Ladies and Gentlemen: one more piece from Miss Contrary. Who still doesn't own Marvel, X-Men: Evolution, or anything associated.
I apologize if Joseph comes off as something of a caricature here. If it helps, remember that this is through Remy's eyes, and he's not exactly an objective source . . . nor in his right mind at this particular point in time.
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When he's asked tomorrow why he did it, why tonight happened the way it did, he will say that's because he was stupid. He will tell everyone a story that will just barely excuse him having shown up at the mansion in the dead of night reeking of alcohol.
It will be a lie.
The real reason is Joseph, but that story will remain untold.
Joseph showed up on the mansions doorstep about a month ago with a combination of amnesia and a pretty face that earned him a spot in everyone's heart almost instantly. Everyone, of course, except him.
You need to trust him, Jean had said. Give the guy a chance. He might just surprise you.
It's funny how quickly everyone was so willing to give Joseph a chance. The ease with which he wormed his way in to the affections of all the mansion's residents physically stings - Remy still recalls how hard he had to fight for acceptance amongst the team once he signed on with Xavier and the dream.
Once an Acolyte, always an Acolyte.
It had taken him a full year of good behavior (at least outwardly) before he had been awarded with an X and a uniform. Joseph was welcomed with open arms as the pet charity case and a viable contender for the roster once Beast finished treating him for his memory loss.
It's bullshit, pure and simple.
The only thing that made that year of waiting bearable, the only thing that got him through day after week after month of being cooped up in the mansion with people who didn't trust him, was Rogue's quiet support. She vouched for him when the others doubted, and he will always be indebted to her for that. He considers her a friend – a title not lightly bestowed. He cares about her, deeply.
And that's why the fact she spends so much time around Joseph hurts so much. They are comfortable together, and Rogue refers to him with an affection that burns and freezes at the same time.
Remy doesn't care much for Joseph, and he has a list of reasons that he will never write down.
Joseph is sweet, considerate, charmingly naïve. He's a team player, and genuinely wants to fit in at the mansion even though he doesn't even know who he is. He laughs a lot, is sincere, is friendly.
Joseph can make Rogue smile.
He is everything that Remy is not.
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Piotr is one of the very few people that Remy can or will speak with candidly. The man knows how be silent, how to listen, how to keep things to himself, and those are qualities that Remy has always admired. It's only to him that Remy will admit the resentment he harbors towards Joseph, because he knows Piotr will say nothing to anyone. He understands the frustration – both as a good friend, and a fellow former Acolyte – and he listened for half an hour while Remy ranted earlier this evening about Joseph and Rogue, though mainly Joseph.
When Piotr finally spoke, he suggested that perhaps Remy was being a little harsh, and ought to maybe, just maybe, sort out his own feelings before commenting on those of others.
Remy told him to go to hell, and stormed off to go get plastered and forget this anger for a little while.
Even as he said it, he knew that he would feel badly about it the next day. He will end up going out and buying Illyana a ridiculously large teddy bear tomorrow in recompense. You can make nothing up to Piotr directly, everyone at the mansion knows that. The way to the man's heart is through his sister. Illyana's approval means his, and a huge stuffed bear is just the thing to earn it.
None of this changes the fact that it's Joseph that Rogue spends her time with, that it's Joseph who somehow manages to coax smiles and laughter from Rogue.
Remy doesn't understand this. Why Joseph? How?
He also doesn't understand why he cares.
It's just Rogue. Just Rogue. A teammate. Just Rogue. Just teammates, just friends, right? That's all.
That's all.
And that's probably bullshit too, but he's not going to be the one to say it and no-one's going to come along and tell him otherwise.
Which is why when the redhead at the other end of the bar came by and said hello, he'd flashed a winning smile before buying her a drink and making a few not-so-subtle suggestions before the rest of the night dissolved in to green bottles, blue sheets, and red hair.
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He has made his way aback to the mansion grounds now, and is climbing the tree outside Rogue's room. It's three in the morning and he has no illusions about why he's doing what he's doing – it's vodka bolstered courage that's got him crawling along one of the trees limbs towards her window. She won't be pleased to see him here and now, he knows, but he taps on the window anyway. It takes a moment, but she eventually comes and throws open the window. She says nothing, but her face tells of disapproval.
He wants her to question him. He dares her with the way he looks at her, with the cock-sure smile he sports.
Come on and ask me, Rogue. Ask me.
She gives him an unimpressed once over as she moves out of the way to let him in.
"Productive night?" The words are whispered with a distinct tinge of sarcasm, and Remy is encouraged. He hears the unspoken you should know better than this.
He rolls his neck, making the motion more leisurely than necessary, and his smile grows broader. He hates how good an actor he can be.
"I'd say so."
She's close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, and judging from the crease to her forehead, she has.
"You're drunk." She announces, and it's disappointed and sad all at once. Her eyes say you're supposed to be better than this, and he ignores how much he wishes it were true.
He sees the questions in her stance – Where have you been? Who have you been with? Why?
Ask me, he wants to tell her. Go ahead, ask me. Ask me so I can show you how much I don't care.
There's hurt in her eyes – you're supposed to be better than this - and he counts it as a victory. It disappears as she inhales, gathering determination.
"Feel free to leave." She says, crossing her arms and canting her hips slightly to the left. He knows it's not an offer, but he doesn't listen. He takes a seat on the edge of her bed and looks over at her nightstand, just within his reach. There's a photograph lying there on top of the paperback novel she's currently reading, and he picks it up.
It's of Rogue and Joseph. They are smiling, they are happy, they are together and it takes more willpower than he'll admit to not to charge the thing and let it fall apart as ash in his hands.
"How's Joseph?" He asks, all careful nonchalance as he places the picture back on the book, making a point of setting it face down. He doesn't need to see the two of them like that, doesn't want to be reminded that there's no pictures like that for him.
"He's fine." He doesn't miss the sharpened edge to the words as disappointment becomes defensiveness. He goads her on with a smirk.
Go ahead and ask, Rogue. Let me tell you where I've been.
She opens her mouth and asks.
It's like a pinch gone right.
"Where were you?"
"Out on the town." He lays down on her bed, hands behind his head in a show of pure disinterest. This is me not caring. "It's Saturday night, isn't it?"
"What were you doing?"
The last word tastes of desperation, a need to know that she thinks she's disguised.
His next words come smoothly, with a perfect naturalness that suggests there's no other real answer.
Come on and hate me. Come on and hurt.
"Things you can't." Green bottles, blue sheets, and red hair . . .
She bites her lip, and he knows that she knows what he means.
Come on and hurt.
She bites down hard on her lip, and her eyes are screaming things that he both needs to hear and wishes he couldn't.
SAY IT.
"You're a bastard." The words are a breath, hardly articulated.
He's won.
It will be a hollow triumph tomorrow, he knows, and he will be kicking himself when he wakes up in a few hours to throw up. He will be kicking himself as he shops for that damn teddy bear too, and he will blame the alcohol even though no-one (not even himself) will believe it.
It feels right though, feels good to see her hurting now. He saunters out of the room with a smile on his face.
As he closes the door behind him, he hears a muffled sob. The sound freezes him in place as it's echoed throughout the space he thinks his heart is supposed to occupy. He presses his back against the door and slides down so he's seated there, a mockery of an honour guard. He forces himself to listen to the sobs as they keep echoing to the time of his turning stomach.
You're a bastard.
Maybe it won't take until tomorrow to feel bad about this after all.
-The End-