Rating: General. Nothing too mature. Probably a bit of bad language.
Man & Ghost
It isn't until he walks inside Irene's room that he realises how curious he's been as to what it actually looks like.
From his own room, from Rachel's, he has seen enough to know that what is reflected in them is the place that means the most to them, the place that gives them most comfort. His prison is the safe house. Rachel's is her childhood bedroom. And Irene's…
It's a study.
Decorated with Victorian splendour and stuffiness, brocades and velvets and burnished oak furniture, spindly gilt lamps and ornate oil paintings on the walls. Piles of papers all over the place that he knows instinctively are parts of the Libris Veritatus. He casts his gaze over them inquisitively as he walks past, but there is nothing he recognises, nothing that makes any sense to him. Irene is already at the low divan at the other end of the room, beckoning him over. He marches across the room, lays the boy out gently on the plush leather. He takes a step back as Irene kneels down beside the kid and runs her hand over his forehead, and as she does so, Leech's eyelids begin to flicker.
It is only then, when the boy begins to stir into wakefulness, that Remy realises how afraid he is.
It's been impossible for him to forget the last stare Leech had fixed him with. Not hate exactly. Not even bitterness, or disgust. Just bald accusation. Silent and immovable. Following him for days, months, years afterwards.
He doesn't want that gaze on him again.
He can't bear to feel the weight of that judgement on him, adding to the mire of guilt and self-hate that has already consumed him.
That's why he stands back, why he hovers there, wanting to turn away, wanting to walk away from a responsibility that will stay with him for the rest of his life.
It is only the knowledge that this is for Rogue's protection and safety that he stays there on the sidelines as Leech's eyes open slowly and he looks about him with only the mild curiosity in common with all those who wake up in this place.
And for the first time Remy notices that the boy's eyes are green.
He says nothing, his eyes roaming his surroundings with a calm impassivity. He knows where he is. He knows this place even though he's never seen it before, he knows that he's in Rogue's mind. Remy doesn't know how he knows; but when he himself had awoken in that room in her mind, he too had known exactly where he was and what had happened. That is, he can only suppose, part of what it means to be assimilated.
As it is, Leech's gaze takes in Irene's room slowly, meticulously – when it passes over Remy there is only the slightest pause, the briefest flicker there – nothing more – before it moves on, finally resting on Irene's face with simple trust.
For a moment Remy expects him to speak, but he doesn't.
"You know where you are," Irene states more than questions the kid, and Leech blinks; he nods.
"And you know how you got here."
Again, the boy nods, says nothing.
Irene gives a grim, satisfied smile. She stands, moves to the window and pulls the curtains to. Remy stands there, hovering uncertainly, not knowing what to do or say or whether his presence was worth anything at all, despite Irene's insistence to the contrary.
He holds his breath, feeling uncomfortable; and when he feels Leech's eyes on him again he can't look away. He has to meet that gaze.
And whilst he had expected accusation, there is none there – not exactly: what he sees is the unwavering composure rarely seen in a child.
In some ways it is more unnerving than any loathing the kid could have laid on him.
Irene skirts back round the divan and kneels beside Leech. There is no tenderness in her, just the same cold matter-of-factness he has always seen her display.
"I need your help, Leech," she says quietly, quickly. "No – not I – another, the woman whose place this is. Do you remember, Leech? Do you remember the lady with the white streak in her hair?"
The boy stares at her. His expression is flat, unsmiling – but something in his eyes flickers and he gives a nod. Irene smiles, both relieved and indulgent.
"That is good. Time is of the essence, you see. Because that lady is in very great danger, and if she cannot be saved, then the entire world will die with her. You, my dear, are one of only a very select few who can help her, who can deliver her from all the evil that surrounds her and I am asking – no, begging you – to help save her. It cannot be done without you."
Again, the boy's face is expressionless, but he blinks, once – and then he nods. And Irene does a strange thing. She takes his left hand and she kisses it fervently.
"Bless you, dear child," she breathes, and for a lingering moment she kneels there, like a knight before his lady in silent supplication. It is only then that Remy realises, this is how much Rogue means to her.
He stands there, awkward, his heart in his throat, when the old woman finally rises and walks back over to him.
