Archive of Our Own ^beta

-5-

 

The first time Rogue kisses Remy, it knocks him out cold for five hours.

It’s hardly a kiss at all, just her lips mashed angrily against his in an attempt to catch him off guard in the Danger Room (it works, better than any of her hard punches or sharp comments-- it shuts him up and knocks him down and Christ, it’s embarrassing how easily she gets his feet out from under him).

He should have known better than to underestimate her, but never let it be said that Remy leBeau was any good at playing it safe. It had become something of a sick game in the past few months to see just how riled he could get her, just how far he could dig under her skin. He reveled in her reactions, each arch of her brow and roll of her eye a fascinating thing. For all that people claimed she was closed off, her emotions burned so close to the surface with the proper coaxing, and honestly, he couldn't be faulted for finding her annoyed expressions a little sexy. She was a pretty girl, after all, strong and fierce and so, so proud-- women like that had always been trouble for him. It was something of a thrill to have the entirety of her focus on him just for a moment, even if she was only trying to figure out the best way to get him out of her hair. Her brass and tenacity in that regard provided him no end of amusement, so he could hardly be blamed for paying her a little extra attention.

Privately, Remy figured Rogue could benefit from having someone challenge her, someone to step into her space and push her out of that safe, coddled place that his fellow X-men often put her in (in spite of her youth, her skin, and lonesome past, she was hardly a fragile thing). So much of her southern brass was wasted on teammates who refused to take the kid gloves off with her, afraid of doing or saying anything that might remind her of the failed Cure and the touches she could no longer have.

So he teased her. Flirted shamelessly with her. Called her bluff whenever possible. Did whatever he could to see that often-neglected spark of hers flare up with life.

Needless to say, Rogue did not seem to enjoy their little game as much as he did. She snapped at him, sent him glares that would have made the Wolverine proud, nearly broke his arm during their last spar when his hand had slipped someplace inappropriate (it was an accident, really, thief’s honor), swore up and down that if he didn’t stop calling her ma cherie she was going to knock his teeth in. It wasn’t like Remy had a lot of experience being rejected by women, especially not with such vehemence, but his pride was nothing if not resilient, and there was something to be said about how endlessly entertaining he found the girl’s feisty responses.

Of course, there was more to her frustration with him than met the eye. He wasn’t blind to the fleeting glances she’d send his way when she thought he wasn’t looking, or the way she’d blush when he got too far into her personal space. There were these moments when he could practically hear her heart skip a beat when he held her gaze for too long, ran a hand casually across her lower back, her body responding despite the way everything else around her remained firmly defiant. This tangible electricity that flared between them managed to give him some measure of comfort-- she wasn’t as unaffected as she’d like him to believe. The signs were small, rare, difficult to pin down, but Remy had once made a living seeing through better poker faces than hers. The tells were there, and he knew how to spot them.

Stupid and prideful as he was, he’d taken these rare little moments and built them into something to flatter his vanity. He had gotten it into his head that he had secretly endeared himself to her in spite of the way she never failed to reject his half-hearted advances, that his attention (while unwanted) made her stony little heart go pitter-pat behind the thick walls of her defenses. That deep down, beneath all of her snarls and glares and venomous threats was some measure of affection for him. He thought that if he ever wanted her, really wanted her, he could smile slowly and whisper into her ear and she would fold, giving in just like all of the others that had played hard to get, that fiery defiance of hers becoming pliant in his hands.

He really should have known better than to underestimate her.

She kicks with all of her strength and holds nothing back to spare him injury, catching him hard in the thigh at the perfect angle to make the muscle tense and cramp. She’s gotten much better at this over the past few months, her grueling training sessions with Logan finally starting to pay off, forcing him to actually put some effort into getting her pinned (truth be told, he’s impressed by her improvement, even if it means he walks out of their spars with sore muscles and far more bruises than he should for what the X-men consider ‘light training’).

He falls to the mats, but it’s all strategy-- he knows she’ll go in for the grapple, and her fierce determination is nothing compared to his experience and strength. For all that she’s improved, she is still young, still green, still open to beginners’ mistakes.

Rogue doesn’t disappoint, strong, slender arms locking around him in a cinch hold. It’s a textbook move, well-executed and punctuated by the way the heel of her boot is digging pointedly into his kidney, but Remy slips her hold easily and reverses their positions with the casualness of a pro. He’d bet money that Logan is muttering oaths under his breath from the observation booth, because Rogue is growling curses at him as she thrashes helplessly in his grip, arms pinned at her sides and legs scrambling for purchase on the mats.

