where i go, will you still follow?
“Brother!” Ororo cries as she throws her arms around him. Her blush pink robe flutters behind her, the silk shimmering in the sunlight. Her skin smells fresh with lavender soap. Remy pulls her in close, welcoming the strength of her hug.
“Hiya, Stormie.” He plants a kiss on her cheek. She swats at him for the nickname.
“Your children are a menace. You let them choose the music? I thought we would never get anything done.”
He laughs. “They probably thought they could jerk you around.” She chuckles with him, brushing her ivory hair out of her face. She’s beautiful in the cold morning light; she’s always beautiful, but the pale sunlight halos her like a Henry Tanner painting. When she speaks, a small scar shimmers where it runs from her collarbone to the base of her throat.
“How was your trip?”
He shrugs, adjusting his bag. “Family’s family. Got things worked out.” She leans against the kitchen counter.
“I miss anythin’ fun ‘round here?” He asks.
She fiddles with the coffee maker, taking a long time to pour her cup.
“Oh, nothing much. Scott fractured his ankle falling down the stairs, he’s fine though. My slipper orchid bloomed, Logan came back, Jubilee nearly set fire to the house…” She arches her brow at him as she trails off.
“Jube’s just takin’ after ol’ Gambit,” is all he says to that, ignoring Ororo’s pointed look. He pulls his bangs out of his face, then curses himself for it. An idle fidget like that is exactly what Ororo is looking for.
Ororo hums. “Well, you owe me, brother. Next time the Professor needs a chaperone, I’m sending you in my steed.” He fakes offense, but gives her a dramatic wave as he climbs the stairs.
“Hi Remy!” Jean calls as she rushes past him, arms piled with papers and folders. Her hair flies out behind her as she takes the steps two at a time.
“Hey, chere.” The door to his room is ajar, and he shivers. Damn heating must’a kicked out again. Setting his bag on his bed, he lets out a weary sigh. Pain shoots through his back as he leans forward to tug his boots off, and it gets so bad he takes a second to flop back onto the bed before continuing. Really, Remy’s not that old. Thirty four is hardly an old man. But the cold must be getting to him because his eyelids feel like lead. He shucks off his coat and old t-shirt, runs his hands over his arms to soothe the goosebumps. Remy really doesn’t have clothes suited for this weather, despite how long he’s lived in New York. But the sweater he stole from Kurt is still in his closet so he burrows into that after procuring a new shirt.
Sitting back down on the bed, he thinks about letting the weariness take over. It’s Saturday, which means he could leave all the built-up grading waiting for tomorrow. He leans back, letting his head roll in vain to get some of the knots out. The Professor had needed him in Chicago for another undercover mission, but as soon as it was wrapped up, his pere called. The assassins wanted a meeting, and he’d wanted Remy there. The three days in New Orleans were mostly spent greeting his extended family and some trusted thief families. He’d never kissed ass so much in his life. It was hardly a vacation, but at least he got a little time off.
And now, Logan is back. He’d stayed gone for the last week and a half of December, and hadn’t come around anytime in January. Jubilee was heartbroken he’d missed Christmas. To comfort her, and partially for his own sake, Remy’d taken her to the mall and the arcade and gave her all the quarters he had.
Apparently, the Professor actually had Logan working wherever he was, but Remy made it a point to leave the room whenever Logan was brought up. He didn’t need to dwell on the man anymore than he already did.
Because he did dwell on him- a lot. It was pretty embarrassing. Despite Logan’s words that night, Remy found his mind drifting. When they’d first reunited after Logan lost his memories, Remy occasionally indulged in the visions of the night they met. When they’d had time before the weather was clear enough to fly, so they’d holed up in Remy’s little apartment. God, feels like a century ago. Once it had cemented in Remy’s head that this Logan was a different man than the James he met, that night had faded to the back of his mind. Instead of their one night stand, Remy found himself preoccupied with far tamer ideas.
Logan resting his head on Remy’s lap so he could pet his cowlicks.
Logan with his feet up while Remy cooks him dinner; though Remy’s sure Logan might take issue with that. But the idea of him helping him cook, pressing Remy up against the sink like he had that night when they were making soup, is equally enticing.
The two of them, lounging in a dive bar in the backcountry, passing bourbon between them. Maybe taking another trip to New Orleans, where Remy could show Logan all his old haunts.
