Fic: Lie a Little (Gambit/X-23) - Mature - Part 3
Title: Lie a Little
Characters: Remy LeBeau, Laura Kinney, Julian Keller, Logan, Rogue
Pairing: Remy/Laura
Rating: Mature
Author's Notes/Warnings: Underage
Summary: When Remy goes to visit Laura, he makes a mistake that threatens to transform the nature of their friendship.
previous
Remy doesn’t sleep that night. He dozes, waking up every fifteen minutes to check on Laura, who sleeps soundly beside him. He can’t believe what they’ve done.
He never wanted this to happen. Not in all the time he’s known her, not in a thousand years. Even if he knew they’d both live forever, he wouldn’t have wanted it then.
He should have seen the signs. All day he'd used his grief as a shield to keep himself from having to intuit what Laura was feeling. He’d been too wrapped up in his own little problems-his longing for the past, his sense of estrangement-to properly understand what she was going through. He’s an adult and she’s just a girl; he should have foreseen that she might confuse her feelings of homesickness with a desire to be as close to him as possible.
But these rationalizations do nothing to change what’s happened: he’s slept with an ex-student. His friend. A girl he’s responsible for. A girl who’s more emotionally fragile than he is. And there’s a bigger variable here, one he hasn’t fully acknowledged. What if she loves him? What if he loves her back? He definitely feels something for her, but he can’t tell if those feelings are all wrapped up in sex and guilt and protectiveness-a desire to return to the scene of their undoing.
He drifts off to sleep in the early morning. He hasn’t checked the clock in hours, but he knows it’s morning because the space around the heavy hotel-room curtains is starting to glow with pre-dawn light.
When he opens his eyes again the space is much lighter. Brilliant. Late morning. He rolls over. Laura’s not there.
“Merde,” he whispers and levers forward at the waist. He scrambles to free himself of the covers and shuffle out of bed, knocking the lamp off the nightstand in the process. Doesn’t bother to pick it up. “Laura?” he calls. Quiet then. Again, this time a little louder. He’s already on his feet, staggering toward the bathroom. It’s empty. Shit.
He slaps the doorjamb and scampers back into the main room. He needs his clothes. There they are, still on the floor. Pants. Shirt. Shoes. Forget about socks and underwear-he can take care of that later.
He scans the room again as if she might have missed her on his first pass. Where is she? He needs his car keys. His cell phone.
Car keys. He finds them on the desk. Cell phone. Where the fuck is his cell phone? Oh shit, he lost it. He looks for the hotel-room landline so he can call it. But what is his number?
He takes a breath and decides he’s got to draw back the curtains to get more light. Then he sees something he didn’t see before. A piece of paper on the desk. Underneath it is-yes, his cell phone. And the piece of paper is . . . a note. From Laura.
Hands shaking, he picks it up and reads. Gambit, I know you aren’t feeling well so I called one of the Avengers to come pick me up. Sleep well. I will talk to you later.
He turns and looks at the digital clock. 10:15. Jesus. But already his heart-rate is slowing down. He didn’t realize how badly he was panicking until the moment passed. His heart is beating in his fingers. The air around him feels as though it could pop-not a good sign for a man of his abilities. He wills himself to be calm.
He studies Laura’s note, looking for some kind of subtext. (That’s it? he thinks, rereading her spare, terse words. She didn’t even sign her name. Then he chides himself: That’s enough.) She had volleyball practice-he should have remembered. Hell, he should have gotten up in time to take her. If the Avengers didn’t think he was a bum before, they probably do now. Sleeping until ten. Unable to drive a girl a few miles up the road.
Of course, the truth of what happened is much more damning. He’s not just a lazy, degenerate drunk-he’s the sort of lazy, degenerate drunk who sleeps with a student. A lecher. A pervert. He can’t even contemplate what will happen if people find out.
And that’s it-now he’s done it. His stomach churns. He rushes to the bathroom and hangs his head over the toilet. Sweat forms on his upper lip. He wants to throw up but can’t. His body won’t allow him that one small act of mercy.
Minutes later he stands in the middle of his room downing a glass of water, wishing he had some aspirin. Oh God, Laura. He’s ruined everything. He tries not to think back to the times they’ve had, the experiences they’ve shared. Their friendship had brought the best out of him . . . and he’s ruined it by making such a stupid move.
He searches his mind, looking for signs, trying to find some kind of justification. Perhaps this-what happened between them-is not a big deal. Perhaps his angst speaks volumes about his having internalized all those Northeastern, Puritanical values. Things happen. Sex happens, and sometimes chemistry can’t be helped. He’s from New Orleans after all-a city with more lax, Mediterranean attitudes toward sexual relationships. Hell, half the population is probably a result of inappropriate relationships between masters and slaves. (Yeah, good luck flying that defense, he thinks. The I’m-just-a-product-of-a-feudal-society defense.)
He’s going to pull himself together and go over to the Academy. He’s going to apologize to Laura. He’s going to promise that this won’t happen again. He can still make this right.
This. His eyes settle on the dresser. Laura’s things are there, so she must be planning to come back. Some pocket change. The check from Logan. A ticket stub. The letter from Julian, folded into thirds.
He goes over and picks up the letter. He knows he shouldn’t do this, but since when has that sweet conviction stopped him from doing anything? He unfolds it and reads.
