They All Fall Down
Chapter One
He had taken off his coat and was holding it over his shoulder with the forefinger of his left hand when he saw her standing in the lake. Just standing. Midwaist in the lake with her dark hair tumbling down over her shoulders and fanning out in the water behind her and the pale cool light of the moon glowing off her arms. He had been there awhile with his jacket slung over his shoulder, leaning against the shin oak and smoking a cigarette as he watched the peafowl strut and quietly drag their plumage behind them in the grass. But it was not until she cupped the black water in her hands and let it trickle between the cracks of her fingers that he saw her there with the white lace dress floating on the tide like a train and swirling around her midriff and her legs. And then he could not look away.
He watched her for a bit, his face dappled in the shade of the oak tree, and when he could not stand to watch any longer he dropped the cigarette and stepped on it, and then he folded his jacket over his arm and crossed a lawn that smelt of honey locust and columbine to the apron of the dock. When he got to the shoreline, he let the coat fall to the ground with a whisper of leather and when she heard it, she turned her head slightly, listening. He said her name and she looked at him, and he couldn't remember much else. Just the sight of her, half-turned in the water with her gown trailing and her lips parted and her eyes wide and surprised. Gold-flecked green eyes like he had never seen. One of the straps had slipped off the fragile curve of her shoulder and there was an orchid in her hair and there were twice as many stars out that night because each was reflected in the stillness of the black lake surrounding her.
Had he called out to her again? Did she gather up fistfuls of the dress in her hands and walk out to him? He couldn't seem to recall, except that he had blinked and then they were standing together and her head was inclined while she combed out her wet hair with her fingers and smiled and said, "Heya, Sugar" as if there had been no ellipsis in time. As if the world was still revolving beneath their feet.
As if she wasn't the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He took a new cigarette out of his pocket and put it in his mouth and then found a match and struck it and said, "You look nice, chère," as he lit the cigarette. He waved the match out. "What's de occasion?"
She shrugged with the strapless shoulder and then she pulled the strap back up. Smiling. The wet dress clung to her legs. "Can't a girl get dolled up for no good reason?" she said.
"I sure ain't gon dispute it. Den again, I got what dey call an 'ulterior motive.'"
"Like what you see, do ya, Sugar?" she said as he turned his head to the side and blew a thin riband of cigarette smoke through his lips, and when he answered her, more smoke escaped and roiled up toward the sky.
"Like t'beat de band, chère," he said with his eyes cast down. "Like t'beat de band."
She bunched her hair away from the nape of her neck and sat down in the grass, and he sat beside her with one leg bent and his elbow resting on his knee. She nodded her chin toward the lake. "Don't it take your breath away, Remy?" she said. "Minds me o' the mighty Mississippi."
"Not hardly," he said, tucking the cigarette in his mouth and leaning back so that he lay in the grass with his fingers interlaced behind his head. "Ain't wide enough. Ain't muddy enough, neither."
She pushed his shoulder. "Ah didn't say it was a spittin' image, you swamp rat. It's jus' the way the waves sound gainst the dock. Steady-like."
"You homesick, chère?"
"Ah reckon Ah am, a lil bit."
He turned his face to look at her. "You sound like you could use some o' Remy's downhome cookin.'"
She laughed. It wasn't something he heard often and the ring of it thrilled him. "Indigestion's the last thing Ah need, Sugar," she said, settling back on her elbows.
He put his hand over his heart. "You cut me t'de quick, chèrie."
"Ah'm sure y'all will find it in your heart ta forgive me."
They were quiet for a long time. Hours. He watched the constellations and felt the slow spin of the earth on its axis and smelt the summer blossoms and the far more intoxicating scent of her. A star fell, trailing dust. He imagined the path of the star in the sky rushing down toward the earth while its mirror image in the lake fell upward to meet it.
"Two convergin' paths," he whispered aloud. "Always drawin closer t'gether wit'out ever meetin." Like us. Like you an' me. "Make a wish on it, chère?"
She was silent.
He closed his eyes and wished that the two stars would touch. Would meet on the surface of the lake and shine brightly. When he opened them again, the star was gone. He looked at her figure beside him, white and tragic and burning like magnesium in the moonlight. Her breasts rising and falling gently. He watched her sleep for a while. Then he got up and picked her up carefully so that her skin would not brush against his. Her head was cradled against his chest, rocking with each step as he labored up the hill, and he could smell her soap and her perfume. He carried her to the mansion that way, bridal-style in his arms, and the lace train of her dress dragged in the grass like the fantails of the peafowl that strutted by the docks.