"Stay here with him, LeBeau," she orders him quietly. "Make sure he does not leave – at least, not unless he is under your care."
"Where are you going?" he asks her curiously.
"To make way for the other," she answers with a faint, humourless smile. "And there is much I must prepare in anticipation of our plans. Otherwise… all will be for naught."
She turns to the door and just as she is about to leave he stops her.
"There's a lot you need t' tell me," he says in a low voice and she glances back over at him, her expression dour.
"Yes, there is, indeed. But for now, it must wait. In the meantime… keep the child safe, LeBeau. Please."
And with that, she is gone.
-oOo-
At first he isn't quite sure what he's supposed to be keeping Leech safe from, until whatever storm was buffeting the inner recesses of Rogue's mind made itself known in Irene's little space.
There is thunder, quaking, the deep, angry rumblings of something that sounds like a volcano erupting. A couple of times the room is shaken so hard that things begin to jump off the tables and the paintings lurch on the walls.
During all this Remy paced the floor, whilst Leech sat, cross-legged, on the couch, silent and impassive, his eyes nevertheless big and wide with some semblance of disquiet.
Considering Remy's own heightened sense of anxiety, the silence is as grating as any noise. Every jolt, every rumble brings him closer to the horrible fact that Rogue is in pain, Rogue needs his help, and he is stuck here unable to do a thing. He feels her pain and it kills him. It hurts so bad there are moments he can hardly breathe.
He needs to be occupied. He needs something to distract him from this.
There are papers on Irene's desk and he goes to them. He flicks through them and they are all in gibberish, until he reaches the middle of a pile and sees a portrait of her there. A painting done in pencil and watercolour, the faintest of smiles on the warm blush of her lips, a look of soul-striking pathos in her smoky, green eyes.
He drops the papers on top of her, cancelling her out.
The intensity of that look is more than he can bear.
"You're worried about her," Leech suddenly says from the couch, his voice rough and croaky from the deformity of his mutation, and Remy looks over at him, surprised.
This is the first time he's ever heard the boy speak, either here or on the outside, and the momentary shock is born not only from that but also from the fact that the boy should speak to him at all, especially after everything that he has done to him.
He puts his palm on the papers, opens his mouth, answers: "Oui."
It's the only thing he can get out.
The room shudders under another quake, another round of thunder, this time more violently than ever – another cry of help from her.
He can't answer her. It's impossible. He turns away and he swallows, feeling the slow rise of panic begin to surge in him again.
"I think she'll be okay," Leech offers again behind him, and he can't help but let out a mocking laugh, shooting back, "How do you know? How can you possibly know she'll be okay?"
And there was a pause, a short silence, before the boy returns in an undertone, "Because there are people that care about her."
The words almost take Remy's breath away, and he slumps into a nearby armchair and covers his face with his hands.
"I can't," he moans, his voice muffled, "I can't stop it. I can't stop myself from feeling her pain in dis place. I can't help it, it's like torture, I can't do anyt'ing to help her end it…"
He takes in a shaky breath and rubs his face with his palms, trying to ease away the dangerous pressure behind his eyes.
"I don't know what it is," he continues miserably. "When she absorbed me… when she made me inside of her it was like all my thoughts, all my feelin's for her were crystallised in dat one moment and buried deep in here," and he slaps his chest, his heart, with his right hand almost violently. "She's inside me and I'm inside her… It's like a never-ending spiral… I can't get out… I don't want to… but it's killin' me… …"
His sentence is curtailed by a final quake which shudders through the room ominously, only to peter out again after a few moments. In its wake all it leaves is silence. The frisson in the air leaves – the wailing and moaning of the world outside gives way to calm tranquillity, an eerie silence.
The effect on him is palpable. The edge of his anxiety eases, the desperate sense of hopelessness dissipates. Whatever is happening on the outside, Rogue is relaxed now; and he… his emotions mirror hers. Absolutely. He is left in the armchair, calm and dazed, the edges of his consciousness somehow registering the fact that he is connected to her somehow. Deeper and more richly than he ever could have been on the outside.
It is both a curse and a blessing.
