These Hands
by Wahinetoa
Disclaimer: All owned by Marvel, I own nothing but the choc nut bar
in my pocket. Sue me, and that's all you get. Sorry.
Dedicated: To all my wonderful kids at Gambit&Storm club, Momma Funk and
the talented writers there. Especially AJ and Chilli who inspired the
writing with their wonderful works.
Authors note: This is my first Storm/Gambit story. It's unbeta'd, so please
forgive the mistakes. Thank you kindly.
~~~~
Tonight I cried the tears of a child
Who knows what fear runs deep and wild
Inside
But the river's in flood tonight
~~~~
Darkness.
The perfect destination for his life. Born into it, bled by it and
now?, - buried in it. He knew what brought him to this point, and he
savagely slammed it behind his shields.
It had been several weeks since Rogue had revealed to the other Xmen his
own part in the Morlocks death. Then she left the mansion with Bobby and
never looked back. Remy dove into the nearest bar, and tore himself
apart. Night after drunken night. Only staggering home in the early
morning hours.
Ororo tended her garden in the early dawning, and witnessed Remys less
than charming arrivals, with consternation.
In the end, she could not hold her worries from him. There was a
confrontation, in the middle of the grounds and she had slapped him.
Balling his fists, his eyes stinging with anger and tears, he growled
out a threat to stay away, then turned his back on her. Something he had
never done before, and shuddered as he did so. She was mortified
she had slapped him - she would never do this. Never.
Why she had acted so rashly? She had found herself so drawn to him of
late. Whether it was because of their shared deep bond as thieves, or
the one they shared as best friends since Remy had saved her all those
years ago from The nanny, and then the Hounds; or maybe perhaps because
there always seemed something so much more between them, she was not
sure. But even as he was hurting, he'd come to her and she to him. It
was natural. It was right.
Except this time. He was pulling away. From her. From the Xmen. From
everything. And it was killing her. Remy was her heart, whether she
admitted to it or not. This confrontation was in plea and desperation to
gather him back from the edge of the abyss, and thereby save her own
heart from dying with him.
As he turned to stalk away from her - she had lost and let herself fall
to her knees. Perhaps the sorrow in her face and eyes, blinded her to
the coiled serpent placed by the nanny in the fauna she so loving
tended, that she didnot see until it struck.
Remy had heard her cry out in alarm and swivelled back. By the time he
had sobered up enough to charge the card to full strength - it was too
late. Ororo Nunroe was not breathing.
Almost before he crashed through the front doors screaming for Hank,
Ororo Monroe began to age backwards. It was the same as before. Only
this time it was her mind... or so they thought. Hank had managed to mix
a serum to still the mental deterioration, but in the process, her body
soon followed the cerebral cortex operations and aged back too.
Remy had blamed himself for this attack on her. He and Jean had kept
constant vigil - the other xmen thought it guilt. And truth it was part
of it, but not all. Only Jean saw it in the Cajuns face, many days Storm
lay unconscious. Jean had spent hours on one side of her bed clasping
one hand on one side, and Remy holding Stormys left hand on the other.
Jean recognized so many emotions that he wore, she doubted she could
name them all. Guilt. Shame. Desperate love. Love of someone who knew -
that this was the moment that everyone spends everyday of his or her
lives searching for. He couldn't find it with Rogue, no matter how much
they wanted it to work. And Ororo couldn't find it with Forge, no matter
how hard she tried. But maybe if they'd get over the guilt they carried,
they could find it together. Their soulmates. Their true loves. Right
now. With each other.
The sorrow was replaced by the poise and bravery of a man on a quest for
life. Ororo's life. And part, there in - for his own.
The last time Storm awoke, she was 21 - body and mind. Hank said that
Ororo would age normally from then, but he would keep an eye on her just
in case.
Remy being Remy, looked on the "just in case" as fatality. He went
insane with guilt, using his hands as the scalpel. Bar-brawls, all night
drinking - far worse than before. Maybe because this time - he had far
more to loose.
A week later.
He wants a drink. Something dark and illegal. Bourbon poured into a
glass the size of Canada. Something to numb and make unconscious...
he thinks madly. Remy knew she was there
- debating on the threshold whether she should come in or not. How many
nights had he spent at her door, debating the same thing?
Nononono. Don't go there. The liberated 100year old bottle of Highlander
whiskey from Charles secret hoard, tips again, versed by unsteady,
bloody hands. At least these hands were good for something. Not that
there is drink or poison enough to sustain this wish. Nor it seems the
quiet to do it in.