Dear Laura,
How are things in California? I hope they’re good. You haven’t emailed me back so I’m assuming you dont want to hear from me. I understand. But I still want to apologize. I’m sorry for the things I said, like when I called you a machine and said your incapable of feeling things. That was wrong of me. I now see that I treated you bad all along, took you for granted. I should of treated you better. I’m sorry.
I’m also sorry for saying those things about Gambit and for implying that you and him were a thing. I now see how ridiculous I was. To think that. For fucks sake life is weird. He’s my sex ed teacher now. He’s a bad teacher and a hick but not really a bad guy. He cant keep students interest in class. But I can see why you guys are friends.
Are you watching Walking Dead right now. Probably not. Its pretty good. Reminds me of Mr. Logan in 8 AM history class. Ha ha. Well I miss you and just wanted to say one more time I’m sorry.
Yours truly,
Julian
Remy refolds the note and sets it back on the dresser. He thinks, I have to talk to Laura.
***
Half an hour later he’s wandering around the halls of Avengers Academy. He didn’t have any problem getting past security-all he had to do was show his X-Men ID-but he should have thought to get directions to the gymnasium. Or wherever they hold volleyball practice. Now he’s ducking in and out of empty rooms. Like he’s casing the place.
He peers through the window of a closed door and sees Clint Barton at a desk, a stack of papers in front of him. Remy’s first instinct is to duck, but Clint’s got some serious peripheral vision. Probably better reflexes than Remy too-at least at this time of day.
“Hey!” Clint says from the other side of the door. He gets up from his desk and jogs over, throws it open. He’s smiling. “Remy, nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, ami,” Remy says, returning Clint’s serious-guy handshake.
“Are you looking for Laura?”
“Yeah, I was just-” Remy gestures to the hallway behind him. Clears his throat. “Quite a maze you got here.”
“The gym’s on the second floor. I’ll show you.” Clint points to the end of the hall and starts to advance in that direction. He walks the way a man is supposed to walk, Remy thinks. Sure, decisive stride. Arms at his sides.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Clint says, giving him the once-over. “Laura said you weren’t feeling well this morning. I drove over and picked her up.”
So the truth is worse than he imagined. Hawkeye is the one who actually dropped by his hotel, the scene of his crime. And Laura tried to cover for him by making up some bullshit lie-bless her-but now he’s fucked all of that up by coming to the school and not looking sick. He should have waited patiently for her to call.
Remy wonders if this conversation is about to turn into an interrogation. Does he need to be careful about what he says next? “Food poisoning,” he says. “I was in a pretty bad way earlier. And the jet lag doesn’t help.” (Wait, does jet lag even apply when you’re going from east to west?)
Clint glances over his shoulder. “You have to watch yourself in some of these restaurants out here. Koreatown especially. I could give you a list of places to avoid-mostly from firsthand experience. I nearly ended up in the hospital once.”
“Jesus,” Remy says.
Clint pushes open the door to the stairwell and starts taking three steps at a time. Remy scrambles to keep up with him. Usually he wouldn’t have a problem, but right now he’s feeling sluggish and awful. Guilt, he thinks. Not food poisoning.
Clint gets to the second floor and then pauses. “Actually, let’s go up two more flights. There’s a balcony on the fourth floor where you can see everything.”
Remy nods and hobbles after Clint.
“How are things in Westchester?”
“Fine.”
“Sounds like you guys have a lot going on. And, well, I should really thank you guys for sending Laura our way. She’s quite an addition to the school. You must have been sad to lose her.”
He nods.
“Not to rub it in or anything,” Clint says, turning to give him a half smile.
And there it is: that competitive Avengers bullshit.
“Believe me,” Remy says, gripping the railing. His annoyance gives him strength. “We just want Laura to be happy. Don’t care if it’s with the Avengers or in a convent or a traveling circus, homme.”
Clint seems a little chastened. “Of course.” He opens the door to the fourth floor. “She’s very, very good at competitive sports. But we’ve had to do some work with sportsmanship. It’s not that Laura doesn’t understand good sportsmanship-it’s that she doesn’t understand that not everything is a competition.”
Imagine that, Remy wants to say.
“She wants to keep playing when the other kids want to stop. We try to teach work-life balance here. That it’s okay to hang out. Read a book. Watch TV even. It’s an issue that a lot of superhumans struggle with. Well, here we are.” He pulls open another door and they step into a small room with a railing. Then Remy can see the gym below them, the net strung from one side of the court to the other.
The kids are all there, but he spots Laura right away. She’s wearing shorts and a tank top and poised in front of the net. Next to her stands some little girl in a space suit. She’s trying to get Laura’s attention, but then some other kid serves the ball and that’s it, they’re off. The kids swat it back and forth-almost ceremonially-until Laura, probably tired of being so patient, jumps up and slams it over the other side of the net. Point. Laura’s side claps. The other side groans. The kid who served-a boy-comes forward to pat Laura on the shoulder. “Way to go, Kinney.”
Tigra stands a few feet away from the court. “Good, Laura.”
Remy grips the railing. He tries not to be moved by the sight of Laura-her shiny black hair, delicate features, and thin, muscular build-but it’s too late. His brain floods with warmth. His eyes fill with tears. He knows there are several explanations for this physical reaction: he’s hungover, sleep-deprived, and stressed out. But that’s not what he thinks when he looks at her. He thinks, I’ve fallen in love.
“See?” Clint whispers. “She’s very good.”
Remy nods.
