Warning: Mature themes. A smidgen of sexual stuff. Nothing explicit.
A/N: This vignette from the HoC universe takes place the night before and day of the attack on the mansion. Basically it takes place right at the tailend of the 'Interlude' chapter in House of Cards, so you can read it off the back of that - although it probably won't make 100% sense if you haven't read the whole trilogy. Remy has just pissed off Rogue and is trying to drown his sorrows before he comes to a conclusion - which, of course, comes too late.
More HoC vignettes to come soon!
-Ludi x
The Bitter Taste of Betrayal
The club was throbbing with music, or some semblance of it – Remy LeBeau stood, elbows propped on the corner of the bar, and downed the rest of his bourbon.
Between the alcohol and the music, he was pretty sure he was alive.
He could feel the music pulsing inside him, mirroring the stubborn beat of his heart. The monotone thump of the drum and bass, the way it reverberated through his body, was pretty much all he wanted. It was all he needed to convince himself that there was blood coursing through his veins and air filling up his lungs. That way he didn't have to worry about the fact that he was alive and that life was about as shit as it could get.
There were other distractions on offer, other means of forgetting himself if he needed them. There were other ways of proving to himself that he had a body, that he didn't have a mind or a heart, or thoughts or feelings that mattered.
It was, after all, why he came to this place.
He hadn't been here in a while, but he'd kept the idea of it in reserve, for just the right time when he knew he'd need it. And damn, did he need it now.
He sauntered over to the far end of the club, sliding past the moving bodies, the mingled scents of perfume and sweat. The back room would always be open to him if he had the cash – and he always had the cash. The guy at the door knew him by now, always had a smirk for him when he showed up. It'd been over a year, but he figured he'd be recognised. Not many could forget his face – or his eyes, leastways.
Remy dipped into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.
Shit, he had enough to get completely off his face, but he figured doing a line would be enough. The past year or so the only thing he'd done was a couple of spliffs on the sly, and he was pretty sure his tolerance had hit rock bottom since he'd last gone ahead and done this. And besides, he just wanted enough to get high and forget himself, not to end up completely shitfaced for the next few days or so.
The guy at the door looked taller, leaner.
No smirk to spare for Remy this time.
When he scowled at Remy, it was with an ugly little rat-face full of hostile mistrust.
And that's when Remy realised that he didn't recognise this guy at all. That the old guy had gone, and been replaced by an even uglier example of humanity.
It was only a small thing. It wasn't even anything that would've made any difference. But it was enough to make Remy stop in his tracks. Enough to make him reconsider.
He stood within a metre of the entrance, struck dumb and motionless, fee already in hand. Doubt coursed through him, doused him in its icy torrent.
What de fuck you doin', LeBeau? You remember what it was like tryin' t' get off dis shit de first time round. You wanna go through dat again?
He knew he looked like an idiot, standing there, hesitating, like some pup on his first time. He knew exactly how it made him look. And he knew, also, exactly what kind of a man he would be if he walked through that door.
And he walks into Harry's Hideaway right after the flush of his first fight and an appreciative cheer goes up around the bar as he takes his seat with the others and someone slaps a pint in front of him as someone else claps him on the back.
"Nice fucking job!" Bobby congratulates him, and Warren chips in, saying, "You're one of us now, man," and, fuck, even Logan is smiling, Logan, who hates him and would rather have him out of the X-Men than in it. But there he is, cigar between his teeth, bobbing up and down with approval as his mouth curls into that small, feral grin that's already so familiar.
And Storm leans in, says softly in his ear, "Welcome to the family, my friend."
And he smiles, he smiles with a glow of pride he hasn't felt since… Well, since he was with the Thieves Guild actually, and it feels good, it feels damn good to have this again after all this time and all this shit, and everyone raises their glasses and toasts him, and he's grinning like an idiot, and he downs most of his beer in one go he's that pleased with himself.
He catches her eye at the other end of the table, and she can't drop her gaze fast enough.