"Are you okay?" Leech asks from the couch, and Remy is surprised to see that the boy is concerned for him.
"Oui," he replies weakly. "For now."
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and eases himself back into the chair, breathes deeply. He hopes Irene will return soon. He needs her certainty, her focus.
"She'll be all right," Leech reassures him again, with a confidence that belies his years. Remy shoots him a sceptical look.
"You keep sayin' dat. But you can't be sure. Sure, Irene has a plan. But we're in here and she's out dere. I don't see how we can fight Essex from here, on de inside." He looks away, mulling on the conundrum moodily. "You don't understand what Essex is capable of. And he's wanted Rogue for a very long time. He won't give her up easily."
"No," Leech answers calmly. "I know what Essex is capable of. He sent you after me, after all. He got you to get me out of a maximum-security internment camp. He put me in one of those tanks, along with the others."
Remy glances at him sharply, astonished, once more, at just how articulate the kid really was – is. It was strange, talking to him like this, when on the outside the boy was pretty much mute. He looks aside, shame-faced.
"I never wanted t' do any of dat," he murmurs remorsefully. "I'm sorry."
And Leech answers, "I know."
Remy's given up being surprised. He's too drained, too tired.
He watches as Leech slides off the couch and goes to the papers on the desk. The boy leafs through the pages and stops at what Remy instinctively knows is Irene's portrait of Rogue.
"She'll be okay because people care about her," Leech reiterates decidedly, after a moment studying the picture. "The old lady loves her. And so do you. She'll be okay."
"Do I love her?" he murmurs, half to himself.
"Don't you?" Leech raises a quizzical eyebrow at him.
"Here – yes. On de outside – I'm not so sure." Remy sighs, leans forward, looks down into his hands. "On de outside I gave her up to Essex. What kind of a man loves a woman and does dat?"
And Leech holds his gaze, answers placidly:
"Did you ever really want to hand me over to Sinister? Do you really believe you did it because you wanted to?"
The kid had a point. A small one, but a point nevertheless.
"You and Rogue are completely different…"
"I know," Leech nods. "But there must've been a reason you handed her over to Essex. And it has to have been a good one. Right?"
He grunts doubtfully. He can't see how he can have any good reason for putting Rogue in this predicament, but it was possible at least. There are so many things he isn't privy to from this place. So many events that have happened on the outside that he doesn't know about. He's seen some of them on the noteboard in her room, enough to know that his outer self cares about her. Just how much, he isn't entirely willing to guess.
The tortured train of his thoughts is disrupted by the sound of the door handle turning and a moment later the door creaks open to reveal Irene – and a tall, handsome, dark-haired woman that Remy instantly recognises as Sage.
He almost gets up from his seat in surprise when he notices her; but when he sees the mild look of curiosity on her face he sinks slowly back into the chair. He remembers what he did to her, and it wasn't pretty – but there is no anger on her face.
"Remy LeBeau," she says in her cold, cultured voice. "Fancy seeing you in here of all places. Both trapped this time, both incarcerated. How ironic."
He doesn't need to ask her how she knows where she is. It was the same when he had first woken up in this place. He'd opened his eyes and somehow he had known exactly where he was and how he'd got here. That he wasn't real – whatever that meant. That he was a psyche in the mind of Rogue.
"Stealin' you was just a job," he murmurs, and she pulls a humourless smirk, replies: "And such a fine job you did. You should be proud of yourself."
Irene cuts whatever further exchange they would have had with her own pithy observation.
"LeBeau did only what he was supposed to do. Had he not done so you would not find yourself here, and all would be lost."
She steps inside the room whilst Sage stands in the doorway and stares at her incredulously.
"You mean this was all your plan?" she states just as coldly, and Irene looks over her shoulder back at her, answers obliquely: "Come in; shut the door. You must stay here, in order to be assimilated."
Sage shoots her a nettled look but obeys, and once the door is closed she asks again: "I know your power, Irene Adler. It is the power to see the future. Do you mean to tell me that you foresaw our presence here? That Rogue absorbing each of us serves a purpose?"
Irene's expression is flat, level, giving nothing away.
"You are a clever woman, Tessa Niles. You know that what you say is the truth."
