: TWIST OF FATE :
PART ONE : DRIVE
(3) - Rita -
It'd been their turn to cook.
She'd been checking the rota on the fridge every day for a couple of weeks now, just to make sure she hadn't been imagining it. And it'd always said the same.
Their two names together, side by side.
Remy. Rogue.
She'd liked the sound of it. The soft roll of the syllables on the tongue. His like warm molasses. Hers like steel magnolias. A perfectly poised balancing act. Every time she'd walked away from it feeling stupid. Like she'd been reading a marriage licence or something. And really, she hadn't known him for long at all. Just a month, if that.
And suddenly there they'd been. Out. Together. Just them. Buying produce. No Walmart for him, thank you very much. He'd taken her to some fancy French indoor market where there were sounds and scents she'd never encountered before. For the first time she'd smelled food, and she'd realised just how clinical supermarkets really were. There was the shout of the butcher, the pungent reek of cheese and fish. She'd stood by a patisserie stall and stared at the cakes. There had been the warm, comforting aroma of fresh baking emanating from an antique wall oven over the counter, curling round her like a blanket. It'd reminded her of home; her mom, baking on a Saturday afternoon. Her, running towards the smell after a morning by the riverside with Cody, a scent somehow more loving and motherly than any token of affection her own mother might have shown her.
It'd conjured up something powerful in her. The need for a hug. She could hardly remember the last time she'd had a real hug.
"So," he'd said, coming up beside her with a half-full basket hooked over his arm. "They tell me dat crazy bitch Mystique is your mom. Tell me it ain't true."
Mystique had hugged her. Not often, and rarely since she'd hit about fifteen. But she'd hugged her with real emotion, real fervour. Like protecting a wounded bird from the world. Like shielding her from something real and frightening that Rogue had never been able to see.
"Not my real mom," she'd told him, unable to draw her eyes from the cakes and the breads and the pastries that had been one of the few joys of her childhood. "Just my foster mom. Her and Destiny, that is."
"Sounds complicated," he'd remarked.
"Yeah. It is."
She'd watched him point out a stick of bread; the patissier had bagged it and handed it over in a whirl of movement, quick and florid as an Indian dervish.
"Looks like you and me got somet'ing in common," he'd added as they'd walked over to the next stall. "I was fostered too."
For some reason that had surprised her.
"Really?"
"Yeah. Remy LeBeau wasn't born Remy LeBeau."
"So what was he born as?"
"Dunno. Far as I know, I never had a name – my parents gave me up when I was born." He looked at her with a smile that was mirthless. "Guess anyone would freak out if dey had a kid born wit' eyes like these."
She'd heard before that he was one of a rare breed of mutant born with an outward manifestation of his mutation; most developed them in puberty.
"But they're—"
Beautiful. She'd cut herself off just in time. She'd never blushed much. But she had then. Then, as now, he'd always made her feel what she was. A woman.
"What, chere?" he'd prompted her, and somehow she hadn't been able to help herself from answering.
"Beautiful," she'd finished. Because they were. She didn't think there was a woman alive who wouldn't think it, let alone his own mother.
This time the smile on his face had been genuine.
"Looks like we share something else in common then, chere," he'd said like he meant it.
It had been a humid July day.
They'd walked out on the sidewalk with their shopping, Remy and Rogue, side by side, warm molasses and steel magnolias. Her fingers had itched inside her gloves; a bead of sweat had rolled the length of her spine beneath her baggy green sweater. He'd worn a tee and jeans, shades over his eyes. He'd smiled at girls as they passed, as if she didn't even exist. The way they'd smiled back had told her that she might as well not have.
Another bead of sweat had run down her back.
"So when were you fostered?" she'd asked him, more to prove to herself that she did actually exist than anything else. He'd shrugged.
"Couldn't tell ya. Soon after I was born, I guess."
"And yah weren't ever curious?"
He'd frowned.
"Can't say I ever was," he'd returned at last. He'd looked at her. "How about you?"
"What about me?"
"How long have Mystique and Destiny fostered you? Was it before or after you kissed—"
"Don't say his name," she'd snapped with more force than she'd meant. "Please."
He'd stared at her a long moment but said nothing.
xxx
Devil's kitchen.
He'd been more at home there than anywhere else in the mansion.
Sharing jokes with her over a steaming pot of gumbo and making her laugh so hard she'd double over. He'd taught her as they went along, but even after she'd never really got the hang of it.