Hell, she can't drop it at all, and he can't help it, he blows her a kiss, and that's when she looks aside with the faintest flush on her cheeks and the ghost of a smile on her sweet, soft lips.
It's later that she comes to him, when there's a gap in the festivities and he's on his own at the bar. She taps him lightly on the shoulder and he half-turns, smiling with real pleasure when he sees her there.
"Hey, chere," he greets her, and she doesn't waste a moment, she smiles shyly up at him, lifts a Harry's Hideaway napkin to his lips and kisses him.
He feels the heat of her lips through the thin paper towel, their softness, their scent, and he's so stunned that by the time he's computed what's happening she's already pulled back and the moment has ended.
"Welcome t' the family, sugah," she half whispers, and she presses the napkin into his hand before she walks away, and he looks down and he sees the imprint of her lips captured there in deep cherry red.
Harry's right behind him with his beer, and he plonks it down on the bar as Remy's heartbeat soars, and says, "You're one lucky bastard."
Lucky bastard.
Heh.
What a sick fucking joke.
He didn't have a clue what was supposed to be lucky about wanting a woman you can't fucking touch.
And now he was out here, in the hallway, and there were at least three different couples getting busy with each other, reminding him just how much he was alone, and – even worse – how much he'd fucked up earlier that morning, how he'd given her an excuse to walk away from him yet again.
He thought about it.
How close he'd been to getting.
And then her, those sweet lips caught in that wounded frown, and her saying, Ah'm a risk you'd never be willin' t' take, Remy. Not for real.
And she'd walked out on him leaving him there staring after her, confused out of his skull because she was right, he never took risks, not ones that had no chance of paying off… And yet he was so damn tempted with her, so damn tempted just to throw all caution to the wind and have those sweet lips on his, even if it meant everything backfiring right in his face in some huge, apocalyptic conflagration.
And that would be it.
His mission would have failed, he would be kicked out of the X-Men, she'd hate him…
…But it would be a resolution.
He wouldn't be left hanging like this.
There was the sound of moaning in the corner, and he held his breath, his body pulsing horribly with need, and he pushed through the glass double doors and out onto the street, coming to a standstill out on the sidewalk, holding down his arousal with an effort.
He breathed hard, his heart pounding in his ears, unable to stop the fires inside him from raging, and shit, there were pretty girls all around him, pretty girls with their come-hither smiles and their flesh on show, all soft and ready and willing, all eager for any handsome man who came their way, and he more than matched their expectations, he was exactly what any girl of any calibre would fall for, and it would be easy, so easy just to get one of them to join him in a back alley and suck him off 'cos that was all he needed, just a moment of release, nothing more, nothing less… …
He walked.
He walked because he couldn't bear this, the cycle of his urges, pinning him down, wringing him out, tying him in knots. He couldn't bear what it made him. This hungry, needful thing who couldn't keep himself in check. And even more than that, a man who was so dead inside that drugs and alcohol and a cheap fuck would be the only thing to make him feel alive.
It's what you are, Remy, said the voice in his head, and no, it wasn't, it was bullshit, it was him telling himself it was what he was, only because he had nothing else in this life but emptiness and guilt, and the only thing that could cure him of it was sensation.
And sensation, he knew, was the one thing she couldn't give him.
-oOo-
It didn't stop him though. It didn't stop him from imagining she could.
In the months that he had known her, he must've spent hours doing this.
Lying in bed, thinking of ways to touch her.
To make love to her.
Because there were ways.
He knew there were ways.
None of them were strictly satisfying in the way straight up, uncomplicated sex could be… but they could get as close as humanly possible to it. It would take time, care, effort… But damn, he'd thought about it enough, wanted it enough, for him to be willing to go ahead with it, risk and all. There was only one drawback. He didn't think she was willing to go ahead with it. He didn't even know if she'd ever be.
There were other ways of getting.
He could trick her into it. It'd be easy. He could mess with her heart so much, play with her emotions so cunningly, so relentlessly, that she would do anything he wanted. She would be begging to be in his bed by the time he'd finished with her.
