean, so much perceptiveness, so much compassion. Storm, so much regal bearing, so much serenity. Hank, so much blue, so much size, so much scholarliness. Bobby, so much kid, so much joke. Warren, so much wealth, so much discontent. Kurt, so much flexibility, so much dash. Rogue, so much beauty, so much inherent deadliness. Hell, even himself, even Remy LeBeau... so much charm, so much mystery. So much insecurity.
Not one that the team would ever guess, that last. He was the sleek and sexy Gambit, the smoldering eyes and sultry accent, the daring master thief of jewels and hearts both. Going after whatever took his fancy and getting it too.
Except that some things you just can't take, no matter how much you want to.
Remy sighed. He fanned a deck of crisp cards in his right hand, closed them, fanned them again. Switched to his left and did the same. He snapped the cards with a practiced dexterity, the familiar motions merely acting as channels for his tumultuous thoughts to slide along. He shrugged his shoulders, resettling his trench coat against them. The bottom of the well-worn garment fell away from his sides and draped over the roof tiles like so much liquid flesh.
The night air was cool, the stars and moon were bright, the roof was quiet. But Remy was on fire, was wrapped in dark, was hearing nothing but thought-scattering bursts of noise.
As he sat out on the roof, a gentle *click* sounded out from somewhere below him, cutting through his cacophonous psychological chatter. It sounded like the mansion door closing, but no noise followed it. That wasn't right. If someone had come out of the door, there should be the little sounds of them going down the steps, moving across the grounds. Remy's naturally high levels of suspicion were aroused. Very carefully, he crept to the edge of the roof and peered over.
Ah, Dieu, just perfect. The reason for his mental turmoil, standing on the lawn just in front of the steps, having descended with such wonderfully natural stealth that even Remy's sensitive ears hadn't detected him. Stretching languorously in the moonlight, not a care in the world. He probably had already smelled Remy on the roof and, knowing it to be a habit, had undoubtedly already dismissed it from his mind.
Logan. So much of everything. So much power. So much masculinity. So much muscle. So much gruffness. So much wisdom. So much raw animal magnetism.
So much more than Remy could ever hope to have.
And causing so much pain. Because Remy could have so much, so many things, and the only thing he wanted was something he could never, ever have.
It wasn't because Logan didn't like men *that way*, although that certainly might seem true to someone just meeting him. Remy knew that Logan didn't much care about the gender of his partners, having been told so over a couple of cans of beer one night several weeks ago. It wasn't that Logan was unapproachably imposing, although he did manage to convey the impression that he was about ten seconds away from a berserker rage at all times. Remy was quite deadly too, in his own way, and Logan's barely restrained violence was something that Remy admired and appreciated, rather than the opposite.
No, it was because Logan was so much older than Remy, so much more self-contained, so much more wild in every aspect of his being. Remy was old before his time, having had a pretty rough ride of a life thus far, but still he felt like a child compared to Logan, who had lived through more than he ever wanted to. Compared to the rest of the X-Men, Remy was as close-mouthed and independent as anyone could get, but no matter how much he relied on himself alone, he still needed to be around other people. Had to be in the cities, had to feel the press of other minds against his own empathic one. He could never be like Logan, could never spend long stretches of time in the forest, completely at one with himself, completely content with never seeing anyone but himself.
And this was why he could never be with Logan in the only way he wanted. Because he wanted so much from Logan, and had nothing to offer.
Bon Dieu. Why did the man have to do his exercises on these moonlit nights? And why did he have to do them shirtless?
The light of the moon hit Logan's jet-black hair and shot off at angles, creating silver highlights, echoing the jet-black and silver of the star-studded night sky. The rounded tops of muscles glowed, while defined crevices dipped into shadow. Soft, loose black pants and bare feet made no noise as Logan went through the motions of some sort of Tai Chi. Corded muscles flowed through the difficult positions with so much feral grace that Remy felt himself relaxing just watching it, despite the pain he still felt somewhere in his chest at the sight of the magnificence below him and so much above him.
Logan worked through his routine smoothly, easily, never speeding up and never slowing down. His breathing, from what Remy could see, never seemed to vary, no matter how demanding the floating kicks and controlled leaps must have been. It was like watching the ocean lap at the shore... natural, restful, yet undeniably inexorable.
For hours Logan exercised. For hours Remy hung on to the edge of the roof, his entire world reduced to the observation of this perfection of form and motion below him. His own abilities allowed him to control and release kinetic energy, but he readily admitted that, in an elemental way, without having any power at all pertaining to it, Logan had so much more mastery of the thing than he did.
Finally, Logan completed his regime. He stretched luxuriously, hands on the small of his back just above the waistband of his pants, shoulders thrown back, head thrown back, chest straining out. His face, exposed throat, and convex torso made a sudden silver U in the night as the moon slid out from behind a momentary cloud.