Outside, her footfalls cease. He hears her rock back and forth on her
heels and slowly the door begins to open. Next time he'll lock the
door.. not that, that would stop her or the things he was feeling. He is
so finely attune to her, that even when he's half-blitz out of his mind
- he senses her as infinitely as his own heartbeat. He dragged his mouth
away from the neck of the bottle with a hiss. These thoughts were
dangerous
~~~
I lay down and the light streamed across my face
I felt the beauty of some deeper grace
And I tried
To find my way to the other side
~~~
She is framed by the doorway, the light behind her, illuminating and
bathing her in a splendid golden glow. To normal eyes, after so many
days in the darkness, the discomfort of that light, would be short
lived. But to his red on black oculus, the agony took all other senses
from him. This allowed his gruff protest to go unsaid, and she came in
without rebuff. Darkness quickly returns as she softly closes his
bedroom door again.
"Don wan' ta talk about it." Remy snapped, a little more harshly than he
intended, due to the fact she had got past his barbed-wire defenses. She
had that way about it.
Storm bit back the obvious hurt from his tone, and crossed the room.
"Remy.." her voice was soft, gentle and chiding. He clenched his jaw,
shook his head in vigorous denial, saying the words more slower and with
the conviction he could muster.
"Don' wan' ta talk about it, Stormy."
By this time, she has found her way past the jagged glass maze to his
bed. She sits at the other end of the bed - choking back her fears of
closed spaces. She has to do this. Wasn't it her fault he was in here in
the first place?
"Well, my friend," Ororo stated quietly, "You may not wish to speak of
it. But I will, and what is more - you will hear me this time." She
waited for protest, but none came. With her own sensitive eyesight, she
could see his ghostly form in the dimness of his room. He sat with his
knees drawn tightly against his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs,
his face shrouded by unspent tears and grief. She faltered, seeing him
like this was killing her - if that was beyond more possible.
His hands were testament to the punishment he suffered by his own memory
of that fateful day. Bruised and broken.
Her life changed when she witnessed his destruction over Rogue, and then
again over her. She had nearly lost him - and that was one heck of an
eye-opener. Wasn't it strange that you find love, in the palm of your
hand? She sighed despite herself. What a time to be thinking of such
things!
"Remy," Her voice came to him again. So sad and quietly, that at first
he thought he had imagined it. Slowly he raised his eyes to meet, in the
still quiet dark, her blue cat eyes. "It was not your fault, my friend."
Remy winces. Friend. As in "just friends" or "Never be more than.." She
couldn't have been more cruel. Her voice continues. "Most women desire
to be 19 again, and perhaps this time I can keep out of trouble."
Remy ignored the hint of mirth. She was healthy and would be fine. He
knew that. He did. It still did not erase his memory of her lying still
in his arms. Of how close he came to loosing her. And when she had
emerged from coma as a 19 year old woman, so vital, beautiful and young,
his heart seized. 19 to his 25. She was too young for him to confess his
feelings. She would always be too young.
He could never speak of it. She might as well be 13 again as when they
first met, for the all the good it did. Even now, with her so close to
him, speaking with the soul and spirit of the woman he loved, from the
sensual body of a teenager, he could not help his physical attraction..
and his soulbond exsistance to her.
Her obvious need to ease the tension, only added to his own. Why must
she always find the courage... only when he has lost his? "Not
what I remember, Stormy. You came so close ta dyin' and I couldn' even
hang on ta you. Damn hands.. useless hands."
As if to illustrate his point, Remy cruelly slammed his palms
into the broken glass on the floor, so quickly, that Storm could only
cry out as she dove across the bed to stop him. The momentum of her
dive, made both go tumbling back, Storm ontop of him. He gasped as her
body crushed his. Her long limbs tangling around his shoulders and
waist, bringing forth an instant flash heat of desire for a moment both
were stunned. But, if not for Storms agility to pull him up
and place him on the bed with a small gust - he would have suffered much
more, so close to discovering his deepest secret.
He desired her. He loved her. Ages be damned.
He sat despondent, his face downcast looking once again to his empty
broken hands - only now, being tended, filled and healed by another set
of unseen hands. Hands of someone he loved - and who, impossibly, loved
him back.
~~~
I feel your skin as smooth as silk
Drunk like a baby on his mama's milk
Take me down under the wishing tree
Lay your healing hands on me
~~~
A little shocked by the suddenness of her touch, he continues to watch;
her fingers tangled in his own - revealing the wounds and cleaning them
with the hem of her dress. He wanted so much more, but needed to hold
back afraid that she would disappear.
