He Kinda Sorta Maybe Loves Him

[Part Two]

by Kaylee




They're Marvel's, but I think they're happier with me. No money. Don't sue.


I've got Bobby and Remy (yes, the most predictable slash pairing in X-fic ;) paired up in "A Different Kinda Craving" and "A Special Kinda Savoring." Welp, here's the story I never intended to get serious enough about this series to write -- how they hooked up. Usual disclaimers apply. What you're about to read is a ridiculously mooky, marginally realistic story in which cute gay men eventually get to be happy cute gay men. Nothing explicit, lots of warm fuzzies.


This is for Poi Lass (again -- have you noticed I dedicate a lot of stories to m'Lass?), who deserves far better, but gets this for now anyways. ;-)


Comments to skaya@mindspring.com. No threats this time. I'm in a good mood. ;) Oh, but if you send me anything rude about same-sex pairings, I'll feed your earlobes to my new wolfling. While you're still wearing them.


Enjoy!



His stomach still felt vaguely queasy, his head was spinning in a strangely enticing way, and his body couldn't seem to decide whether it wanted to send him into shivering fits or reach that pinnacle of painful sensitivity that made the lightest touch akin to agony.


And yet he was smiling in the dark. His room hadn't felt so cozy since... in a long time.


Bobby's words sometimes faltered, his jokes were nervous, his occasional fidgets were hell on fever-heightened hearing... and Remy couldn't get enough. Somehow in between that first realization that they'd left him, that they weren't coming back, and this night, he'd closed off that something inside that lived off of human contact, starving it out. Guilt, self-disgust, and utter self-loathing were components of a more bitterly satisfying diet. They made it 'all right' that he would die out there, alone, a bit of frozen meat in a land so vast that he'd never be found.


But a man who would live couldn't survive off that sustenance, not alone, and the hungry piece of him that he'd shut away was reveling in this. The part of Remy that remembered the teachings in psychology that Jean Luc had insisted on wondered if there was something symbolic here -- nearly killed by ice, regain confidence by befriending it. Thinking that way just led him in circles, though, and he'd been doing that enough to himself over the past weeks.


He just wanted to enjoy this.


Some time into one of those frequent pauses Bobby happened to glance at the clock. "Oh, damn... is that right?"


Remy looked. "Ten t' one. Oui."


Bobby stood with a headshake. "I can't believe I lost track of time like that. I need to check the comm. See if they've called in."


"De buzzer woulda--"


"It's not working all that great yet. Still got some bugs to work out." He was halfway to the door already. "It's not like they'll need me, but still..."


Remy sat up swiftly... and regretted it as his head took the chance to whirl wildly. Whatever he was going to say was forgotten as he closed his eyes and struggled not to lose whatever was left in his stomach.


And before he realized it Bobby was back at his side, a hand lightly touching his bare shoulder in that tentative way. "Are you...?"


He sucked in a breath. Paused. Another. "Whew." Smiled tremulously as he forced his eyes to open. "Hokay. Y' can go. I t'ink I made enough of a fool a m'self."


"Aw, c'mon, you've barely even started..." But Bobby's eyes didn't match his light tone. "Look, are you sure you don't wanna see Hank? I swear, he won't be mad about being woken up. He's really good about the whole 'kind doctor not resenting patients' thing. He'd have to be, after some of what we've put him through..."


He tipped his head back against the wooden headboard. "Nah, 'm okay. Merci." Jutted his chin toward the door. "G'wan."


The lightest, almost imperceptible squeeze of the hand on his shoulder. "I'll come right back. If I don't have to go out and save everyone or anything."


He found a smile. "I'd like dat."


Bobby's smile was less certain. At least, Remy reminded himself, it was there. "Right. Well. Um. Be back in a few, then. Don't die before I get here."


"Would I do dat?"


A playful swat, very gentle, still enough to make fever-sensitized skin complain. "You might, just to be contrary." He stepped back, hand sliding slowly -- reluctantly? -- from Remy's shoulder. "I'll be back," he promised again.


Then he was gone. Remy tipped back against the headboard once more and closed his eyes.


I like him.


His mouth quirked.


I like him a lot.


Eyes opened. The half-smile vanished.


Merde. What'm I doin'? I can' be lookin' f' dis.


He'd always considered himself... open-minded, sexually. Willing to try almost anything once. Most of those things found their way to the rubbish heap as he figured out fairly quickly that 'sensual' and 'brutal' had no place in the same train of thought, at least in his mind. Other experiments just didn't appeal past that first thrill of excitement.


Gender, though, had come to be a lesser consideration in a potential companion's suitability. He was hardly as promiscuous as his reputation would have it, but he'd had some small experience with that dynamic explosion, the oddly compelling attraction of two biological aggressors finding balance between them. He knew the physical lure.


It hadn't matched up to an emotional one before. Not like this.


But he hadn't really been this... worn... emotionally before. Had he?


"LeBeau," he muttered. "Y're a fool."


LeBeau didn't seem to be in any hurry to argue with him.


"Should be smart an' cut it off now, 'fore t'ings go too far."


