Disclaimer: I own none of the characters within.
Author's Notes: Wow. Annnnngst. Just some interlude, I guess, set somewhere before 'Dark Horizon'. I love these guys. Warning: may make absolutely no sense.
Diaphanous Thinking
The tongue of flame peeked out of the lighter just long enough for him to start his cigarette. The old Zippo had seen its' day, and living with a pyromaniac meant his dear old lighter had also seen more than its' share of abuse. He'd probably have to buy a new one, some day in the near future.
But in the meantime, there were other things to do. Other things to think about.
Taking a long drag on the cig, Remy LeBeau rested his forearms on the railing of the bridge, staring out at the harbor from behind his sleek sunglasses. Had to wear sunglasses to cover the damn eyes. When he wore them indoors, he simply explained to people that he had a condition. Ran in the family.
It was going to rain soon. He could smell it in the air. Heavy mist hung on the horizon, and was rolling closer by the minute. Forlorn sailboats bobbed up and down sadly in the dirty water, long since neglected. Boating season didn't start again for months. They would be resting for some time.
Remy felt particularly sorry for the Little Skipper. A beautiful little boat, blue and white, moored heavily to the dock not too far from him. It looked like a real good sail, too; like it could take him to the Caribbean if he wanted it to. But now it just loitered there, listing in the water like it was injured.
A fantasy unfolded before him where he did just that; snatched that boat and went to the Caribbean. It was magnificent. Never mind the fact that he hadn't sailed a boat in years.
Playing with the lighter absently, he was more annoyed than startled when the flames leapt at him suddenly in the shape of a tiger.
"Come off it, ya sonofabitch." He muttered.
St. John Allerdyce sauntered towards him out of the mist, looking like he should be cold in just blue jeans and a t-shirt that said 'I Used to Be Schizophrenic, But We're Okay Now'. His spiky orange hair had little droplets of moisture clinging to it. Remy shivered against the fog and pulled his trenchcoat tighter around his frame.
"It's cold out," he remarked, as St. John finished his sidling and relaxed with an elbow propped on the bridge railing.
"I hadn't noticed." He drawled, infuriatingly childish even with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Cocky bastard." Remy smirked.
The pair ignored each other for a while, each one watching the water and thinking many things.
St. John thought of fire, because it was seldom off his mind. He knew he was insane at this point, had known if for some time after getting past the denial. If he was going to be insane, he figured he might as well have a good time with it. Besides, he could still pretend to be normal, like right now.
Remy thought of the Little Skipper again, how lonely it looked among all the bigger and meaner vessels. For the briefest moment he could see himself untying that heavy rope and setting her free, watching her drift into the mist and disappearing like a ghost. It was very satisfying.
A tiny fire sprite leapt from the end of St. John's cigarette and danced over the surface of the water, delicate little wings managing to look more threatening than they should, impish figure gliding under the mooring ropes and threatening to burn through them all. There was little else that St. John loved more than fire, but perhaps it was chaos.
The sprite sizzled and died as she sank into the murky water.
"Nice," Remy said half-heartedly, though he didn't mean it all.
"Thank ya," St. John said automatically, though he didn't mean it either.
Remy wished his powers were more interesting. Wished he could do something like that, create a spectacle.
His cigarette was all but used up. He charged it up and tossed it over the bridge, watching in satisfaction as it burst like a miniature firework.
"Nice," St. John echoed, and he did mean it.
He got no response, as Remy was too busy rummaging through the trenchcoat for another one. Finding the beat-up pack, he dug out a cigarette and was on the verge of getting out the Zippo when he thought better of it. He held it out to St. John instead.
Complying with a grin, he allowed a tiny serpent to emerge from the end of his own cigarette, hissing and slithering across the air until it sank flaming fangs into the end of Remy's, lighting it nicely.
"Bravo," Remy said casually. "Always the showman."
And they continued smoking in silence, the mist issuing from their lips and being absorbed by the surrounding fog.
Magneto allowed no smoking in his headquarters. None of his soldiers were allowed to smoke at all; would damage their fighting capabilities. And they obeyed this rule… while he was around. When they were out on their own, screw the stiff old bastard. Sometimes a guy's gotta smoke when a guy wants to smoke.
They had of course invited Piotr to come with them on occasion, but he always shrugged them off with a grunt about the body being a temple. The first time he had said it, St. John had laughed outright. Since then he had learned to control himself. Well, in the laughing department anyway.
Things had changed. There were only two of them now, standing on the same bridge and at the same time they'd been meeting for their smokes for months. Fridays, 3:30 PM, talking and smoking their hearts content.
Pietro used to make it three. But Magneto had long ago shunted him to the side, sending him back to the rat hole of the Brotherhood for a host of stupid reasons, something about training the others. Everyone knew Magneto just couldn't stand being around someone just as stubborn, self-righteous, and smart as he was.
St. John's first cigarette of the day had also burned away rapidly, so he retrieved another one and borrowed a spark from Remy to light it. He was the biggest smoker in the group, hopelessly addicted, sneaking some outside of headquarters at four o'clock in the morning. Remy himself smoked for leisure, or something like it. Perfectly happy with once a week.
Little Skipper tugged sadly at her moorings.
He watched as St. John extinguished the remains of his first cig on the palm of his hand, as always, wincing in delight as it burned a new scar to join the hundreds of others. The whole palm was mottled with burn marks.
"Sadist." Remy remarked.
"Uh uh, sadist is one who enjoys inflicting pain on others." St. John was proud of himself; how was it that the insane always knew the most about things like that? "I think what you meant to say was 'masochist', one who enjoys physical pain."
"How would I define 'sadist'?"