Remy scrubs a hand down his face, trying to wipe away the fantasies he’s concocted for himself. The ache is radiating through his calves, and there is a slowly building thudding in his head. Maybe he’ll regret it later, but he curls onto his side, not bothering to rest on the pillows and instead staying on the foot of the bed. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, so he lets his eyes slide closed. Drifting in and out of sleep, Remy’s vaguely aware of light spilling onto his face. He does his best to turn away from it, shielding his sensitive eyes. The light fades quickly, accompanied by the creaking of wood.
—-----
“-Which is why, this simulation will have us working in pairs. Jean and Storm, Gambit and Logan, and Rogue and myself. Once we’ve gotten a hang of it, we can switch.” Scott finally, finally lets them break off after his long ass lecture. This simulation really was not that different from any of the others they normally did. But Scott liked to believe he was creating cutting edge team building exercises, and Remy was too tired to neg him about it. He hadn’t talked to Logan any of the last week, with the man quickly darting off any time Remy entered a room. But fighting meant they didn’t have to talk, so there wouldn’t be any harm there. And this simulation had the pair fighting against each other and hunting each other down, which meant even less talking. Hopefully, it will be over soon.
Jean and Storm fought quickly and skillfully, with Storm coming out on top. And before he knew it, Logan and him were up. The Danger Room transformed into a forest, something that Remy thinks is a little unfair. But Logan always would have had the upper hand in this fight. The man was practically a bloodhound. They begin on opposite sides, and Remy quickly takes to the trees. They won’t help him too much once Logan really gets a lock on him, but they’ll let him have the high ground. Remy’s aware the branches beneath him are fake, but they creak with his weight as if he was in the oak tree in his childhood backyard.
Uncannily, the room is devoid of smell or breeze, except for the light odor of sweat that never truly leaves. While hopping from branch to branch, he pauses briefly to listen for Logan’s steps. He waits for a moment before snaking from one elm to another when he hears the snap of a twig. It’s far enough away, but Remy pauses his movements to listen. Logan doesn’t make as much noise as you’d think he would for a man with a metal skeleton, but Remy’s attuned his hearing to it over the past months.
He climbs higher into the trees, obscuring himself in the simulated leaves. Logan finally appears from the brush, scanning the ground level vegetation. He watches the man lift his head and scent the air. His head pops up, darting towards the tree Remy is hunching in. He prepares to reveal himself, but Logan quickly turns his head away. Logan’s footsteps stutter as he slowly moves in the opposite direction.
Taking his chance, Remy leaps down onto Logan, staff narrowly missing his head. Tumbling down to the floor, Logan’s skeleton makes a reverberating thud. Remy readies himself for Logan’s counterattack, lets charge pulse into his arms while Logan regains himself. But after staggering to his feet, Logan’s pursuing hit lands listlessly on Remy’s shoulder.
“You call that a punch, old man?” Remy taunts, knocking his staff against Logan’s knees. Logan says nothing aside from a grunt. They trade blows briefly, but Logan’s hits are soft and he moves like his feet are bricks. His claws stay beneath his skin, despite Remy’s constant mocking.
When Remy sweeps Logan’s legs out from under him for the second time, Scott calls it.
“Alright, Gambit wins on this one. Let’s all regroup, I’ll switch this next one up-”
“No,” Remy interrupts. Scott’s brows raise and he sputters momentarily.
“No, Gambit?”
“No, because Wolverine owes me a fair fight.” He wheels on Logan, watching his face twist in shock.
“The hell you mean, Cajun?”
Gambit forces himself into Logan’s space, tilting his head down to meet Logan’s face contorting in a snarl.
“You were pulling your punches, little man. C’mon, fight me.” While the others whisper, Remy pitches his voice low, “You say you wanna protect me? Prove it.”
Logan’s eyes are fierce and somewhere in the background Scott is saying something, but it doesn’t register. With their eyes locked, Remy feels as if Logan’s movements are his own; the draw of his arm registers in Remy’s muscles, watching the glistening skin. The hit to his sternum affects him two-fold, in the clench of Logan’s fist and in the shockwave through his ribs. His staff feels molten hot in his grip, rushing with blood and adrenaline as if it was part of him. He swings it towards Logan’s hips, feeling the energy thrum through it and into his lungs as it reverberates. The hit knocks him sideways enough for Remy to sucker punch him, letting kinetic energy pool in his knuckles like they’re back on the porch that cold night. The energy leaves his fist wrapped in warmth. Logan rushes him, pushing him back into his teammates who have gathered around them. Remy quickly leans back into the simulated foliage when he hears a sharp snkt!