Laura picks up the sound of whispering and turns her head to look at the balcony. Her gaze lingers over them. Remy waves. He feels the air leave his lungs. Laura turns back to the game.
Remy’s knees buckle. He turns to find a chair.
“Hey man, you really don’t look so good.” Clint’s hovering next to him. “You want a glass of water?”
“Just somewhere to sit.”
“My office,” Clint says. “You can wait there.”
***
Clint leads him to his office and then leaves him there. Alone. In nice soft light. Head pounding, he sits in a cushioned chair near the door and nurses a tall glass of water. He glances at the bookshelf and skims the title. The Courage to Teach. Lives on the Boundary. The Academic Self. At the Jean Grey School they call meetings about dildos. At Avengers Academy they think about, you know, pedagogy. Remy picks up a book and skims it even though he can’t focus.
Despite the fact that he feels like crap, his run-in with Barton reassured him. Clint didn’t suspect anything foul. He didn’t look twice at Remy, didn’t seem to think Remy was guilty of anything other than ingesting bad Korean food. And he didn’t seem to think it inappropriate that Laura spent the night with him at his hotel room.
Now Remy feels doubly depressed. No one would suspect him of such a crime because . . . because they think he wouldn’t do such a thing. He’s done some bad shit, but his crimes have never fallen into the category of moral indecency. Hell, everyone trusts the relationship he has with Laura. They see him as a sort of surrogate parent, a kind and doting mentor. Unfortunately, he’s turned out to be something else entirely, something else that eludes their imagination.
He remembers Rogue’s reaction when she learned he was going to see Laura, how she was quietly cheered him on. Oh God, Rogue. What would she do if she found out about this? She would kill him. It wouldn’t matter that they’re not together anymore . . . she would still kill him. Of course, she’d have to get in line behind Wolverine.
He hears footsteps and half suspects that Barton will darken the doorway and put an arrow through his chest. Pervert!
“Gambit?” Laura says.
He jumps, clamors to his feet to find Laura standing three feet away. “Petite, are you . . .”
She’s already changed out of her gym clothes and she smells nice, like shampoo. She’s wearing a skirt.
“Are you alright?” he says.
“I am. Are you? You do not look well.”
“I feel awful . . .” About what happened, he wants to add. He fights the urge to go to her, to throw his arms around her. “Laura,” he says, taking a step toward her.
She doesn’t move, and all at once he feels horrified-like he’s done irrevocable damage to the bond between them, worse than he initially imagined. Then she looks up at the corner. “Not here.”
He drops his arms. She’s right. The place is probably tricked out with cameras. “Where to?” he says.
***
So they drive.
They leave the Academy and drive along a coastal highway-one of these highways the government is always talking about shutting down because it’s the cause of so many accidents. Remy imagines that they might just drive forever, up or down the coast. Where to? Canada or Mexico? Imagine what the X-Men would think if they never came back. Imagine the scandal he and Laura would cause.
But he’s getting ahead of himself. He’s still here. And Laura is in the car next to him, quiet and impassive as always. She seems no different than she did yesterday. He can’t bring himself to talk. He’s the one who’s changed.
***
An hour later they sit in a café in some shopping center in Orange County. Remy drinks a cup of coffee, hoping it will kill his hangover. Laura does the same. Everything around him feels muffled. He wishes he could have another out-of-body experience.
“Gambit-”
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking up, meeting her gaze. “About what happened. Laura, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,” she repeats quietly.
“It never should have happened. I’m-” He leans toward her and lowers his voice. “It was wrong. It won’t happen again.”
She looks down. Touches the handle of her mug, tracing it with her fingers. “I wanted it.”
“Mm,” he says, mid-sip. He lowers his mug and shakes his head. (So she’s rehashed the events and decided she wanted it. But her emotions are confused with her homesickness-and he knows what it’s like to use sex to chase away loneliness.) “No, petite. This, this-” He gestures to the space between them. “You’re lonely and sad. I understand. But what happened wasn’t right. You don’t want this. Believe me.”
“Don’t tell me what I don’t want.”
He decides to try a different tactic. “For someone like me . . . I know you don’t think of it this way, but I’m grown. I’m old and you’re young.” I have Pavement albums older than you, he thinks. “A grown man can’t be with a young girl.” As soon as he utters that sentence, he recognizes how patronizing it is. She knows the dynamics here-he doesn’t have to tell her.
Laura seethes. “I am not a girl. You know this, Gambit. If anyone knows, it is you.”
“I know,” he says, rushing to amend what he’s just said. “I know you’re not . . . not a girl. But you’re still young. And I’m the adult here, and I owe you more. I shoulda stopped-”
Laura stands. Without warning, she walks away from the table. Remy sits there in her absence, shaken but not stunned.
Moments later he finds her outside in the bright afternoon sunshine. She isn’t gone; she hasn’t left him. She’s sitting on the hood of his rental car, feet propped against the curb, arms folded against her chest. The parking lot is mostly empty.
She doesn’t look up when he approaches. She looks so small, so sad. He wants to take her in his arms.
He lowers himself onto the hood of the car so he’s sitting next to her. For a long time they sit in silence. Laura tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear.
Minutes pass. Finally he leans over and looks at her. “How long? How long have you felt this way?”