LeBeau didn't argue, but didn't agree either.


"He's a good guy. He don' need dis."


He hadn't appeared to be in any hurry to run from it, nervousness aside. Sometimes, caught up in a train of thought or relaxing into a moment of conversation, Bobby had even acted... happy.


"Merde."


He heard the feet in the hall and shook his head at himself, running a hand through his mussed hair. Something told him he really didn't look the part of the suitor at that moment. Truth be told he didn't really feel it either, what with the way his stomach wanted to slosh and the sick dizziness everywhere else. Had t' be somet'ing I ate... He was feeling better after emptying his stomach, considerably better, but that 'I-want-to-die' feeling hadn't quite faded all the way yet.


He should tell Bobby to leave. Suggest that he was tired.


A knock on the door Bobby'd half-closed as he left.


"It's open," Remy said quietly instead of all the things he'd told himself he should say. "C'mon in."


And when Bobby opened the door the Cajun found that he couldn't quite restrain a welcoming smile.



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That smile would melt him, he was sure of it.


There were worse ways to go, he decided firmly. He hadn't seen a smile like that turned on him in... Had he ever seen a smile like that turned on him? Had any of the other smiles in a long history of smiles made him feel this way?


He held up one of the glasses he carried. "Brought you some juice. Hank always says you're supposed to drink lots of fluids when you're sick. Tylenol, too, for your fever."


"Y' didn' wake him, did you?" Remy asked suspiciously, one graceful hand, a bit unsteady, extending for the cool glass and the two white caplets Bobby held.


"Nope." It had occurred to him to do just that, but... that would mean giving up this moment-out-of-time, this private sphere of quiet aloneness they were sharing. The fact that Remy would almost certainly never trust him again if he did so didn't hinder his decision to leave well enough alone either. "I'm letting you be as pig-headed as you want."


"Pig-headed--"


"Pig-headed." He managed an almost smug look. "You have a gift for it."

Remy looked momentarily as if he would take offense... and then suddenly smiled again, that same too-rare smile that he'd been so free with tonight, and Bobby had to swallow a lump in his throat. "Y' right," the Cajun said, almost flippantly. "But dat ain' de only t'ing I got a gift for." He sipped his juice to wash down the pills, tangled hair falling around his face, smoldering eyes holding Bobby's trapped. "Cards. I seem t' remember dat y' ain' got much luck wit' 'em."


Cards. He just meant... just cards. He wasn't sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. "I'm not a natural-born shyster, no."


"No reason y' can' learn some a de tricks, mon ami." A wickedly inviting look, like the devil deigning to examine some smaller sin. "Have a nice s'prise next time we all sit down f' a game, neh?"


That was too appealing to turn down. He nodded, finding a little twist of mischief in his own smile, and Remy grinned broadly as he set his drink on a coaster on the bedside stand and opened a drawer to pull out a much-worn pack of cards. The pack looked ancient, dog-eared and soft. Long legs pulled up and folded beneath the blankets, then Remy made an absent gesture for Bobby to sit on the bed in front of him.


On the bed.


On the bed with him.


"Uhm..."


A dark eyebrow quirked. "Y' wan' learn?"


Just breathe, Bobby. "S-sure." Trying not to do something utterly embarrassing like falling over his own feet or tripping and landing sprawled in the Cajun's lap-- Oh dear god, don't think that way, don't... --he set his drink down and seated himself gingerly on the edge of the bed. The far edge of the bed. And smiled. "Show me."


Remy's eyebrow stayed up. "If I'm contagious, Bobby, den y' already got it."


"Huh?"


An assessing look, then a sudden sharp, dismissive shrug. Those old cards started to find their way back into the pack. "Maybe dis is a bad idea..."


"What do you mean?" You know what he means, god, why are you dancing around this, Drake? Can't you make a damned decision? This isn't fair to him.


Sinewy fingers flipped the pack over once, twice, again. Red-black eyes flicked across his. Bobby tried very hard to project whatever sort of assurance Remy wanted, though he had no idea if he was successful at all. He didn't even know what he was doing here, really, surely this was some new brand of madness he hadn't tasted before, that had to be what it was...


"Make y' deal."


He cocked his head. "A deal?"


Remy nodded, solemnly. "Ev' played strip poker?"


All the blood in his body, from every recess possible, rushed right to his face. "I... uh... you... s-strip p-poker..."


An impatient headshake. "Non, not what y' t'inking." Though his mouth tugged briefly sideways, as if maybe he wouldn't really mind what Bobby was thinking. "Look. In strip poker, ev' time someone loses dey drop a piece a clothin'. A cover. Und'stan'?"


Swallow. "Yeah..."


"Dis is like... mental strip poker. Loser answers a question, ev' time. Any question."


"When does it... how does it end?"


A single-shoulder shrug. "When someone says chicken, usually."


"Usually?"


"Sometimes it goes other ways... but dat don' matter. Y' in or out?"


He glared. "I don't have a chance against you!"