And Dieu. Dieu, he could taste her now. Every sweet inch of her. He could have it. He could know what it was like to have her.
It was possible to have her and he knew he was entirely capable of getting what he wanted.
But… And here was the but.
Whenever he thought of toying with her heart like that, it made his own heart give a sickening lurch. And he knew he couldn't do it.
It wasn't a case of it being wrong.
Lord knew he'd cajoled his way into more than a few beds, knowing that it was wrong to do so.
It was the idea that he was capable of hurting this beautiful, innocent creature. That he could make her suffer. It was the idea that he didn't want her to suffer; nor did he want to be the cause of it.
So he set aside his ideas of conquest, the carefully laid plans he'd mulled over again and again the past few months, that he'd fine-tuned to something like perfection. He tied them up and put them away safely into a corner, ready for another rainy day.
Remy kicked aside the bed sheets and did what he always did when he got to this point. He thought of something else instead.
He imagined that he could touch her.
No need to come up with ways of making it happen.
She opens the door of the en suite bathroom and steps inside wearing nothing but a towel and her hair all loose and wild, tumbling all around her in an untamed torrent.
"Hey, sugah," she says in that honeyed voice, and she smiles at him, lying naked there on his bed, and he smiles back, an open invitation, saying, "How long you been waitin' in there, chere?", and she says, "Long enough. Had a feelin' you might not come back, that you might be out with some other woman, sugah…"
"Why de hell would I be out wit' another woman when I have you right here…?" he murmurs as she advances towards him, and she smiles again, that small, knowing smile that she rarely wears in real life, and she says,
"Don't lie, Remy. Ah know exactly what kind of a man you are, sugah. Maybe Ah even kinda like it."
She drops the towel then and stands gloriously naked beside the bed.
He holds a breath.
She is every inch as beautiful as he imagined her to be and more.
He reaches out and runs a hand along her thigh. (No absorption). Silky smooth and white as alabaster. He's seen a lot of women. Slept with a lot of women. Touched the skin of so many women. Not one of them is like her. Not one of them is as soft, not one of them is as flawless as she is.
His heart is crashing so fast in his temples he's almost dizzy with it.
She kneels on the bed beside him and looks down into his face, and she takes his hand; but Dieu, he doesn't need any guidance, he captures her breasts beneath both palms, tasting the fullness of her curves, the sharpness of her nipples, and again, no absorption, she laughs low, soft, sensuous, in a way she doesn't laugh in real life, and, "Do you like?" she murmurs, and she's teasing him, and Dieu, he loves it…
"I wanna be inside you," he murmurs back, and she laughs again, that same laugh he doesn't recognise, and she leans in, she kisses him, and fuck, he is greedy for her, he kisses her back, deep and passionate, and she tastes exactly as he imagined her to, sweeter than honey, more heady than wine; and there isn't an ounce of reticence in her, she's as needy and lustful as he is, and her kiss is just as hot.
They break apart and he is breathless. She reaches back and touches him, her fingers curling around his arousal with expert confidence, and he moans as she pumps him, lip caught beneath her teeth, knowing exactly how to work his body, and he looks up at her, he says, "You're not a virgin, are you."
And she says in the voice of a seductress, "What d'you think, sugah?"
And good, 'cos he doesn't want to have to deal with the complication of being responsible for her first time and he is so fucking hard it's painful, and he doesn't know how much longer he can possibly hold out without exploding like some fucking kid…
"Chere," he murmurs in a strangled voice, and she hears him, she stops pleasuring him, she leans forward and she whispers right in his ear.
"What d'you want?" she asks him, and,
"You," he gasps, and,
"Say please," she murmurs, and,
"Please," he begs, and,
He hears the low slide of her chuckle, and the next moment she's straddling him, and there he is, sliding right inside her slick, hot wetness, and he is beside himself, beside himself with lust and need and the fact that this isn't real, and he's lost count already, he's completely lost all sense of time as he fucks her and she fucks him… And she leans forward again, lips on his, butterfly kisses all tentative and shy, sweet and soft and sincere and true, and she whispers exactly what he needs to hear, what he's needed to hear ever since Belle, ever since his exile, ever since everything went wrong, and…
"Ah love you, Remy. Ah love you."
