My take on the 'it was only a dream' concept. Trite? Maybe. Cliché? It's possible. But I like it, and I need some relief from the ineptitude of Marvel – or Disney, or whatever they're calling themselves these days. OCD and emotional investment in storylines written by morons = not a good combination.
~/FEVER DREAMS/~
"Remy!" Consciousness returned in a rush. Rogue shot awake with a harsh gasp, kicking away the mess of sweat-soaked blankets tangled around her legs and lower frantic thumping of her heart-beat rang in her ears, a crazed herd of wild mustangs stampeding out of control. Lungs pumping, heartbeat going berserk - eyes seeking...seeking...seeking, but failing to find.
With a supreme effort of will, she made her tired, stinging eyes focus
The bedroom was dark, quiet and cool. The shades were drawn. All was still, except for the ceiling fan describing lazy circles through air gone stale hours before.
She was alone.
She'd woken up alone.
Remy wasn't here. His side of their expansive king-sized bed was empty, and he was gone. Oh god, Oh GOd, It couldn't have been real, Please, Sweet GOd in heaven let it not be real…
He'd lain down beside her, last night, hadn't he? She remembered- or, at least, thought she remembered - a haze of drowsy contentment, a feeling of comfort and wrapped in love, warm and safe in her husband's arms.
And now -
-the room seemed to be wobbling back and forth, unsteady on its moorings.
Unbidden, her mind sprang back to the soul-racking images of the nightmare she'd just escaped from.
Remy. Remy gone, leaving; leaving her behind, walking away alone because she'd said no when he'd asked her to join him. Because she was hesitant, insecure.
Because she was too damn afraid to tell him he was her everything.
He'd walked away from her, and she couldn't blame him. He'd walked away, and she'd let him, part of her almost believing that it was for the best.
The rest of her bitterly recognized the attempt at self-consolation for what it was: a pathetic effort to justify her own cowardice.
He'd never looked back.
Not even once.
That had been, hand's down, the worst nightmare she'd ever had in her life. If - please, no - if it had been real, what was she going to do? Please no. Oh god….
No. No, it couldn't have been real. Soul sucking skin, firestarters, telepaths, battles to the death, futuristic cities on asteroids, god-like beings from beyond the stars … that was the stuff of movies, of fairy tales. None of it was possible.
But then...why wasn't he here?
The soft creak of an opening door barely-just barely-registered through her panic. She heard rustling, muffled through the closed bedroom door. A dull thud as something was set down on the table, or the kitchen counter, maybe? Then footsteps, coming closer; light, panther-paw treads, familiar, so familiar somehow...the bedroom door opened, and Remy came through.
"Rogue -Rogue-chere, what's wrong? Dieu, vous êtes aussi blanc comme feuille!"
His tone, more than the words themselves, was what pierced through her gibbering terror. Scared, warm with love, overlaid with a sharp edge of worry. That voice was a part of her soul - hearing it, the world was suddenly right again. "Remy " The relief was instant, total. He was here; he was here, she hadn't imagined him, he hadn't left her. It wasn't real, of course not - the horrible, bone-chilling nightmare had been only that, a nightmare.
He hurried over, kneeling down beside her on the edge of the unmade bed. As he got closer she could feel his presence, breath his scent. It grew easier and easier to think clearly. Her automatic systems kicked in. Rogue drew in one deep, slow breath. Exhaled. Sucked down another. Gradually, the hysteria faded away, and with it the haze that clouded her thoughts.
It was all coming back now. Sick. She was sick. She'd been laid up with some new strain of super flu for the better part of five or six days. Her fever had broken sometime - last night? This morning? And strength was coming back, if slowly. But in the meantime she was off from work and too weak to go out, with nothing to do but watch TV, lie around, and sleep. Sleep - and, apparently, dream. And dear Lord, what a dream. Really, where did her subconscious get this stuff?
"Oh, darlin' - It's allright, Rem, ah just had the most terrible nightmare-" Rogue shuddered. "We -you an' me both- were superhero characters in some kinda comic book written by cretins an' untalented hacks."
It had seemed so real; that was what was truly terrifying. The mayhem and destruction had been close enough to touch, to taste; the agony exquisite, easily sharp enough to kill. And even now, remembering the anguish of those scenes was enough to strangle her heart in her chest.
"Ah mean it, Rem, these people were total morons! Not a single one could write a decent, at least half-way intelligent story if their lahfe depended on it. There was no plotline, little ta no central cohesion, and developing and maturing their characters? Forget it.
There was just drama, and drama, an' more drama; the writers kept crankin' out the same old tired, hackneyed storylines, addin' more twists and friggin idiotic plot-points. You know that ol' creep your father used'ta consult foa? The German guy? They had meh leave you - foah him! Of course, ah was kinda possesed at the tahme, and things were already weird what with havin' just gained control of ma powahs after Eleven.Fucking.Years. Ah mean, if he was supposed ta be the most powerful telepath in the world, whah the hell did it take him so long?"
"Rogue...Rogue?" Remy interrupted worriedly. "Chere, y' babblin', slow down".
She hadn't realized she was ranting until his voice cut her off. She took a moment, then another, but wasn't sure they helped. Why should a nightmare have affected her so much? Dear lord, she hated feeling like this...weak, vulnerable. Afraid. But the venting must have helped, because the emotion-laden shadows of her dream were finally fading away. A far more familiar feeling, too, was starting to make itself known - annoyance.
