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Rogue breathed a sigh of relief as she slid down the cave wall. Everything ached. She’d never been very grateful to have to keep every inch covered up before, but it did come in handy when it was this cold. She shoved her hands in her armpits for good measure and let herself breathe, head rested against the wall.
They sat silently just like that for a long, long while, shivering at every gust of wind that whipped its way inside. Rogue found herself inching ever closer to Remy, until there was only an inch or so between them. For warmth, she reminded herself. To stay warm. Hypothermia was nasty, she’d been told.
They hopefully wouldn’t be here long enough to actually get hypothermia, Storm and Wolverine both had their location, one way or the other somebody would find them. Rogue, personally, hoped that it was one of them, and not Sabertooth.
Rogue knew they were both exhausted, and Remy especially was in rough shape—she didn’t know the exact extent of his injuries, but even just lying out cold like that couldn’t have been good for his health. Thankfully, the other X-Men only ever seemed to be a means to an end for Sabertooth, the end, of course, being Wolverine, so he was more than likely to make a beeline for Logan, instead. Rogue counted her lucky stars that she wasn’t involved—beyond being an X-Man—in their drama.
Rogue shook herself from her musings, she had never in her whole life heard Gambit be this quiet for this long. “You alright, Remy?” She knocked his shoulder with her own, even as she kept her gaze fixed on the mouth of the cave, and the blizzard that raged outside it.
He grunted, shivering beside her. Rogue knew she was freezing, but Remy was freezing. Definitely because of the cold, most likely because of the blood loss. Possibly something to do with being passed out in the middle of a Canadian winter when she found him.
Rogue turned her gaze from the cave mouth to him, huddled up in on himself. His nose and ears were all red, the rest of his face was worryingly pale.
“Storm should get here soon, sugar.” She assured him, voice soft even as her teeth chattered. Remy nodded along idly, eyes glazed in a way she should probably be concerned about.
Her mouth twisted. They should be fine, but she really didn’t want someone with ill intentions—namely Sabertooth—to stumble on them while he was out of it. “Rem’?” She elbowed him gently.
He startled, blinked, eyes turning to her elbow and then her face, expression still blank.
“You are not alright,” she stated, putting a gloved hand to his forehead. She knew he was wounded, bad, had taken Sabertooth’s claws to his side. She didn’t know why she bothered to check his temperature, because he was freezing. Somehow colder than she was, from lying limp in the snow.
“Stay with me, sug’. You know where we are?” She got her face close as she dared to keep his attention.
Remy blinked slowly, then wheezed out a painful-sounding laugh, quirked an eyebrow at her. “Stranded in a cave in Canada,” his eyes flicked from her eyes to her lips, closer than she usually let anyone get, then back to her eyes. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
Rogue rolled her eyes and groaned, pushed at his forehead and scooted a few inches away. “You’re already bleedin’ out, stupid. Stop tryin’ to get yourself killed.”
He laughed again, smiling even as his eyebrows furrowed in pain. His laugh turned inevitably into wheezing coughs. “Ah,” Remy breathed through it, flashed a smile at her again, gesturing loosely to the cave mouth. “When’s a better time, huh?”
“Oh, shush.” Rogue chided, scooting closer again. “It’s cold. You’re cold. C’mere.” Obviously, she was cold too, and she enjoyed the closeness, aside from just avoiding hypothermia, but Remy never had to know that, the fool.
She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, movement slow, even though he was wearing a coat and every inch of her own skin was covered, anxiety still ate at her gut at the thought, the act of being so close.
They sat like that for a few awkward, cold moments, Remy shivering beside her, hands tucked up under his trench.
“Sabertooth,” he stated, dully. “He does not fuck around, chére.” He flopped his head onto her shoulder, his frame shaking with a shuddering, wheezing laugh.
Rogue froze, heart racing from the movement. “Easy, Rem’!” She hissed, but he was obviously awake, alive, and—well, not dead, and she wasn’t getting rushed with memories of being a reckless fool, so it was probably fine. Huddling to not get hypothermia was standard.
She carefully turned her head to watch him, eyes shut now, obviously breathing through his pain. “Hurtin’?” She asked, even though she knew it was a stupid question.