A smile and a wink, one right after the other. "Here's de t'ing. Y' catch me cheatin' -- an' I promise t' cheat -- den y' win dat round by default. Whatcha say, Bobby? Y' got de stones f' it?"


"I..." He was trying to think of a suitable way to refuse. He really was trying.


His heart hammered loud enough to hurt his ears, and suddenly he didn't want to refuse at all. "I'm in."


That smile, the devil in the angel, or the angel in the devil; who could tell anymore? Cards were flipped out with quick, expert fingers, then shuffled so rapidly Bobby couldn't follow the motions at all. Was the Cajun cheating? He'd said he would, but for the life of him Bobby couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. Cards flew neatly, one and one, two and two, on up to five apiece. The deck was set gently aside, long fingers tapping it twice. "Deuces wild. Keep it simple."


Bobby nodded and flipped his cards up. A pair of sixes and a single deuce. A stubborn three and unwelcome eight graced the rest of the hand. He pulled out those cards and slapped them facedown on the mattress. "Gimme two."


Two cards slipped into his hand smoothly, Cajun skin almost brushing his own.


Nothing of any use; a four and a queen. Bobby's eyes flicked to his opponent and he tried to read any disappointment or satisfaction there. Nothing, of course. Remy's poker face had stood up under fire and force and wasn't about to crack for a game. Unconsciously Bobby scooted more onto the bed, legs curled as he settled down to rest his weight on an elbow. If Remy had cheated he'd missed it utterly, which meant he had a single chance here to get out of a potentially humiliating situation. Unless his cards could beat the other's...


He wouldn't ask anything big off the bat, he consoled himself. And even if he does... people can call chicken.


"Y' can see a'right?"


"Yeah, my eyes are adjusted. You?"


Another quick wink. "I see good in de dark. Ready t' lay 'em out?"


"... Yeah."


"Same time. Let's see 'em."


Together they lowered their cards, eyes on each other as if holding off the revelation. Cards spread with little hisses across the mattress, waiting.


Remy glanced down first, and when he smiled, lips drawing slowly apart, Bobby knew he was in trouble. "Full house," he said softly. "Tens high. Dis one goes t' me."


"You didn't cheat!"


"Sure I did."


"How?!"


A smirk. "Like I'm gon' tell y' dat..." He straightened a little as Bobby drew up, thin shoulders going back just a bit. "Y' gon' face de music, Drake?"


It was the first time he'd called him 'Drake' in a while, and the more impersonal name came as a slap in the face. As was intended, Bobby decided when he realized that he'd abruptly become more serious. "Yeah," he answered on borderline anger. "Play it."


Remy nodded once. "Are you gay?"


......


I should have... I should've known he'd ask this...


There was challenge still in Remy's elegant face. He waited silently, his hands motionless on the cards. Bobby thought his own heartbeat was the loudest sound in the room.


He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed again.


Dad would... I... what would Hank...? Scott? God, I can't, can't say that. Saying it makes it true. I shouldn't, I can't say... say...

"Yeah."


Quick, hoarse, shoved out of his chest like the dangerous thing it was, the word stood there. Hung there in neon letters, flashing and pointing an arrow right at him. At Bobby Drake, The Gay Man. The newest queer to shoot his mouth off. William Drake's faggot son. It was huge, that acknowledgment. Explosive. The world would stop spinning at any moment to scrutinize it. Life as he knew it would end. Nothing would ever be the same again, everyone would know, his father would disown him, his friends wouldn't know how to act, and--


"T'ought so," Remy said mildly, scooping cards back up and reshuffling. "Ready t' go 'gain?"


Bobby couldn't say anything for a minute. He'd just bared his soul. He'd just confessed his deepest and most terrifying secret. All of this, and now Remy just said, 'Ready t' go 'gain?'


He blinked dazedly. Worked his throat for a minute before any sound came out, and then it was merely a weak, "Sure."


A flash of Cajun grin, quickly gone, and then cards were flipping out once more. Bobby barely noticed, trapped as he was in this startling moment of naked truth. Remy had to clear his throat twice to get his attention when the dealing was done.


He picked up his cards without really seeing them. Laid down three with glazed eyes and barely even registered the Cajun's scowl.


"Y' sure y' wan' lay down dose cards, Bobby?"


"Sure," he said again, rational thought a ghost on the horizon. "Cards..."


Remy stared at him, then rolled his eyes to the side in a vastly exasperated gesture. A card dropped from his palm to lie face-up between them; deuce of clubs.


Bobby gazed blindly at his hand and didn't really notice.


Remy cleared his throat. "Merde, did dat card fall outta my hand?"


"I dunno..."


An irritated look. "Dat extra card. Dat extra wild card."


"I don't think I dropped it..."


"Bobby!"


He looked up sharply. "What? What?"


A long finger jabbed at the card. "I can' spell it out any clearer."


Bobby looked... and immediately blushed deeply. "Oh. I was thinking..."


"Y' don' say." But the rich voice held amusement, warmth, and red-black eyes danced. "Blast, y' caught me. I guess dat means I lose."


"So I get to ask..."


"Anyt'ing." Lips curved upwards just a bit. "I don' call chicken."



