Medea

by kangeiko

Remy finds someone to be more than a friend after his return from Antarctica. What repercussions will their relationship have on the rest of the X-Men? Bobby/Remy slash, Remy/Rogue.

MEDEA

DISCLAIMER: The characters featured here do not belong to me. This story is a work of fan fiction and is not meant to infringe upon the copyright held by Marvel Comics. This story is distributed for the purposes of individual entertainment, and is not subject to purchase or sale by anyone.

DISTRIBUTION: This story may be distributed only with prior permission of the author, and may not be posted to any archive, ftp site, or web page without the written permission of the author.

SUMMARY: Remy finds someone to be more than a friend after his return from Antarctica. What repercussions will their relationship have on the rest of the X-Men?

SPOILERS: Er... I have no concept of the X-Men timeline. There is no continuity... but if pushed, I'd say shortly after Gambit's little trip to Antarctica.

RATING: This story is rated R for language, violence and possibly disturbing imagery. There are also mentions made of a male/male relationship, although they are not graphic.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story has many mentions of a homophobic reaction to the 'outing' of several characters. This is not an outlook I share, so don't flame me about it. It's meant to point out the instinctive and deep-borne homophobic outlook of most people - one that isn't normally seen in a supposedly 'tolerant' society nowadays unless a person is seriously pushed to the limits. Then homophobic and racist attacks seem to be fair play.

DEDICATION: I read a story a couple of days ago, where Marrow was furious that no one was taking any notice of the suffering in Kosovo. I commend the author for tackling such a delicate subject. This is also for Erykah, for trying her damnedest to help me find a fandom to fit this story line into (and the damn repetitions!). May there be drinking, laughing and Maltesers at our next brainstorming session. ;-)

Part 1

Breathe.

One. Two. Three.

She could do that, right? She could breathe. She could blink back the tears that threatened to emerge, choke them back and stare, silent, at the empty doorway. She could cope.

Breathe.

One. Two. Three.

Footsteps echoed dully as he and his lover - there, she'd said the word, and it burned her - left the mansion. Left. For a little while. Then they would be back, to get their things... To do the 'honourable' thing and leave. Honourable?

Her throat froze.

Breathe.

One. Two. Three.

There wasn't anything honourable about it. Leaving her... leaving his responsibilities... and all for his lover. Lover. She was his girlfriend - had been, had been, her brain chanted mockingly - and he had a lover?!

Her hands curled into fists, unnoticed by their owner. Suddenly, the room was too small. Too full of memories - but weren't they just lies now? Every smile, every warm comment - too thick. Too thick. That's what he'd called her. Smothering. Her love for him was too thick, he was drowning in it. He needed space. Not just space away - oh no. He'd already found his space, thank you very much, while she hadn't been looking. Found it and filled it with someone else.

Breathe.

One. Two. Three.

He'd gone out, and he'd found himself a lover. She'd expected it... waited for it... knew it was coming... and it still hurt. Still hurt, after everything she knew about him.

A lover. Someone he could fuck - no, someone he could make love to. That was what lover meant, wasn't it? Someone you could touch. Someone you could trust. Someone you could throw down on a bed and fuck them until their eyes rolled up in their head and they screamed --

She choked on her own tongue. Suddenly, her love was too thick, thick and suffocating, bubbling up out of her throat. She choked on the too-thick air, sliding soundlessly to the floor, her fisted hands pressed against the soft plush carpet.

A lover. Someone he could fuck.

Breathe.

Goddamn Remy LeBeau --

One.

Goddamn him and his insufferable libido!

Two.

A single tear slid down with the lie.

Three.

He'd left not because he couldn't touch her... although that might have played some small part of it. She knew men, and she knew their ways. She knew them when they looked at a woman and she saw all the horrible violent and invasive things they wanted to do, all the hurt they wanted to inflict... and she knew, above all, how they reigned it in, each and every day. How Remy had reigned it in, how he'd been willing to give up touch - touch, of all senses - to stay near her.

She knew, then, betrayal. He'd left not because of her body. He'd left because of her.

Her love. Too thick. Too angry. Since Antarctica, too cold.

Hr breath caught on a hiccup, and she closed her eyes. Hair swung unnoticed in front of her face, tendrils damp and stringy from the shower. Just out of the shower, he'd caught her. Waited politely until she was dressed, and until the air between them had turned icy. She should have noticed that, perhaps. Should have noticed that it was cold enough to chill her through even though the central heating was switched on. Should have felt the jealous, angry vibes coming from just outside the door.

Too thick, her love.