Sometimes he'd have so much going on the room itself would turn into an oven. He had been the best cook out of their little mutant family by far. He'd rarely talk about the people back home, but he'd tell her about his nanny, Tante Mattie. She'd taught him everything he knew about many things, but most of all about food, which, if done right, could be just as pleasurable as sex.
There came a time where she'd stop blushing around him. Where she'd banter back about things she didn't know about.
He'd weighed, sampled, chosen ingredients. She'd mixed, ground, chopped. He'd tasted and added. She'd basked in his reflected glory when everyone had come up and asked for seconds.
Secret celebratory coffee and dessert for two.
And then the week had been over, and it had been back to waiting on the rota once more.
-oOo-
It was 4 a.m. by the time they got back to Remy's apartment.
As soon as they got through the door she collapsed face-first onto his bed.
"Ah'm beat," she groaned into the comforter, kicking off her boots with a thud-thud onto the unpolished wooden floor below.
"Get some sleep, chere," he told her – she heard the whirr of the laptop starting up on the nearby desk. "It's been a long day. I'll take de sofa," he added quickly.
"The hell you will, Cajun," she threw back at him. "Yah probably won't sleep tonight anyhow," she muttered as an afterthought. From the computer he gave a comical grunt of assent.
She wondered what was going on with him. Most of the day she'd held back and let him get on with it, asking no questions (where she could bear not to), allowing him to move through whatever one track quest he appeared to be on. She'd just stood back and let it happen. Part of it had been the knowledge that he'd have to level with her at some point. The greater part of it had been curiosity – seeing how far he was willing to go, how invested he was in all this. As to what was driving him forward and keeping him so insanely focused – that was the greater part of the mystery. It tugged at her even as sleep did.
"So," she spoke up again after a moment, swivelling onto her back and propping herself up on her elbows. "What exactly was it Clarity gave you?" She peered over his shoulder at the laptop screen, seeing a mashup of information – data, images, diagrams. "Has he been trackin' down X-Men?"
"Uh huh."
"Cos if we're gonna go look for them, we need a good lead, right?"
She could just about see his smile reflected in the screen. "Exactly."
She digested this slowly.
"Irene said some of the X-Men were still active," she murmured slowly. "She saw Logan, she said. Ah wish Ah'd asked her more about it – anythin' that could've given us a clue as to where they might be. But… Ah don't think she even really knew for sure herself."
He paused and scooted round on his stool, looking at her quizzically.
"Irene saw Logan? Did she mention anyone else?"
"Yeah. Magneto. But that was before he was apprehended and was still causin' havoc in the City."
"Y' think Mags counts as an X-Man?" he asked her wryly.
"Ah guess not. But Ah doubt the old hostilities stand, considerin' the circumstances." She yawned heavily, pinching the bridge of the nose and massaging the pain between her eyes. Gawd, she was tired…
"Rogue, get some sleep, chere," he ordered her, swivelling back round again. "I'll fill you in on what I find in the mornin'."
"But Ah wanna help," she protested, only for the sentence to be curtailed by another yawn. He grimaced at her.
"You're not gonna be much use snorin' on de keyboard. B'sides, dis won't take long. Gimme a half hour and I'll join you."
"Ugh!" She sank back down onto the bed. "Fine! Ah'll go to sleep!" And honest to God she didn't really think she could keep her eyes open another moment…
She rolled onto her side and slid her hand under the pillow. Nice and cool. Enfolding her in the scent of him. Lulling her already towards sleep…
"G'night, Rogue," she heard him murmur.
"Goodnight, Remy," she mumbled back, and the darkness fell.
She drifted in and out of sleep, hearing the soft clack of fingers on keyboard, seeing his blue-tinted shadow cast against the wall. Then the weight of him settling onto the bed beside her, his silence, the warmth of his gaze running along her back like a touch. Her name a whisper on his lips, neither a question or a statement – perhaps just a reaffirmation that she was there at all.
Perhaps a dream. She did not answer, and nothing more was said.
It seemed like only a few minutes had passed when he shook her into wakefulness.
"Time t' wake up, chere," he was saying. "We're goin' to Chicago."
She groaned and turned over, surprised to find herself squinting in bright sunlight.
"Chicago?" she croaked.
"Yup. He's tracked Logan there."
She sat up quickly, fully awake.
"He's in Chicago?"
Above her, Remy nodded. "Seems so. Looks like Irene was right. Sure wish we had her insight right now," he mused dryly.