She shrugs. Her mouth pulls into a frown. “I do not know. Maybe since I came here.” She shifts her gaze to meet his. “I knew you would think it was wrong to be with me. You are right-I’m not of age. And I know that people would not condone a sexual relationship between us. But I wanted it. I’m-I’m sorry for wanting and for-”
“Non,” he says, raising his hand. (If things were different, if this was yesterday, he’d put his arm around her.) “This ain’t your fault. You got nothing to apologize for.”
Laura licks her lips and looks down again.
“I’m not gonna hear apologies,” he continues. “I know you don’t wanna hear me say this, but you really are young. I’m not talkin’ about life experience. I’m talkin’ about chronological age. And when you’re young, shit happens. But when you’re my age, you got no excuse for your actions but your own stupidity. You got a bigger responsibility to yourself. Hell, to the rest of society.”
Laura waits out his little sermon. She folds her hands in front of her, looks down at her nails. “Do you think I did this to you because I can't help it?”
He snaps back to attention. “What?”
“I am the kind of girl who makes men want. I do not see it when it’s happening. Only after the fact.”
“Laura-”
“Other girls at school, they know. I have never told them about . . . but they know what I am. They do not trust me. They don’t like it when boys talk to me. Even if these boys are just friends. They become . . . so angry with me . . .”
He slides off the hood of his car. Oh, Jesus. This minefield of the adolescent heart. Laura’s been going through this trial by ordeal, and he hasn’t been paying attention.
“I have heard other kids say things when they think I’m not listening. That I’m a whore. And they’re right. How do they know? I never told them.” She pauses. “They understand something about me that I cannot help. This thing is a part of me. Like killing."
“Oh, petite,” he says, standing on the curb. He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s not-” He doesn’t know where to begin. He can feel his thoughts colliding, his consciousness splintering into a few pieces.
She looks up at him, her face blotchy and anxious.
“Kid. Sex isn’t-you haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing.”
“I can’t help wanting.”
“No one can.”
“But you’re so upset. If sex wasn't wrong--”
He does what he should have done in the first place: he goes to her. He walks around to the other side of the car, puts his arms around her and pulls her to her feet. Her head fits right below his chin, and the wind blows her hair into his face. He smoothes it down. “I’m upset with myself, not you. No one can make a man do anything. Remember what we talked about?”
Laura’s folded up against him. She doesn’t believe him. Never has. They’ve had a few conversations about her having been a prostitute. Remy’s never gotten her to admit that she didn't ask to be exploited. Deep down inside, she still believes there’s something within her, sewn to her DNA, that makes her capable of the things that would debilitate most people.
“Second of all,” he says, “don’t let kids bring you down. Girls can be territorial. It’s not about you.”
She pulls back and peers at him. “You are the only one who sees me.”
What she means is that he sees her and not Wolverine. And she’s right, and that’s what makes this whole thing so terrible. “I know,” he says.
***
They have a low-key, quiet day. They go to the movies, sit inside a dark theater and allow themselves to be spirited away by mindless entertainment. The movie is an adventure flick, but it has a romantic subplot about a teenage boy and a teenage girl who get trapped in an underground chamber. The air is running out. They have to make a decision. Which one gets to use the oxygen mask?
Such things never move Remy, but today he’s different. He leans back in the seat and tries not to cry. Occasionally he tries shielding his face with one hand, but he knows it doesn’t matter. Laura can tell what he’s feeling.
When the young actor makes his longwinded, overwrought confession of love for the girl, Remy holds his breath. It’s been so long since he was that young. Without any warning, Laura weaves her fingers through his.
And that’s when he knows: this thing between them isn’t over yet.
The movie ends, the credits roll. Finally the music fades and the reel ends and the lights come back on. He and Laura sit there together. No one else is in the theater.
Minutes pass. Remy wonders if an usher is going to kick them out.
“I know we can’t be together,” Laura says quietly. “Logically, I know this.”
“I’d lose my job,” he whispers. “My spot with the X-Men. I’d be thought of as . . .”
“I would never tell anyone.”
Remy sniffs and sits up. “I don’t mean it like that.” He’s not going to be one of those child molesters who swears a young girl to silence. Don’t tell anyone. This is our secret.
“We could be together and no one would have to know.”
Part of him is tempted by that idea. Yes, they could carry on a secret liaison under everyone’s noses. How transgressive, how energizing. It’s the age-old story of two lovers kept apart by society’s mores. But he’s old enough to know that such a thing would never work. He’d never escape his guilt. As it is now, he doesn’t know how he’s going to survive back in Westchester, having slept with her. He probably won’t be able to keep it under wraps. Like all criminals, he’ll eventually talk. And everything will come out. He’ll stand up and make a big confession, like a villain in a Shakespeare play. But his confession won’t be artful or cathartic-it will be lurid and awful.
But wait, he’s getting ahead of himself again. He needs to keep what they’ve done a secret as much for Laura’s sake as for his. “Secret relationships are never good, petite. Believe me, you don’t want it that way.”
He waits for her to say that he doesn’t know what she wants. Instead she says, “I will not always be sixteen.”
That’s the other option. He waits. Eighteen months is not a long time. But the thought depresses him. Instead of being the lecherous teacher, he’ll be the lecherous teacher who waits until his prize student is conveniently a day over eighteen before whisking her off to the Cayman Islands.
“All the more reason, petite,” he says. “All the more reason for you to find someone your own age.” He swallows. She really shouldn’t waste her teenage years on him. “I ain’t getting any younger.”