The awareness of her and the sight of her, brought a thousand different
memories to mind. Somewhere down the line the definition of his
existence changed. Friendship and love raged against him, offering up
his soul to the temporary pyre.
He regarded his large and clumsy hands, marked with the long hours and
hard life he had borne alone, for so many desperate years. Over the
years, they were hands that had known loss and great fortune. Understood
the power, deftness and agility they wielded in the guild, and felt the
weakness of that power under the fates whim. Knew their shelter and
forgiveness in the xmen. Their cruelty and revenge under Sinister. But
within the shelter of her own, they were never so beautiful, so brave or
right.
Her noble hands never cease their gentle dance as she speaks. Speaking
of their times together, of their friendship and love - he knows she is
babbling of anything to keep her from thinking about how hurt he is, or
the sealed room. She closes the silence in her voice and drives his
fears away. Tending and giving life. He'd never really seen her hands
before.. not until this moment. They are like a dancers hands moving to
unheard music of her love for him. Touching, healing caresses. Goddess,
how was he so blind? These; the same hands that often he held - the
often held him. Nightmares from her past, from his driven away by their
touch. Softened by fingertips tracing the tears away. Running through
each others hair like a comb. Easing the tension. Making whole, just
like she was doing right now. Stormy. HIS Stormy.
He knew those hands as a child. Slid into his, curled between his
fingers, complete trust in him as a mentor and friend. Knew
them as a woman, that flirted or teased. Knew them as a leader - strong,
vigilant and wise. Thankfully never knew them as a foe - gathering up
the forces of lightening to strike him down in his tracks. He knew those
hands as maternal - healer. Goddess. Those hands that could cradle a
lost child, yet move heaven and earth to find this childe a home. Hands
that also knew great loss, great anger and compassion.
Hands - that spoke to him even now, with the unsaid.
She did as much as she could, with the little she had. Now, her hands
found and cradled his upturned face and with careful movements lifted
his eyes to meet hers in the dim light. Without breaking eye contact,
she raised his hand to her lips, and placed a kiss on the palm. Remys
breath caught in his throat. Trust.
Been a long time riding this deserted train
There's no messiahs out here, baby
But I found the holy grail all right
'Cause I'm lying in your arms tonight
Yeah....
She reached out slowly and touched his cheek, softly tracing those well
defined cheekbones to the stubborn clench of his jaw and back up to cup
his cheek with her palm. She deliberatly avoided Remys succulant lips,
fearing her fingertips would not be the only sensitive part of herself
pressed to them in a swooning crush.
She swallowed, fighting hard to focus on his needs and not her raging
own.
"If the eyes are windows to the soul, Remy, then the hands guide the
heart." She took his two hands within her own and placed them over her
heart. His gasp rumbled through her, making her heart beat faster. And
Remys senstive fingertips picked up the rythmn, the soft sighs and the
increasing warmth inside himself so close to the rounded flesh of a
goddess.
Somehow she found her own voice. Husky with the unspoken. "Remy These
hands saved me when I was lost." She spoke quietly, the rawness of her
affection coming to him in waves. "If not for these hands, if not for
you - I would never be. I love them, and I love the man who yields them.
And I cannot let you hurt them anymore, Remy. They hold my life inside
them - you hold me."
Her words. Her touch. He could no more hide from the honesty of her
love, than he could any more deny his own. Slowly, Remy brought her
hands to his lips and placed a kiss upon them. The action seemed to
invoke in him a need and hunger. A multitude of kisses rained upon her
fingers, her palms, her wrists and fingertips. These hands now laced
with hers - were a living contrast. She completed him. Tears glittered
on his cheek, and with absent loving, she brushed them away with one
free hand, leaving the other happily captured within his own. Before the
gesture was complete, he caught her hand with his and brought it to his
lips again.
His voice was husky, softly audible above his own heart-beat. "I love
you too, Stormy."
That's how he felt, with everything he was and with everything he
had the potential to be. In reply, her fingers couldn't seem to stop
touching him, letting her be sure of him, sure that he was there and
with her, and that the whole night-- their whole life- hadn't been a
dream. Remy leans into their caress, and she responds in kind. Over and
over.
Her hands never leave him, as his never leaves hers. If his hands spoke
of his heart, then he feels by touch, what his heart knew the day she
nearly slipped between his fingers. A joyful revelation comes.
These Cajun hands. His hands
will forever..
belong in hers.
