Hey all! I know I promised another Evo fic, but this thing's been sitting in my brain for a long time and I just had to get it out before the next X-Men movies make it obsolete. Yes, I'm a Romy shipper. Sorry for the overly wordy style; this chapter was written over a very long time, so it's got bits and pieces of a bunch of my past styles. Later chapters will be more consistent, I promise.
One of the first things that Remy LeBeau noticed was that it was warm. Not hot, though, just warm––a full, comforting warmth that seemed to swallow him whole even as he drifted towards consciousness, and for a single, wild moment, Remy wondered if he was dead.
Brown eyes fluttered open to a white ceiling with cracked plaster. A delicate chain dangled above him, attached to a single lightbulb that looked as if one good yank would pull the thing out of its socket. Off-colored splotches spread across the ceiling from long-past water damage that had never been properly tended to, and there were far too many moths. The place was thrown into half-shadow by a dim light that Remy could not see from this angle, giving the entire thing a ragged, desolate feeling.
He blinked slowly, alcohol-rusted thoughts shrieking protest as they were dragged back to life. He wondered vaguely if he'd by chance eaten any cotton balls the night before, or someone had simply stuffed a bag of them through his ears. What thoughts came to him were slow and plodding, just barely enough to form the coherent question of where the hell am I?
He shifted his head, and his neck brushed against something soft. A twitch was all he could get of his shoulder, but he did manage to wiggle his fingers around. They met with something that felt like fleece, perhaps a blanket, and he became even more confused. A bed? No, not quite; a mattress on the floor, just big enough for one person. With a strained groan and more effort than it should have taken, Remy heaved himself to the side enough to catch sight of the only door in the room. He immediately regretted it, however, when the light filtering from beneath the door hit him like a sledgehammer. He hissed and screwed his eyes shut, suddenly possessed of enough strength to pull the blanket to cover his eyes. God almighty, how drunk had he been last night? And how the hell had he ended up here?
Someone––a woman, it sounded like––cursed from beyond the door, followed immediately by a clatter. Remy almost snorted in disbelief; a hangover like this, and he'd actually managed to get laid? No, he reasoned. He was good, but not that good. He was too stiff to have done anything of the sort.
There was a shuffling as the woman righted whatever it was that had been disturbed, and Remy slowly cracked an eye. The light battered him again, but it was less jagged this time. He forced himself to endure it, to wait until the piercing pain receded to a dull throbbing. Not gone, not at all, but… tolerable. Something that could be put up with––at least enough for him to move.
He groaned as returned to his back, straightening the blanket that had been wrapped around him. From there, pushing them off was easy enough, though dragging himself upright took more than one try. His body protested, but it still managed to flop until he was sitting upright, legs over one side of the mattress. The simple prospect of standing up was not one that he now looked upon with fondness, but he could hardly go back to laying down; he needed answers, and he had the distinct impression that the woman's shufflings meant that she was getting ready to go somewhere.
The world shattered around him when he stood. His vision clouded, and so he was forced to grapple blindly for the wall in search of support. He his his target with a very audible thump, but the wall was unmoving and it kept him from keeling over.
Knocking. A feminine "Hey… y'okay in there?"
He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing emerged but silent air. He could feel bile creeping up his throat, and so opted to close his mouth and will away the overwhelming urge to vomit.
Hinges creaked. Shafts of light pierced the swirling clouds of darkness, forcing it back and anchoring him to the world beyond. He kept his shoulder to the wall as he turned to face the painful brightness.
"Hey, can you hear me?"
He could see her in front of him, feel a hand on his shoulder. Remy managed a nod.
"Need a second," he croaked.
She stood there silently, keeping her hand where it was. The vertigo subsided, and in its wake raged the all-too-familiar thunder of a hangover from hell. He shook his head and blinked his vision clear, then took a moment to really look at the woman before him. She was young, that much he knew for sure, not possibly more than twenty. Auburn hair was pulled into a bun, broken by two shockingly white streaks and her emerald eyes were narrowed in concern. She wore a simple yellow and maroon minidress with a nametag one one side of her chest. Rose, it said.