“Give up, chere?” he can’t help but ask, and he knows that she can feel his triumphant smirk even though he’s got a good inch of space between his lips and her bare cheek.

She huffs out a breath, jerking hard in an effort to free one of her arms. Remy’s grip is firm and unyielding, and they both know there’s no way she’ll wriggle free. “Not on your life, swamp rat!” she hisses. A few white strands of hair have come loose from her ponytail and are sticking to her damp forehead-- she’s burnt out, exhausted from the effort of forcing him to the ground. He’s got this victory in the bag.

Of course, this is the point where he gets too cocky, starts toeing the line just to see what she’ll let him get away with, but this is not his biggest mistake. He dips his head as close as he dares to the exposed shell of her ear, exhaling a lungful of hot air against her skin just to feel her shiver. “Maybe you enjoyin’ de position we in too much to call de match, eh?”

Rogue stiffens in his arms and goes very, very still, the snap of her anger so tangible he can almost taste it. For a second, he wonders if he’s overstepped his boundaries with that last comment, pushed the limits of appropriateness too far, wonders if at any second the Wolverine will come barreling through the door to haul him off of his little protege by the scruff of his neck. However, the second stretches on, marked by the hoarse sounds of their labored breathing, and nothing happens to break the tension hanging thick around them.

If he were paying closer attention to the look on her face rather than the press of her body against his, he would have noticed the calculating furrow of her brow, the determined scowl forming on her lips. He should have known better, should have seen this coming (he always seems to forget just how dangerous she really is, because she’s not all talk and it was only a matter of time before she proved that to him). As it was, all he sees before she turns her head and catches his mouth with her own is the sharp flash of her green eyes (a spark flaring to life) and her lips are on his, chapped and sweet and unrelenting.

He has about point-five seconds until unconsciousness claims him and he sees nothing and all, but it’s point-five seconds too long because he closes his eyes and kisses her back without hesitation. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

This, of course, is his biggest mistake.

 

-4-

 

The second time Rogue kisses Remy, it doesn’t really happen because he is higher than a kite thanks to the morphine drip funneling drugs into the vein at the crook of his elbow. It’s probably the tamest fever dream he’s ever had-- she’s wearing her leather uniform, not some skimpy fantasy lingerie, covered from toes to neck and things don’t progress past kissing-- but something about the way her mouth curls against his is like a kick in the gut.

Because this is most certainly a dream, there’s no pinch and pull of her mutation and he can no longer feel the shattered bone in his leg when she pulls him to her, eyes bright with something warm and sweet and completely unlike anything he’s ever seen from her before. For Remy, the real Rogue has nothing but the sharpness of her ire and the coldness of her disinterest and the scalding heat of her anger. But here, buoyed by the soft cloud of painkillers, Rogue looks at him with the sort of honest affection he’d only ever wanted from Bella Donna (he doesn’t dare try to analyze this).

It’s possible that he’s never admitted just how often he’s thought about having her like this, though it’s never been in any serious capacity. She’s beautiful, that much is inarguable, with a tongue sharper than Logan’s claws and a fierceness that could make lesser men quake in their boots and damn if that doesn’t hit a few buttons of his, but Remy isn’t a complete fool-- it’s one thing to flirt and provoke, or even just to admire, but anything more than that was not a place Remy had ever wanted to go.

Of course, here in this warped dreamscape with her body pressed against his and her sighs so sweet in his mouth, he’s not exactly going to complain.

He cards his hand through her hair and marvels at its texture, brushes a thumb over the smooth arch of her cheekbone and indulges himself in its softness. At the back of his mind he knows he’s playing a dangerous game by giving into this fantasy, but Remy has never been good at denying himself anything, especially the things he should not have (there are many, many reasons why he should not have this, the least of which being the fact that honestly, she deserves more than what little he has to offer, but they’re all so easy to forget when she’s got his lower lip caught between her teeth). He has no self-control and he’ll curse himself for it later, but for now, he is impulsive and reaction on instinct. In this moment, he wants her and will take whatever he can get.