A third voice joined them, and they turned to see Pietro ambling towards them, smirk on his face and backpack in his hand. He finished his thought as he drew up alongside them.
"A sadist is someone too cruel to hurt a masochist."
St. John cackled appreciatively, and Remy clapped him on the shoulder.
"Welcome back, haven't seen you in a while."
"I've been around," the speedster replied vaguely.
They were used to seeing him dressed as the proud and snappy son of their leader. Now he wore baggy jeans and a worn flannel shirt that hung off his thin frame. There were bags around his eyes and he looked even paler than usual.
"You doin' all right?" the Cajun probed.
Pietro was rummaging in the backpack.
"I get by with a little help from my friend."
He grinned and surfaced with a small case in his hand, which he popped open and removed something from before tossing it back in the pack.
A syringe.
Remy rolled his eyes.
"How did I know cigarettes would never keep you interested long enough?"
"Shut up, bitch." Pietro nudged him good-naturedly.
"Nice," St. John whistled low and eyed the syringe. "Where you gettin' stuff like that?"
"Online." The speedster said importantly. "Where you get everything else these days. Drugs, porn, Russian brides…"
Rolling up his sleeve, he retrieved a rubber band from his pocket and tightened it on his arm, just above his elbow. Scarcely a moment later the vein popped up, bold and blue against the white skin.
Remy glanced away, slightly squeamish, as Pietro eased the needle into his arm. St. John, however, was utterly captivated.
"It's that easy?" he mused.
"Easy as pie. Superspeed comes in handy sometimes; don't have to wait for the vein that long. Course, means the stuff leaves the system in like ten minutes."
"Sucks to be you." St. John said sympathetically.
"Love you, too." Pietro sneered.
Pulling the syringe out and tossing the rubber band aside, it wasn't long before his pupils shrank and his mood became much lighter.
"Takes a fuckin' drug to make me feel good, but it's worth it!" he crowed, slapping Remy on the back.
Remy, in response, blew smoke in his face, causing him to giggle stupidly and fan it away.
"Liked you better on cigs." Remy said in disgust.
"You're one to talk, bastard!" Pietro punched him in the arm, weak and ineffective. "You don't have my life!"
"So you have a right to kill yourself on heroin?" the Cajun raised an eyebrow mildly, antagonizing him.
Another swing, this time he missed, and Pietro ended up falling on his ass. He leaned back against the bridge railing, half laughing, half crying.
"Fuck you." He managed to say, and that was all.
St. John's second was used up, and he sent it to rest with the others, but not before it left its' memorial in his flesh. A third was lit up in no time, and this one he puffed on nervously, sensing the tension and disliking it greatly. This was his time to relax and take a smoke without having to worry about Magneto lunging out of the shadows and throttling him! No time to argue!
Remy, in the meantime, flicked his second cigarette into the water before it was done, sick of it all. The Little Skipper begged to be released.
Pietro's head lolled back on the damp, strong wood, his vision blurry and the high already leaving his system. He burned through the stuff like flash paper and hated himself for it. Hated himself for not even being able to keep a high like that. Still, he clung to the moments when all he felt was the rush and none of the pain. No wonder he had become addicted so quickly.
"I hate it all." He said at last.
"Life's a bitch." St. John agreed meditatively.
"A bitch, indeed." Remy added.
Suddenly, he was talking, and it was flying from his mouth before he even had time to think about what he was saying.
"Look at that boat over there." He pointed at his Little Skipper. "Let's steal it. I'm good at stealing things. Let's just hop on board and sail into the mist. Like ghosts. She'd take us anywhere we wanted, to the Caribbean if we thought about it. Let's just take her and go. Who cares about us? Who would come looking for us? Magneto? He'd be glad to be rid of us and you know it. So let's go. Let's go, now, before it's too late. She's waiting."
He was panting, out of breath from all of it, still pointing to her like they, too, could feel her power if they looked hard enough.
"Let's go!" St. John cried gleefully. "Get away from here!"
"No more pain." Pietro said solemnly.
"No more Magneto!" Shouted Remy.
"What are we waiting for?"
"No one would stop us!"
"Off into the sea!"
"It'd be fun!"
"It'd be a rest!"
"It's our perfect chance!"
It unfolded before them. They stole the boat, they sailed to the Caribbean, they stayed there forever, until the beaches themselves were washed away. It was perfect. Why should they wait? Time to go.
St. John burned the third cigarette into his palm and tossed its' remains to a watery grave.
"That was fun." He said finally.
"It was." Pietro nodded, the high gone and him totally drained.
Suddenly and full of anger, he grabbed the backpack of syringes and rubber bands and jumped to his feet, yanking his arm back like he was about to chuck into the water. Pausing, considering, he instead handed it to Remy.
"If you would do the honors." He said gravely.
So Remy charged it up and winged it over the water, and all three applauded foolishly as it exploded into nothing. St. John lit a fourth cigarette and stuffed it in his mouth, puffing hastily to get one more in on the walk home.
"Oh yeah," Pietro slung an arm around both of their shoulders. "I've had the time of my life." Giving Remy a simpering look, "Was it good for you, too?"
"You're hopeless." The Cajun shot back.
"Better get back to HQ before the Boss gets suspicious." St. John mumbled.
He wandered down the streets and disappeared, hands stuffed in his pockets and smoke chugging into the air over his head rhythmically, like a train.
"I'd better go, too." Pietro agreed.
He flitted away in the opposite direction, stopping to leap up and swing on a lamppost in his best impression of Gene Kelly, and only then did Remy realize that it was, indeed, raining.
Remy himself was about to follow St. John on his weary way.
But first he darted onto the dock and released the Little Skipper.
His heart swelled as she drifted and vanished into the mists like a ghost.
Just like he imagined.
~ End