What does he know about it? She asked angrily. What does he know about love? How can he call it thick when he hasn't had to do anything horrible - painful - for it? Everything most people did for love was beautiful. Noble. Savage and glorious, if often painful.

How's euthanasia, how's that for an act of love? How's leaving someone, injured and cold, in the Antarctic? How's coming back and realising you've just committed murder for an act of love?

Breathe.

One. Two. Three.

Once more.

There was too much air in her lungs, pushing outward. She couldn't draw anymore in, couldn't take anything more into her. Remy had made sure of that. His self-hate, his anxiety, his pure, black, angry depression had filled her until she couldn't take anything more into herself. He had become her entire focus... her sole reason, if you will. She had done what he wanted before, and had paid the price for it.

You shouldn't ha' wanted me ta, Remy. It wasn't raht. It wasn't raht! She put a fist through the floor. The floorboards cracked and splintered under her, toppling her over backwards, dumping her unceremoniously on her ass.

It didn't help.

Tears blurred her vision. You son of a bitch! It wasn't raht to ask that of me! What made you God?! Goddamn him. Goddamn him and his self-hate and for making her involved.

Hate them. Ah hate the X-Men. New concept to roll around in her brain, splinters trying to work their way into her flesh from where she still had a fist surrounded by ripped-out floorboard. Hate. New concept for her today. She hated her mother. She hated her for abandoning her, for misleading her, for not being right. She hated her real father, for much the same reason. She hated Remy LeBeau, with his easy charm and his too-sweet face and cold, malleable lips, slack with fast-approaching death. She hated him for his insolence and his spirit and his love for her, and his desertion and his self-flagellation and for everything he'd done to her and she'd done to him...

She hated the X-Men most of all. For letting her do those things.

Her choked sobs slowed, the need for air forgotten.

Breathe.

One. Two. Three.

They hadn't gone back to get him. They hadn't tried to save him, after she'd been dragged down into pain and hatred with his dying thoughts. But there had been no 'Remy' controlling them...

Her brow creased, and she nibbled on her lower lip.

No. Not control. Remy didn't 'control'. He just... was.

She'd thought him dead by her hand, but he'd returned. She'd thought him in love with her, but that was a lie. She'd thought him broken, but he had obviously found healing elsewhere...

Elsewhere, evidently, was where he was taking himself. She, the former girlfriend, the former 'lover', had been used as a weapon in an elaborate suicide, and then cast aside when he changed his mind.

Not fair on him, she reminded herself. Not fair to blame him for what he felt... but if not him, who? Blame Scott, maybe, with his holier-than-thou attitude? With his perfect little life and perfect little wife, and whatever happened those two pulled through, Goddamn it, it made you want to retch...

Blame Wolverine, who'd been silent after their return. Who still didn't want to speak to Rogue or to Gambit. Suicide was one thing. Euthanasia was one thing. This... in-betweenness was something else. He didn't want to be around Remy and his death-like eyes anymore, no sirree. He didn't want to be around the woman that had absorbed those eyes and the death in them. He could probably smell the stench of death radiating off both of them.

Blame Jean, blame the Professor, blame Jubilee, blame Storm, blame everyone but Remy and herself. Blame him for making the choice for her. Blame him for not loving her after that choice. Blame him for asking for death, and then recoiling when it was delivered.

No, he never knew what he wanted, Remy. Obviously not her.

Breathe.

One. Two. Three.

And she'd been a fool. For believing him. For wanting him. For thinking she could make it up to him, for her terrible, terrible mistake.

Fury rose in her, dark and unforgiving. Her mistake.

Forced on her by him, and still she repented. Still she begged forgiveness. And what did he offer when he used her as his knife? What did he say on his return, for almost making her an unwilling accomplice?

Nothing.

So - he hurt. So - he hated. So he didn't trust her anymore. Well, she hadn't trusted him either, had she? She hadn't trusted him or even, Goddamn it, loved him anymore. All she wanted was to make things right.

But even that was now denied to her. Because of him.

The air was frosty.

She looked up.

Bobby Drake smiled down at her, his expression vicious. She wondered why she'd never seen the potential for viciousness there before. Scott looked like that when he defended Jean, and vice versa. She'd undoubtedly looked like that when she had been defending Remy. No right to look like that anymore, obviously. Remy was now Bobby's to protect, and vice versa. Because Robert Drake wasn't sullied with Remy's self-hate, was he? Still young and sweet and tender and damn it all to hell, someone Remy didn't hate.

Reason enough for her to hate Bobby.

"Come to gloat, sugah?" Her voice was rusty.

Bobby stared at her, that same peculiar half-smile of those wanted, loved. Of those about to leave this particular place and go off and not be alone. Somewhere safe... probably warm.