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"I don' call chicken," he told Bobby, confidence in every word. He meant it. His stomach was feeling better -- the juice? Time? -- and the lightness in his head was more like a buzz than illness at the moment. He felt like he was ready for anything.


Now if only Bobby would ask the right question.


The younger man dropped his cards and sat up. Sat back, kicking shoes off, bringing his knees up and resting elbows on them as he regarded Remy. Blue eyes burned with enough fear and turmoil to actually hit the Cajun with a small pang of guilt for making Bobby admit this about himself... until he remembered the deeper, more insidious pain he'd occasionally glimpsed gracing those eyes before. It couldn't be simple and it wouldn't be easy. That didn't mean it could be ignored.


"Why me?"


Remy's brow furrowed slightly at the question. "I don' get what y' mean."


Bobby crossed his arms over his knees and rested his chin on them. His eyes dominated his face just then, achingly vulnerable. "Why are you talking to me? Opening up to me? Before... what happened... we didn't exactly have much to do with each other."


Tight-jawed, Remy glanced away. It was a fair enough question, he supposed. "I don' know. You were here." That didn't mean he had a fair answer, however.


"Other people were here. 'Roro, for one. You were always close to her."


Personal ground was something Remy guarded jealously. He gave Bobby a sharp look and let his voice chill a few degrees. "Don' bring Stormy into dis."


And then immediately cursed himself at the flinch, the instant hurt in those eyes.


"Ah, shit... Look, Bobby... some t'ings jus'..."


Bobby came out of his recoil with a hint of injured anger. "You said you don't call chicken."


It gave him pause.


And then, ironically, made him grin. "Well. Y' don' much like bein' a doormat, do you?" Bobby didn't answer, and Remy shook his head and continued. "A'right. Truth is, Bobby, dat Stormy jus' can' quite f'give me. Wit' good reason, mind you. I hear t'rough de vine dat she 'bout lost it when... I mean, she was leadin' de Morlocks, neh? Officially, anyway. An' now years later I'm askin' her t' f'give me f' playin' a part in dat." His walls were too low, revealing too much, he thought. But he couldn't seem to raise them. "Jury's still out, mon ami. I don' know if she'll ev' be able t' t'ink a me de way she did b'fore."


Bobby nodded slowly. "So that's why..."


A quick headshake. "Non. Dat ain' got a t'ing t' do wit' you." He flipped cards from hand to hand, letting his eyes drop to follow the motions. "You're y' own case."


"You didn't really answer my question," Bobby said softly, uncertainly.


Remy swept cards up again and shuffled. "Let's go 'gain."


"Remy."


"Could make it a li'l harder dis time if y'--"


A hand closed over his on the cards, not entirely steady, and Remy's hands went motionless instantly.


"Remy, please. I want... I wanna talk."


Iceman or not, his hand felt hot.


"I don't... have anyone I can talk to about this."


He turned his hands slowly. Bobby didn't draw his away. The cards were set to the right of his knee, then he let his fingers close in a gentle grasp on the other's hand. Met the blue eyes, thinking of ice, feeling heat.


"You can talk t' me," he finally murmured, balancing habitual reservation with honest warmth. "I'm here, ain' I?"


Bobby's breath hitched. He swallowed hard, visibly, and his hand was carefully still in Remy's. "I don't... know what to say," he admitted. Tried to smile. "There should be like a Society for Gay Lunkheads. I'd be their poster-child." But the smile faded too quickly and he dropped his eyes at the word 'gay.'


Reflexively Remy started to reach for his face to turn his chin up. Stopped himself, jaw tightening just a little. Anything he did, every little touch, was an influence on Bobby that he wasn't entirely sure he had a right to give. While he himself was comfortable with his open-mindedness, it wasn't necessarily his place to decide for another.


But Bobby looked up sharply and leaned forward into that half-extended hand, greatly daring, closing his fingers over it and pressing the palm to his flushed cheek.


Remy tried not to show his surprise. Failed. "Wha--" Shook his head ever so slightly. "Bobby..."


"I don't wanna be ashamed of it," the other told him, quick words tumbling out in an uneven torrent as he held that hand against his face. "I'm so sick of pretending to feel things I don't feel and ignoring things I do. My dad sometimes... he'd say these things that just... And I keep remembering that, every time I, I look at someone. He said... It doesn't matter what he said. I love him, I do, but sometimes I remember everything and just..." His head tipped down, eyes half-shuttering. Remy's chest tightened and he unconsciously traced his thumb along a cheekbone. "It felt so good to admit it," Bobby continued, almost brokenly. "But it hurt, too."


Remy looked for words to smooth over his pain. Found none. Just stroked the soft cheek over and over, surprised in some corner of his thoughts that Bobby wasn't in tears. He'd seen one other person at this moment of cathartic release on this subject, and that night had been downright tear-soaked.


For long minutes they were there in a slowly-moving tableau, Bobby's hand turning into his on the bed between them, fingers carefully twining. Remy's eyes closed as his heartbeat picked up. LeBeau, LeBeau, what're y' doin'? Y' can' do dis now. He's confused. He's scared. He's...