"Hm." Somehow, the last thing Rogue wanted now was for Irene to be here with them. Even if it did mean that they could add more names to the list of surviving X-Men. "He's… he ain't been incarcerated then?" she ventured with trepidation.
"Non. Seems he's gone underground, causin' trouble for Trask and the government when he can. Pretty much like us, I guess. Guy's a ghost though. Nothin' solid on him, just that he's in the Chicago area. S'gonna be like lookin' for a needle in a fuckin' haystack when we get there, but hey…" And he shrugged.
Rogue found herself releasing an uneasy breath. This was all happening so fast…
"And just how long didja have Clarity workin' on this?" she questioned him curiously.
"A while," he admitted. "Pretty much after I recovered from dat crazy shit down at de Hound Pens."
So he had been planning this…
"And yah didn't say anythin'?"
He gave her a long look.
"I know how much dis means to you, chere. I didn't want to end up disappointin' you. I had t' be sure we would have somethin' to chase first." He held the look for a long moment before breaking it and pushing himself off the bed. "Now we do, dere's no point in hanging around here now." He shrugged a light sweater over his head, then stopped and looked at her. "You sure you still wanna do dis?"
"Does a bear shit in the woods?" she retorted incredulously. He grinned.
"Just had to make sure, chere."
"Holy hell, Cajun, even if there wasn't anythin' to look for, there's no way in hell Ah'd go back to the Brotherhood. Not even if yah kicked me out!"
He laughed at the horrified look on her face.
"Would be pretty shitty of me, if I did," he remarked, eyebrow raised.
"Ah dunno. You might do. If yah got bored of me."
"Bored?" He looked amused. "We haven't even started de fun and games yet, chere. We got a while b'fore I get bored."
"Hah, so you admit it. You will get bored." She pouted at him. "Ah knew it!"
"Chere," he began meaningfully, "keep doin' dat pouty t'ing wit' your lips and I will never get bored of you."
Their banter was interrupted by the sound of his cell phone going off; he passed her a comical look before taking the call.
"Hey. Yeah, I checked it. Yup, we got a location. Chicago. Uh huh. Yups. We'll keep in touch. Catch y'later." He ended the call and set down the phone.
"Clarity?" she asked.
"Oui. Just wantin' to know he delivered the goods. Not much point really. He always does."
"So what else did you guys discuss while Ah was out gettin' dinner yesterday?" she queried as she watched him move about his room, gathering a few belongings and packing them into his carryall. He didn't even halt.
"Oh, jus' a side project I'm workin' on. Nothin' important."
"Hm." His tone was level, even, betraying nothing; but she knew from experience that there was more than he was letting on. Still, she didn't push it. If he wasn't ready to talk to her about it, she didn't want to make an issue of it. He held his cards close, she knew that. Always waited until the right moment to make his move, when he had all options covered and all the variables figured. She really didn't think he even realised it anymore.
Rogue slid off the bed, realising she'd slept in her clothes.
"Gonna haveta take a shower…" she sighed mostly to herself.
"Figured," he spoke up, still busying himself with packing. "But don't take too long, chere. Don't wanna be hanging round here for much longer."
"S'ok," she replied, standing up and going for the one carryall she'd brought with her. "Ah ain't got a thing to pack. When Ah'm out, Ah'll be ready." She picked out some underwear and a fresh set of clothes.
"Did you only bring your gear wit' you?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, as he saw her pull out black leather pants and a black sweater.
"Pretty much. Thought Ah'd be needing it, y'know."
"Hm. I guess. But I hope you ain't thinkin' dat's all you're gonna wear."
"Oh really?" she quipped sarcastically as she walked to the bathroom. "And here Ah was, thinkin' you preferred me when Ah wasn't wearin' anythin'."
She'd slipped inside the bathroom and closed the door before he could even think of a witty reply.
-oOo-
August.
She'd sat out on the veranda with a Harlequin romance on her lap and a chilled glass of lemonade beside her. She'd risked gloveless hands and a sleeveless white sun dress. It'd been too hot for anything else, and besides, most everyone knew not to touch her. Even Remy.
She'd heard him come out onto the veranda behind her and light a cigarette. He'd been out late last night – she knew because she'd heard the purr of his motorcycle on the drive about three in the morning.
She'd lain in bed and tried not to think about it. Him in the arms of some anonymous woman, the undulation of naked bodies and the slide of skin against damp skin. Things she'd never know. Things she'd wanted so badly.
She'd barely slept.