The irony struck her suddenly. Remy had chosen Iceman to love. His own personal icy tundra, to take with him wherever he went. Remy, Remy... you gonna tire of him too, sugah? You gonna leave him like you're leaving me? She would pay good money to see on Bobby's too-perfect face the same expression that must be on hers right now.

He looked her straight in the eye. "We're leaving. The two of us. I mean... Remy wants to leave..."

"And wherever darlin' Remy goes, you follow, yeah sugah? Like a good little dog."

He had the good grace to flush with embarrassment and anger. "I'm going with him. He'll be back later - a couple of hours, at the most... to pick up his things." His voice held significance.

Yeah... so it'd be best if Ah were not in the house, Ah get ya, Bobby. Ah get ya. This the standard speech Gambit used on his ladies, hmmm?

Her eyes hardened. She was not one of Remy's 'lady-friends'! She was meant to be the love of his life, damn it! Just as he was meant to be the love of her life! What would have been the point for these past months of anguish and repentance if he wasn't?!

"Get out, sugah. Or I'll rip yer head off."

He turned slowly and left. Slowly. He turned his back to her.

Rogue rolled this concept around in her mind too. Was this what she'd been reduced to? Remy's little pet. Remy's little toy. Would have been Remy's little whore, too, except that she couldn't touch him. Looked like he'd solved that problem, though. Bobby was perfect. No one would suspect... after all, he was male. No one could say that Remy was replacing Rogue. Not even Rogue herself - not aloud, anyway.

Looks of pity, kind words, a hand against her sleeve.

And Remy wins again.

Just like him. Not fair, probably not even true, but she didn't care anymore. Not anymore. She'd cared too damn much. Let Bobby care now. He'd been chosen as her replacement, after all. One in a long line of replacements.

The sudden chill of foreboding hit.

Ah wasn't ya new Bella Donna, was Ah, Remy? Was Ah a replacement too? The carpet didn't want to answer.

Rogue struggled to her feet. Remy would be back soon to get his stuff. Him and Bobby, most likely, would pack their things and leave the mansion. Leave the X-Men. Together.

The insane urge to pick up the phone and call Remy's ex-girlfriends to see what they sounded like suddenly threatened to cave in her skull with its determination. See what they sounded like. See if they were as spent as she was.

An' they tell me Ah have a problem! Her powers were nothing on Remy's. You didn't even notice yourself drown in your own emotions, until it was too late. Until he's bled you dry and left you hollow inside, moving on to his next lover.

Someone he could fuck.

A sudden image of Bobby and Remy, their forms entwined on the bed, assaulted her senses. Remy, his head thrown back, damnable eyes closed, breathing hard, while Bobby sucked him. Yeah, touched him. Held him. Healed him.

Something she, after all she'd done, had never been able to do.

Loss flooded out of her mind, to be replaced with something she hadn't felt often before.

Rage.

Her head spinning, she lurched away from the wall she'd been using as support and made her way into the corridor. To the right - Bobby. She could feel the prickling of her skin from his exit. His own personal tundra...

To the left - Remy's room.

First things first.

Part 2

She didn't torch the place. That was her one concession to the Professor - she wouldn't destroy his property. She had no qualms, however, about destroying each and every item that Remy LeBeau might have found of value sometime in his life.

Start with the pictures first. Immediately obvious that there were dozens of Bobby, in every pose imaginable. If she were anyone else, she might have found it cute, she supposed. Ah think it's disgustin'. Her gaze came to rest on the one she'd found tucked under the pillow, of Bobby and Remy hugging - and kissing. Remy was leaning back against a wall, his arms around the lithe form sprawled half across him. They hugged, cheek to cheek, their lips barely brushing, but... still. There it was.

Touch. The one thing she couldn't give him.

And it had been hidden under his pillow. In his bed. The one place he'd known for certain she wouldn't be.

Rogue's hand tightened into a fist around the small snapshot. Was there a picture of her in this whole pile? Of course. Plenty, all near the top. Dig deeper into the room, though, and you found twice as many pictures of Bobby... or Bobby and Remy. Or pictures of Remy, obviously taken by Bobby. Why else would the gaunt face smile so much?

He hadn't smiled for her, after all.

Goddamn you, Remy!

The room was a mess. All the pictures had been neatly torn in two, all of Gambit's clothes had been methodically shredded. Everything of value - be it jewellery or momentos - had been broken and destroyed. When Remy returned to the mansion to collect his things, there would be precious little he could salvage.

Rogue found a perverse satisfaction in that. He was walking away from this 'relationship' with as little as she...

Just one more thing remained.