Sage says nothing for a moment, but looks at the room about her before saying slowly: "So we are here because Rogue needs our help. Our powers."
"Correct," Irene nods.
Sage's eyes narrow.
"I don't like being used," she remarks frostily.
"And yet ironically that is all your life has been," Irene retorts. "In the theatre of war, with the X-Men, and the Hellfire Club… All you have ever been is a pawn. It is all any of us are. Myself included."
Remy holds his breath involuntarily, hearing for the first time, and from the horse's mouth, exactly the thing he had long-suspected and disdained. That all they were all pawns in a cosmic game of chess. And just as he had done on the outside, Sage scoffs.
"Fate or no fate, we all make choices, old woman," she speaks contemptuously. "And you consciously made a choice to use me, us – and I do not like it."
For a few seconds the two women stare at one another, their indomitable wills clashing in a silent, unseen battle.
"Will you not help me?" Irene asks softly, at last. And Sage's smile is acrid.
"What choice do I have here? In a place where I cannot live, where my existence means nothing but for the purpose you would have me here for? Yes – I will help you. But only because it will do me no good to sit here idle."
Remy is interested to notice that Irene doesn't give her any thanks, and certainly not in the way that she had fallen to her knees before Leech – instead she bows her head briefly, silently, a mere token of thanks but nothing more, sensing, perhaps, that overt thanks was not wanted.
Satisfied of Sage's loyalty, at least for now, Irene turns to Remy, and he notices that her expression is solemn.
"LeBeau," she addresses him quietly, "will you walk with me?"
Her tone shows that she will brook no refusal, and he stands slowly. She moves to the door, expecting him to follow, saying as she does so: "Watch the child, Tessa, and do not leave this room – at least, not until we can be certain that Rogue is stable again."
Sage makes no reply, but Remy senses that she can be trusted and so he follows Irene out of the room without once looking back.
.
They are in the white, white corridor of Rogue's mind; and Irene doesn't look back at him – she reaches out and suddenly she is pushing her palm against that misty glass door, opening it onto the phantom world that Rogue had made for herself.
He steps onto the lawn of the mansion's extensive grounds: the grass is damp and sparkling, as if recently touched by rain.
"Sage was awake," he murmurs mostly to himself, realising that, unlike Leech, the woman had been completely conscious, and yet seemed to have been fully assimilated. Irene glances across at him and smiled.
"You forget, LeBeau. She is a human computer. She knew where she was and why, even as she was being absorbed, I believe. Perhaps she had already taken steps to assimilate herself. Whatever the case, Rogue has not been adversely affected by her unexpected arrival." She walks on, towards the lake. Again her pace is quick, self-assured. He sees her face, her lips pursed with concentration, her brow furrowed in thought. There is a purposefulness to her, a determination that he cannot help but admire, perhaps because he sees it in himself.
"There is much I must tell you, Remy," she begins, using his first name with an intimacy she hasn't used before. "So much, indeed, that I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps it is best if you ask me – and I will try to answer."
He doesn't know where to start either; yet as soon as he opens his mouth the words start tumbling out.
"Essex is my father?" he asks, and the words are so horrifically simple and understated that it's almost ridiculous that they cause him such revulsion.
"Yes," she replies.
They are nearing the lake, and it is only when they reach the banks that she stops. He comes to a standstill, waiting patiently for her to continue as she stares down into the water with her crystalline blue eyes.
"He made you," she tells him softly. "And make no mistake – he made you to be a weapon – the greatest possible expression of mutantkind. You were his experiment, his crowning achievement. A being of terrible power that could destroy the world. Had you been brought up under Essex's care, there would have been nothing in this world that could've stopped him – or you. Your Omega level powers – the ability to tap into the kinetic flow of Time itself – would have rendered him invincible. He would've grafted himself onto you and created a monster." She passes him a sidelong glance, small and shrewd. "But you were taken from his care, and the horrible eventuality was diverted."
He sucks in a breath and looks aside, down to the water at his feet, tries to take it all in.
"And lemme guess," he murmurs quietly, "you were the one who took me away from him. Who gave me t' de Thieves Guild."