She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say it’s him she wants and not a boy. Doesn’t say what they both know to be true: this will happen again.
next
Characters: Remy LeBeau, Laura Kinney, Julian Keller, Logan, Rogue
Pairing: Remy/Laura
Rating: Mature
Author's Notes/Warnings: Underage
Summary: When Remy goes to visit Laura, he makes a mistake that threatens to transform the nature of their friendship.
previous
Remy doesn’t sleep that night. He dozes, waking up every fifteen minutes to check on Laura, who sleeps soundly beside him. He can’t believe what they’ve done.
He never wanted this to happen. Not in all the time he’s known her, not in a thousand years. Even if he knew they’d both live forever, he wouldn’t have wanted it then.
He should have seen the signs. All day he'd used his grief as a shield to keep himself from having to intuit what Laura was feeling. He’d been too wrapped up in his own little problems-his longing for the past, his sense of estrangement-to properly understand what she was going through. He’s an adult and she’s just a girl; he should have foreseen that she might confuse her feelings of homesickness with a desire to be as close to him as possible.
But these rationalizations do nothing to change what’s happened: he’s slept with an ex-student. His friend. A girl he’s responsible for. A girl who’s more emotionally fragile than he is. And there’s a bigger variable here, one he hasn’t fully acknowledged. What if she loves him? What if he loves her back? He definitely feels something for her, but he can’t tell if those feelings are all wrapped up in sex and guilt and protectiveness-a desire to return to the scene of their undoing.
He drifts off to sleep in the early morning. He hasn’t checked the clock in hours, but he knows it’s morning because the space around the heavy hotel-room curtains is starting to glow with pre-dawn light.
When he opens his eyes again the space is much lighter. Brilliant. Late morning. He rolls over. Laura’s not there.
“Merde,” he whispers and levers forward at the waist. He scrambles to free himself of the covers and shuffle out of bed, knocking the lamp off the nightstand in the process. Doesn’t bother to pick it up. “Laura?” he calls. Quiet then. Again, this time a little louder. He’s already on his feet, staggering toward the bathroom. It’s empty. Shit.
He slaps the doorjamb and scampers back into the main room. He needs his clothes. There they are, still on the floor. Pants. Shirt. Shoes. Forget about socks and underwear-he can take care of that later.
He scans the room again as if she might have missed her on his first pass. Where is she? He needs his car keys. His cell phone.
Car keys. He finds them on the desk. Cell phone. Where the fuck is his cell phone? Oh shit, he lost it. He looks for the hotel-room landline so he can call it. But what is his number?
He takes a breath and decides he’s got to draw back the curtains to get more light. Then he sees something he didn’t see before. A piece of paper on the desk. Underneath it is-yes, his cell phone. And the piece of paper is . . . a note. From Laura.
Hands shaking, he picks it up and reads. Gambit, I know you aren’t feeling well so I called one of the Avengers to come pick me up. Sleep well. I will talk to you later.
He turns and looks at the digital clock. 10:15. Jesus. But already his heart-rate is slowing down. He didn’t realize how badly he was panicking until the moment passed. His heart is beating in his fingers. The air around him feels as though it could pop-not a good sign for a man of his abilities. He wills himself to be calm.
He studies Laura’s note, looking for some kind of subtext. (That’s it? he thinks, rereading her spare, terse words. She didn’t even sign her name. Then he chides himself: That’s enough.) She had volleyball practice-he should have remembered. Hell, he should have gotten up in time to take her. If the Avengers didn’t think he was a bum before, they probably do now. Sleeping until ten. Unable to drive a girl a few miles up the road.
Of course, the truth of what happened is much more damning. He’s not just a lazy, degenerate drunk-he’s the sort of lazy, degenerate drunk who sleeps with a student. A lecher. A pervert. He can’t even contemplate what will happen if people find out.
And that’s it-now he’s done it. His stomach churns. He rushes to the bathroom and hangs his head over the toilet. Sweat forms on his upper lip. He wants to throw up but can’t. His body won’t allow him that one small act of mercy.
Minutes later he stands in the middle of his room downing a glass of water, wishing he had some aspirin. Oh God, Laura. He’s ruined everything. He tries not to think back to the times they’ve had, the experiences they’ve shared. Their friendship had brought the best out of him . . . and he’s ruined it by making such a stupid move.
He searches his mind, looking for signs, trying to find some kind of justification. Perhaps this-what happened between them-is not a big deal. Perhaps his angst speaks volumes about his having internalized all those Northeastern, Puritanical values. Things happen. Sex happens, and sometimes chemistry can’t be helped. He’s from New Orleans after all-a city with more lax, Mediterranean attitudes toward sexual relationships. Hell, half the population is probably a result of inappropriate relationships between masters and slaves. (Yeah, good luck flying that defense, he thinks. The I’m-just-a-product-of-a-feudal-society defense.)
He’s going to pull himself together and go over to the Academy. He’s going to apologize to Laura. He’s going to promise that this won’t happen again. He can still make this right.
This. His eyes settle on the dresser. Laura’s things are there, so she must be planning to come back. Some pocket change. The check from Logan. A ticket stub. The letter from Julian, folded into thirds.
He goes over and picks up the letter. He knows he shouldn’t do this, but since when has that sweet conviction stopped him from doing anything? He unfolds it and reads.