And as she says it, as those sweet words fall from her lips, that's when it all crashes down on him and he tumbles gracelessly over the edge and… …
Silence.
Remy lay and stared at the ceiling, sweat-slicked and panting, the world turning circles around him, words she'd never spoken spiralling through the headrush and… he knew what it meant.
He knew what it meant.
He swallowed hard and heard himself breathe.
"Shit."
-oOo-
Remy wandered down to breakfast feeling like fuck.
He'd barely slept, and the only thing keeping him going now was the cigarette he'd had out on the balcony and the promise of the coffee that he knew would be waiting for him in the kitchen.
The room was already buzzing; most everyone was in the middle of eating breakfast, or had finished already. No one noticed him come in, except for Ororo, who smiled and sent him a soft "morning." His own "mornin'" was short, strained. He decided to dispense with breakfast, to just stick with the coffee. He wasn't up to eating, and the more he thought about it, the less appealing it seemed.
It wasn't just the night before. It wasn't just the argument he'd had with her. It was also the fact that Essex expected results and he was running out of time.
Jubilee brushed past him, giggling, as she left the room with Bobby.
Remy picked up his cup and thought about what it would be like to take that laugh away from her. The truth was, Jubilee was just a kid. So was Rachel, and one thing he knew he didn't like was bringing kids into a job. It was yet another reason he'd been putting off this whole thing, but he was running out of excuses now. If he did walk away from this, he was dead.
End of.
"Are you all right, my friend?"
It was Ororo, standing beside him now, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder. He awoke from his reverie, tried to plaster a smile on his face, knowing it wasn't coming out in any convincing form.
"'M fine, Stormy," he replied, hoping he was doing a better job of persuading her than he was himself. "Just didn't sleep much last night, is all."
Her gaze was kindly, sympathetic, and he knew that somehow, she had bought it.
"I heard you and Rogue had a falling out yesterday," she murmured in a low voice, so that no one else could hear her. His mouth twisted. Oh. Right. So that's why she'd bought it so quickly.
"Yeah…" he rejoined uncomfortably, painfully aware of the fact that she was right across the room from him and even being this close to her was a form of torture.
"Don't worry," Storm reassured him. "She cares about you, Remy. You'll make things up sooner rather than later. I know it."
He said nothing. Considering the circumstances, her words were probably the last thing he wanted to hear.
"Maybe she's better off stayin' angry at me," he muttered after a moment. "I ain't convinced I'm worth her time."
Storm rose an eyebrow.
"You don't really believe that," she scolded him in that soft, calm voice, and he couldn't help but smile, weary, self-deprecating.
"I appreciate your faith in me, 'Ro," he answered, quiet yet heartfelt, "but she's better off wit'out a guy like me. And it ain't like t'ings can go anywhere between us. She can't touch. And I need to touch."
"You think you do," Storm corrected him gently. "But you don't know that for sure. Your feelings might change, in time."
"Non." And he shook his head. "I ain't convinced I'll ever have those kinda feelings."
It was clear to Ororo that he was in one of his stubborn moods, so she sighed, shrugged and left.
The room had thinned out some during their conversation, and there was now only him, Betsy, Warren and Rogue in the room. Warren and Betsy were, of course, locked in their own quiet conversation, oblivious to everyone else. So he chanced a look at Rogue. She was sitting at the table, hair as wild and untamed as it had been in his fantasies last night, reading one of those cheap romances she always seemed to be glued to. He didn't know whether she was consciously ignoring him, but she didn't acknowledge his gaze, her eyes firmly locked on the book in front of her.
He struggled with the feelings he had sworn to Storm he didn't have.