Rogue lovingly placed the hand brake on top of the large pile of metal, and stood back to admire her handiwork. Hah. Don't ya ever piss me off, sugah...

Remy's beloved Harley was in pieces, each one lovingly torn off and, er... remodelled. The door to the garage had been locked, and she'd been super-quiet.

Rogue had had fun.

Let's see ya drive off into th' sunset on this pile o' crap...

Rogue had also gotten over her aversion to swearing. Somehow, it had become comforting to mentally call Bobby all the vile names under the sun. The names she called Remy, of course, had most likely never been uttered in public. That made them somehow all the more appropriate in her mind, to suit the sneaking and lying person she now realised she had never known.

The pile of spare parts - each twisted through the middle, completely irreparable - stared back at her, as if approving of her opinion. Well, that was good. She didn't really want to run into anyone who disagreed with her opinion at this moment. Luckily, most people were up and about at this time of day, and not wandering aimlessly around the mansion as she had been a few minutes before.

Rogue crouched down on the ground, her eyes narrowed as she watched the pile, waiting for it to make a wrong move... for it to provoke a much more carnal and satisfying violation. Her hands itched to grab the can of petrol sat nearby and get creative.

Naah... naah. Can't destroy all the evidence for dear Remy... She picked up the can and left it thoughtfully by the metal. Remy would have to burn the tires and paint off himself - let him bury the only thing he cared about.

Just like a thief ta care only about a material object. And she obviously hadn't been trophy-like enough for him. No-one he could ride off into the sunset with theatrically. No one he could mold into what he wanted.

Her bare hands tightened into fists again. She'd taken her gloves off for this act, because every time she touched the bike it had been with bare hands. The only way she could get close to the man she'd called 'lover' in the private recesses of her mind. Lover. Hah. Ah been fooling mahself. Now there was a surprise. She had a nasty feeling that she'd been fooling herself for a long while now - with Remy's diligent help, of course.

Did ya ever love me, sugah? Truly? The ex-Harley chose not to answer. Typical. Rogue sighed. Do ya love Bobby? Or is this revenge on me - again? More silence. It was beginning to irritate. "Did ya love me, Remy? And after all Ah know about you now... did Ah ever love you?"

"I doubt that, chere," a quiet voice from behind her answered.

Rogue straightened slowly, her expression relieved. "At least Ah knew you'd come here. That has to count for somethin', don't it?" She still didn't turn around.

"Jus' dat you know me too well fo' my likin'."

There was the distinctive crackle of a cigarette being lit, a little quieter than it would have been if Remy had lit it with a lighter rather than his finger. Then again, he's always had ta prove himself... "Is that what this is about, sugah? My knowin' ya too well - an' Bobby not knowin' ya at all?"

There wasn't even a pause. "Keep Bobby out o' dis!" The voice was hoarser than she remembered. Obviously, he'd ran into Bobby. Maybe visited his room.

Suddenly, she was glad that she'd destroyed that picture. Obviously it had been of value to him. To them.

"Ah wasn't the one gettin' him involved, Remy. As Ah recall, you were the one fucking him." She was surprised at how bluntly she'd been able to say it.

There was a stillness next to her elbow. If she turned too fast, his head would fly off.

She kept herself perfectly still.

"Is dis what it all comes down to, chere? Dat I can't touch you? Is dat why you think Remy's leavin' you?"

No. I know you're leaving because you can't stand to be in the same room as me an' smell the stench o' your own death, Remy. That's why you're runnin' out on me. 'Cause you can't accept that Ah was just another mistake... rather than someone else tryin' ta hurt you. She said nothing for a while, letting a smile surface. "Yeah." Let him think what he wanted.

A sigh. "Den I feel sorry for you, chere. Truly. For not seein' de truth."

Stuck up, arrogant prick! What did he know about what she saw? What did he know about all she'd had to cope with, with all the shit she'd had to deal with from him? But nooooo. It was always much simpler to take things at face value.

Another pause, while she regarded the former Harley with amusement.

Then, "I think... I t'ink I love Bobby, chere."

He couldn't have said anything worse if he'd tried. She whipped around, her eyes ablaze with a rage she'd never believed herself capable of. Her voice, when it eventually managed to escape, was curiously placid, as if drained of all emotion long ago. Remy watched her eyes and waited for them to change. Waited for the blow to come so he could dodge. Waited for the fight so that, when it was over, he could walk out of here with a clear conscience. He'd have tried to help her. After all she'd done, he'd tried to help her. Aaaaaaaah, sugah, I don't think you're the one to be makin' allowances for me!

"Ya love him, hmmm?" Her lips curled up in a smile, cat-like. "Really. Like you loved me, hmmm, chere?"