The woman gave his shoulder a gentle shake. "You alright?"
It was sheer force of habit that tugged the corner of his mouth into a half-smirk, and it was one that did not reach his eyes.
"F' now."
She did not seem particularly convinced, but she humored him and stepped away, beckoning for him to follow. Remy took a breath and did so, letting his questions wait until he got a better feel for exactly what kind of situation he was in.
The room beyond the threshold was not a very comely place by any stretch of the imagination. The walls had probably been white at some point, but stain after stain after stain had rendered them a greasy off-yellow. The floor was sticky under his boots, and small piles of trash had been kicked into the corners.
"Sorry 'bout th'mess," she grumbled, leading him to a rickety-looking chair and a stool pretending to be a table that seemed to be the only furniture in the place. "Moved in 'bout a month ago, but I just can't seem to find the time to straighten up." Her accent was thick with the south, though not to the point that it was unpleasant. A nice voice, one that Remy probably would have appreciated more if he wasn't hungover.
"I've seen worse," he said with a shrug. "Nothin' t' worry 'bout."
That, at least, seemed to put her at ease, and she gestured to the chair. "Take a seat if y'like; y'look like yer 'bout ready to fall over. Can't offer much in way of breakfast, I'm afraid. Don't get much company."
"S'fine, chere. Really," the confused Cajun replied, helping himself to the chair.
The woman moved off, herding wayward boxes into corners and doing what seemed to be her very best to make the dirty room seem less dirty than it was. Remy himself certainly wasn't the cleanest person in the world, but even he knew a losing battle when he saw one. He remained silent, however, as she put the boxes along the wall neatly, even putting one into another if they fit. His thoughts were still jumbled, and the strange bemusement he felt about the entire situation kept his mind off of his lovely headache.
She eventually gave up and straightened, and Remy decided to break the silence.
"So, chere…" The woman turned to look at him, and he got the distinct impression that she knew exactly what he was going to say.
"… where am I?"
"My place."
"Yeah, about dat…" he rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Please, don' take dis d' wrong way, but, ah… who are y'?"
He braced himself for shock, for indignation, hurt, tears, even being slapped if he somehow actually had slept with her and was too drunk to remember. But the woman did none of these things; instead, she simply nodded and looked at the ground with an expression almost like embarrassment, of all things.
"Yeah, sorry, suppose I shoulda said that right off th'bat. I didn't kidnap ya or nothin', if that's what'cher thinkin."
"Well, dat's certainly a relief. Rose, is it?"
She looked up in surprise, and Remy gestured to her nametage.
"Huh? Oh, uh, no, actually. Th'name's sewn in, an' this was the only uniform I could get. M'name's Marie."
Marie. Definitely a southern gal.
"Pleased t'meet y', Marie. Name's Remy LeBeau."
She stared at him for a moment. "You're serious?"
"Serious 'bout what? My name?"
"Yer last name's LeBeau?"
He raised an eyebrow. "M' last name's LeBeau."
"Okay." A momentary smile flashed across her face, but she suppressed it. "Alright then."
"Dunno what y' find so funny, chere," Remy said with the utmost seriousness in his face. "I rather like t' t'ink I live up t' m' name."
"Yes, I'm sorry," Marie said, affecting the same grim expression. "You do live up to it, definitely. You're, ah, very pretty, Remy LeBeau."
He nodded curtly. "I certainly am. Glad t' have cleared dat up."
She snorted once, but held the rest back. Remy chewed the inside of his cheek to keep his face straight. She snorted again.
"Y'know, Marie," he said, trying to retain the utmost solemnity of his expression. "anyone else might t'ink y' bein' a mite… disrespectful."
"Me?" She clapped a hand over her mouth in a desperate attempt to retain control. "Never." Remy let his own grin loose, which collapsed Marie's control and sent her into a fit of giggling.
She wasn't so bad, Remy decided as he watched her. He still didn't know how he had ended up in her house, as he obviously hadn't slept with her, but the question felt less pressing. It was unusual for him to get a feel for someone so quickly, but she didn't feel angry or psychotic, or even remotely as sex-driven as so many of the females he came across were. And he was certain that, whatever the circumstances, Marie didn't wish any harm upon him.