"Yes." She nods with a wry smile on her face. "And I think, all things considered, that it was the right decision."
His lips tighten. He barely knows what to feel about this revelations – except that a part of him has always known it to be the truth.
"And where does Rogue come into all this?" he asks instead, his thoughts going instinctively towards her.
"Rogue?"
The little old woman beside him sighs, looks up to the heavens and closes her eyes.
"Where to begin, except that in many ways she is the be all and end all in all of this?" She opens her eyes again and squints out into the never-ending distance, the impenetrable, crystalline mist that surrounds them. "Essex wanted her too, and for the same reason he made you. To create a being of unstoppable power. With her powers she can be every mutant that has ever lived. The two of you, together – you as his receptacle; her as his willing servant – you were both his plan for world domination. For a world ruled by mutants."
He stares at her.
"So dat's why he's always wanted her," he states.
"Yes." She looks at him fully then, her gaze intense. "You have no idea, do you, of the very great power that girl holds. In fact, her abilities give her an amazing breadth and scope for unlimited power. Were she to absorb all the known living mutants in this world… those who have not been born yet… Were she to be under Essex's control…"
She trails off, the implication of her silence nevertheless clear.
"She'll never allow him t' do dat," he murmurs.
"No," Irene replies sadly. "And he – you – will kill her for it. Unless, of course, my plan here works."
The suggestion that he can hurt her – that there is a part of him that is capable of taking her life despite being under Essex's control – still makes him physically ill.
"And dis is what your future has told you, huh?" he questions bitterly. "Dat everyt'ing I've ever done in my life will lead t' dis? Rogue, dyin' at my hands?"
She hears the pain in his voice. She looks at him straight without an inkling of emotion, and somehow he wants, needs, to see some form of contrition, some form of acknowledgement from her.
"Don't you get it, Destiny? All these things I've done, the way you've controlled my life, the way you've controlled Rogue's… Sage was right – you used us and I don't like it."
"And yet," she reminds him pointedly, "like Sage so correctly pointed out – we all have choices. I did not walk you down the path you took, Remy LeBeau. I merely set you on that path – the choices you made were yours and yours alone."
He thinks about it. He still doesn't like it.
"Dat's only partly true and you know it," he mutters. "You knew what my feelings would be, and you took advantage of them. You knew what Rogue's feelin's would be. You pushed us together and now we come t' dis. I will be Essex and I will kill her."
And she smiles. Such a genuine, sunny smile that he is piqued to see it.
"Your feelings, Remy LeBeau, are the only things that have mattered in all of this."
There is amusement in her voice, and it is more than he can bear – he rounds on her with his anger flaring brightly.
"I love her! Is dat a joke t' you or somet'ing?! Is it a toy for you t' play wit'?!"
And he sees that her smile is sad; that the amusement in her voice had been a pained one.
"Remy LeBeau," she says softly, "it is your love for her and hers for you that is the only thing that makes all this possible. That gives me hope. That means that I am confident that Essex's plans will never come to pass." She looks aside, back to the lake spread out before them. "And it is the one thing that I could never induce in either of you. Of course, I saw things. I saw that love long before either of you were born, before I could even know what it meant. But only the two of you alone could forge the meaning of that love. And now that meaning becomes clear. I see it as brightly as the sun shines, as the moon lights the night. You would both fight to the death to preserve the life of the other."
He snorts bitterly.
"And yet you say I'll kill her…"
"And you think she'll let you? You think I will?"
The look he darts her is sharp, questioning. He can hardly believe it. He can hardly believe what she is driving at. Because he understands her now – he understands her plan, or he thinks he does, and it is nothing short of insanity.
"Your plan is for her to stop me. Using…"
"The powers of those psyches currently waiting in my room? Yes. And one other."
He pulls in a breath, lets it out again, long, shaky.
"Rachel," he murmurs. "You woke her up too."
She smiles, nods; and he wonders at the lengths she has gone.