He held his ground, his breath smelling of cigarettes and ... something else. With a renewed surge of anger, she realised that it was fresh air, new and clean and... frosty. Cold. He smelled of Bobby.

"Non. Not'in' like dat."

This, she could suddenly believe. Because, no matter what she'd done, no matter what she'd sacrificed, it had never been enough for Remy. Not after Antarctica. Really, sugah, will you run away from him too if he gave you what you wanted once too often? He couldn't stand being near someone with that much love in them. That much...

...Obsession?

She blinked, and Remy blinked right back. It was almost comical, but that was what any psychiatrist would call it. Obsession. Co-dependecy. Mutual self-flagellation, combined with a hint of a 'Romeo & Juliet'-style need for a dramatic exit - together. Mutual immolation on a stake large enough to impale them both.

Oh, Remy. Ah didn't realise that Ah wasn't supposed to be the one that killed ya! Anyone but Rogue. She was evidently supposed to be the one that survived. The one that mourned him properly. Did you think Ah couldn't do that properly if Ah'd killed ya mahself? She was close enough to kiss him now, and felt the giddy rush of triumph as he leaned back slightly, pulling away. So you find yourself someone else ta love ya. Ta mourn ya.

"I didn' want t' die, Roguie," he said softly, startling her. "I t'ought I did... but I was wrong. And you were wrong t' listen to what was in your head when I was plainly askin' to live, p'tite. But I can' change any o' dat now." He spread his arms as much as his curiously pushed-back posture allowed. "I can' do anyt'in' excep' start again."

It occurred to Rogue that she had never heard Remy refer to himself using a personal pronoun so many times before. Every time he had spoken to her, he had said "Remy need dis," or "Remy t'ink dat." Never 'I'. And now, it wasn't for her. It was for Bobby.

Again.

That, really, was the straw that broke the camel's back. For, despite what she had thought, her and Remy were not meant to be together. All the hardships they had faced, all the problems, all the secrets and lies and pain they had somehow survived... it had all been for nothing. Because now he was saying that didn't love her... that he had stopped loving her when she got inside his head.

Oh, Remy, darlin'... is it so terrible to understand ya? If she could have wept, she would have, but tears would do no good nothing. Nothing she did or said would do any good, because he didn't love her, and she wasn't entirely sure that she could love someone that callous and uncaring. Someone that could use people so easily, and then abandon them.

The rage returned as easily as it had left, growing in her with each step Remy took outside of the garage. It hadn't hurt him, something twisted and angry and abandoned inside her whispered fitfully. The motorcycle hadn't hurt him, and the pictures hadn't hurt him enough. He didn't care, because he didn't care about Rogue or his old life anymore. Now he had Bobby, and all the rest was nothing. She was nothing.

Nothin'.

What do you do when the worst thing you can think of suddenly doesn't seem terrible enough?

Sabertooth. No, Logan. Magneto?

No. Sabertooth. Sabertooth was good.

snakeslithersqueezeshedtheskinbecomesomethingnew

No, okay, that wasn't Sabertooth.

Momma?

shedtheskinbecomesomethingnewremainthesamechangeslithertheycan'tseeme...

Momma would help her. Momma had always helped her.

Momma... I'm angry. It sounded petulant and small-minded when it was vocalised, and so she didn't say it aloud. Inside, deep inside, simple words were used for grander concepts - for rage that could not be described. She'd have given her right arm to be able to hurt Him as badly as he'd hurt her. Her right arm. Both her arms. Her soul.

Anything.

Momma... I'm angry.

Something buried deep inside woke up and smiled. I know.

"Yes? Who is it?"

In the distance, the soft strum of a car's engine could be heard. Bobby was collecting the last of his things, then... Soon, Remy and him would stop by and say goodbye. She wasn't entirely sure how she would deal with this, and so could be forgiven her hope that the knocking on her door wasn't either of the two men. Just a little bit more time to get used to the idea. A little bit more time to forgive him.

If he could be forgiven...

"It's me," a female voice called out.

Thank you! She hurriedly yanked a robe on and headed for the door. "Just one minute!"

She opened the door hurriedly, a forced smile on her face. I don't want to deal with this either, she thought, but knew that she must. She would not choose sides - she would listen and comfort both.

She was, after all, a friend to both.

"Rogue, child. What can I do for you?"

Leaning against the doorjamb, Rogue ran a hand through her hair and smiled. There was the briefest flicker of gold in her eyes, but it was gone so quickly that Ororo thought she must have been mistaken.

The smile got wider. "Now, that was just what Ah was thinkin', 'Ro, sugah. What can ya do for me?"

fin