Long after she was in her bed, he stood by the window of his bedroom and looked out over the schoolgrounds. Restless. He walked the floorboards of the room and stopped by the window each time and finally he put his arm against the pane and stayed there with his head bowed and his shoulders rounded. Awake. When the sky began to lighten he tilted his forehead against the glass and watched his breath fog it up and then evaporate. Helpless. Because he could not get the image of her standing waist deep in the water and turning toward him out of his mind. He beat his head against the window slowly. Frustrated. Because she knew what she was doing to him, and he hated her for it.
She sat up quickly in the lightless room, the sheets falling away from her chest. There was some hair stuck to her lip and it fluttered with each shallow breath as she slowly got her bearings. It took her a moment to realize that it was only a dream. That she was still in the mansion. Beside her, Scott groaned and rolled over, rubbing his eyelids.
"Jean?" His voice was tired. She saw his hand pat the nightstand for his glasses. When he found them, he put them on and inhaled deeply and then steepled his fingers and massaged the bridge of his nose with both hands. "What's the matter?"
"Scott," she said, lowering herself slowly back onto the bed. She reached out and touched his bare chest to remind herself of where she was. "Where is Logan, do you know?"
"Logan?" He scratched his forehead and then ran his fingers through his short hair and adjusted his head on the pillow so that he could see her face. "Why?"
"I had this dream," she said, then stopped. The details were already fading. She had seen herself standing in a void and wearing one of the old uniforms. One she did not wear anymore. She could see her own lips move. What had she said? Save. Save the…what? Or had it been Save me?
Scott propped himself up on his side. "How did it go?" He asked.
She shook her head. "Logan was there. In pain. In so much pain, Scott. I think he was--" What? Scared? No. Not Logan. She tried to remember. "I think he was hurt," she said. "I think his injuries might have been infected."
He smiled. "I can't think of any microorganism that could live inside that guy." He put the back of his hand on her cheek. "It was a nightmare. Logan left a couple days ago, but he'll be back tomorrow. Early."
"I know." She sighed, then looked at him and raised her eyebrows. "It seemed so real."
"They always do."
"I know."
"Do you want something to drink?"
She wove her fingers between his and raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. "No, I'm okay now. Let's just go back to sleep."
He did not move for a moment, studying her. Then the bedsprings groaned as he leaned over and took off his glasses and put them on the nightstand. She felt the mattress depress as he settled closer to her and then she felt his arm around her waist and he kissed the top of her head and said "Sweet dreams."
And they were. They were.
Elsewhere…
When he was not awake, Logan could see her. She was standing in the blackness and squinting and when the wind picked up and made her red hair float around her head, she had to blink rapidly and use her fingers to keep it away from her face.
Jeannie. I can feel you givin' up, he was saying to her. This is our business. Facin' down death comes with the territory.
He could see her narrow her eyes and when her lips moved to say Save the speeches, he mouthed them with her. Because he always brought out this memory when he was in trouble, like a pretty worry stone he carried with him whose every dip and crack and ornament his fingers knew by heart. He could see the detailing of the black jumpsuit, the ribbing along its sides and the X etched and dyed into its chest. Every button, every crease in the patent leather. Every seam and stitch and loose thread. He could see the gloss on the jacket and the yellow trim. The curve of her jaw. The red lips. The white line of her teeth when she shouted.
No speech, he said. No speech. But until we take our last breath, I'm gonna keep living. He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders and slid his thumbs over the leather. Blackness all around them. But if this is our last breath…we ain't wastin' it. The memory was almost over now and when it was he would rewind it and play it again.
He pulled her into him and kissed her then, still holding her shoulders tightly. Her hands limp at her sides. Blackness all around them. And then she had kissed him back. It was subtle at first--she just opened her mouth and her eyes fluttered shut. But then it became panicked. Passionate. Her leg grazed his. He put his hands on the backs of her thighs and the muscles in his arms contracted as he picked her off the ground, and then she wrapped her knees around his waist and everything turned…white.
When Logan opened his eyes, the room was dark enough that he could not see anything. Earlier there had been a strip of light between the door and the jamb. It was gone now, and he could not see anything. He could smell his own blood and the salt on his skin and the fever blister forming on his lower lip. Nothing had healed yet. How many days did that make? He couldn't count, so instead he closed his eyes. She was standing there in the blackness and squinting and when the wind picked up and made her red hair float around her head, she had to blink rapidly and use her fingers to keep it away from her face. He would take the memory out and play it again.
The way he always did when he was in trouble.
Characters: Gambit, Rogue, Professor X, Jean, Wolverine, Scott. Maybe some others. Maybe Beast or Jubilee. Who knows. And a special thanks to the behind-the-scenes crew, Lady Mastermind, Mystique, Blindspot.
Author's Note: It's an idea I've been playing around with for awhile: Mystique and Lady Mastermind and Blindspot collaborate to play off the insecurities of the X Men. Once the dominoes are all in place, it just takes a single tap and they all fall down. Brought to you by Finals Week at the university. Everybody loves a procrastinator.