This version of Rogue is smiling against his mouth, humming pleasantly as he cradles the back of her head, and even in his drug-soaked delirium he knows that he is enjoying this far too much for a man who believed he never really wanted the untouchable girl (in retrospect, he really hadn’t been fooling anyone-- even Stormy had given him a stern lecture about maintaining a respectable distance from the students, which lost all sense of subtext when Logan flat out told him he’d make spicy Cajun kabobs out of him if he ever caught wind of him harassing his little Marie). Of course he wants her, it makes sense-- she is beauty and engine grease and sharp edges and honey all wrapped up with a complicated, untouchable bow. Hell, even the challenge her skin presents is attractive. He knew she’d be trouble from the very first time he’d laid eyes on her. It all feels a little inevitable.

She pulls away with a lazy smile, all hooded eyes and swollen lips and oh God what that does to him. Somewhere deep inside of him his instincts are flashing the hazard lights, warning him that he’s wading into dangerous territory with this. She’s not the sort of girl to be toyed with, not the sort of girl that would give away her heart to a man without making him keep it. She’s not perfect (in general, or for him). She’s not Bella Donna. But, as mentioned before, Remy has never been all that great at avoiding risks and playing it safe.

Besides, by this point, it’s probably too late, anyway.

He never realizes how much trouble he’s in until much, much later, after months of hobbling around on crutches. Even after they take the pins out of his leg he finds he can still feel the smooth strands of her hair sifting through his fingers as real as if it’d actually happened. He finds himself wishing for something sweeter in her gaze rather than the sharp glares he’d tried so hard to provoke, starts searching for ways to make her smile more than ways to make her scowl. He stops worrying about whether or not she’ll finally make good on her threat to stab him with her dinner fork, and instead starts worrying about the way she makes his heart clench in his chest when their feet accidentally brush under the table (he would almost prefer she stab him, because the vice that squeezes around his heart whenever she’s around is starting to make him very, very nervous).

For all that he’s tried to dig himself under her skin, it seems that once again, he’s underestimated her.

He can’t get her out of his head.

 

-3-

 

The third time Rogue kisses Remy, she’s drunker than he’s ever seen her, mouth grazing awkwardly over his through the gauzy material of her scarf.

The drunk part of the story comes as no surprise-- they are, after all, celebrating Bobby and Kitty’s engagement at one of the local watering holes, and all evening he’s watched her slowly deteriorate, downing shot after shot of Wiser's and looking more and more brittle the longer the night wears on. If anyone else notices, he can’t say for sure-- she’s maintained her composure admirably for someone who has probably cleared half a fifth of whiskey on her own, smiling at all the right times and never once letting on that she’s anything other than giddy for her ex-boyfriend and his new fiance. In fact, she would have fooled him good if it weren’t for the fact that she kept fiddling with the seams of her gloves, adjusting the scarf twined around her neck every few minutes. Small gestures that could easily be written off by anyone who knew what her skin was capable of. But Remy’s spent far too long learning how to read her poker face. He knows that she’s become far less self-conscious about her skin than others might think. Knows that she’s been working with the Professor to gain some control over her mutation, and has been making progress.

He watches out of the corner of his eye when she finally excuses herself from the bar, her lack of natural grace suddenly very noticeable as she sways to her feet, giving a playful tug on Dazzler’s ponytail on her way out the door. When she doesn’t return within five minutes, he tosses back the rest of his bourbon and stands to follow her, citing a need for a cigarette when Jean-Paul shoots him a questioning look as he makes his way towards the exit.

Cool night air hits him like a wall as soon as he steps outside of the muggy confines of the bar. He half-expects to find Rogue hunched over the curb, retching up the Wiser's, but she’s still just as composed as she was inside, leaning against the brick wall and staring vacantly out into space. Strong and stubborn as ever. She looks up at the sound of the door slamming shut behind him, and the expression that crosses her face as their eyes meet makes him feel like he’s just missed the last step in a flight of stairs. He kind of hates it (the vertigo, the way she’s looking at him, the way all of it combined makes him want to march right back into that bar and break Bobby’s nose).

He’s not sure what to say to her, all of his swagger and charm useless in the face of her vulnerability.

“Rogue,” he says, hesitant for what feels like the first time in his life, but he doesn’t get further than that before she’s tugging her scarf from her neck with one firm yank and ghosting it over the lower half of his face. Her eyes are closed when she pulls his mouth down to hers.

It’s not a pleasant kiss. Her movements are awkward and inexperienced, she smells like a distillery, and the scarf between them leaves an aftertaste of laundry detergent and the bitter tang of her perfume.

It’s still enough to make something inside of him do a clumsy little flip.