The end.
by Wahinetoa
Disclaimer: All owned by Marvel, I own nothing but the choc nut bar
in my pocket. Sue me, and that's all you get. Sorry.
Dedicated: To all my wonderful kids at Gambit&Storm club, Momma Funk and
the talented writers there. Especially AJ and Chilli who inspired the
writing with their wonderful works.
Authors note: This is my first Storm/Gambit story. It's unbeta'd, so please
forgive the mistakes. Thank you kindly.
~~~~
Tonight I cried the tears of a child
Who knows what fear runs deep and wild
Inside
But the river's in flood tonight
~~~~
Darkness.
The perfect destination for his life. Born into it, bled by it and
now?, - buried in it. He knew what brought him to this point, and he
savagely slammed it behind his shields.
It had been several weeks since Rogue had revealed to the other Xmen his
own part in the Morlocks death. Then she left the mansion with Bobby and
never looked back. Remy dove into the nearest bar, and tore himself
apart. Night after drunken night. Only staggering home in the early
morning hours.
Ororo tended her garden in the early dawning, and witnessed Remys less
than charming arrivals, with consternation.
In the end, she could not hold her worries from him. There was a
confrontation, in the middle of the grounds and she had slapped him.
Balling his fists, his eyes stinging with anger and tears, he growled
out a threat to stay away, then turned his back on her. Something he had
never done before, and shuddered as he did so. She was mortified
she had slapped him - she would never do this. Never.
Why she had acted so rashly? She had found herself so drawn to him of
late. Whether it was because of their shared deep bond as thieves, or
the one they shared as best friends since Remy had saved her all those
years ago from The nanny, and then the Hounds; or maybe perhaps because
there always seemed something so much more between them, she was not
sure. But even as he was hurting, he'd come to her and she to him. It
was natural. It was right.
Except this time. He was pulling away. From her. From the Xmen. From
everything. And it was killing her. Remy was her heart, whether she
admitted to it or not. This confrontation was in plea and desperation to
gather him back from the edge of the abyss, and thereby save her own
heart from dying with him.
As he turned to stalk away from her - she had lost and let herself fall
to her knees. Perhaps the sorrow in her face and eyes, blinded her to
the coiled serpent placed by the nanny in the fauna she so loving
tended, that she didnot see until it struck.
Remy had heard her cry out in alarm and swivelled back. By the time he
had sobered up enough to charge the card to full strength - it was too
late. Ororo Nunroe was not breathing.
Almost before he crashed through the front doors screaming for Hank,
Ororo Monroe began to age backwards. It was the same as before. Only
this time it was her mind... or so they thought. Hank had managed to mix
a serum to still the mental deterioration, but in the process, her body
soon followed the cerebral cortex operations and aged back too.
Remy had blamed himself for this attack on her. He and Jean had kept
constant vigil - the other xmen thought it guilt. And truth it was part
of it, but not all. Only Jean saw it in the Cajuns face, many days Storm
lay unconscious. Jean had spent hours on one side of her bed clasping
one hand on one side, and Remy holding Stormys left hand on the other.
Jean recognized so many emotions that he wore, she doubted she could
name them all. Guilt. Shame. Desperate love. Love of someone who knew -
that this was the moment that everyone spends everyday of his or her
lives searching for. He couldn't find it with Rogue, no matter how much
they wanted it to work. And Ororo couldn't find it with Forge, no matter
how hard she tried. But maybe if they'd get over the guilt they carried,
they could find it together. Their soulmates. Their true loves. Right
now. With each other.
The sorrow was replaced by the poise and bravery of a man on a quest for
life. Ororo's life. And part, there in - for his own.
The last time Storm awoke, she was 21 - body and mind. Hank said that
Ororo would age normally from then, but he would keep an eye on her just
in case.
Remy being Remy, looked on the "just in case" as fatality. He went
insane with guilt, using his hands as the scalpel. Bar-brawls, all night
drinking - far worse than before. Maybe because this time - he had far
more to loose.
A week later.
He wants a drink. Something dark and illegal. Bourbon poured into a
glass the size of Canada. Something to numb and make unconscious...
he thinks madly. Remy knew she was there
- debating on the threshold whether she should come in or not. How many
nights had he spent at her door, debating the same thing?
Nononono. Don't go there. The liberated 100year old bottle of Highlander
whiskey from Charles secret hoard, tips again, versed by unsteady,
bloody hands. At least these hands were good for something. Not that
there is drink or poison enough to sustain this wish. Nor it seems the
quiet to do it in.