He nodded, not speaking. His lack of banter was a little worrying—that is to say, it worried her sick. Rogue patted his back as he curled further into her, shuddered deep to her bones from the cold as a particularly strong gust of wind blew in. “Got any plans when we get home?” She asked, to keep him talking, to keep herself from worrying, even. She didn’t think hypothermia was like a concussion, but staying awake was probably smart regardless.
He shook his head against her shoulder. “Sleep for a week, maybe,” his words slurred together, quiet.
Rogue frowned. “Yeah, that does sound good, sug’.” She shifted him to grab at his trench, pulled it away from his side, grimaced at how the bloodied material stuck to the bloodied clothes beneath. He was bleeding bad. Worse than she thought, five great slashes tore through fabric and skin from a couple inches below his armpit to just above his waist, and it was weeping blood at an alarming rate. Rogue winced, sucked wind through her teeth, and covered him back up in his trench.
Rogue hesitated for a few moments, then pulled him closer to her, wrapped both her arms around him so his entire upper body was pressed against her. It couldn’t have been comfortable with the way his legs were still pressed together, and he was twisted at the waist in a way that made her back hurt out of sympathy. She tried to distract herself from how close they were now by listening to her teeth chatter, but even that racket couldn’t keep her from thinking about—ah, hell. Rogue shook her head to clear it.
The movement made Remy stir again, he muttered something she couldn’t make out.
“Storm should be here soon.” She repeated, half to assure him, and half to assure herself. “Bet you Ororo’s got hot cocoa on the Blackbird all for us, huh? And those stupid shock blankets we never use.”
“Takin’ her sweet time,” he griped into her shoulder, voice so quiet she could hardly hear it over the wind howling outside the cave. “Never gonna live this down as long as we live.”
“Shush. Never gonna live what down? That we cuddled? That’s standard procedure for bein’ trapped in cold weather, cajun.” She made herself chuckle, made her tone light, even if her heart felt weighted like a stone in her chest. She rubbed his back through his trench lightly.
“So you—“ he coughed, warm breath puffing from his mouth seeping through the fabric of her suit. “—admit this is cuddlin’?” His voice slurred with his potent cocktail of freezing and bleeding to death. Now that she thought about it, did he hit his head on that tree? Fuck.
“Shush, Rem’.” Rogue petted her hand through his hair, half for comfort and half feeling for a bump of some kind. “It’s practical. To make sure we both don’t freeze. But Ororo’ll get here soon, and we’re gonna go home and sleep for a week. After Hank sorts your concussion.” She added that last part, feeling a bump near the base of his skull. “Sorry about your head. I didn’t even think about it, forget Logan’s made of thicker stuff than us; him gettin’ thrown around is less scary for him than for you.”
He muttered something against her jacket, that she didn’t get. “Come again, sugar?” He didn’t repeat himself, and before she could shake him to make sure he was properly awake, she heard—
Rogue’s head whipped to the cave mouth, scanning the patch of blizzard she could see. Was she delusional? Or was it actually the sound of the Blackbird?
“Hold on, gotta set you down,” she untangled herself from Gambit, legs aching as she stretched them out. Remy curled right up into himself as she stood on shaky, shivery legs, trying and failing to pull his trench around himself with bright red, clumsy fingers.
Rogue stumbled to the cave mouth, holding a hand up to guard her eyes from the whipping snow and the glare of the white landscape, sure enough—speeding along the horizon to their cave, the Blackbird looked just like it’s namesake soaring through the snow. The blizzard parted like Moses’ sea in it’s path, Storm’s doing, of course. The jet came to land a very reasonable distance from the entrance, the landing blowing snow directly into her face.
Rogue spit and waved her hands to clear her vision, turned on her heel to grab Remy. They had to go, fast—adrenaline spiked her dull fear and turned it to heart-pumping terror now that there was a future outside the cave. He was bleeding so bad, probably concussed—Rogue pulled him up, her own hands clumsy with cold and fear. She didn’t know if it was just his dead weight or her own powers failing her, but he seemed heavy even for her as she hauled him into a bridal carry.
“Rogue!” And it was Storm’s voice, a dull roar through the storm, almost whipped away by the wind. She turned and ran for the Blackbird, not trusting herself to fly with how cold and deadened she felt in this wind, not when it was almost as efficient to just make a break for it.