She sobered after a bit, then shifted awkwardly when she noticed his gaze.
"Right, I guess you're prob'ly wonderin' how ya got here. You, ah, seemed pretty… well, actually, you were totally plastered."
"I 'spected. An' y' t'ought I was jus'... pretty enough t' bring home, s'at it?" he replied, still smiling. "What exactly happened?"
"I was walkin' home, an' ya kinda… I dunno, fell outta this alley. Don't think y'were completely conscious, but yer eyes were open an' y'were mumbling somethin'. So I brought'cha back here."
She paused, and after a moment Remy realized that she had said everything she had planned to.
"What else?" he asked.
"Waddaya mean, 'what else?' That's it."
"Not quite sure I follow y', chere."
"Uh, y'were drunk, I found ya an' I brought'cha here."
"Got that part."
"An' that's it."
"But… why?"
"Waddaya mean, why? Why not?"
His eyebrows knit. "Y'd never met me before."
"So?"
"So? I could be dangerous."
"Dangerous how?"
"I don' know, maybe I like killin' people o' somethin'?"
"Somehow I don't think you'da been in an alley, then. At least not that drunk."
"What if I been pretendin'?"
She laughed. "Even then, I ain't particularly easy to kill. No offense, but I think I could fend ya off in m'sleep, mister LeBeau."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Y' don' know me, chere. Mighty risky o' y' to bring a stranger in' t' y' home so easy."
"Maybe, an' maybe I'm stupid to've done it, but I don't regret it, an' I'd do it again. 'Sides, y'don't look that bad."
"An' what if I was a t'ief?"
She tilted her head. "Wouldn't matter. I'd still do it."
"An' what about now?" he asked. "If I was a t'ief, right here, in y' house, what would y' do t'me?"
"Do to ya?" She looked at him quizzically. "I wouldn't do anythin' to ya. Like I said, I don't got much, but what I do got you're welcome to."
"Y' can't be serious."
"Can't I?"
"I'm in y' house, chere. What if I stole somet'in'?"
"What, like the chair? That stool?" She turned to the room that Remy had awoken in. "Or maybe ya'd want one a'these here boxes? A broken-down mattress? Sugah, what'cha see is what'cha get. I don't got nothin' worth stealin'."
"Not'in'?"
She raised an eyebrow, almost as if she knew that he was testing her, trying to push her to the limits of her kindness. "Well, I suppose my money might be worth it, if yer so determined t'be a thief. But I keep that with me, 'cept when I'm asleep."
"An' if I planned on sneakin' in here tonight, breakin' in an' stealin' y' money?"
"Then I'd hide it when I got home."
"An' me?"
"What about'cha?"
"Y' wouldn' kick me out?"
"'Course not."
Remy leaned back in the chair. Marie regarded him, one brow arched and a hand on her hip. She was almost defiant in her posture, as if she were offended that he would think her to have done anything otherwise. He met the fire in her eyes, and the silence would have stretched awkwardly had a pile of boxes in the corner not decided at that exact moment to blare to life and nearly startle Remy out of his seat.
"Shit!" Marie rushed to the corner, scattering boxes until she unearthed a beaten up black clock. "Shit, I been here too long."
"Somet'in' d' matter, chere?"
"Yeah. Yer coat's in the bedroom. Go get it; now I'm kickin' ya out."
Remy stood, a bit disarmed, but managed to pull a teasing smirk onto his face. "What, jus' like dat? An' here I t'ought y' didn' care who I was."
"Shut'cher trap, swamp rat, an' grab yer coat; I shoulda been outta here five minutes ago, and I ain't too keen on lockin' ya inside my apartment."
"Swamp rat?"
"Go on, 'fore I make ya."
She glared at him with a gaze that could melt ice, and so Remy held up his hands in surrender. "I'm goin', I'm goin.'"
He did as she directed, mind whirling. He went over her words again and again, trying to find some sign of deception, some ulterior motive. Surely there was some reason she had done what she did, something concrete that she wanted.
