Disclaimer: Marvel owns Kitty Pryde and Remy LeBeau, I merely borrow them for my own amusement.

Notes: I'm vaguely unclear as to whether Kitty and Remy were ever at the Mansion together, but I've set this after Excalibur ended and she and Kurt came back to the States.

Rating: R. Sex.

If I Should Fall From Grace...

by Ana Lyssie Cotton

She feels like she's been waiting for him forever.

The night around her is dark and cold. The nip in the air makes her breath freeze as it exits her mouth. The stars above glimmer like jewels, but that's half-cliche. Not that her life isn't. In the distance, there's haze on the horizon. New York City never sleeps, and the lights never go down.

Unless the devil visits Georgia.

A sound breaks the stillness, and she straightens, peering down the road from her perch on the pillar. One side of an ornate wrought-iron gate hangs open below her. Half-there. "Xavier's" it proclaims in flowing script.

The sound gets louder, and she can see the headlight breaking the darkness down the road.

Flexing her hands in her gloves, she jumps down, landing like a cat on the side of the road.

A motorcycle crests the ridge that never seems to be there unless you're walking it--or waiting for someone to arrive. It's weaving slightly, as if the driver isn't really sober anymore.

He isn't, of course. He never is. But he knows this stretch between Harry's and the Mansion so well he could probably drive it blind, dead, and buried in the Adriatic Sea. So, she waits for him, knowing he never comes back to the Mansion after Harry's--not until he's so drunk he practically falls off into her arms when he pulls up in front of her.

He has a need to get away from this place, and alcohol is his answer. She understands it, sometimes wishing she could walk out and keep walking until the sun sets over San Francisco Bay and she never has to come back here again.

"Cold night f'r a lady t' be out."

She shrugs and helps him wheel the bike inside the gates. "I was living on Muir Island. We get cold like this in the summer."

"Mm." He eyes her for a moment, then lights the cigarette she silently hands him. His hands are shaking with the cold, and he clamps his lips around the cancer stick when she takes them, rubbing them between her own. "T'anks."

"We could be warmer."

He almost chuckles at her blush--but then, with the haze he's seeing, everything is somewhat rose-coloured. "That a proposition, Kat?"

"Maybe." She shifts towards him, tugging on his hands, pulling him closer until he can feel the warmth of her body. Her breath touches his cheek as it frosts into the air.

Her hands release his, and it feels rather natural to slide them inside her coat and around the back as she steps that last inch closer.

She plucks the cigarette from his mouth and drops it onto the driveway. Her eyes are staring into his, dark pools of midnight. He fancies he can see the stars reflected in them for a moment before she leans up and kisses him.

Its tentative, as if even this bold, she's still unsure. But he finds himself responding, wondering why even as he tightens his grasp on her.

She tastes like coffee and cigarettes with a hint of scotch buried under it all and he pulls back. "You drunk?"

Her hand fists into his collar, and she tugs him back down, kissing him harder, more insistently.

"Kat." He whispers against her lips, and then he stops as her hand slides into his pants.

"No strings, Remy." Her breath against his lips is beginning to awaken some rather neglected portions of his anatomy. Before he can answer, she's found one of those portions, and her fingers tickle him to wakefulness.

He groans. "Kat--"

"No." She touches his lips with a finger and smiles, her eyes shadowed. "No strings, no attachments, just..."

"No words?" He grins crookedly at her, drawing back.

"No reason, either." She steps back and grabs his hand. "Follow me."

It's a short trip through the dark woods surrounding the Xavier estate. They come to a shed, and she opens the door. He eyes the accomodations, surprised that there's already a blanket there.


"This has been here for weeks." She reaches out and touches the one window, her finger wiping a line in the dust, through it, moonlight glimmers. "I just..."


No more words, then. They stand for a moment eyeing each other. Remy closes the door, then leans against it wondering what the next move is. He decides it's not his, it can't be. She started this, she--

"I did, didn't I," she whispers softly, moving towards him. Her hands cup his face, the leather of the gloves feeling oddly comforting.

She releases him and steps back, hands going to the bottom of her shirt. She lost her jacket at some point. Possibly when he was closing the door. In one movement, she pulls it up over her head and drops it behind her. Her fingers move to the button on her jeans, but he reaches out to stop her. "Wait."

For a moment, he simply gazes at her, marvelling at the way the moonlight picks out the delicate lines over her torso. She's all soft-velvet-wrapped steel. He's seen her work out in the Danger Room. Underneath that slimness is muscle and ice-cold passion. He deals with the buttons himself, then stops and kisses her.

Her fingers fumble with his shirt, then one hand is back inside his pants sliding delicately around him.

No more soft movements, then. He's burning with need, with longing for someone else. But she's here right now, and she's more than willing.

He'd feel something like guilt, but she's certainly not stopping him, not holding back, and he is vaguely surprised at the ferocity of her passion as she arches beneath him, skin slick with sweat. Her fingernails rake down his back, and when she cries out her pleasure he catches the sound in his mouth.

Then its his turn, and she rolls them over, sliding on top and taking him deeper.

Its frenzied, and he wonders as he buries his face at the juncture of her neck and shoulder just whose face he's seeing in the dim moonlight. Then it doesn't matter.

The sweat begins to cool on their skin as they lay there, silent. And then he feels her shaking in his arms. And so he holds her, still silent while she sobs, tears making a sodden mess of the blanket beneath his shoulder.

And he doesn't ask, as they slowly dress, if this will happen again.

Maybe it will, maybe it won't.

But he knows she'll be waiting at the gates again. She always is.