maybe you will

by Lise

The cliche goes, you can't go home again.

In the beginning, back in the very very very beginning, you took a lot of things for granted because you didn't know any better. Like the way Remy liked to sleep until noon, and where he went when he disappeared; these were things you never speculated about because you didn't need to, didn't know to, either.

He'd tell you things like, "Bobby, y'have to do it this way," when the two of you practiced on the sparring mats, and everyone was surprised but you actually got a little better at doing what he showed you. And those kinds of statements were all you wanted from him because you had no idea that there was anything else to question about.

You miss that, driving your car to your normal job. You miss not knowing there was anything to ask about almost as much as you miss - a lot of things.

The radio tells you that there's a huge traffic snarl on the freeway you normally take to work, and so you sigh and take an alternate, trying to avoid the heavy buildup, the tension and exhaust, but end up smack dab in the center of something else, some other accident, instead. This wasn't how your day was going to go.

The announcer says, "I heard that there's going to be a huge contest announced later today, so y'all better keep listening to find out what's to know, what you could win," and you turn it off, already stuck in traffic and not going anywhere.

The two of you broke up almost a year ago, and you think about it still.

Remy had said, "It's time," and swallowed, and you'd nodded and somehow found a way out of the room and out. It didn't seem to matter where he disappeared to, after that, because he didn't come back to you anyway, but only then, after, did you start to wonder where he went.

That was wrong, is wrong still.

A police car up ahead signals trouble of a massive kind, and you let your standard idle, steady, as the road becomes a long, straight, parking lot.

It was Kitty that finally talked to you about it, and in a stilted voice all you could tell her was, "The mansion's been destroyed so many times, you know?"

She'd stared at you, uncomprehending, and somewhere, drip-drying, new laundry hung up because everything was always new in the house, the face of things refurnished with the same elegant couches and tables a hundred fucking times.

She'd asked, in her way, whether you wanted out, and it wasn't that you'd wanted out at the time, but you'd found yourself on the outside, and were going around nodding dumbly, trying to slat yourself in where you could. Figuring out what had changed while your life drip-dried, too.

You creep past the wreck on highway 15 at ten miles an hour, and don't bother staring at it.

In the beginning, you'd taken a lot for granted, like that you'd known what the hell was going on - and you're not making that mistake ever again. Someone in the office recognised you from an old news program last week, but you laughed it off as just one of those things you all do.

~

The last thing you bought Remy before you left the X-men was a snow globe. It was a really stupid present, but it was supposed to be funny, not serious, and he'd laughed, so it worked out in the end.

~

There are two messages on your answering machine when you get home from work. One of them is Professor Xavier, wondering how things are going, which is obviously a veiled question: are you ready to go back to work, because he needs you. You need dinner, and to take off your silk tie and drape it on the kitchen chair neatly; you don't need this snarl.

He leaves a number. The other message is, surprisingly, Remy, and he says nothing and leaves less of an imprint, but it's good, and you think rashly, maybe you're ready to go back to work for a little while. Maybe there's enough that you're ready and even willing. Your Mercedes has enough gas to make it to Westchester, because though you moved out you didn't move on and you've always been within four hours of home. Four hours doesn't count as a road trip, you think to yourself, and maybe your hands shake a little.

You almost don't bother with a suitcase, trusting that someone's going to provide, and then you remember the look on Remy's face when he came in at seven thirty in the morning, and how it gave nothing away about where he'd been. There's just enough time between the evening news and leaving to pack a bag.

~

There are only two lights on that you can see, when you drive up, but that signals someone's home. Opening the door, you call out, "Hey?" and aren't surprised when Jean's mental voice says,

#We're in the kitchen, Bobby, come on in.#

You think she sounds glad to see you. The front hallway is dark, but there's enough light shining from the upstairs landing for you to tell that some things are different.

Jean wanders in, as you put your bag down by the little end table in the corner. She says aloud, "We redecorated a little bit."

"Oh." She heard you. You look around, and realize that the picture above the stairs is different; the scene of trees is still pleasant, inoffensive, but you can't remember what was there in its place. You say, "Who's awake?"

"Just me and Storm." It's almost twelve thirty; you probably should have called first, but that's only striking you now and geez, way to go Bobby, planning ahead. You've only been planning ahead forever, might as well forget now.

In the very very beginning, and after that too, everything that came out of Remy's mouth was special. You can't remember most of it now, and it feels like that picture does above the stairs.

Jean takes your arm, and tugs you gently in to sit down. Storm smiles at you. "Hello Robert. Long time no see."

"How have you been?" You try not to grimace. It's like talking to strangers, in these first sentences, because it always takes a little while to get back into old habits.

Storm sips her tea. "Well. Jean and I were just trying to plan out the next rotation of training--"

And that's it, you have to bail. You plaster what you hope passes for a quirky grin on your face, and reply, "I'll leave you to it." Wrinkle your nose. "You know I hate schedules."