It takes a long moment before his conscience kicks in, starts telling him that he’s a few seconds away from making a choice that can’t be unmade. He’s not sure why it matters-- it isn’t as if he hasn’t seduced drunk women before (he’ll be the first to admit that he hasn’t always been a decent man, hasn’t always made the right choices). But this isn’t just some sloppy girl crying into her martini over an unfaithful boyfriend. This is Rogue, who refuses to falter or compromise, who keeps everyone at arm’s length to hide just how vulnerable she is, who never once looked at him the way he wanted her to. And somehow that makes all the difference.

“Chere,” he says gently, surprised at the potent sense of regret that settles over him as he draws back. “We can’t do dis.”

Rogue blinks up at him, a little stunned from his sudden withdrawal. “But yah like me.” Her southern twang is so much thicker now with the whiskey in her belly, and it rolls over him like a caress. “You’re th’ only one who does. Yah like everybody.”

Her eyes are wide, clear enough without her normal defenses for him to see the hurt buried there, and something in his stomach knots up at the sight. She curls into him again, the softness of her curves pressed up close to the hardness of his chest, one hand coming up to twine in his hair.

When he pushes her away, it’s rougher than he’d intended because maybe he’s a little panicked that if she doesn’t stop touching him he’ll stop wanting her to stop. “Rogue, please. You’re drunk, an’ Remy ain’t gonna take advantage of you.”

Those green eyes flash and for the briefest moment, she’s the girl he wants her to be: fierce and alive instead of wounded and defeated. “Don’t be stupid, Gambit. This ‘s what yah wanted, ain’t it?”

There’s determination in her expression and yes this is what he wanted. She’s all fire, angry and willing and so achingly beautiful. It would be a simple thing to take her by the hand, drive her back to the mansion, lay her down in his bed. She wouldn’t protest. He could make her want it. It would be so, so easy.

He thinks she can see his resolve starting to buckle because she moves into his space, close enough that one deep breath would have them touching, her gaze steady as it meets his. The electricity between them is tangible and doing terribly wonderful things to his nerve endings, and if she kisses him again he knows he won’t be able to control himself this time. She doesn’t look anywhere close to tears but he can definitely see something inside her bending at a dangerous angle, so very close to snapping entirely. He wants to be there to put her back together.

“Yah win, okay?” she breathes, closing her eyes. Her words ghost across his mouth without the scarf as a barrier, and it’s becoming increasingly more difficult to remember why he’s been resisting. He’s dreamed of this, hasn’t he? He wants to kiss her now, powers be damned, and let her see all of the things she’s done to his head. “Ah give up.”

Those three words are like water poured over a bed of hot coals, something inside of him fizzling out and going cold.

This isn’t what he wants.

Yes, he could take her to bed (God knows he wants to, his teeth hurt with how bad he wants to). Mere months ago he wouldn’t have hesitated, wouldn’t have questioned her motives, would have fucked her up against the side of the bar if she was willing and damn the consequences. But now… God, now everything is different and it wouldn’t be worth it, to have her now only to lose her to her usual defenses tomorrow. If he’s going to play at all he’ll play for keeps, for her whole heart and not just the broken, lonely parts of it. Even though he wants her, wants her more than he’s ever wanted anything, he doesn’t want her like this.

For once, he can’t settle for temporary. He wants more.

He smiles at her, full of regret. “Dat’s why we can’t do dis.”

His words hang like death in the air between them, and he can see her stacking up the bricks behind her eyes, mending the holes in her walls and re-erecting her defenses. There’s something finite in the way her expression closes off, and Remy can feel his heart sinking with the realization that this moment will probably be the last of its kind for the two of them.

She walks away without a word.

The next time he sees her, she’s sober as a judge and icier than ever. They don’t talk about what happened that night-- he’s not even sure she remembers the whole of it (though she must remember his rejection at least, because every word she’s said to him since has been laced with venom). And despite how he knows that he made the right choice not accepting her surrender, that place inside of him that aches whenever she’s around refuses to be convinced.

 

-2-

 

The fourth time Rogue kisses Remy, he’s bleeding from a slice in his gut and they’re both pretty sure he’s going to die. Her lip is split and he can taste the coppery flavor of her blood mixed in with the taste of her desperation just before the pull of her mutation kicks in and sends everything spiraling into blackness.