“There he is!” He cries manically while charging his cards. The first two Spades Logan is able to slash with his claws, but a King of Hearts escapes his motion. The blow hits him squarely in the face, tearing holes in his skin. Blood begins to cascade down his face, trailing into intricate lace patterns. The storm blue of his eyes peeks between the lattice, partially obscured.
With a roar, Logan swipes for Remy. He makes for the trees, trying to gain the high ground but a claw catches his stomach. Remy feels it give way before he feels a new heat in his gut, accompanied by a bolt of pain. Logan’s claw glimmers with Remy’s blood, dripping down the appendage and onto the pulse of Logan’s wrist.
For a moment, time suspends, leaving them breathing raggedly. Logan’s gaze flits to Remy’s hand, and when he follows the burning gaze he sees Logan’s blood flooding the divot of Remy’s lifeline. The heat of the blood is barely recognizable to Remy, who feels like he’s burning up. Sweat pools under his cowl and crawls down his arms. Feverish cells gather deep in his gut, feeling not like butterflies but like cicadas, howling with desire. A bead of sweat slips between his thighs and it reminds him none too gently about the hardness of his dick. He briefly looks down to find Logan’s still lodged in his stomach, where he’s sure his lust is about to seep out with his blood and onto the floor for everyone to see.
The moment is broken when Logan’s breathing hitches with his eyes never leaving the river of crimson. Remy is disappointingly reminded of their audience, so he takes the moment to uppercut Logan, bursting with energy. The force knocks him back enough for them to uncouple, but they only leave a few seconds apart before they connect again, fists to the jaw and temple. Blood pools behind his molars, spilling out of the corner of his mouth as he throws taunts he’s not even aware of saying. Logan claws catch the tip of his bangs, ginger hair shredded before his eyes. As Remy is about to charge his staff, something catches his shoulder, digging into his duster. He snarls at being pulled away from Logan, from the fight. In his tunnel vision, Logan is making the same motion, pulling his lips back to bare his fangs. But he catches a flash of umber skin, and he realizes Stormy is holding him back. He draws in a bloody, stuttering breath. Adrenaline pulses throughout his body, muffling the exhaustion that he knows he’ll feel later.
Ororo might be saying something to him, in her voice like cold river water, but there’s too much thudding in his head. God, I just want Logan back, is the only thing he can think with clarity. His staff clatters to the ground the same moment Logan withdraws his claws.
Slowly, Scott’s voice filters back into his hearing.
“What the hell is wrong with you two?” He cries, brows pinched behind his visor.
“Remy, let me look at your wound,” Ororo whispers, sweeter than she should be to him. His hands feel numb but he waves her off, mumbling something unintelligible. Logan is panting, his whole body shifting with the force. Their eyes meet and no one says anything as Remy swiftly escapes the room.
—---
“It’s strange to find you out here, Gambit. Have you taken a liking to the cold finally?” Charles chuckles as he rolls out onto the porch.
“Yeah, you know, Chicago made me a changed man,” he jokes, ashing his cigarette. A lone ember catches the wind and dances away, before quickly extinguishing.
“You missed dinner. Are you feeling alright?” Remy tenses. He doesn’t like this game Charles plays, where he acts like he doesn’t know what's wrong.
“C’mon, Professor. No need for this,” he voices, letting his eyes lock onto a rustle in the bushes.
Charles huffs a little. “You know, I hardly ever read your mind. It causes a bit of a headache to get in there, not to mention I value your consent. But I am not blind. You and Logan nearly killed each other today, after you have grown so close recently.” Remy doesn’t move his eyes from the distance. He can see something moving around in there, but it hasn’t shown itself.
“Ain’t nothing anyone can do about it.” He hopes it's enough of an admission that Charles will let it go.
Charles coughs a little, and Remy realizes his cigarette has been burning down to the filter. He stubs it on his boot and stuffs it in his pocket. He thinks maybe Charles will just sit out here with him, waiting for the creature in the bushes to emerge, but of course, he speaks again.