... moving towards him, raising eyes as he shifted cautiously, shyly up the bed. Remy met and held his gaze steadily, keeping his surface as calm as usual. Beneath it his blood was raging. His hand moved of its own volition to slide into the light brown hair, feeling the texture and all the while drawing him closer.


It was Remy who actually leaned in and initiated the kiss, after Bobby paused again a few inches away. A flash of blue eyes closing, then warm breath on his skin, lips opening under his hesitantly, the body so close trembling for any number of reasons. Bobby's hand caressed his back in a stutter-stroke, eventually pausing, fingers curving against heated Cajun skin.


Bobby caught his breath between softly exploring lip-brushes, lost it in the next instant. His mind reeled with this amazing new reality, this solid weight of Man against him, the surprisingly tender strength in those lips. He breathed in and tasted masculine musk rather than feminine perfume, and in the heady rush of it all he was only aware of that as a right thing.


Until that heat beneath his grasping fingers registered. Then the slight tremor running through the body pressed to his. Tremor? Remy?


He pulled back an inch, two, regretfully breaking the kiss before it became something deep enough to drown him. He knew two things: he was shaking and Remy was still warmer than normal.


And he was almost as aroused as he was terrified. Three things.


It seemed terribly, horribly wrong, somehow, to let Remy see the physical evidence of his attraction. Embarrassing beyond any measurable level of embarrassment. Like it wasn't natural... but wasn't it? Or could it be unnatural, but not wrong? How could it be unnatural at all when it felt so right, being this close to him, touching him, wanting him to--


"Bobby," Remy said, very quietly. "Whassa matter? Y' don' want...?"


He couldn't meet those burning eyes. "I..." That's it, Bobby. Just call chicken. To his horror his breath caught on a dry sob. He couldn't say anything intelligent-- Yeah, that's new, Drake... --and couldn't even find a quip. Some part of him wanted nothing more than to ice up and flee the room without looking back.


Remy shifted back, started to pull away, and Bobby knew suddenly that this was it, this was that moment where he could blush and grin and shake it all off. Tell Remy thanks, but he'd realized that this wasn't for him. Take the embarrassment with a modicum of grace and shrug. 'Oh yeah, this was a fun experiment, but I'm sorry, I've realized that I'm not gay. Let's share an awkward moment and then forget this ever happened, shall we?'


He forced himself to meet Remy's eyes again, to see if he thought the other man would let him get away with that. Red and black... so hard to read. So disconcerting.


Softly-- "Y' scared...?"


He tried to swallow and couldn't. Barely managed to say hoarsely, "Maybe... a little bit..."


Burning hands lightly traced along his arms, undemanding and yet hinting at desire. "I don' mean t' push..."


Bobby held his eyes. Somehow. "It's not that..."


"Den what is it?"


He shrugged helplessly. "Well. That. I guess. I don't know..."


Fingers trailed over his forearms, smooth and gentle, as if to accustom him to the touch. Bobby's skin shivered repeatedly at the motion and he thought his heartbeat got faster with every stroke. "Do y' wan' talk?" the Cajun asked.


He wanted to do a helluva lot more than talking. "You're not... feeling good. You should rest," he said unconvincingly. "Hank would say--"


"Henri ain' here." The brush of knuckles against his cheek, making Bobby's eyes close. "You are. An' I am."


A breathless chuckle. "Believe me, Remy... I'm really, really aware of that right now."


He felt the hands draw back and missed their warmth. "It's your call, Bobby."


His call.


He didn't want it to be his call. He wanted it to be like the other times he'd found intimacy, when he gave the other the right to decide yea or nay. It was easier that way with women. They assumed the guy 'always' wanted it, and he'd been considered sensitive and caring when he'd murmured, 'It's your choice.'


He didn't want the burden of 'It's your call' to be on him.


So he cracked an eye. "What if I say it's your call?"


"Quoi?"


Deep breath. "If you... want... y'know..."


"T' have sex wit' you?"


The bluntness made his knees feel curiously weak, even though he wasn't standing on them. "Oh," he said faintly. "Yeah. Um. Th-that." His face, he knew, would've made a tomato look pale. Oh god, he said it. He said it. 'Sex.' Just like that. 'Sex.' With me! In the same sentence! If Remy could say it, surely he could, too. "So if you want... s-sex... with... erm..." Okay, he couldn't. Absolutely, positively couldn't say that. "With... y'know..."


The Cajun's slow, slow smile started. He seemed to fight it for a minute, then finally gave in with a flash of teeth. Bobby had to struggle to keep from letting a nervous answering grin grace his own lips. "If y' can' say it, Bobby, it might not be de best idea t' actually do it." But his eyes didn't quite match the humor in his voice. They flickered uneasily across Bobby's own blues, as though he were searching for... something...


Bobby's body shrieked for him to take up the unsubtle offer, leap across the space between them, and find whatever mysterious new magic awaited him in those wiry arms. Everything else, however, redefined 'confusion.' He'd been raised in a household where the word 'fag' was barely hidden in everyday conversation. No one had ever pulled him aside and told him that homosexuality was anything but an abomination.