He thought about the way she'd come to him in his fantasy, with the body and the words of a temptress, and it almost made him ashamed to think about it because that wasn't her and he knew it. She would never have come to him like that. Things would have been shy and awkward and yes, perhaps, even painful. But the crazy thing was… he would still want her, despite all that. He would still be willing to take the risk for her. He'd try and show her that he could be caring and gentle and sensitive and all the things she'd told him he wasn't only yesterday.
And then he thought of it.
Yesterday.
The way he'd tried to push her, to bait her with the memory of the boy she'd killed with a kiss.
And he allowed himself to feel ashamed in the fullest sense.
Because how could he even think about having her in his bed and showing her the kind of man he was capable of being, when he'd tried to trick her into it in the first place?
She looked up then, right at him.
He realised then that she had felt his gaze on her, but that she'd tried to ignore it until she couldn't any longer.
His heart twisted with bitter elation as he realised it. That, despite their disagreement, despite the fact that he'd hurt her, there was still this thing between them that neither of them could deny. He chanced a smile at her then, unable to help himself. And a flicker of a smile crossed her lips in return, like she couldn't help it either.
Everything almost felt better then.
Almost.
Warren and Betsy got up, left.
It was just the two of them, her with her book and him with his coffee.
And dammit, she was beautiful, and he wanted her in the most ridiculous way. He wanted her enough to say he was sorry, to beg her forgiveness.
He opened his mouth to say it.
And just as he was about to speak, that was when Rachel decided to poke her head round the door, remote in hand, and say excitedly;
"Rogue, I got that boat I was telling you about! You know, the one you said you had when you were a kid? Logan's put it out on the lake for me now. You wanna go see it?"
He clamped his mouth shut.
Rogue's eyes flickered to his, and then back to Rachel. He knew what she was thinking. They were both adults. They could figure this out some other time.
"Sure, Rachel. Just lemme put this book back up and Ah'll join you."
She slid off the seat, book in hand. Rachel had already run off, her footsteps slapping down the corridor. Rogue moved to follow, and as she walked past him she raised her eyes to his, that same flicker of a smile on her lips, said in a voice that was soft and quiet, "See yah."
"See you, chere," he murmured in answer, and there was enough of a promise in those words that he would get his chance to talk to her, that everything would turn out all right.
-oOo-
He stood out on his balcony and smoked a cigarette.
He was hardly able to wait for her to finish up whatever the hell she was doing so he could talk to her.
It was horrible, waiting on tenterhooks like this. It was torture, waiting to hold her in his arms again, kiss her hair and tell her he was sorry, that he wanted to try again. So maybe he was being an idiot, capitulating like this. He knew Henri would have laughed to see him giving in so easily to a woman, one he didn't even have a hope in hell of ever being with.
But damn, what was he supposed to do, when she looked at him the way she did with those gorgeous green eyes?
And hell, he hadn't been in love for a long time. He thought it might be nice to have a go at it again. Especially when there wasn't any danger of there being any commitment involved, because he couldn't touch her and she couldn't touch him, and so it was all doomed to failure already, right?
Shit.
Remy scrubbed at his face with his palm. Here he was, talking himself in circles again, driving himself nuts. The truth was far fucking worse than any of that, and he knew it.
He sits back in the cold chrome and glass chair and lights up a cigarette with the tip of his finger, even though he knows Essex won't approve.
He's figured out already that Essex needs him for something, and so he knows that he can push things a bit, if his benefactor happens to be in a good enough mood.
"So," he says, taking a drag and blowing smoke aside. "You want me to infiltrate, is dat it?"
Essex smiles that chill smile. His hands steeple on the desk in front of him, dead white hands that are almost blue in the glacial light of his office.
"At first, yes," he replies softly, dangerously. "Watch, and learn. Report to me who is worthy and who is not. Better still, steal the Cerebro files. It will save you the effort of gathering the information yourself."
He laughs.
"And you t'ink dese X-Men folks'll trust me? Dey heroes. I'm a t'ief."
Essex's smile twists into one of disdain.
"The X-Men will take anyone who seems contrite enough. The weather witch, Ororo Munroe… Storm. She was a thief too, once. And now she is one of the best, the most trusted of them."