Jean smiles back. "Your room's empty, Bobby, if you want, or, there are a lot of others."

Hastily, almost too hastily, you answer, "Oh, that's fine, thanks, really," and you retreat with a little sigh, hands up. Your bag is sitting where you left it in the hallway; you pick it and your jacket up, and are careful not to bash your shins on anything new as you mount the stairs.

~

Sleeping with Remy was always a lot easier when Scott didn't schedule training at six am the next morning. It was a lot easier to find time at night to be together, as long as Remy was home. The world was so easy to compress into just the bed, or just the bedroom, whatever, back then. It took a special kind of faith for it to happen; you think that possibly Remy lost it a long time before you met him, but aren't sure. It could be that he just never used it when the two of you were an us; in hindsight, you don't know at all.

~

Driving from your house this evening to Westchester seemed like a much better idea when you were staring at your fuel gage than now, when you're staring out the bedroom window and things are oddly familiar. One day, you tell yourself, one day, and then you'll make a decision about helping the Professor, preferably back at your home, not this home.

Near the middle, when everything was going incredibly, you tended to think about him way too much and too furiously before you went to bed, because it all fell through too quickly, but you didn't realize it at the time. Or maybe you did.

The bed doesn't smell the same, what with having been replaced. You don't unpack, and Jean's whispered, #good night, Bobby,# puts you to sleep.

~

You wake up at six thirty on the dot, as usual.

You think, Bobby, old boy, you should go back to knowin' nothing, about the same time that Remy pads sleepily into the kitchen after Storm. His eyes still don't give anything away. You didn't hear him come in at whatever time he came in; maybe he was asleep when you got there. Maybe it was your turn to come home from somewhere he didn't know.

He looks at you and says, "Morning. Look what washed up," and then his eyes crinkle and he's grinning at you, actually teasing you.

You rub your jaw; needs shaving. "I got in late last night. The Prof called."

"I know."

He always made you talk about yourself, near the end especially, and it always made you painfully aware of the things you didn't know about him.

Jean is frying eggs at the stove; it's all very domestic, for this place. Scott comes in with a grocery bag and a leafy green vegetable sticking out of it, and his smile is really warm, makes you feel like you're going back to your roots. He discards the lettuce on the counter and hugs you, a little akwardly, but home. "Bobby, it's good to see you."

His arms are tight. You say, muffled, "Yeah, not much has changed around here."

He lets you go, and Jean kinetically flips a piece of bacon at you, which you catch easily. All your old habits, like the kitchen ritual, are coming back slowly. You pop the piece in your mouth, and she says, "No, some things never change."

Storm and Remy are just sitting at the table quietly, waiting for breakfast. It's really early, and you're used to getting up early because of your normal job, and your boss is going to kill you if you're not back at work on Monday.

It was, God knows when, the first time you thought of him as 'Remy' and not 'Gambit'. Sometimes he's still Gambit; he was Gambit near the end, a lot, because of the things you were slowly realizing that you didn't know.

Jean slides a plate of food in front of you as you sit down at the table. It's nice. Homey.

You think you might be mad at Remy. You're pretty sure it's not his fault; but you've been wrong before.

Without even thinking about it, you're beginning to set down in your mind the new lay of the land, the new furniture, the way the rooms are set up now and weren't when you were living here still. Breakfast is good. You didn't realize you were hungry.

~

There's a briefing, but you don't remember that when you go to bed the next night, because Remy kisses you when you get to your door.

This is how it goes: You've got your hand on the doorknob, and all of a sudden he's leaning on the wall beside you, ankles crossed casually and arms wrapped around himself, but not too tight. So he leans in a little bit, and kisses you -- and it's not long or that passionate, but it's not just friendly either, and you're remembering really well everything you wanted to forget.

You say, completely torn apart, "The movie Hank was watching was utter crap," because it was, and it's some way to avoid talking about whatever he just tried to bring up.

He murmurs, "I thought you'd get a kick out of that," but you're not sure what he's talking about, and he goes away after that.

You go in your room, and stare at your suitcase.

~

Once, when the two of you were pretty much as close as you ever got, right before you realized there were things you didn't know to ask, someone made a joke about putting the two of you together for training. It was probably Scott, thinking back on it, and it wasn't particularly funny except when you think of it and then the way Remy laughed about it, low, while he was fucking you that very night.

You take for granted that there's enough gas in your car to drive you the hell out of here, back to your house. It's dark again, and you mutter, "okay, just the weekend then, Drake, and that'll be it."

You want to go back to not knowing a lot of things you do now, and the main thing you want back is all that ignorance; you want to be able to look around the Mansion and know that the table, moving, doesn't have a large affect on your life, you want to feel that Remy's lips, after this long, is only a flesh wound, something, not everything. You want to know it's not everything, but you think you're wrong, again.

There's one thing you can't lie about to yourself, and that's the way you've missed this big universe in a small package. You told yourself when you left before that you weren't coming back, and you've backtracked already into saying, maybe you will.

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