("Don't take it so personally, Bobby.")


At least not in so many words... but a certain blue furry best friend had made it clear that he saw nothing wrong with the person Bobby was or might be.


("Henri talked t' me las' night. I tell y' dat?"


"No."


"He did. He tol' me y're his best friend."


"Oh?"


"An' he said I had t' be real careful a y' feelin's. 'Cause bad stuff could happen if I hurt you. Why was he sayin' dat t' me, Bobby?")


He'd said he didn't know. But he did. Hank had a gift for explaining things clearly enough that even Bobby at his most obtuse couldn't pretend not to understand... and he had the utmost respect for Hank and his opinions.


So if his best friend -- a man whose ethics he believed in unquestioningly -- didn't see this as 'wrong'...


"You're sick," he said softly, then hurried to qualify it at the sudden stiffening of the too-thin frame. "I mean ill! Ill. Not 'sick' as in disgusting or anything, but sick, y'know, like not healthy or--"


Remy waved a hand sharply, smiling again. "I t'ink I got it figured out, Bobby. An' I was sick. Ill." He straightened and patted his flat stomach with a palm, skin smacking skin audibly. Demon-eyes glinted above his smile. "But I'm feelin' pretty good right dis second..."


Against his will, Bobby lost his moment of solemnity to a nervous laugh. "Is this how you seduce women? 'Cause I think the method could use a little work. 'Hi there, you look lovely, hold that pose and I'll try really hard not to puke on you.'"


Another smile, not as easy as earlier ones. "Y' t'ink maybe I lost de gift? Haven' tried usin' it since... I got back."


"Oh, I really wanted to know that you haven't used 'it' since then..."


Remy rolled his eyes. It was such a simply human gesture, and somehow it made the red irises and black sclera seem unimportant. "Y'know what I meant..."


But Bobby was in his element -- a welcome change from the past weeks -- and wasn't about to let his chance to 'shine' in true Bobby-esque form go. "Y'know, there're these pills you can take today for that little problem... maybe the Prof knows something about them..."


"Bobby..."


"Or you might be able to ask Scott... I personally think this whole 'perfect marriage' thing with Jean is a smoke-screen, really. I mean, how wonderful can one guy's life be? It's just not normal, I tell you! Or maybe Logan... he's awfully grumpy lately, y'know... not that he's ever not, but still..."


Remy's grin came back. "Logan on Viagra? Merde, now dere's a t'ought I didn' need t' have."


"How big of a Viagra pill do you think he'd have to take to get past the healing factor?" Bobby mused. "Maybe a Viagra-sandwich? No, no... something bigger." He straightened unconsciously and tugged his T-shirt into order. "How do you take your Viagra?" he intoned in his best announcer's voice. "Now in new chocolate flavored capl--"


He was cut off, very effectively, by a long-fingered hand clamping firmly over his mouth. That meant, of course, that Remy had moved closer. That also meant that Remy was touching him again, and that he, in return, was touching Remy, and that meant that there was a whole lotta touching going on. It was all worth it, though, and almost not-awkward, when he saw the expression on the Cajun's face.


He smiled behind the fingers over his mouth. "You wanna laugh," he muffle-spoke through the hand. "Admit it. You so wanna laugh."


From the grin spreading over the other's lips, there was little doubt as to that. "Cut it out."


"Can't cut it out," he quipped automatically. "It grow right back!" At Remy's suddenly perplexed look he elaborated-- "Lion King. You can't tell me you missed The Lion King."


"Musta slipped m' mind." It was very easy, Remy thought, to have things slip his mind right then. He didn't think he'd smiled so much in years. "Since y' recommend it so highly, dat sounds like a good reason t' rent it."


Bobby's teeth glinted in the dim light as Remy let his hand slide away from the other man's mouth. "Remy LeBeau watching The Lion King? You're gonna upset the balance of the planet! Some poor little state like Alabama will be catapulted into the Pacific Ocean!"


Where does he get dis stuff? "A'right, Bobby. Y' got me grinnin'." No mean feat dese days, mon ami. "Dat mean y' gon' pretend not'ing else is goin' on here tonight?"


That adorable blush was back, pinking cheeks and neck. The baby blues dropped. Raised. Flickered left. Abruptly the jovial tone vanished, replaced by something quiet and scared and almost awed. "I... kissed you."


Remy's heart picked up, thump-thump, at least twice as fast. "Oui," he murmured, trying to sound nonchalant. His stomach felt fluttery now rather than queasy and the dizziness in his head was almost a high. Just a few inches separated him from a thigh-brush. A quick arm-gesture could have his hands sliding along that T-shirt-clad torso, stretching his body against the other's and letting things happen as they would.


Control, he cautioned himself firmly. His choice. Not yours.


A strange smile found its way to Bobby's face. A sad smile. "My dad. He'd freak. Absolutely have a coronary. We're talking disowning, here."