There are fireballs streaking across the sky, and when they hit the ground everything shakes (Pyro has learned some new tricks since the last time the X-men had gone head to head with the Brotherhood). The asshole that had gutted him with a katana is making all sorts of horrible gurgling noises, having been run through with his own sword by an angry, vengeful Rogue. She’d been like something out of a nightmare, her face a mask of unspeakable rage as she’d caught the other mutant by surprise, driving him to the ground with  brute strength rather than her mutation, uniform spattered with blood as she beat the life out of the poor bastard with every dirty trick she knew.

Unmerciful, beautiful and bloodthirsty, she brought the larger mutant to his knees with such vicious proficiency that Remy hardly recognized the girl that failed to pin him in the Danger Room. She is terrifying and deadly and he doesn’t think he’s ever loved her more than in this moment, when she broke a man with her own two hands for breaking him.

Remy would have smiled at her ruthlessness (it’s by far the most meaningful thing she’s ever done for him) but he’s too busy blinking away black spots from his vision and trying to staunch the blood leaking from the gash in his stomach. He’s never been wounded like this before, and he’s not prepared at all for the chilling sense of calm that washes over him, that awful clarity that he’s in really bad shape to be bleeding this much.

Rogue kneels beside him, gloved hand pressed firmly to the part of him that’s bubbling too much blood way too fast. Her other hand-- the hand that drove a katana straight through a man’s sternum without hesitation-- shakes as it carefully brushes the hair from his face.

“Remyremyremy,” she keeps saying, over and over, and it hurts almost as much as the wound in his belly because she’s never called him by his real name, not once (it’s always been Gambit, or Cajun, or Gumbo, or Swamp Rat, or a litany of crueler insults, never Remy). Her voice is strange, strangled like she’s about to cry but his vision is swimming too much to see if her eyes are wet, and it’s probably the most unsettling thing about this whole situation: strong, fearless, immovable Rogue, saying his name like it’s going to break her not to.

“Ch-chere,” he tries to say around his clenched jaw, but the word gets stuck on the roof of his mouth and comes out all wrong. He can taste copper at the back of his throat when he swallows, trying to push air past the thickness forming there. He wants to say something smooth, something meaningful, anything to ease that shakiness in her voice. However, all that comes out is a series of choked noises, pinched as his body convulses in pain.

Rogue’s palm is slick with his blood as she presses more firmly against his stomach, her gloved fingers tangling with his as they both work to hold him together. Pain blossoms across his middle, sharp and overwhelming until he’s practically choking on it, lightning crackling across every nerve in his body (he’s trying not to panic about it, but each inhalation of air is becoming more and more difficult and he doesn’t think anyone could blame him for worrying that his luck’s finally run out). With some effort, he blinks his vision clear-- he wants to see her because if these are his last moments on earth he figures God owes him this one mercy at least. Her face is dirty, bruised from battle and flecked with drying blood, but her eyes are bright with emotion, clear and full of unspoken things. This is his greatest achievement, he thinks, this look on her face. It’s more than he ever thought he could have, and by far the most precious thing he’s ever been given.

He swallows another mouthful of blood and twines their fingers together over his wound, prays she understands what he doesn’t have the breath to say.

“Remy, I'm sorry, Remy, Remy I’m so sorry,” she says. And kisses him.

The pinch and pull of her mutation is almost a relief compared to the agony in his gut, but he clings to consciousness as long as possible, fights the tug of her powers and kisses her back with whatever strength he can dredge up here in these last few moments. He runs his tongue over the split in her lips and hopes to God he’s not dying right now because there is no way he can part with her now, not after she’d killed a man for him. Not after she’d held his guts in with one hand and tucked the hair away from his eyes with the other. Not after he’d finally, finally gotten her to say his name and to look at him like he’s been looking at her from months and months.

He can feel the fight slipping out of him inch by inch, whole body turning heavy and numb as she takes every last part of him (he gives her everything-- surrenders his powers and his secrets and his thoughts about her eyes and her hair and her mouth and all of those unnamed feelings that tighten in his chest when she’s around). His mouth tastes like metal and ash and her, and the last thought that crosses his mind before everything slows to as top is that at least she’d given him this one thing, this one last high note to go out on.

If nothing else, there is her mouth on his and that look in her eye and their fingers interlocked and it’s enough.

