I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING.

I will be the first to admit that my knowledge of the X-Men canon is abysmal - it's pretty much restricted to the movies, a few episodes of the cartoon, Wikipedia summaries, and the "Rogue & Gambit" and "Mr. & Mrs. X" comics. Clearly, given that there are literal decades of canon about which I know absolutely nothing, there's a fairly good chance my characterization will seem off to people who actually Know Things about this fandom. But even so, Romy has sort of invaded my brain in the past few weeks, and I couldn't resist taking a stab at this pairing even though I knew I wasn't super informed.

What I have gathered from the perfunctory research I did before writing this, though, is that every writer tends to do their own thing with Rogue's (for lack of a better term) touch impediment. From what I can tell, some give her the ability to control it or temporarily remove her powers, and some don't; hence my "throw-canon-to-the-wind" approach to her powers here. I'm doing what the cartoon did here and operating on the assumption here that she can't touch people unless, as in "Mr. & Mrs. X," she is wearing some sort of power-dampening instrument; it's easier. Apologies if that results in me butchering canon...

Title is from "Speechless" by Dan + Shay because I am a sappy idiot and admit this. On to the story!

It is the simplest moments that make being unable to touch another person the most difficult.

Rogue doesn't yet really know what to make of...whatever she and Remy are supposed to be, save for the knowledge that if they were a normal whatever-they-were-currently-defining-themselves-as, they'd probably be making out in deserted corners at every possible opportunity. That isn't what bothers her most, though - the thought barely even crosses her mind. No, it's the smallest of gestures that make her feel empty for the longing they inspire.

The hardest thing to deny herself is the nonchalant affection that every other couple exchange as if it is nothing special. She can't help but feel her heart clench when her eyes fall on a couple walking side-by-side, strolling aimlessly with an arm casually slung around a shoulder. Whenever her gaze lingers on an embrace that lasts just a moment too long before a separation. Every time she has to watch a two people walk with their hands clasped, fingers intertwined.

Every time she's reminded what she would give just to be able to hold his hand.

It seems so trivial - Rogue can't help but wonder if Remy would laugh if he knew just how intensely she wishes they could share something so innocent, that she wishes for the simplest, sweetest moments most of all. Surely it was a consequence of a life nearly devoid of tenderness, but she feels the gulf between them no less when, walking side by side, inches separate their hands. It takes near-impossible self control not to reach for his hand and latch on for as long as she can in that moment.

"I wish I could hold your hand," Rogue blurts out before she can talk herself out of it. (She knows she'll probably curse herself for it later, but that's not a concern for the present.)

Remy is silent. For a moment she's glad he doesn't think she's being ridiculous, but-

Then again, it's nearly impossible to render Remy LeBeau speechless. The silence between them can't mean anything good.

"Someday, chere," is all he can muster after a pause. There is a hint of something like regret in his voice and Rogue bites back a lump in her throat, wondering for the umpteenth time why a man like him, one who (to her knowledge) never learned to show love through words or gestures or anything but touch, would love someone who couldn't so much as hold his hand. If he even could.

Rogue can't think of a reply to that, so she remains silent. True, this single problem could be solved with a pair of gloves, but...it's not the fact that she can't hold his hand now, in this one instant, that hurts so much. She's not a romantic, nor the type to wax poetic, but she supposes it's what the gesture symbolizes that makes its absence so conspicious. Trust, comfort, tenderness - things she has every cause to doubt she's found in him.

She sighs. Someday, chere echoes in her head like a death knell.

She never tells Remy what she sees when she awakens.

Rogue doesn't scream through her nightmares. She simply thrashes, waking him, and by the time he's managed to grab a sheet to shield himself from her skin as he shakes her awake, she's in a cold sweat. She catches on quickly once she's woken up - she never needs to be told that it was just a dream - but she never talks. No, she simply sits up against the pillows, knees tucked to her chest, feeling like an island in a great expanse of sea. Sometimes she talks to him, others it's too much - but never about her dreams. Always other things. Tonight it seems worth the effort.

"Remy?" she croaks, knowing he's awake without having to look.

"Yeah?" he turns to her. "You okay, chere?"

"'m fine," she replies weekly. "Can you hold me?"