He suppressed disappointment savagely. "D'accord." And now there would be that unease between them -- the acknowledgment of what could have been and wasn't, and those constant questions; what if...? "No prob, Bobby. I und'stan'."


Bobby's head shook as he raised his eyes again. "That wasn't... I wasn't saying 'no.' I was just... acknowledging."


Much more of this and Remy figured he could change his codename to 'YoYo.' "So... whatcha wan' do, Bobby?"


Slowly, slowly, Bobby edged across those few bare inches between them. Light hair fell across his eyes and he brushed it back automatically. Remy made himself stay still, feeling the slightest bit of unfamiliar awkwardness. It ain' been dat long, LeBeau. But this was the first person he'd been interested in since Antarctica... the first one who'd returned that interest. And he was having real trouble remembering how to find the distance between physical and emotional -- that balance he'd always maintained to keep from taking anyone too seriously. Rogue had shattered it, possibly irrevocably, in the weeks leading up to Antarctica, and she'd left behind cold emptiness and need.


Bobby's hand lifted. Touched his chest. Remy glanced down, then up beneath shadowing dark hair to look steadily into his eyes. "Dis a decision, mon ami?" he asked softly. "Or should I get de cards ready again?"


The younger man's face showed every emotion from desire to stark terror, but his voice was nearly steady. "No cards." He leaned in closer, body trembling a bit. "Just... show me..."


And then arms and shadows, sheets and moonlight; banked coals stoked to cautious fires. Words taken to whispers in deference to this secret newness, and finally tingling, tired bodies and cooling sweat while dawn hinted its approach outside and the house sat in exhaustedly satisfied silence.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



Remy blinked out of a doze as a bit of morning light tiptoed across his face. His arms were full, occupied, for the first time in months, sparking all sorts of thoughts of awed discovery. In his sleep, nerves forgotten, Bobby was a snuggler. He'd curled into the curve of Remy's length, head pillowed on an arm, mouth just barely open and slack with relaxation. It seemed a sin to wake him.


Remy had never tried to say he wasn't a sinner. "Bobby." Bobby'd told him that the team had called and left a message that they'd be returning sometime in the morning... everything was under control. And here it was morning, and something told him Bobby wouldn't take too well to being found in such a... compromising... position.


The younger man squirmed closer in protest, grimacing just a bit at the noise and pressing his face against the chest so invitingly close. Remy smiled, then schooled it back.


"Bobby... it's a'most seven...
"

"You make the cookies," Bobby mumbled. "'Spiderman and his Amazing Friends' is coming on..."


Deciding on the path of least resistance, Remy leaned over and caught an earlobe between gentle teeth, nibbling lightly. "Cher, wake up."


Bobby tensed against him, lashes tickling his chest as eyes flicked open. "Wha..."


He trailed the kiss down from ear to neck, tasting dried sweat and the more personal flavor beneath that. "It's mornin'," he murmured. "Team'll be back 'fore long... people'll be wakin' up..."


Bobby didn't move. "I guess... I should go, then..."


"Hm," Remy said distractedly. "Merci..." Lips caressed along Bobby's shoulder, back along the ridge of collarbone towards the throat. "... f' stayin' up wit' me."


The voice was faint, unsteady. "Any... anytime. Gotta take care of... poor sick Cajuns..."


"Hm," Remy said again, drawing back slightly to devote attention more thoroughly to the arched neck. "An' merci f' bein' honest wit' me."


Blue eyes closed. "Honesty... is a virtue..."


"Hm." He drew back again and looked at that face, finding another smile that broadened when Bobby's eyes opened. "An' merci f' de night, Bobby. F' bein' wit' me like dis."


Another fire-engine-red blush. "I... You're thanking me? I mean..."


"What?"


"It's just... that seems sorta a reversal of the natural order of things..."


"Oh?" He arched a brow and sat up a bit, sheet pooling around his hips and baring his chest. "Y' t'ink I didn' enjoy myself?"


Bobby rolled to his back, head on the pillow, and seemed content to just gaze up at him with an almost frighteningly wondering expression. Remy wanted to shift under those eyes -- he wasn't worthy of the depth of feeling in that stare, and he knew it well. But his nature was to hide insecurities behind that comfortable wall of confidence. It wasn't about to change now.


He crossed his arms over his chest. "Well? Izzat whatcha t'ink?"


An unfettered smile. "Not if you're gonna make sure it's not what I think like that, no."


Remy spent a moment trying to add up the negatives used in that sentence, then gave up and decided to go with the obvious sentiment instead. "Good. 'Cause dat would be stupid, an' I know y' ain' dat." He thought he saw a flicker of something like doubt in the other's eyes. Was Bobby really so insecure as to think that?


But the glimpse was gone quickly, vanishing behind that smile again. It was a really adorable smile, Remy decided. Full of tentative security and excited revelation. "You're feeling better, still?" Bobby asked instead of answering Remy's comment. "Not queasy or anything?"


Long, elegant fingers found the light brown hair and ran through it over and over, flipping a lock down over his eyes, then away, as if Remy was fascinated by the motion. "Feel great," he half-lied, unwilling to admit that he was still just a bit under the weather. No telling what that might do to vulnerable confidence. "Dey're gon' t'ink I lied 'bout bein' sick t' get outta de mission."