He wakes up days later in a hospital bed (being an X-man was proving to be fairly hazardous to his health). Turns out his luck hadn’t quite run out after all, and it takes him a good ten minutes to get a hold on the overwhelming relief that washes over him. He’s alive he’s alive he’s alive and isn’t that just the biggest kick in the head. There’s about a thousand stitches criss-crossing their way across his belly and an IV stuck in the crook of his elbow, but he’s sober enough to know that this is reality, him in this bed and Rogue sitting beside it.

She looks exhausted but no worse for wear, the split in her lip and a nasty, puffy bruise around her eye the only outward signs of trauma, and Remy can feel a part of him that he didn’t even know was worried relax the tiniest bit to see her in one piece.

She says nothing, just watches his bandaged chest rise and fall beneath the papery hospital-issue sheet. She looks so lost, the hollows beneath her eyes more pronounced under the harsh fluorescent lights of the med bay, and God, he has no idea what she might be thinking.

“Cherie,” he says, his tongue like sandpaper in his mouth.

Rogue winces at the endearment (he wonders if she still hates as much now that she knows it’s no longer a flippant thing, that he means it), eyes glued to her hands as she fists them in her lap. “Don’t,” she says quietly, the normally-smooth texture of her voice gone low and hoarse. It sounds like she’s been shouting, or crying. “I didn’t know, when I… touched you. I didn’t know you felt…”

She trails off, purposefully vague but Remy understands perfectly, his heart sinking at the broken look on her face, so potent with the kind of regret he’s becoming way too familiar with. He can read her fear so easily, knows that she wishes those last few moments with his blood on her hands had played out differently-- she’d laid all her cards out for him to see (the way she’d looked at him is etched in his brain, all of that hopedisbeliefpainpainpain as she bent over his broken body and kissed him like it might be the last chance she’d ever get), and now she’s terrified of what that might mean.

“Marie,” he rasps, forcing her name past the dryness of his throat, desperate to skip the bullshit formalities and finally address this thing between them, this horrible, wonderful, inevitable thing that neither of them can seem to escape.

“Remy, I can’t.” She doesn’t meet his eyes, and he’s learned enough about her poker face to know what she’s trying not to tell him. What she’s not ready to say.

It’s not a no, and it’s not a rejection, it’s a bookmark. Something to come back to when the time is right.

Yes, Remy is tired of waiting. Remy is so, so very tired of watching her linger just out of his reach. But for her, he can’t bring himself to cut his losses and walk away. She’s managed to steal his heart without even trying, and even a master thief like himself has no hope of ever retrieving it (he wants to laugh at all the people who’d mistakenly assumed he was the burglar after her heart, wanting another to add to his collection,  when this whole time she was the one who’d cleaned him out when he wasn’t looking). He’s never been patient, never been known for his loyalty, but he knows before she’s even out the door that he’ll do whatever it takes, whatever she wants. He’ll wait as long as it takes for her to stop running and finally let herself be caught.

 

-1-

 

The fifth time Rogue kisses Remy, it’s purposeful and clumsy and arguably the best kiss he’s ever had in his life. She catches him off guard in the hallway, marching up to him with more determination than he’s ever seen before tugging his face down to meet hers without any ceremony or explanation. She kisses him like it means something, like he means something, bare hands cradling his stubbled jaw and her body aligned instinctively with his. This kiss is so different from all the ones that had come before, small tokens of triumph and despair and fantasy and regret. This kiss is different, and the gravity of it hits him with all the grace of a freight train. 

He’s too stunned to respond, hesitation just long enough that she pulls away before he can get his arms around her.

“I figured it out,” she says breathlessly. “I can control--”

But he’s not listening, cutting off whatever she’s about to say by slanting his mouth over hers. He can’t get his hands on her fast enough, crushing her to him and hanging public decency because Christ, she’s letting him touch her and her skin isn’t killing him. 

“Rogue, if dis ain’t what you want, you have to tell Remy now," he mumbles against her mouth, heart kicking hard against his ribs. "‘Cause he’s not sure he’ll be able t’ take it if you wait.” This is a lie-- he knows with absolute certainty that he'll fucking die if she changes her mind now. 

She pulls back only long enough to favor him with a roll of her eyes, like it’s that simple (like it’s always been that simple), before leaning in to sink her teeth gently into his lower lip. “I thought you were callin’ me cherie,” she tells him without an ounce of fear, and the fire that ignites in his veins is bright enough to blind him completely. “I liked it.”

It’s a spark flaring to life (maybe it really was that simple).

He kisses her soundly, every last regret burned away.