“Logan has always had a hard time connecting with the team. I was shocked that you were amicable enough to go to New Orleans together.” Remy can’t help but smile. His daddies had asked about Logan when he saw them, which was rare for them. They hadn’t even learned the name of the last boy Remy brought around. He covers his mouth with his hand, trying to hide the grin. “But now, you can hardly stand to be in the same room. If I may ask, what happened?” The smile slides off his face. Unbidden, Remy feels his eyes burn a little. It hadn’t been long ago that Remy had brought Logan to meet his parents.
“I-,” he says before cutting himself off. He debates even saying anything. But he hasn’t told anyone about what has been going on between Logan and him. Because, honestly, what has been happening? The closest they’d gotten physically was at his parent’s house, or when Logan had put him to bed on Halloween. Everything else was just… suspicion. Remy’s good at reading people, could be better if he let his shields down, but Logan’s so different from everyone else. That night after their mission, Logan had been reaching out to him, only to pull back as soon as Remy tried the same. It was infuriating.
“I didn’t think you’d stoop to dealing with relationship issues,” is what he finally decides on. Charles barks out a laugh.
“I would think you would have guessed I am well versed in the subject by now, thanks to Scott and Jean.” Remy startles and looks at the Professor, who has a smirk close to shit-eating on his face. “Nothing you can say will surprise me much, Remy. I promise.” So he really couldn’t get out of this now.
Maybe it’ll do him some good. Lay out all the weirdness and ways that any relationship between them would go wrong so he can put it to rest.
“He got pissed at me, after I got blinded. I guess I didn’ really know he’d give a shit.” Remy sighs. “We had some words wit’ each other. I’m not one to hold grudges, ‘specially against Logan cause otherwise I’d never talk to the man. But today, he was goin’ easy on me. He’s been bolting outta every room I walk into and now he’s goin’ easy on me?” Charles hums while he taps his fingers idly on the armrest of his chair.
“And you two were…?”
Remy groans and threads his fingers through his hair. The motion draws his stitched stomach wound, but the pain hardly registers. This whole thing is stupid. “Non. Not at all. I suppose I just thought we could be. But Logan’s made it clear what he thinks about me.”
“Which is…?” Charles prompts.
“That he’s gotta be my goddamned babysitter in the field. Told me I needed “protection”. He ain’t know a thing about me.”
Charles laughs a little, which makes Remy cock a brow in his direction. Charles is about the same age as Remy’s fathers, yet they could not look more different. Jean-Luc is broad and strong, with sun-aged skin like a date. Lazare can pass for younger, but his hands are weathered with sun spots and scars. Charles, on the other hand, seems to have aged untouched by sun or storm, based purely on his complexion alone. The soft, cactus green corduroy suit he wears now is nothing that either of the senior LeBeau’s would ever wear. However, the laugh Remy just received is near identical to Jean-Luc’s ten years ago, when Remy had bemoaned his first boyfriend to him.
“Logan, I believe, is the most enigmatic man I’ve ever met. While, again, I would never read the mind of someone who was unwillingly, sometimes I… overhear thoughts. With your mutation’s static disturbance, this never happens. But Logan’s thoughts are quite loud. From what I’ve gathered, his need to protect is far less about the competence of his teammates, and much more about his need for absolution. He believes that because he was forged into a weapon, he must instead prevail as the shield.” Charles clicks his tongue in a perfect impression of a disapproving mother. Maybe it’s not really an impression. Remy parses over his words, working a card across the back of his hand in an effort to make sense of them.
“Don’ mean he has to be an ass ‘bout it,” Remy finally mumbles, not having the wherewithal to feel embarrassed about his hurt feelings. Charles laughs, loud and bold.
“You are not the first to say so,” he says through chuckles. “I believe he could do many things without being ‘an ass’ about it.”
“I don’ think we can get back to where we were,” Remy admits, the words getting caught in his throat.
Charles sets a warm hand on his shoulder, and Remy looks up at him.
“You should not strive to go back in time, son. Think, instead, of the future you could have with him.” Remy shakes his head, distraught at the notion. He never thought in those terms: a future, one with him and Logan bonded not just by the obligations of the Team and the movement.
“I know the perils of being caught in the past. I implore you not to make the same mistakes.”