"No, they'll think I lied about you being sick to get myself out of the mission. More in character." He started to sit up, then hesitantly moved a little closer, as if waiting for permission. Remy held out an arm and Bobby reclined back into it with an almost inaudible sigh. "You're right, you know. They'll be home soon. And Paige might even be up already -- Jubes told me she's weird about mornings. Gets up and goes running. Anal-retentive leader-in-the-making if you ask me..."


Remy glanced at the clock. "Yeah, well, like it or not, we're s'posed t' be runnin', too. I'm startin' t' get tired a people t'inkin' I'm about t' fall over in a stiff wind."


Bobby reached a hand over to lie flat against Remy's chest. "You've put on some weight."


With a wicked grin Remy touched the hand, then traced the arm back and forth, relishing the shiver he called from the other man. "Ain' you jus' touchy-feely dis mornin'?"


Bobby froze. Again. "I'm sorry." Going pale instead of blushing this time. "I didn't mean to--"


"Touch me?" Remy breathed into his ear, tracing the arm higher with clever fingers. "An' just why not?"


Bobby melted. Inside, though, where it didn't show. Thankfully. He felt as though he'd been waiting to be in this position for ages -- not just the intimacy they'd shared, but these words afterwards and the ease with which they came. The arm around him, the skin beneath his palm, the newborn familiarity with which they touched...


Now he only had to resign himself to the fact that it was just sex to the Cajun, and likely wouldn't happen again. The man could have just about anyone he wanted. Woman or man, it looks like, he pointed out wryly to himself, trying to ignore the giddy little voice in his mind that kept insistently shouting that Remy had wanted him, for whatever reason... him! But since the proverbial 'they' were practically lined up at his door it was ridiculous to think that Remy might actually want... well...


"I just thought you might've changed your mind," he said doubtfully, letting his hand slide very slightly over the smooth chest. His thoughts drifted to the way that chest had flexed beneath his touch earlier, the feel of sweat making the skin slick, and his body flushed with heat. "I mean, I'd understand..."


In answer Remy's arm shifted, fingers gently turning his chin as the Cajun twisted on the bed to meet his lips with a kiss. That first chaste exchange from hours before was a drop in the ocean next to the searing thing they shared now. Bobby had always considered himself a pretty good kisser. No Casanova, maybe, but 'naturally talented.' Even so, he'd had no idea that a simple meeting of lips and tongues could be so... tantalizing. Arousing. Blood-boiling. It wasn't one-sided, either; the more experienced Remy almost dared him into boldness, drawing out a passion Bobby'd scarcely been aware was in him.


Remy made no bones about it: when he wanted to entice, he enticed. They started curled around each other against the headboard -- ended sprawled crosswise over the bed, bodies pressed close, hearts beating loud tattoos against the tightly meshed chests. Bobby was entirely breathless when the kiss ended, gasping like a beached fish, and Remy's normally steadfast composure seemed nearly as shaken.


Yet he still managed a sultry smile. "So," he said with an admirably casual tone. "Y' t'ink y' might consider comin' back?"


... He invited me back... Bobby waited a moment, letting his breathing settle, expecting the invitation to be revoked at any second. Okay, c'mon, Cajun... take it back... no fair teasing... The unique eyes gazed at him steadily, patiently. Ohmigod he's not taking it back he's not taking it back!


"Back?" he managed. "Here? For... y'know..."


Something like a choked laugh came from the nearby (very near) chest. Lips -- and this time he could actually properly think of them as 'sensual' lips -- fought hard against a grin. "Here," the man intoned solemnly. "For 'y'know.'"


A simultaneous blush and grin. It was hard to pull off the naïve image with Remy -- a very nude Remy beneath those sheets -- pressed so snugly up against him, but he thought he almost made it convincing. "You'd want..." God, why did he have to sound so damned shy about it?? Remy didn't sound shy. Ever. "... that?"


Slower this time, the kiss. Deeper. Utterly convincing. And the words, murmured against his lips: "Whadda you t'ink, Bobby?"


Bobby didn't think he was thinking. He didn't trust thinking. If he did think, he'd have to confront this in his mind... confront the fact that he wasn't just gay in thought, but now in action as well. He'd have to face the bridge he'd crossed and maybe realize that there was no way back, and then he'd be forced to turn and explore this new country he'd stumbled his way into.


He didn't want to think. Not yet.


"I guess..."


He just wanted to do.


"... that'd be... good. Coming back. Here. For 'y'know.'" A finger traced the stubbled jaw. Greatly daring, he let himself add softly, "With you."


Something other than a smile from the Cajun face. More serious. Wonderfully frightening.


"I'd like dat."



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------



~end~


Notes from Kaylee: There you have it. My version of how the mooks came to be... the mooks. Marginally serious at best, but it sure was fun to write. ;)


Now feedback me or I'll go Alabamian on your arse.


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Read more fics by the author at her homepage, Mooksville.





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