He raises an eyebrow, sucks in another drag.
"Hm. Interestin'." And he can see an in already… … He grins. "Gotta say… looks like dere's some pretty fine eye candy goin' on at dat X-Mansion…"
The look Sinister passes him is scathing.
"You are not there to play, LeBeau. That is not what I'm paying you for. You will collect as much information about these mutants as you can, and, when the time is right, you will attempt to collect them for me. However," and he leans back in his chair, his gaze penetrating, "there are two in particular I desire. Should you fail to secure any of the others, it will matter but little if you succeed in bringing these two to me."
"Oh?" Remy is uninterested – he's stolen enough mutants for them to all be the same to him by now. "Got any specs for me to work wit'?"
And Sinister leans forward, says: "The first is called Rachel Summers. The second is called Rogue."
Rogue.
Remy stubbed out the cigarette on the balcony railing and thought about her. Again.
It had been bad enough figuring out that Rachel Summers was just a kid… a kid whose mother had been murdered and whose dad was pretty much on the verge of a nervous breakdown. But then Storm had introduced him to Rogue, and… …
He didn't know what kind of a person he'd been expecting. Certainly not a female.
When Storm had walked him into the Rec Room he could've sworn Logan was the 'Rogue' he was looking for.
Not the girl with the mile long legs and the to-die-for ass.
Not the girl with the beautiful green eyes who'd stolen his breath away.
He grappled with it sometimes. The feeling he'd got when he'd first laid eyes on her. When their gazes had locked. Just this thrill. This sweet, sweet tug on his heart. She was beautiful. He couldn't compare her to Belle, because they were so completely different, and anyway he refused to compare another woman to Belle at all. But the way she'd looked at him, from those soft, sad green eyes… He knew, he knew, that he couldn't just hand her over to Essex.
A year had passed since that first meeting. A whole year had gone by in which he had got to know her. He hadn't a clue why Essex wanted her, but he knew that she was too good a thing to be given over to his sick experiments. She was too good a person to suffer at anyone's hands. And he, Remy himself… he had changed. He'd become something more than a thief who was indebted to a monster. He'd become a hero. An X-Man. And, even more than that, he'd become a man. A man who had feelings for the woman called Rogue, the woman whose name he didn't even know.
And he made a decision.
He didn't know how the hell he was going to make it work, but he was going to figure out a way to keep her from falling into Essex's clutches, whatever the hell kind of shit it landed him in.
And that was exactly the moment his phone rang.
Remy sighed, flipped the cell out of his back pocket and took the call. He knew it was Essex even before he lifted the phone to his ear.
"Where are you?" Sinister's voice rasped, no cool, calm greeting, no mocking introduction. It was a change of tack that took Remy by surprise.
"I'm at de mansion," he replied, confused. "But I thought—"
"You need to get out," Essex's voice cut over his, sharp, incisive. "Now."
"What de fuck—"
"The military have been ordered to attack the mansion with permission to shoot on sight, and they're on their way now. Your mission is aborted. Get out of there, and get to the nearest safe house. I'll send someone to pick you up within the hour. Make sure you don't die on me, LeBeau. You are not easily replaceable."
The line went dead. And at that very same moment he thought he heard a rumble in the distance, the drone of tanks… And he hadn't a fucking clue how Essex came by this information, but he knew his boss would never lie, not about something like this… And there was no way in hell he would terminate a mission, not one as important as this, not unless something really bad was happening, and… …
Remy had already darted out of his room. He headed straight for the woman's wing without stopping, coming to a standstill only once he was right outside Rogue's room. He didn't bother knocking. He crashed straight through the door, only to find… nothing.
She wasn't there.
And he panicked.
Where are you Rogue? Where are you?
He turned away, not knowing where to go next. The kitchen, the Rec Room, the lounge. The library. Even the Danger Room. He raced between each one, panic rising in him with each and every minute that passed, and she was nowhere to be found. Nowhere.
He paused outside the Danger Room, feeling sick to the stomach, his heart crashing wildly in his chest.