Storm’s face fell when she saw her approach, she turned sideways to let her in, and all but punched the controls to shut the door when both she and Remy were safely inside. She barely paused, glancing from Rogue’s face to Gambit’s, before racing to the front of the cockpit. Rogue spared a glance to Logan—there he sat, uniform ripped to shreds from his own tussle with Sabertooth, mask forgone so she could see his scowl from just the side of his face.
Rogue refocused, set Remy down gentle in one of the flight seats, strapped him down tight, hands stumbling on the seatbelts. He was unconscious, now, eyes shut, snow flaked all in his mussed hair. She needed to wake him, something something concussions and staying awake, but she needed to warm him up, too. She straightened, hands shaking as she searched for one of those stupid blankets, opening and closing cabinets.
“Sit, Rogue.” Storm advised, voice even.
“Not yet, gotta…” Rogue’s voice trailed off as she landed on her target, a stash of those stupid, crinkly, metallic blankets. She picked up the stack of them, draped them both over Remy, bracing herself on the chair and tucking them into his seatbelt with one hand while they took off. The atmosphere was tense and the cockpit silent aside from the howling wind outside and the crinkly material, but the roar fell off slightly as Storm raised her hands, shielding the ship from the elements.
“Alright, sugar. No time to nap. Wake up.” Rogue smacked his cheek lightly with a gloved hand, then smacked progressively harder until his eyes fluttered open with a groan.
Rogue wanted to cry she was so happy to see his black eyes, even glazed over and blank as they were. “We’re safe, Remy. No hot cocoa yet, I bet Jubes will make some for ya, huh? She won’t leave you alone when she sees the state of you.” Remy’s eyes fluttered shut again, and Rogue shook his shoulders.
“Nuh-uh, sugar. Hey. Wake up. Where are we?” She kneeled down, got her face as close up in his personal space as she dared, looked directly in his eyes.
He stared down at her, seeming to not comprehend a word she said.
“Remy.” She chided, slapped his cheek lightly again. “You know where you are?”
His mouth worked for a moment while he glanced around, but even as he started to say a couple sounds, no words seemed to really form.
“How badly is he injured?” Storm asked without turning around.
“Bad,” Rogue rested her hand on Remy’s knee, his legs were splayed like he had no idea they even existed. Rogue grabbed at his limp arms to see his hands—felt at them to see that they were all the right color, could all bend.
“Sabertooth got him bad. He’s lost a lotta blood, Storm. And he’s got a concussion.”
“Are you injured?” Storm asked.
Rogue shook her head even though she couldn’t see. “Scratches, twisted my ankle a little, but I’m fine. Mostly real cold.”
“Hank’ll fix him up.” Logan’s voice cut in, confident, no room for argument, discussion over.
Rogue nodded along, smacked at Remy’s cheek again when he started nodding off. They had a long flight to go if this was the way she’d spend it. But she couldn’t complain, never would. He was worth it. She shook her head at that thought as quickly as it came—she was hopeless.
•
Landing was a blur. Getting out, explaining everything, carrying Gambit to Hank’s infirmary, it was all a blur. She watched Beast start to work on him, until Ororo dragged her away—for his privacy, she said. Because Hank had to clean him up and warm him up and dress his wounds. And because the professor needed to speak to them about the mission.
Speaking about it was a blur, too. Rogue knew they talked, but she didn’t—just sat in her chair, eyes blurred, listening to the sounds of Logan and Ororo’s and the professor’s voices while they discussed— something. Remy’s face, the blood, his blank eyes, they were on repeat in her mind—flashing images that she couldn’t shake.
“Rogue.” The professor’s voice cut through her haze—telepathically and verbally.
“Professor—“ she started, blinking. “I’m sorry, what—“
He shook his head, expression warm. “No, Rogue, I understand. For now, it’s best that you get some rest. We can discuss all of this tomorrow.”
Rogue nodded, eyelids heavy. She hadn’t realized she was so tired. “Yeah. Rest. D’you think—“
“I’m sure Mr. McCoy could spare another of the infirmary beds, yes.” The professor smiled kindly, nodding his head. His voice was knowing, as per usual. Both of them knew she couldn’t properly rest until she knew Gambit was fine.
“Thank you,” she breathed, standing shakily from her seat. She dashed out the door—then, brief burst of energy at the thought of seeing Remy spent, she walked slowly the rest of the way, winding through hallways on aching feet. Tomorrow she would shower, wash her hair and check out how many bruises she was sporting, tonight she had to see Remy. Needed to, her thoughts racing—imagining exactly how terribly he could be injured, the coma he could be in, what if he died? And—she reached the infirmary, and was greeted by the steady, even beat of the heart monitor. Relief washed over her.