Dear Laura,
How are things in California? I hope they’re good. You haven’t emailed me back so I’m assuming you dont want to hear from me. I understand. But I still want to apologize. I’m sorry for the things I said, like when I called you a machine and said your incapable of feeling things. That was wrong of me. I now see that I treated you bad all along, took you for granted. I should of treated you better. I’m sorry.
I’m also sorry for saying those things about Gambit and for implying that you and him were a thing. I now see how ridiculous I was. To think that. For fucks sake life is weird. He’s my sex ed teacher now. He’s a bad teacher and a hick but not really a bad guy. He cant keep students interest in class. But I can see why you guys are friends.
Are you watching Walking Dead right now. Probably not. Its pretty good. Reminds me of Mr. Logan in 8 AM history class. Ha ha. Well I miss you and just wanted to say one more time I’m sorry.
Yours truly,
Julian
Remy refolds the note and sets it back on the dresser. He thinks, I have to talk to Laura.
***
Half an hour later he’s wandering around the halls of Avengers Academy. He didn’t have any problem getting past security-all he had to do was show his X-Men ID-but he should have thought to get directions to the gymnasium. Or wherever they hold volleyball practice. Now he’s ducking in and out of empty rooms. Like he’s casing the place.
He peers through the window of a closed door and sees Clint Barton at a desk, a stack of papers in front of him. Remy’s first instinct is to duck, but Clint’s got some serious peripheral vision. Probably better reflexes than Remy too-at least at this time of day.
“Hey!” Clint says from the other side of the door. He gets up from his desk and jogs over, throws it open. He’s smiling. “Remy, nice to see you.”
“Nice to see you too, ami,” Remy says, returning Clint’s serious-guy handshake.
“Are you looking for Laura?”
“Yeah, I was just-” Remy gestures to the hallway behind him. Clears his throat. “Quite a maze you got here.”
“The gym’s on the second floor. I’ll show you.” Clint points to the end of the hall and starts to advance in that direction. He walks the way a man is supposed to walk, Remy thinks. Sure, decisive stride. Arms at his sides.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Clint says, giving him the once-over. “Laura said you weren’t feeling well this morning. I drove over and picked her up.”
So the truth is worse than he imagined. Hawkeye is the one who actually dropped by his hotel, the scene of his crime. And Laura tried to cover for him by making up some bullshit lie-bless her-but now he’s fucked all of that up by coming to the school and not looking sick. He should have waited patiently for her to call.
Remy wonders if this conversation is about to turn into an interrogation. Does he need to be careful about what he says next? “Food poisoning,” he says. “I was in a pretty bad way earlier. And the jet lag doesn’t help.” (Wait, does jet lag even apply when you’re going from east to west?)
Clint glances over his shoulder. “You have to watch yourself in some of these restaurants out here. Koreatown especially. I could give you a list of places to avoid-mostly from firsthand experience. I nearly ended up in the hospital once.”
“Jesus,” Remy says.
Clint pushes open the door to the stairwell and starts taking three steps at a time. Remy scrambles to keep up with him. Usually he wouldn’t have a problem, but right now he’s feeling sluggish and awful. Guilt, he thinks. Not food poisoning.
Clint gets to the second floor and then pauses. “Actually, let’s go up two more flights. There’s a balcony on the fourth floor where you can see everything.”
Remy nods and hobbles after Clint.
“How are things in Westchester?”
“Fine.”
“Sounds like you guys have a lot going on. And, well, I should really thank you guys for sending Laura our way. She’s quite an addition to the school. You must have been sad to lose her.”
He nods.
“Not to rub it in or anything,” Clint says, turning to give him a half smile.
And there it is: that competitive Avengers bullshit.
“Believe me,” Remy says, gripping the railing. His annoyance gives him strength. “We just want Laura to be happy. Don’t care if it’s with the Avengers or in a convent or a traveling circus, homme.”
Clint seems a little chastened. “Of course.” He opens the door to the fourth floor. “She’s very, very good at competitive sports. But we’ve had to do some work with sportsmanship. It’s not that Laura doesn’t understand good sportsmanship-it’s that she doesn’t understand that not everything is a competition.”
Imagine that, Remy wants to say.
“She wants to keep playing when the other kids want to stop. We try to teach work-life balance here. That it’s okay to hang out. Read a book. Watch TV even. It’s an issue that a lot of superhumans struggle with. Well, here we are.” He pulls open another door and they step into a small room with a railing. Then Remy can see the gym below them, the net strung from one side of the court to the other.
The kids are all there, but he spots Laura right away. She’s wearing shorts and a tank top and poised in front of the net. Next to her stands some little girl in a space suit. She’s trying to get Laura’s attention, but then some other kid serves the ball and that’s it, they’re off. The kids swat it back and forth-almost ceremonially-until Laura, probably tired of being so patient, jumps up and slams it over the other side of the net. Point. Laura’s side claps. The other side groans. The kid who served-a boy-comes forward to pat Laura on the shoulder. “Way to go, Kinney.”
Tigra stands a few feet away from the court. “Good, Laura.”
Remy grips the railing. He tries not to be moved by the sight of Laura-her shiny black hair, delicate features, and thin, muscular build-but it’s too late. His brain floods with warmth. His eyes fill with tears. He knows there are several explanations for this physical reaction: he’s hungover, sleep-deprived, and stressed out. But that’s not what he thinks when he looks at her. He thinks, I’ve fallen in love.
“See?” Clint whispers. “She’s very good.”
Remy nods.