Rogue knows it's a futile request - she can lean up against him, perhaps, if she drowns herself in so much clothing that she'll overheat in seconds, but it isn't what she wants. She wishes he could trace the outline of her jaw, rub her shoulders in reassuring circles, kiss her forehead and tell her she has nothing to worry about.

Things they both know won't be.

"'Course, chere." She shrugs into the oversized bathrobe she'd carelessly thrown over her nightstand earlier - a precaution - and snuggles into his arms, cautiously resting her head against his chest. Remy kisses the crown of her head and seems to drift back into dormant oblivion. Rogue lets out a near-inaudible sigh.

She feels ungrateful for wishing for more than what she has now, but something in her can't stop thinking of the life anyone else would be leading in her position.

"Vacation" is a universally unfamiliar word among the X-Men, so it seems all too apropos that, on the first break Remy and Rogue have had in years, the atmosphere is perfectly cooperative. The evening is stunning; everything is still in the humid night air, and the street lamps are reflected in the river. For a moment, they simply watch the river they've both missed so dearly, but their eyes are, as always, drawn back to each other in time. Their gazes meet and something in the intensity of Remy's gaze makes Rogue uncharacteristically timid. She lowers her eyes and he lays his hand on the sleeve of her jacket, drawing them back up to meet his.

"Dance with me, chere," he says, low and reverent.

"You know I can't," she replies, her cheeks growing even hotter. She briefly wonders why she's so flustered now, of all possible moments, but pushes the question to the back of her mind, gesturing to her bare hands. "No gloves." (He knows there's more to her reluctance, but he won't admit it if she doesn't. It's their way.)

Remy sighs, resting his head on her shoulder. "I know. Jus' wishful thinkin'."

"Why'd ya ask?" Rogue asks, leaning back against his chest. "Pretty random time to be askin' me for a dance."

"Why not?" Remy shrugs. "Beautiful night, beautiful lady...seemed like a good combination." (She knows there's more to his request, but she won't admit it if he doesn't. That isn't how they work.)

"Oh, stop it," Rogue sighs, her exasperation only half-faked. "You really think those lines are gonna work on me after all this time?"

"I don' see why you can't dance without gloves on," Remy replies. "Startin' to think you just don't want t'."

"Ever heard of errin' on the side'a caution?" Rogue gives him a wry half-glare. "Always a risk without 'em."

"Please, chere," he begs, covering his hand with the fabric of his sleeve to lift her chin.

"No music," Rogue says, freeing herself from his arms to lean out over the railing, pretending to watch the river. "How could we?"

"That sounds like a challenge."

"Remy..." Rogue sighs. "I can't. Not now."

"Of course," Remy replies. (He knew that, but he wasn't about to admit it.)

They simply stand in silence after that. Sometimes he'll wrap his arms around her waist and rest his chin on her head - the only touch they can manage - and it hurts all the more for the knowledge that in another moment, in another life, it would feel perfect.

But both know there's more to that night, though neither of them will admit it. Letting things linger out in the open - it's not them.

There are advantages, though, to their predicament. It makes the rare moments when some intervention bridges the gap between them all the more perfect.

It's midnight, and, as Remy has helpfully pointed out at least sixty-three times, they've pulled off the heist of their lives - stole a wedding, stole a future they never thought they'd have (and...a few other things). Rogue doesn't think for a moment to complain about her migraine on a night like this. If a little pounding in the head (thanks to the hopelessly outdated power-dampening collar she's donned for the day) is the price of this - lying next to him without worrying that she'll put him in a coma, kisses that she doubts will ever stop feeling stolen - it's petty cash.

Rogue wishes she could fill a bottle with whatever it is she's feeling right now, cork it tight so she could take a long whiff of it whenever she needed to. But she can't, so she has to take this moment and stretch it out to fill a lifetime.

"I love ya," she mumbles, half-asleep but afraid to drift off for fear of losing the chance. (And, secondarily, of falling asleep with the collar on. That would have...unpleasant ramifications.)

"Je t'aime aussi," he mutters, unwittingly tightening his hold on her.

"I ever told you that your sleepy French is kinda hot?"

"'l remember dat."

It's a mere fragment of time, but it will have to be enough.