Hank peaked around the curtain surrounding one of the beds—Remy’s bed, he nodded his greeting to her. “Why hello, Rogue. I thought I would be seeing you again soon.”
“How is he?” She nodded back, padded up to stand just beyond the curtain, fiddling with the seams of her gloves.
“He could very well be worse. He’s stable, sleeping right now. I disinfected his wounds and stitched up the particularly deep parts, and now I have him under heating pads to raise his body heat to normal levels.” Hank slid the curtain open for her to see, and Rogue all but rushed forward to Remy’s bedside—he looked so small, without his trench, covered in a mound of blankets and heating pads.
“I can’t be certain just yet, but I believe the frostbite on his fingers is just frostnip—and besides some blisters, maybe, he should be fine. Nothing will fall off.” That last part Hank said jokingly, but it didn’t land. Rogue only took his arm gently with her gloved hand, examining his fingers.
“Should he be asleep?” Rogue asked, glancing back at Hank. “I thought when people have concussions—“
“A common misconception, I’m afraid.” Hank placed a large, gentle hand on her shoulder as he cut her off. “I will need to wake him regularly to monitor him, to assure he’s not deteriorating—that is, to assure the injury is not so severe that it can lead to anything worse than a concussion. Sleep is actually the best thing for him at this very moment, so he can heal.”
Rogue nodded, slowly, turning all this information over in her head. Hank could honestly tell her anything, and she would believe it. “But he’s going to be okay?” She asked, looking over her shoulder into Beast’s face.
Hank nodded, adjusted his reading glasses. “He should make a full recovery.” He shuffled past her and reached for his clipboard, seemed to scan the page for a moment.
Rogue sighed, feeling lighter, like a weight had sloughed off her shoulders. “Good. Jesus, the way he was passin’ out on me in the Blackbird, I thought he was gonna die on the spot.”
Hank chuckled, “I’m afraid an unfortunate symptom of blood loss, hypothermia, and head trauma is drowsiness. It’s a rather potent, uh, triple whammy, so to speak.”
Rogue turned from Hank back to Remy, and his unconscious face. Her thoughts turned, too, from worrying about the fool dying, to how nice it had felt to be that close to someone. Even if it was in a cave in the middle of a blizzard to stave off hypothermia. It had been…more than nice, but she couldn’t find a better word to describe it.
Rogue’s thoughts were cut short by a yawn. She shook her head as if that would stop it. “Sorry,” she said, rubbing at her burning eyes.
“Ah, you must be exhausted.” Hank set down the clipboard and walked past her to pat the pillow of the next infirmary bed. “You’re welcome to stay and sleep here if it will put you more at ease.”
“Thanks,” she muttered, stifling another yawn. “Wake me up if he wakes up, wouldja?” She sat down, unlaced her boots with blurry eyes and clumsy hands.
“Of course,” Hank nodded, smiling. “Sleep tight. I’ll be right here all night if you need anything.”
•
It didn’t take all night—in her bones Rogue could feel it was still night time when she was woken by a loud metallic crash.
“Jesus!” She shouted, sitting straight up in the bed. She threw the covers off, head swiveling to find the source of the noise.
Remy wasn’t in his bed, and Beast was already rushing to the floor beside it. Rogue stood, fear coursing through her gut as she approached Hank’s side. “Is he—?” She cut herself off when she leaned far enough to see Remy.
He was, unsurprisingly, awake. He looked dazed, eyes wide and bouncing around the room, focusing extra long on the bright lamp and on the machinery. Joining him on the floor was the metal tray and cart he had knocked over on the way down, and the entire pile of blankets and heating pads. Even despite having been under them, he shivered on the floor.
“Remy,” Hank spoke as he knelt, his hands held out placatingly. “You’re safe, safe at home. We’re in the infirmary below the mansion. Do you understand?”
Remy’s flinched at the sound, looking wildly at Hank and then Rogue, then back to Hank. “Rogue—?” He choked out, voice ragged, shaking from how he himself shook. “Where’s—why ‘m I…” He looked to the bed again, then down at his torso. With clumsy, trembling hands, he touched at his bandages, still crisp and white.