Laura picks up the sound of whispering and turns her head to look at the balcony. Her gaze lingers over them. Remy waves. He feels the air leave his lungs. Laura turns back to the game.
Remy’s knees buckle. He turns to find a chair.
“Hey man, you really don’t look so good.” Clint’s hovering next to him. “You want a glass of water?”
“Just somewhere to sit.”
“My office,” Clint says. “You can wait there.”
***
Clint leads him to his office and then leaves him there. Alone. In nice soft light. Head pounding, he sits in a cushioned chair near the door and nurses a tall glass of water. He glances at the bookshelf and skims the title. The Courage to Teach. Lives on the Boundary. The Academic Self. At the Jean Grey School they call meetings about dildos. At Avengers Academy they think about, you know, pedagogy. Remy picks up a book and skims it even though he can’t focus.
Despite the fact that he feels like crap, his run-in with Barton reassured him. Clint didn’t suspect anything foul. He didn’t look twice at Remy, didn’t seem to think Remy was guilty of anything other than ingesting bad Korean food. And he didn’t seem to think it inappropriate that Laura spent the night with him at his hotel room.
Now Remy feels doubly depressed. No one would suspect him of such a crime because . . . because they think he wouldn’t do such a thing. He’s done some bad shit, but his crimes have never fallen into the category of moral indecency. Hell, everyone trusts the relationship he has with Laura. They see him as a sort of surrogate parent, a kind and doting mentor. Unfortunately, he’s turned out to be something else entirely, something else that eludes their imagination.
He remembers Rogue’s reaction when she learned he was going to see Laura, how she was quietly cheered him on. Oh God, Rogue. What would she do if she found out about this? She would kill him. It wouldn’t matter that they’re not together anymore . . . she would still kill him. Of course, she’d have to get in line behind Wolverine.
He hears footsteps and half suspects that Barton will darken the doorway and put an arrow through his chest. Pervert!
“Gambit?” Laura says.
He jumps, clamors to his feet to find Laura standing three feet away. “Petite, are you . . .”
She’s already changed out of her gym clothes and she smells nice, like shampoo. She’s wearing a skirt.
“Are you alright?” he says.
“I am. Are you? You do not look well.”
“I feel awful . . .” About what happened, he wants to add. He fights the urge to go to her, to throw his arms around her. “Laura,” he says, taking a step toward her.
She doesn’t move, and all at once he feels horrified-like he’s done irrevocable damage to the bond between them, worse than he initially imagined. Then she looks up at the corner. “Not here.”
He drops his arms. She’s right. The place is probably tricked out with cameras. “Where to?” he says.
***
So they drive.
They leave the Academy and drive along a coastal highway-one of these highways the government is always talking about shutting down because it’s the cause of so many accidents. Remy imagines that they might just drive forever, up or down the coast. Where to? Canada or Mexico? Imagine what the X-Men would think if they never came back. Imagine the scandal he and Laura would cause.
But he’s getting ahead of himself. He’s still here. And Laura is in the car next to him, quiet and impassive as always. She seems no different than she did yesterday. He can’t bring himself to talk. He’s the one who’s changed.
***
An hour later they sit in a café in some shopping center in Orange County. Remy drinks a cup of coffee, hoping it will kill his hangover. Laura does the same. Everything around him feels muffled. He wishes he could have another out-of-body experience.
“Gambit-”
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking up, meeting her gaze. “About what happened. Laura, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,” she repeats quietly.
“It never should have happened. I’m-” He leans toward her and lowers his voice. “It was wrong. It won’t happen again.”
She looks down. Touches the handle of her mug, tracing it with her fingers. “I wanted it.”
“Mm,” he says, mid-sip. He lowers his mug and shakes his head. (So she’s rehashed the events and decided she wanted it. But her emotions are confused with her homesickness-and he knows what it’s like to use sex to chase away loneliness.) “No, petite. This, this-” He gestures to the space between them. “You’re lonely and sad. I understand. But what happened wasn’t right. You don’t want this. Believe me.”
“Don’t tell me what I don’t want.”
He decides to try a different tactic. “For someone like me . . . I know you don’t think of it this way, but I’m grown. I’m old and you’re young.” I have Pavement albums older than you, he thinks. “A grown man can’t be with a young girl.” As soon as he utters that sentence, he recognizes how patronizing it is. She knows the dynamics here-he doesn’t have to tell her.
Laura seethes. “I am not a girl. You know this, Gambit. If anyone knows, it is you.”
“I know,” he says, rushing to amend what he’s just said. “I know you’re not . . . not a girl. But you’re still young. And I’m the adult here, and I owe you more. I shoulda stopped-”
Laura stands. Without warning, she walks away from the table. Remy sits there in her absence, shaken but not stunned.
Moments later he finds her outside in the bright afternoon sunshine. She isn’t gone; she hasn’t left him. She’s sitting on the hood of his rental car, feet propped against the curb, arms folded against her chest. The parking lot is mostly empty.
She doesn’t look up when he approaches. She looks so small, so sad. He wants to take her in his arms.
He lowers himself onto the hood of the car so he’s sitting next to her. For a long time they sit in silence. Laura tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear.
Minutes pass. Finally he leans over and looks at her. “How long? How long have you felt this way?”