He straightened back up, headed back up the stairs. Halfway up, he paused, head cocked thoughtfully to one side, eyes peering up through sleek black hair.
"Gonna stay out here all night, Gumbo?"
Remy froze into place. That *voice*... so much roughness, but so much gentle inquiry at the same time.
"Eh, why not? De roof, she real good t'dis po' t'ief."
"Hmm." Logan was still gazing up contemplatively. "Seems t'me like you got a Rogue waiting back in the house who'd be a whole lot better to ya."
Repressed memories of recent screams and the shatterings of small objects against walls flooded forcibly into Remy's mind.
"Rogue an' Remy... ah, mon ami, dat ain' such a good t'ing no more. Remy t'ink dat mebbe dis time it ain' goin' back t'good." Merde. He was speaking in the third person again. It always helped with unhappy thoughts that needed voicing, but he knew that Logan did not like it. Said it made Remy sound like he was trying to pawn his troubles off on someone else. Which, Dieu sait, he probably was.
Logan didn't comment, although he did allow a small huff to escape past his nose. His face, still turned upwards, was thrown into sharp relief, so much silver-white moonlight, so much velvet shadow. It was impossible to read his expression. His stance was relaxed, casual, obviously not uncomfortable despite his shirtlessness, shoelessness, and the night chill. His thumbs were hooked carelessly into his waistband, arms relaxed.
Remy shifted, pulling his legs up to his chest, carefully arranging his arms around them, letting his hands dangle nonchalantly, forearms resting on his knees, wrists crossed. Underneath the trench coat, he was still in uniform. Two fingers on each hand were encased in black leather, a couple of cards lightly held between these.
Seeing Remy settle in for the long haul, clearly not intending to leave the roof, the slightest of frowns danced across Logan's face, flitting away as quickly as one of the wispy clouds scudding across the moon. He unhooked his thumbs, swung his arms lightly back, and jumped.
Remy leaned back a little bit, startled. Logan leapt up easily, catching the lip of the roof and swinging himself up onto it, landing silently on bare feet, looking like nothing so much as a big cat. Remy had never seen anyone just hop up onto the roof, and if he had ever imagined anyone doing it, he would have imagined that some more visible effort was involved. But Logan had maneuvered up so swiftly and with such great ease that he seemed to defy gravity.
He sat down gracefully in front of Remy, his back to the edge of the roof, showing not the slightest fear of falling off. Remy found himself nearly shaking at so much close contact and forced his muscles into calmness. He realized that he had unconsciously charged up the cards in his hands, and he slowly reabsorbed the energy. Logan's face, momentarily illuminated by the pink glow, became unreadable once more in the intermittent moonlight.
After watching Remy regain control of his power, Logan simply sat. For a few agonizingly long minutes Remy was afraid that maybe Logan was going to sit there, silent, all night, staring at him with those eyes that looked like obsidian pits in this light, but which Remy knew, from long and wistful observation, to be so much icy blue.
Logan, however, had other means of communication. He sniffed in a meaningful way, getting Remy's absolute attention, and probably some nuances of emotion from his scent in these close quarters as well. The dark eyes widened slightly as Logan obviously sifted the subtle aromas that wafted off of Remy. Remy looked down at his hands, willing the cards to remain uncharged, afraid to meet those eyes. Now that Logan had plainly sniffed him out, he didn't think that there was much left to discuss.
A moment of very pregnant silence passed between the two men, Remy burning in shame and nervousness, Logan taking the opportunity to assimilate the new information. After another few minutes, Logan shifted and looked up. Remy, who had been tensely monitoring Logan's tiniest motions, risked a glance up from among strands of hanging auburn hair.
Logan was looking at him. Not with so much hatred, or with so much disgust... not with ardent, all-consuming love, either, but with so much gentleness and compassion that it was breathtaking. "Aw c'mon kid, what'd you think I'd do, bite you?"
Remy giggled nervously, risking a lift of his head so that he could look more directly, but still sidelong, at Logan. "Ain' never t'ought you was de type to take somet'in you didn' like quiet. An' dis... dis ain' somet'in you boun' t'like."
A lopsided grin, belied by the single pointed canine it revealed and the gruff tone. "I'll be the judge o'that, Cajun."
Was that... did that mean... was there even a possibility...? Remy almost didn't want to know the answer, didn't want to bludgeon down the sudden impossible hope that had risen in his chest. The hope that was almost immediately dampened anyways by the heavy memories of another judge, another case. "An' what... what does de judge say 'bout dis case here?"
The judge looked thoughtful. He leaned forward a little, about to say something, then stopped. Started again and stopped again. Looked pensively up at the silvered moon, shrugged, leaned forward yet more and grabbed Remy's face in a possessive, passionate kiss.
And then there was so much light.
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