“You’re safe, I’m safe.” Rogue spoke up, voice soft. “Do you remember gettin’ attacked? Do you remember the cave?”
As she spoke, he lowered his head into his hands, shook it slowly. “No—I mean, some. I know we fought Sabertooth, got separated…he threw my ass like a football.”
Rogue, despite herself, barked out a laugh. Remy lifted his head from his hands to look at her, he cracked a dopey smile. “Ah, chère, I ever told you your laugh is about the prettiest noise I ever—“
“Focus, brain damage boy.” She cut him off with a chuckle, shook her head at him in endeared exasperation.
Remy seemed nearly recovered, his moment of vulnerability past, and his easygoing facade firmly back in place. “I don’t remember much past that. Flashes of snow and such, though I think you slapped me, non?”
“You have a concussion,” Rogue informed him, deadpan. “Was tryin’ to keep you awake. Apparently that’s not necessary, but you gave me a pretty bad scare, sugar.”
He smirked at her, eyebrow quirking. “So you do care for lil’ ol’ Remy, eh?”
Rogue rolled her eyes. “Shoulda’ left your ass in Canada to freeze.”
Hank stood, “on that note, it’s best you get back in bed. Your temperature is still well below what it should be, and you need to rest. And,” he began to gather everything that had fallen alongside Remy, “I really should check your stitches, make sure you didn’t rip anything out.”
“Can’t rest in my bed upstairs?” Remy joked, his voice a mite too thin and his eyes a mite too wild for it to land perfectly. He was still glancing nervously around the infirmary. He never did like it down here.
“I’m afraid not.” Hank counted on his fingers as he listed, “I need to keep you here to monitor your temperature, to assure your frostbite is only superficial, to assure your stitches do not reopen, and since they were a loving gift from Sabertooth, to assure they do not become infected. His scratches are, how to put this,” he slid a blanket under his arm and tapped his chin thoughtfully, “nasty.”
Remy paled as the list grew. “Frostbite—? How many days you think that’s gonna take?” He stretched out his fingers, obviously uncomfortable.
Beast seemed to think on this, rubbing his hairy chin as he hummed. “Well, if I had to hazard a guess, somewhere from two to three. Could be longer, depending on the severity of your frostbite, and of course, if your wounds fester.”
The last vestige of Remy’s easy smile fell off his face. “That all sounds like overkill, non? I think—“
“Don’t argue with him’.” Rogue shook her head. She gestured to it, “time to get in bed, you’re shakin’ like a leaf.”
Remy’s mouth twisted, eyes shifted uneasily. “If you say so, chère.” He made to stand with a groan, and Rogue shook her head again.
“Nuh-uh, cajun. Let me.” She pushed past Hank to lift Remy in her arms gently, trying to ignore how cold he still was, how he tensed at her touch. She set him down, then moved out of the way and around the other side of the bed so Hank had the space to fold and stack away the veritable mountain of blankets and heating pads, and then roll the cart away from Remy’s bedside, just in case.
Rogue watched Hank work for a moment, catching glimpses at Remy’s face all the while. Remy’s eyes also followed Beast, expression relaxed even as he stayed visibly tense.
Hank sighed contentedly, surveying the once again tidy space, before turning back to drape the last blanket over Remy’s legs. He looked from it into his face and said, carefully, “I’m going to check your stitches, and then I’m going to start an IV for you, is that fine?”
Remy eyed Hank, then eyed the counter he gestured to with all the equipment he had already set out for this very purpose. “Eh, I mean…do I really need it?”
“A thousand times yes. For your blood loss, for the frostbite, on top of your injuries here…You were probably already dehydrated. How much water do you drink in a day, Remy?” Hank’s question was pointed, an eyebrow raised as if in challenge.
Rogue chuckled at the two of them as she sat on her bed, kicking her feet in amusement. Remy whipped his head around to glare at her, betrayal on his face. He grumbled something inaudible and shrugged, his nose scrunched in obvious displeasure.
“You’re not bein’ murdered, sugar. Hank’s makin’ sure you don’t die, actually.” Rogue leaned forward and set her chin in her hands, rested her elbows on her knees, all so she could bat her eyelashes teasingly at him.
“If he’s not murderin’ me, why’s he gotta stab me?” Remy sneered back, a playful glint in his eyes.
Rogue laughed at him again, eyes crinkling with the force of it. “Oh, you’re hopeless.”