Alliance (Sonata)

From dust-laden glances, fallen to earth,
Or noiseless leaves, self-buried.
From tarnished metals, with the void incarnate,
With the absence of day, dead of a stroke.
In hand-heights, the dazzle of butterflies,
Butterflies setting sail in their unbounded light…

Pablo Neruda

The air simply danced with color.

Penance sat cross-legged in the grass, blue eyes transfixed. Golden, morning sunlight lent warmth and sparkle to the green of the forest, and the girl folded her rough, red hands in her lap. She savored the soothing touch of light that pooled in her palms, the sheen of her skin dazzling the edges of her sight. Until now, she had never really taken the time to sit and appreciate the form her mutation had given her--had never had the inclination to. For so long, her body--her skin--had been a wall between herself and the outside world. A barrier that kept her safe, but alone. Always alone. But now, things were different.

Penance felt herself smile as she thought of Gambit, and she lay back in the grass. She stretched out her limbs, languid and cat-like, and held her hands up to the light. Red, gnarled, and diamond sharp--but she was beginning to imagine, in ways she had never before dared, that she might just be beautiful.

He was being followed.

Gambit deliberately slowed his pace through the woods, feet scuffing up the dead leaves of early autumn. They made satisfying crunching sounds beneath his boot soles, the crackle drowning out the faint rustling of wind-brushed leaves and far-away bird song. He could not hear the person behind him, which meant one of two things. Either it was Wolverine, or someone who could fly. And there was only one woman at the Mansion who could both fly, and was not straightforward enough to face him head on.

Gambit sighed, debating what to do. What could he say, that would make everything better? For that matter, was that even what he wanted? He stopped in his tracks, and leaned against an old oak, feeling the rough texture of bark through the back of his shirt.

"Y' can come out, chere," he called.

There was a long moment of silence, and then the branches above his head and to the right of him rustled loudly. Rogue dropped through them, and landed lightly on the tips of her toes. She crossed her arms.

"How do you do that, sugah?"

He shrugged, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Trade secret," he told her.

She almost returned his ghost of a smile, but the light in her face abruptly dimmed, replaced by an expression of solemn thoughtfulness. Gambit remained silent, waiting for her to make the first move. Rogue fiddled with the hem of her blouse, gloved fingers tracing the edge of the light green cloth. Finally, she sighed and looked him in the eyes.

"Ah've got to talk to you," she told him. "Ah think you know why."

Gambit nodded. "Y' an' everyone else have been wantin' words wit' me--an' her. Dey t'ink I'm crazy--dey don' say it out loud, but I hear it. We bot' do."

"Ah don't think you're crazy, Remy," Rogue started, and then paused. "Ah just…worry that it won't--"

"--dat it won' work?" Gambit interrupted sadly. He pulled a cigarette out of the carton stashed in his back pocket, and lit it with a touch of his finger. He inhaled deeply, and shook his head. "Why, chere? Why is it everyone t'inks we're makin' a mistake?"

Rogue stiffened slightly. "You know why, Remy. Love ain't that blind."

Gambit just stared at her, and Rogue felt her cheeks darken with shame. "I'm goin' t'forget y' said dat," he whispered. He pushed himself away from the tree he had been leaning against, and began to move past her into the woods.

"Remy," she murmured, as his sleeve brushed against her bare arm.

He stopped, his breath a soft sigh. When she realized that he was waiting for her, she forced herself to look at him, and the question she had been aching to ask slipped out before she could stop herself.

"Why her, Remy?" Why her when you could have had me? "You can't touch her. Not ever."

A strange wheezing sound erupted from Gambit, and it took her a moment to realize that he was laughing. "Look who's talkin', chere," he gasped, removing the cigarette from his mouth. He dropped it on the ground and stamped it out. "An' I can touch her. She's got gloves, same as you."

Rogue blinked, taken aback. Penance with her razor sharp skin, diamond hard. Her touch was just as deadly as Rogue's own, and yet…she pictured the young woman in her head, with her luminescent blue eyes and bottomless gaze. She had never been able to see the mind behind those eyes. Was Penance happy, she wondered, with the way she was? Content, at least? Or did she rage against the mutation that barred her from the rest of humanity?

"You're your own worst enemy, chere," Gambit continued, as though reading her mind. His eyes burned like hot coals, and she unconsciously straightened. "Penance, she has bad mem'ries. Her life's been harder den yours--harder den most of us could bear. But she's here, an' she tells me in her own way dat she's happy. She accepted what she is a long time ago." He laughed again, a strangled, painful sound that clawed at her heart. "Y' should be grateful y' can walk out in de sun," he told her. "Dat people don' look at y' and see 'mutant'. Mebbe Penance will have dat one day. Mebbe. But I know if Penance had a life as fortunate as yours, she'd be thankin' God every night f'r givin' it to her."

"Remy--"

"No," he interrupted, his voice hard and uncompromising. "Y' wanted t'know why her an' not yourself. Dat's what y' were really askin'."

No, she wanted to say. Please, don't tell me.

He bent close; she smelled smoke and leather. The scent brought to her mind a rush of memories, and she closed her eyes. "Rogue," she heard him whisper. "Penance likes herself. An' dat's beautiful. It's beautiful an' wonderful t'be wit' a woman who is comfortable in her own skin, who's not afraid of what she is." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was distant. "De others don' believe dis'll work. Mebbe dey're right, chere." She knew he was staring at her; she could feel his gaze strike right through her, down to the bone. "But she's my friend, Rogue. She's more dan dat."

"Then go on," Rogue told him, finally opening her eyes. They stung. "Go," she said again, this time pleading.

And he did.

He found her waiting for him in the clearing, all stretched out in soft grass and leaves. She sat up as he neared, eyes bright and searching. With a grateful sigh, Gambit sank down beside her, resting his hand on top of her own, which was safely enclosed in a soft adamantium-laced glove. Comfortable silence ensued, broken only by bird song and the hiss of leaves against the wind.

Dis ain' crazy, Gambit told himself, watching the young woman relaxing in the grass beside him. It may not be easy--hard as hell sometimes--but feeling dis good wit' her just can' be a mistake.

Gambit kissed the back of Penance's gloved hand. She smiled, and brushed his chest with her fingertips. Her skin, red and hard, glistened under the broken sunlight, and he wished for one instant that he could touch her--really touch her. And then he looked into her eyes, and it was enough.

Enough to see each other through to the very end, no matter where that might be.