"The worst part" she grumbled. " the wors' part was that they kept breakin' us up. An' foah the stupidest reasons, too. Faghts ova the smallest things, betrayals, back-stabbings, meh gettin influenced bah ma own shitty powahs and throwin' mahself at otha men, you gettin' seduced bah ma momma - Yeah -"
She broke off into a weak chuckle, a knee-jerk response to the look on his face - a twisted expression of pure disgust, the kind her husband typically reserved for very few things in life. The poor man looked as though he'd just stepped in dog mess, or been accosted by an unusually horny sewer rat.
"That was mah reaction, too".
The rough pad of his thumb rubbed gentle circles on her back, providing comfort. Rogue didn't think before pressing into his embrace and tucking herself under his arm. She was always happy for an opportunity to touch him, and, in this case, his silent support was more than welcome.
"Ah went from bein' a kick-ass southern belle ta a cock-tease, a wimp, an' a feeble-mahnded shrew, so crippled bah mah own stupid emotional hang-ups ah let the best thing in mah lahfe slip through ma fingers. An then, afta all that, ah just...die" she snuffled "Ah saved the world, again and again, onleh ta die an inglorious death after being reduced to a pathetic, washed-out version of my former self. Y'all became privatized; went ta work for a big company that wanted ta go into the superhero business, teamed up with some Lensherr siblings. Ah neva got the chance ta tell ya how much ya'll meant ta me, how much as love ya…." And that was the part that burned,really. She never wanted Remy to think she didn't love him - the very idea felt like an arrow piercing her heart.
"Oh, Chere" Remy gently pulled her closer, encircling her in his arms. He smelled nice. Clean. Like smoke and spices and man-sweat, blended together. Combined with his natural...chemicals...pheromones, or something, the scent was uniquely intoxicating. "I'm here, oui? You got me, Chere; I'm right here, by your side, an I ain't goin' anywhere. Dis one belongs wit you, and don't t'ink he don't know it."
Her trembling eased a touch. Was he getting through? Encouraged, Remy kept talking.
"Rest easy, mon amour; it was just a dream, jus' a fever dream, je' sais? People have all kindsa crazy dreams when they're one got de measles once when he was a kid, an' stayed in bed fer t'ree days t'inkin he was a mole. A giant rodent dat wore overalls an' was employed in de construction business, no less"
Surprised, Rogue couldn't do much more than let out a weak chuckle.
"Yoa makin that up" she accused, trying not to laugh.
"Nope. Had m' own hard hat an' every'tin"
"Yeah, ah guess - ah guess yoah right" She finally sighed. "No guessin' required, precieux, dis one is right. Dis one is always right. It be part of what make him so loveable, oui?" He smiled. Something in his chest eased, seeing her; the little grin that curled her lips, her nose twitching, her eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter.
He kicked off his shoes and climbed into their bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled on top of the covers, getting comfortable. He wrapped an arm around Rogue and pulled her against him, close to his chest. Next to his heart.
"Go t' sleep, amour." He murmured, softly, reverently, stroking her long, tangled chestnut locks with a worshiping hand. God, he loved her...loved every bit of her flawed, crazy, brilliantly shining soul. " Remy'll be here when y' wake up.". " Promise?" She murmured hesitantly. Poor cheríe - normally a pillar of strength, but she could be insecure about the strangest things. How could he be anywhere else? Bad enough to be so sick, but that dream must really have done a number on her.
"Je promets, mon amour."
Remy Lebeau and Anna Marie; he, the archetypal former rake, and she, the hot-blooded southern spitfire. They were each other's worst enemies and best friends, kindred spirits and primal opposites.
He didn't deserve her; he, who had made so many mistakes, and left a trail of bodies and broken hearts behind him. He was a sinner of the first order, a black-hearted, silver-tongued bastard. He knew, knew with every fiber of his being, that the soft, curvy clover-eyed goddess in his arms was too good for him. He never ceased to wonder at such a god-damn miracle, thatshe had ever agreed to become his wife.
But that was alright.
That was alright, though, because Rogue didn't deserve him either. In all her twenty-five years on earth, she had done few things right and almost everything wrong; stumbled and fallen, shattered and come back together, only to shatter again. She had been hurt, and in hurting, lashed out at those closest to her - inflicting her pain on others who didn't deserve it, out of the simple animal need to share the agony that seared inside.
And then she'd met Remy; Remy, who'd stayed when everyone else had run, who'd listened and held her and wiped away her tears. This warm, spirited, wonderful man, with his bone-melting smiles and devilish laughter, had somehow managed to do the impossible - convince her that she was capable of love, and worthy of being loved in return.
Soulmates. Fate-bound and eternally beloved. Theirs was a troubled relationship, undoubtedly; but they were stronger, better together; apart, they only existed, not really lived.
That was why they fit, why they were drawn to each other time and again. They were the missing piece of each other's lives, two perfect halves of the same soul.
Bundled in a nest of warm, soft covers, Rogue felt her eyes begin to drift shut. This time she didn't fight it. She snuggled deeper into her husband's arms and let the dark tides of somnolence pull her under, trusting his presence to keep any more nightmares away.