—-----
Remy looks like a damn vision, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows and a pendant dangling from his neck. His hair is pulled back in a spiky ponytail, shorter than the last time Logan saw him, really looked at him. It hasn’t been easy to keep that ruby gaze the past couple of weeks. Two strips of hair hang in his face like drapes above a stained glass window. Warm firelight shines on him as he lights the stove burner, muttering a soft song under his breath. It sounds familiar, but Logan’s sure that’s because Remy’s hummed it before.
Logan swallows and pretends to focus on the condensation on his beer bottle. Kurt and Jubilee parse over their checkers board, both intently staring at the chips. They’ve been kind enough to let Logan watch, though they did not appreciate his commentary. Now though, with them locked in a battle of wits, Logan finds himself looking towards Remy every few seconds. Their eyes nearly meet, and Logan feels the back of his neck heat up when Remy’s gaze lingers on him. Jesus Christ. Despite himself, he thinks about what Adam said. “If he’s stuck around this long he’s seeing something in you.” How could he have been so blind to it? How could he have let it slip away? His grip on the bottle becomes near shattering, evidenced by the crack that runs through the amber glass.
With a grunt, he leaves the bottle on the table and gets up. He feels Kurt’s eyes on him as he pushes out the porch doors to the backyard. He glances at the spot he would normally inhabit, with Remy next to him, and heads to round the corner of the house. His pocket sits heavy with his cigars, and with the lone cardinal carving he’s been dragging around since the cabin. The bird has become both more detailed while remaining the same, still wingless but now having carefully crafted feathers.
He wears away at the crest, listening to the distant song of the Long Island Sound. Out in the water, he can hear the twist and pull of kelp meadows in the waves. A gust of wind brings the taste of salt. The Atlantic smells different than the Pacific. The North Atlantic carries air from the Gulf, warm and sunny, and a cocktail of minerals thick enough to bottle. But the North Pacific brings with it the cold of the wide ocean, with kelp and brewing storms on the edge of the scent. Logan may be able to find the finer details of the scents, but even non-mutants can tell the difference. It might be just a feeling to them, but some things run deeper than biology.
His eyes slip closed, remembering his time in Japan and Washington, watching the waves crash against the cliffs. Miles apart, and in both places he watched whales breach and a dazzling array of sea creatures emerge from the waves.
“You falling asleep without me, cher?” Remy’s voice cuts clear through the night, each word delicately pronounced like he’s reading off a paper. Between his fingers dangles a cigarette. Logan runs his tongue over his bottom lip in an effort to conceal his shocked expression. Remy leans next to him, one hand hooked in his jean pocket and the other bringing the cigarette to his mouth. Logan watches his throat bob as he takes a drag and finally gains the wherewithal to look away. He sneaks a glance back towards Remy, who’s staring out at the rest of the land. He’s pulled Kurt’s red sweater over his shirt, making the collar frumpled and bent.
“Not, uh… busy cooking?” Logan’s voice is grating compared to the night and Remy’s melodic words.
“Kurt insisted on takin’ over. Thought it might be good to let Jubilee have a hand at dinner for once.” Logan nods, running his fingernail over the seam of his sleeve.
“What are you carving?”
Logan looks down at the cardinal in his head, letting his fingers unfurl so Remy can see.
“It’s not very good. Can’t ever seem to get the wings right.”
Remy hums. Logan feels face warm at the dismissal and he quickly pockets the bird. Despite the cold night air, a pearl of sweat slides down his neck and under his collar. The silence is oppressive while Logan waits for the bite of Remy’s words.
His nail digs deeper into the seam of his jacket, focusing on how the denim slides along the callus of his fingertip. A glance towards Remy reveals his pinched brow and eyes pointed straight ahead. Logan inhales, trying to clear the anxiety from his chest, but only succeeds in catching Remy’s smoke and cardamom scent. Remy clears his throat and Logan’s nail tugs on the seam, steadying himself for the man’s words.
“I missed you.”
What the fuck?
He whips his head to look at him, but Logan heard no skip in his heartbeat or change in his scent. Moonlight pools in the space between the apex of his cheekbones and his eyes.
“Remy-,”
“You were an ass. You’re always an ass. But I ain’t gonna lie to you.” He takes another drag.