Outside, her footfalls cease. He hears her rock back and forth on her
heels and slowly the door begins to open. Next time he'll lock the
door.. not that, that would stop her or the things he was feeling. He is
so finely attune to her, that even when he's half-blitz out of his mind
- he senses her as infinitely as his own heartbeat. He dragged his mouth
away from the neck of the bottle with a hiss. These thoughts were
dangerous
~~~
I lay down and the light streamed across my face
I felt the beauty of some deeper grace
And I tried
To find my way to the other side
~~~
She is framed by the doorway, the light behind her, illuminating and
bathing her in a splendid golden glow. To normal eyes, after so many
days in the darkness, the discomfort of that light, would be short
lived. But to his red on black oculus, the agony took all other senses
from him. This allowed his gruff protest to go unsaid, and she came in
without rebuff. Darkness quickly returns as she softly closes his
bedroom door again.
"Don wan' ta talk about it." Remy snapped, a little more harshly than he
intended, due to the fact she had got past his barbed-wire defenses. She
had that way about it.
Storm bit back the obvious hurt from his tone, and crossed the room.
"Remy.." her voice was soft, gentle and chiding. He clenched his jaw,
shook his head in vigorous denial, saying the words more slower and with
the conviction he could muster.
"Don' wan' ta talk about it, Stormy."
By this time, she has found her way past the jagged glass maze to his
bed. She sits at the other end of the bed - choking back her fears of
closed spaces. She has to do this. Wasn't it her fault he was in here in
the first place?
"Well, my friend," Ororo stated quietly, "You may not wish to speak of
it. But I will, and what is more - you will hear me this time." She
waited for protest, but none came. With her own sensitive eyesight, she
could see his ghostly form in the dimness of his room. He sat with his
knees drawn tightly against his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs,
his face shrouded by unspent tears and grief. She faltered, seeing him
like this was killing her - if that was beyond more possible.
His hands were testament to the punishment he suffered by his own memory
of that fateful day. Bruised and broken.
Her life changed when she witnessed his destruction over Rogue, and then
again over her. She had nearly lost him - and that was one heck of an
eye-opener. Wasn't it strange that you find love, in the palm of your
hand? She sighed despite herself. What a time to be thinking of such
things!
"Remy," Her voice came to him again. So sad and quietly, that at first
he thought he had imagined it. Slowly he raised his eyes to meet, in the
still quiet dark, her blue cat eyes. "It was not your fault, my friend."
Remy winces. Friend. As in "just friends" or "Never be more than.." She
couldn't have been more cruel. Her voice continues. "Most women desire
to be 19 again, and perhaps this time I can keep out of trouble."
Remy ignored the hint of mirth. She was healthy and would be fine. He
knew that. He did. It still did not erase his memory of her lying still
in his arms. Of how close he came to loosing her. And when she had
emerged from coma as a 19 year old woman, so vital, beautiful and young,
his heart seized. 19 to his 25. She was too young for him to confess his
feelings. She would always be too young.
He could never speak of it. She might as well be 13 again as when they
first met, for the all the good it did. Even now, with her so close to
him, speaking with the soul and spirit of the woman he loved, from the
sensual body of a teenager, he could not help his physical attraction..
and his soulbond exsistance to her.
Her obvious need to ease the tension, only added to his own. Why must
she always find the courage... only when he has lost his? "Not
what I remember, Stormy. You came so close ta dyin' and I couldn' even
hang on ta you. Damn hands.. useless hands."
As if to illustrate his point, Remy cruelly slammed his palms
into the broken glass on the floor, so quickly, that Storm could only
cry out as she dove across the bed to stop him. The momentum of her
dive, made both go tumbling back, Storm ontop of him. He gasped as her
body crushed his. Her long limbs tangling around his shoulders and
waist, bringing forth an instant flash heat of desire for a moment both
were stunned. But, if not for Storms agility to pull him up
and place him on the bed with a small gust - he would have suffered much
more, so close to discovering his deepest secret.
He desired her. He loved her. Ages be damned.
He sat despondent, his face downcast looking once again to his empty
broken hands - only now, being tended, filled and healed by another set
of unseen hands. Hands of someone he loved - and who, impossibly, loved
him back.
~~~
I feel your skin as smooth as silk
Drunk like a baby on his mama's milk
Take me down under the wishing tree
Lay your healing hands on me
~~~
A little shocked by the suddenness of her touch, he continues to watch;
her fingers tangled in his own - revealing the wounds and cleaning them
with the hem of her dress. He wanted so much more, but needed to hold
back afraid that she would disappear.