She shrugs. Her mouth pulls into a frown. “I do not know. Maybe since I came here.” She shifts her gaze to meet his. “I knew you would think it was wrong to be with me. You are right-I’m not of age. And I know that people would not condone a sexual relationship between us. But I wanted it. I’m-I’m sorry for wanting and for-”
“Non,” he says, raising his hand. (If things were different, if this was yesterday, he’d put his arm around her.) “This ain’t your fault. You got nothing to apologize for.”
Laura licks her lips and looks down again.
“I’m not gonna hear apologies,” he continues. “I know you don’t wanna hear me say this, but you really are young. I’m not talkin’ about life experience. I’m talkin’ about chronological age. And when you’re young, shit happens. But when you’re my age, you got no excuse for your actions but your own stupidity. You got a bigger responsibility to yourself. Hell, to the rest of society.”
Laura waits out his little sermon. She folds her hands in front of her, looks down at her nails. “Do you think I did this to you because I can't help it?”
He snaps back to attention. “What?”
“I am the kind of girl who makes men want. I do not see it when it’s happening. Only after the fact.”
“Laura-”
“Other girls at school, they know. I have never told them about . . . but they know what I am. They do not trust me. They don’t like it when boys talk to me. Even if these boys are just friends. They become . . . so angry with me . . .”
He slides off the hood of his car. Oh, Jesus. This minefield of the adolescent heart. Laura’s been going through this trial by ordeal, and he hasn’t been paying attention.
“I have heard other kids say things when they think I’m not listening. That I’m a whore. And they’re right. How do they know? I never told them.” She pauses. “They understand something about me that I cannot help. This thing is a part of me. Like killing."
“Oh, petite,” he says, standing on the curb. He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s not-” He doesn’t know where to begin. He can feel his thoughts colliding, his consciousness splintering into a few pieces.
She looks up at him, her face blotchy and anxious.
“Kid. Sex isn’t-you haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing.”
“I can’t help wanting.”
“No one can.”
“But you’re so upset. If sex wasn't wrong--”
He does what he should have done in the first place: he goes to her. He walks around to the other side of the car, puts his arms around her and pulls her to her feet. Her head fits right below his chin, and the wind blows her hair into his face. He smoothes it down. “I’m upset with myself, not you. No one can make a man do anything. Remember what we talked about?”
Laura’s folded up against him. She doesn’t believe him. Never has. They’ve had a few conversations about her having been a prostitute. Remy’s never gotten her to admit that she didn't ask to be exploited. Deep down inside, she still believes there’s something within her, sewn to her DNA, that makes her capable of the things that would debilitate most people.
“Second of all,” he says, “don’t let kids bring you down. Girls can be territorial. It’s not about you.”
She pulls back and peers at him. “You are the only one who sees me.”
What she means is that he sees her and not Wolverine. And she’s right, and that’s what makes this whole thing so terrible. “I know,” he says.
***
They have a low-key, quiet day. They go to the movies, sit inside a dark theater and allow themselves to be spirited away by mindless entertainment. The movie is an adventure flick, but it has a romantic subplot about a teenage boy and a teenage girl who get trapped in an underground chamber. The air is running out. They have to make a decision. Which one gets to use the oxygen mask?
Such things never move Remy, but today he’s different. He leans back in the seat and tries not to cry. Occasionally he tries shielding his face with one hand, but he knows it doesn’t matter. Laura can tell what he’s feeling.
When the young actor makes his longwinded, overwrought confession of love for the girl, Remy holds his breath. It’s been so long since he was that young. Without any warning, Laura weaves her fingers through his.
And that’s when he knows: this thing between them isn’t over yet.
The movie ends, the credits roll. Finally the music fades and the reel ends and the lights come back on. He and Laura sit there together. No one else is in the theater.
Minutes pass. Remy wonders if an usher is going to kick them out.
“I know we can’t be together,” Laura says quietly. “Logically, I know this.”
“I’d lose my job,” he whispers. “My spot with the X-Men. I’d be thought of as . . .”
“I would never tell anyone.”
Remy sniffs and sits up. “I don’t mean it like that.” He’s not going to be one of those child molesters who swears a young girl to silence. Don’t tell anyone. This is our secret.
“We could be together and no one would have to know.”
Part of him is tempted by that idea. Yes, they could carry on a secret liaison under everyone’s noses. How transgressive, how energizing. It’s the age-old story of two lovers kept apart by society’s mores. But he’s old enough to know that such a thing would never work. He’d never escape his guilt. As it is now, he doesn’t know how he’s going to survive back in Westchester, having slept with her. He probably won’t be able to keep it under wraps. Like all criminals, he’ll eventually talk. And everything will come out. He’ll stand up and make a big confession, like a villain in a Shakespeare play. But his confession won’t be artful or cathartic-it will be lurid and awful.
But wait, he’s getting ahead of himself again. He needs to keep what they’ve done a secret as much for Laura’s sake as for his. “Secret relationships are never good, petite. Believe me, you don’t want it that way.”
He waits for her to say that he doesn’t know what she wants. Instead she says, “I will not always be sixteen.”
That’s the other option. He waits. Eighteen months is not a long time. But the thought depresses him. Instead of being the lecherous teacher, he’ll be the lecherous teacher who waits until his prize student is conveniently a day over eighteen before whisking her off to the Cayman Islands.
“All the more reason, petite,” he says. “All the more reason for you to find someone your own age.” He swallows. She really shouldn’t waste her teenage years on him. “I ain’t getting any younger.”
She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t say it’s him she wants and not a boy. Doesn’t say what they both know to be true: this will happen again.
next