Don't do dis t' me, chere, he pleaded with himself. Don't do dis to me, sweet.
And that was when he heard the first crash, the first gunshots, the first screams.
He started running again, hardly knowing that he was running, praying to God that Rogue was somewhere, anywhere safe, and then remembering she went down by de lake wit' Rachel… Don't tell me she's still down dere…
But if she was, if she'd heard the commotion, she might be in the best position to get away without being noticed…
Or to come right back in here and help.
And he knew that's exactly what she would do.
More gunshots, more screams. He didn't have time to think.
He burst out the back door and onto the veranda, hearing nothing but the syncopated rhythm of his own breathing, his own heartbeat, tuning out everything but that and the pistoning of his muscles, and, and…
He was out on the lawn, running towards the boathouse, and he skidded to a stop when he got there, crashing through the door so violently that it splintered in his wake, and…
"Rogue!" he shouted, his voice hitting nothing but blank walls. "Rogue!"
No answer.
He paused a moment on the threshold, fighting back a wave of nausea.
C'mon, Rogue. C'mon, please, babe. They're killin' out there, and how de hell I'm s'pposed to let you die? How could I live wit' myself…?
The world came swimming back to him. Up on the hill there were shouts and there were screams, and he felt something well up inside him other than this horrible, numbing sickness. It stung the back of his eyelids and threatened to spill out onto his cheeks.
And he told himself the only thing he could to make it stop.
She's already dead. You know it, LeBeau. She's gone and you haveta save yourself…
A sound behind him made him swing round in the doorway, the traitorous thought barely having left him, and he was surprised to see a soldier just a couple of metres away, off the porch, rifle in hand… And he twisted out of the way just as the gun went off, slamming a bullet in the doorjamb… and hell, he charged the door, tore what remained of it from its frame and threw it, knowing it would kill, and X-Men don't kill, but he knew there wouldn't be anymore X-Men after today, and right now killing was exactly what he wanted… …
The door exploded and he guessed the soldier exploded along with it, but he didn't care… And before he even had time to appreciate that fact, he heard the cocking of another rifle, behind him and to his right, a disembodied click… And the dart slammed into the side of his neck, and goddammit, he couldn't see anything but red as he yanked the fucking thing out, he was fucking pissed and he was going to kill them all…
The card was in his hand in a blur of movement, and he hurled it at the window, right where he knew the other guy was hiding, and…
Nothing.
Just a card hitting the windowframe and bouncing onto the floor.
And, shit, they've neutralised my powers…
Nothing left.
Just run.
He ducked, he rolled right back onto the porch, and there were more of them outside, three, four, five… Two, maybe three he could take, but not this many, he knew that instinctively, so he darted left, jumped the railings, skirted round the side of the building, and they were right there behind him, and there were even more in front.
Shit!
There was one advantage he had.
He knew this place better than them.
He knew the walls of the bathroom were flimsy enough to crumble under his body weight if he put enough force in there, and that was exactly what he did. The next thing he remembered was crashing through the wooden siding and onto cold tiling, spitting out plaster and splinters, and he scrambled onto his feet again without so much as taking a look back.
He ran through the boathouse with them close behind, and he wasn't stupid enough to think they weren't going to ring the building again, but he had to trust to the fact that he was faster than them, much faster.
The obvious exit was the lounge window, and he didn't take it. He zipped right, into the kitchenette, and launched himself at the door. It gave in a hail of glass and wood, and there it was, the only cover he knew was worth it – the little copse, right against the perimeter wall, more than enough to buy him some time and an escape route…
Non. Rogue first. Then an escape route…
Don't be an idiot. She's dead. So will you be, if'n y' don't leave now.
He'd never run so fast in all his life.
The oxygen was searing through his lungs and his throat like a flame, but somehow he was still breathing.
And this was the flaw in his plan.
The run down to the woods.
He was wide open.
A sitting duck.
But he had no choice.
Not even when he heard the gunshots and felt the bullet pierce his side.