The awareness of her and the sight of her, brought a thousand different
memories to mind. Somewhere down the line the definition of his
existence changed. Friendship and love raged against him, offering up
his soul to the temporary pyre.
He regarded his large and clumsy hands, marked with the long hours and
hard life he had borne alone, for so many desperate years. Over the
years, they were hands that had known loss and great fortune. Understood
the power, deftness and agility they wielded in the guild, and felt the
weakness of that power under the fates whim. Knew their shelter and
forgiveness in the xmen. Their cruelty and revenge under Sinister. But
within the shelter of her own, they were never so beautiful, so brave or
right.
Her noble hands never cease their gentle dance as she speaks. Speaking
of their times together, of their friendship and love - he knows she is
babbling of anything to keep her from thinking about how hurt he is, or
the sealed room. She closes the silence in her voice and drives his
fears away. Tending and giving life. He'd never really seen her hands
before.. not until this moment. They are like a dancers hands moving to
unheard music of her love for him. Touching, healing caresses. Goddess,
how was he so blind? These; the same hands that often he held - the
often held him. Nightmares from her past, from his driven away by their
touch. Softened by fingertips tracing the tears away. Running through
each others hair like a comb. Easing the tension. Making whole, just
like she was doing right now. Stormy. HIS Stormy.
He knew those hands as a child. Slid into his, curled between his
fingers, complete trust in him as a mentor and friend. Knew
them as a woman, that flirted or teased. Knew them as a leader - strong,
vigilant and wise. Thankfully never knew them as a foe - gathering up
the forces of lightening to strike him down in his tracks. He knew those
hands as maternal - healer. Goddess. Those hands that could cradle a
lost child, yet move heaven and earth to find this childe a home. Hands
that also knew great loss, great anger and compassion.
Hands - that spoke to him even now, with the unsaid.
She did as much as she could, with the little she had. Now, her hands
found and cradled his upturned face and with careful movements lifted
his eyes to meet hers in the dim light. Without breaking eye contact,
she raised his hand to her lips, and placed a kiss on the palm. Remys
breath caught in his throat. Trust.
Been a long time riding this deserted train
There's no messiahs out here, baby
But I found the holy grail all right
'Cause I'm lying in your arms tonight
Yeah....
She reached out slowly and touched his cheek, softly tracing those well
defined cheekbones to the stubborn clench of his jaw and back up to cup
his cheek with her palm. She deliberatly avoided Remys succulant lips,
fearing her fingertips would not be the only sensitive part of herself
pressed to them in a swooning crush.
She swallowed, fighting hard to focus on his needs and not her raging
own.
"If the eyes are windows to the soul, Remy, then the hands guide the
heart." She took his two hands within her own and placed them over her
heart. His gasp rumbled through her, making her heart beat faster. And
Remys senstive fingertips picked up the rythmn, the soft sighs and the
increasing warmth inside himself so close to the rounded flesh of a
goddess.
Somehow she found her own voice. Husky with the unspoken. "Remy These
hands saved me when I was lost." She spoke quietly, the rawness of her
affection coming to him in waves. "If not for these hands, if not for
you - I would never be. I love them, and I love the man who yields them.
And I cannot let you hurt them anymore, Remy. They hold my life inside
them - you hold me."
Her words. Her touch. He could no more hide from the honesty of her
love, than he could any more deny his own. Slowly, Remy brought her
hands to his lips and placed a kiss upon them. The action seemed to
invoke in him a need and hunger. A multitude of kisses rained upon her
fingers, her palms, her wrists and fingertips. These hands now laced
with hers - were a living contrast. She completed him. Tears glittered
on his cheek, and with absent loving, she brushed them away with one
free hand, leaving the other happily captured within his own. Before the
gesture was complete, he caught her hand with his and brought it to his
lips again.
His voice was husky, softly audible above his own heart-beat. "I love
you too, Stormy."
That's how he felt, with everything he was and with everything he
had the potential to be. In reply, her fingers couldn't seem to stop
touching him, letting her be sure of him, sure that he was there and
with her, and that the whole night-- their whole life- hadn't been a
dream. Remy leans into their caress, and she responds in kind. Over and
over.
Her hands never leave him, as his never leaves hers. If his hands spoke
of his heart, then he feels by touch, what his heart knew the day she
nearly slipped between his fingers. A joyful revelation comes.
These Cajun hands. His hands
will forever..
belong in hers.
The end.