“I didn’t think you’d ever talk to me again,” he murmurs once Remy goes quiet. The feeling of cutting through the skin on Remy’s ribs is fresh in his mind. “You shouldn’t be. After everything.”
Remy exhales heavily, before pushing through a cloud of smoke to start down the small, worn path in the grass. He doesn’t look back to see if Logan is following, but he falls into step quickly. The grass is wet with budding frost, sticking to their boots like cobwebs, leaving a starry splatter on the leather.
Logan watches the sway of Remy’s ponytail while trying not to trip over himself. Remy’s long strides are leading them towards one of the coves, one that’s a bit too rocky for proper beach fun. Logan used to fish down there before Scott broke his pole in an act of revenge. Wind whistles past them as they make their way into the cove, Remy deftly scaling the rocks towards the ocean.
“You goin’ for a swim?” He calls ahead, watching Remy edge closer and closer to the water.
Remy throws a smile over his shoulder, teeth glinting in the light. He pauses to lean against a rock, beginning to peel his boots off. Logan comes to sit next to him, pulling his lower lip between his teeth while he watches.
“Remember that whale we saw on that field trip?” Remy questions. Logan hums in affirmation. “I’ve been wishing I’d see one again. But Stormy said they’d be down south by now. Maybe in the summer, when they come back.” He doesn’t give Logan time to respond, just rolls up his pants, striding into the surf. Logan balks. The water must be four degrees (Celsius, of course) at this time of the year. Logan’s never known Remy to go in anything under 12.
“C’mere, carcajou.” His voice sings through the crash of the waves. He pulls the tie from his hair, letting the wind blow through the auburn strands. Logan clumsily removes his boots, too entranced by the picture Remy makes to look at what his hands are doing. Even in the moonlight, he’s draped in shadows, but Logan’s night vision allows him to see the cut of his nose, slant and regal, and the line of his throat. He admires the muscle connecting his neck and his shoulder, thinks about the lean body that lies beneath the shirt. If he wasn’t standing before Logan’s eyes, he might mistake him for a mermaid or a trick of night. He doesn’t bother rolling up his pants as he follows Remy into the water.
Together they watch the rise and fall of the ocean’s breath, the ripple of the moon through the waves. Despite the frigid water soaking his calves, Remy’s breathing is steady next to him. Logan thinks of dinner back at the house, of Jean and Scott. But nothing could make Logan move at this moment.
“I’m sorry.”
The words hang despondently in the air, souring the moment, Logan’s sure. He doesn’t look at Remy, but he feels Remy look at him.
“I didn’t mean what I said, any of it. I just-,” the words get caught in his throat. “I can’t lose you, Rems. And people don’t stay in one piece around me.” His nostrils flare as he takes a breath of the Sound, smelling a cold front, a young school of fish beneath the waves, the changing winds.
Remy’s calloused fingers brush the inside of his wrist. Logan can’t bring himself to look, so instead he revels in the feeling.
“People ain’t stick around me for too long either, homme. But you can’t prevent anything by pushing us away, you know that.” Logan’s disagreement bubbles up in his throat, but Remy’s soft clasp on his wrist stops him. “At the very least, let a grown boy make his own choices, alright? Gimme that courtesy.” The sentence is pointed and the kind of jibe that Logan has come to think of fondly. So he lets it go. He can’t quite agree with Remy, but he’s right. He can give him that courtesy.
“You, uh, gonna go swimming?” Logan asks after they stood in the lapping waves long enough that he can see his toes turning white.
Remy laughs and trails off into a giggle. “You ain’t getting me any deeper till May! Unless you’re taking another trip down South, then I could be persuaded.”
Logan coughs to cover his laugh. “Not a chance, Rems.”
Remy looks longingly at the horizon. His hair sits delicately on his collarbone, just barely brushing the bone.
“No, I just wanted to feel the water. My parents could hardly keep me out of it as a kiddie. Sometimes it helps, just to stand in it. It ain’t the Gulf, but it’s all the same water, in some way.” He pauses, drawing in a breath. Slowly, his grasp on Logan’s wrist travels down the back of his hand, curling onto the palm until he can slot their fingers together. “Gives me a little strength, you know? To know I ain’t really that far from home.” The warm tips of his fingers stretch ever so slightly to reach the dull, pink scars in between Logan’s knuckles.