He didn't stop then, not even for the starburst of pain that cascaded and rippled through his body. He ignored it, even when he threw himself into undergrowth and crawled through the trees and the brush to the place he knew was his only chance of survival.
He wasn't sure how, but suddenly he was at the retaining wall, and he pushed at the bricks with bloodied fingers, the pre-prepared exit he'd made should his mission go tits up… And he could hear footsteps in the undergrowth, drawing nearer and nearer, and he tried to stop his hands from shaking, tried to remain calm…
The slice of wall gave, and he pushed himself through with knees and elbows, his body screaming, singing with pain… And he was out. On Graymalkin Lane. Tanks and military down the road to his left. Too focused on whatever was going on inside to notice him.
He slid the bricks back into the wall.
He stood on legs that hardly seemed to support his weight.
And God, this was it.
He had no choice.
There was no way to get back in. Not without facing certain death. The decision was made, and he had abandoned them. He had abandoned her. And it hurt like fuck.
So he did what he did best.
He ran.
-oOo-
He lay on his back in the half-light, the contents of the first aid kit scattered on the mattress around him.
Don't die on me, LeBeau, Essex had said. And he wasn't dead yet. But he would be, if he didn't get to a hospital within the next 24 hours.
He'd left the bullet in because he didn't have the kit to get it out, but he knew it was bad and he hoped against fucking hope that one of Essex's minions would come and get him sooner rather than later.
At least something good had happened in the past ten minutes.
His powers had slowly come back.
Remy gave a humourless bark of a laugh. A few years back, he could've fixed himself with his powers. Damn, he would've picked out the bullet with his bare hands and cauterised the wound. It wouldn't have been perfect, but it would've been a great patch up until he'd managed to get some medical attention. Now his powers were a waste of fucking space. He could only charge inorganic matter.
And right now he wanted to blow up a few fucking heads. Nice and slow. He'd never done it before, but he would've loved to know what it was like right now. Flaming bits of brain matter and skull all around him in a red rain. He laughed again hoarsely.
He laughed because he really didn't want to cry.
The movement jarred his wound and he hissed with pain. He looked down at his side and saw that the blood was already beginning to seep through the fresh bandages.
Merde.
He considered going for the bottle of whiskey that was in the cabinet across the room – anything to deaden the pain – but he didn't think he could make it and he wasn't about to try. So instead he half-rolled, half-leaned over to the nightstand and slid open the drawer there. He put his hand inside and rummaged around for it. Cufflinks, condoms, cards, coins. And then his fingers touched it. The edge of a paper towel. He pulled it out, inch by agonising inch, and when it was in his hands he settled back onto the bed, breathing so hard it hurt.
For a moment the world tunnelled with pain, and he lifted the towel to the only source of light in the room – the slowly fading sunshine filtering in through his grimy window.
And there it was.
The imprint of her lips marked out in cherry red.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember it. The feel, the taste, the scent of her. The shy curl of her smile. The honeyed cadence of her voice.
And the beating of his heart… It slowed. It settled.
He thought, it's better for you t' die like dis, chere, than to be handed over to Essex.
He thought of her pale skin and her hair between his fingers, and… …he missed her.
He missed her so badly it hurt more than the pain of the bullet wound.
Goodnight, chere, he thought. Sleep, beautiful angel. Be safe, wherever you are.
He pressed his lips against the mark of her lipstick. For a moment he thought, he imagined he could feel her kiss him back. Chaste as seagulls, shy as butterflies. Not like the wanton temptress who came to him in his fantasies, but like the woman he knew her to be.
He knew it was nothing more than just that – his imagination.
So he tied it all up in a bundle, buried it all away. He made believe that this beautiful angel had never lived, had never died.
"Goodbye, Rogue," he whispered, and he charged the towel. He burned it up.
It didn't take much. Just a small surge of power and the thing had practically melted in his hands, and he let the ashen remnants flutter round him like black confetti.
There.
She was gone, in every single way that mattered.
And then the knock sounded on the door.
-oOo-