His coat was folded up neatly on the floor at the foot of the mattress. Remy could smell the bourbon and smoke in the beaten-up leather as he bent to retrieve it, and even though he wasn't in the same room as Marie he felt a flush of embarrassment. He knew damn well that he probably smelled like the worst combination of sweat, stale bourbon and cigarettes one could hope for, and it was all he could do to pray that it didn't linger in her room. He still wasn't sure what Marie's reasoning was, but he was sure that she didn't deserve that.
He was halfway into his coat when he stepped back into the living room, where Marie was putting her hair up with one hand and unlocking the door with the other.
"Out," she said, jerking her head towards the outside. Remy hastily obliged, even holding the door open for her as she finished with her ponytail and joined on the concrete walkway.
They looked to be two stories above the ground in a blockish kind of structure, with at least one other above them. Each level was lined with doors that looked exactly like Marie's save for their numbers. As the door closed, Remy took note of hers. 217.
Marie closed the door behind them and locked it.
"Follow me," she said, turning down the walkway without another glance at Remy. "I'll show ya to the street. We're kind of in the middle of Boston, so you can find just about anywhere from there. Y'got someplace t'go?"
No. "Yeah. I t'ink I can manage from dere."
He caught Marie's small sigh of relief, though he didn't make any mention of it.
"That's good t'hear," she said.
An amiable silence fell over them as they came to a flight of stairs. Marie seemed in quite a hurry, practically leaping downwards and so Remy had to shift between a walk and a jog to keep up. The ground level was mostly concrete as well, but there was a solid square of dirt in the middle that had patches of grass here and there. Remy had no time to admire the decaying foliage, however, as Marie continued her speedy trek towards the small tunnel on the far side of the square. They emerged into an almost-empty parking lot, and it didn't surprise him when Marie ignored it for the cracked and overgown sidewalk that somehow had healthier grass than the space inside the apartment complex. No one who could afford a car would want to live in a place like hers.
The sky above them was a dull greyish-brown, clouds silvered by the not-quite-risen sun but soiled by the lights and fumes of the city below. Remy hadn't had a good look at what Marie's clock had actually said, but it seemed to be around six in the morning. Even now, the noise of the city was as thick as ever, and when the two of them reached the street that curled around the apartments like a black river there were still cars rushing as if they were already late for something.
"Here," Marie said, pointing to the intersection they were approaching. "Go north and you'll get to the thick o' things. Should be enough to get'cha started."
Remy nodded in understanding. "Good t'know. And… thanks."
They came to a stop on the corner, and Marie turned to him with a smile.
"You're welcome."
She pressed the crosswalk button that would take her west. He pressed the button that would take him north.
"I'll find a way t'pay y' back for dis, chere. Promise."
She turned back to him, eyebrow arched once more. "Y'don't hafta do that, mister LeBeau. I don't need nothin' back."
Remy shook his head. "Please, y' don' have t'call me 'mister LeBeau.' Remy's fine. An' I'm gonna find a way t'pay y' back, all th'same."
Marie opened her mouth to protest, but her light turned red before he could get the words out. The pedestrian sign lit up, and after a moment's hesitation she gave him a nod and stepped onto the crosswalk. Remy watched her go with mixed feelings; her sheer altruism was confusing, but he couldn't find it in himself to be wary of her. She was a strange one, to be sure, and it was unusual for him to get a feel for someone so quickly, but she wasn't psychotic or even as sex-driven as most of the women he came across. She didn't wish him harm, of that much he was sure, and her actions seemed to be nothing more than genuine kindness, as odd as it was. Something rare, something altogether precious, and something that Remy couldn't help but feel compelled to return.
She got to the other side just in time, and within moments the lights changed and the cars were moving again, obscuring her from view. At the same time, the northern streetlights turned red and his own path became free. Remy couldn't afford to dwell anymore; he set off at a half-trot, a plan already forming in his mind. He'd always had a flair for the dramatic, as much as his family had tried to beat it out of him, and their previous conversations continued to whirl in his skull. A smug smile made its way onto his face as he reached the other side. Instead of going north, he turned directly east; he knew enough about the city to know where he was going, and for the first time in a long while, he wasn't heading towards a bar.