"You see, Remy," she speaks softly, lightly. "You are not the only one who loves her, and who has loved her for a long time. It is her greatest strength, LeBeau. The power to inspire the love of others, deep and unconditional. How she does it is simple – it is merely that she gives only what she most desires. Her own love is deep and unconditional. Who can help but meet that love? You've tried to resist it, Remy LeBeau. You tried hard. And yet every fibre of your being could not help but respond to her in kind. That is what I too feel for her, Remy. I would defend that girl's life to the death. I will defend it to the death. My whole life has been for no one but her. And I will give it up to her, and I will give it gladly."
Her tone is low yet heartfelt, and he stares at her. For the first time he realises how high the stakes are; he realises what she's willing to gamble. It is the highest price a person can pay. The length and depth of her devotion to Rogue shames him when he compares it to his begrudging own.
He looks aside and swallows.
"So why wake me up?" he murmurs. "How can any power I have help her?"
She glances over at him in mild astonishment.
"You alone know what you yourself are capable of, Remy LeBeau," she informs him calmly. "Your own memories, your own knowledge and training will be invaluable to her when the time comes for her to fight you. And more than that," she adds quietly, "you are her anchor, you are her harbour. You are the thing that lends her strength, that gives her fortitude. Do you still doubt the strength of your connection, Remy? The ties that bind you together? They join you to one another across the Timestream. They impel you towards one another across the eons. Do not deny the power they give you. Do not underestimate the unbreakable strength of what you share."
"Pfft." He kicked a loose pebble into the lake sulkily. "It ain't me you need t' be tellin' all dis to, Irene. It's de me out dere."
"And you doubt the strength of the connection he feels for Rogue, LeBeau?" she asks him.
He watches the ripples on the water.
"You tell me he'll kill her. You tell me you've seen it. It doesn't matter what he feels. De only t'ing I know is dat if Essex decides he wants her dead, he won't hesitate t' put her down."
And she reaches out then. She places a hand on his upper arm and tells him what he's wanted, needed to hear for all this time.
"He loves her, Remy. It wasn't just a moment in time that he felt it. It wasn't just the moment that you were absorbed and began your life in this place." She moves to stand before him, she places her old, withered hand on his heart and looks up him intensely. "Everything you are, Remy… It is what he feels inside here. It is the layers upon layers of emotion he has tried to bury and hide away from himself. It is all distilled in you. Do you doubt that he does not feel what you feel? Do you doubt that the essence of what you are is not real? It is more real than you can imagine, and he feels it, he feels it deeply."
"But how deep has he buried those feelin's, Irene?" he counters sadly. "How hard has he pushed them away?"
She sighs, drops her hand.
"Let me tell you something," she states incisively. "He knows. He knows that her life is in danger; he knows that Essex will kill her. And at least a part of him suspects that it is at his own hands that she will die."
His mouth drops.
"What?"
Her gaze is penetrating.
"He looked into the Diaries. He saw the future I recorded for her. He saw what you saw, what I showed you."
His mind is whirling.
"De picture… of Essex murderin' her… of his knife in her…"
"Yes. And you should know that all his actions since he looked into the Diaries, since he saw the future, have been to protect her from him."
He looks aside, brow furrowed, trying to figure it out, trying to fit the pieces together.
"So why—"
"Did he go back to Essex? Because I told him that if Essex gave him back his Omega level powers, it would be the only way to save Rogue."
He glares at her, the anger surging in him bright and hot.
"You sent him back to Essex?!"
She is unfazed.
"Oh yes. Above everything you need those powers, LeBeau. If this world is to continue, only three things are needed: Rogue, Rachel, and your powers. If any one of those is lost, then all is lost. It is the reason why I sent you back to Essex. It is the reason why I took the risk of Rogue's death. And it is why you and the others here are so important. You are my contingency plan. You are the ones who will save Rogue. That is your purpose, Remy LeBeau. That is your purpose here. It is my purpose here. If you want what is in here to have meaning," and she touched his breast lightly again, "if you want a future for you and her on the outside, you will fulfil that purpose. And I have every faith that you will."
And he sees it now. What he is. Just a horrible, calculated means to an end. His love for her a tool. His creation in this place an instrument. A contingency plan.
Sage is right. They – he – is being used.
And he will let himself be.
He will let himself be because he has no choice.
Because he loves her.
And because everything he is is for her and always will be.
-oOo-