She'd have given anything for him to just lie there beside her and do nothing.
She'd sighed and twisted her hair up on top of her head, fanned her neck with her hand. His eyes had been right there. On the spot behind her ear. She'd been able to feel it, visceral as a touch, a caress, making her burn up even more.
"Don't," she'd said, when his gaze hadn't moved away.
"What?"
"Stare."
"How d'you know I'm starin'?"
"Ah just do, okay. Don't." She'd dropped her hair, knowing now she wasn't going to cool down till she got away from him.
"What's so bad about lookin'?" he'd asked her.
"The fact that you can't touch," she'd snapped back, wanting the conversation to be over or for him to go. "And neither can Ah." She'd slapped shut her book and stood, intent now on getting back into the house.
"So you'd want to?"
There had been a catch to his voice, like he'd outmanoeuvred her after eight weeks of needful looks and flirtatious banter. She'd swivelled round to face him, him in just his vest and his jeans and a fine sheen of sweat on skin that was as tanned as hers was lily white. She had been so hot and bothered that she hadn't cared what he said or what he thought, because really, who wouldn't want to touch him when he looked like that?
"So what if Ah did?" she'd said.
"So?" He'd raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should be askin' yourself dat question, chere."
"Ah do," she'd admitted acidly. "And the answer's always the same – even if Ah could touch yah, you'd still be out every other night lookin' for fun somewhere else."
She'd wished he hadn't been standing by the door so that she didn't have to go past him. She'd wished anything but having to go near him with this much skin bared, even if she had dressed like this to make him look at her, to make him wish he'd spent the night with her and not somebody else. She'd wanted him to want something he couldn't have and suffer for it because she couldn't have it either.
Nevertheless she'd swept past him and managed to get to the door when he'd said it.
"Rogue."
He couldn't have stopped her. He couldn't have touched her arm without being knocked flat out. But the way he'd said her name had been more than enough to stop her in her tracks. She'd turned in the doorway to see that there hadn't even been that usual lazy, indolent smile on his face.
"You know we don't have to touch, right?" was all he'd said. Simple and matter-of-fact and telling it like it was. She'd swallowed.
"Don't," she'd half whispered.
"I've thought about it, and I know we can work dis out. You've thought about it too, haven't you."
Her heart had leapt into her mouth. She'd turned abruptly and pushed at the handle.
"Rogue."
He'd been right behind her this time, the heat of his palm hovering just inches away from her waist and somehow she'd hesitated, she'd turned again and faced him. He'd never stood this close to her. He'd never dared.
"I really – I really want to try," he'd murmured. "Do you?"
She'd pursed her lips shut for fear of her answer, and he'd continued with an earnestness she'd never heard in him before.
"Even when I'm wit' someone else I keep wonderin' what it'd be like to be wit' you."
She'd been so hot she could've sworn she was going to burn to ash…
"Don't," she'd pleaded in a strangled voice.
"Stop sayin' dat. I do. I think about makin' love to you, about all de ways we could slot each part of us together without either of us hurtin' the other, and you know I'm only tellin' you dis right now because you know what I'm talkin' about, because you think about de same thing too."
"Don't!" she'd gasped, her hand trembling on the handle behind her but still unable to push it, still unable to turn away from his sweet, intoxicating words, from the way they'd made her burn…
"De only reason I spend time wit' anyone else is because I can't stop thinkin' about bein' wit' you," he'd continued as if he was unable to stop now. "Every bone in my body tells me dere ain't a woman who could compare to you, Rogue."
"Remy…"
She'd reached out then and placed a hand on his chest. A part of her had wanted to hold him back; but even more she had simply wanted to feel him. No word she could've said would have silenced him; but her touch did. They'd both stood there for what seemed like an age, trembling with desire. It was the first time since Cody that she'd allowed herself to want in the fullest sense. If she had dared to kiss him there and then, she didn't think he would have minded; and she knew she wouldn't have either.
"Go back to your women, Remy," she'd whispered. "Don't compare them to me. Yah – yah won't ever know."
She'd pushed down on the door handle then, letting her hand fall from him, her heartbeat, his heartbeat, thundering violently in her ears as she'd finally turned and left.
-oOo-
Remy had barely said a word as he'd locked up his apartment for what might have been the last time.
Rogue didn't know how long it'd been his home, but she knew it had been for some years; maybe since he'd first arrived in New York so long ago. She wondered whether he had felt attached to it at all – whether in reality, it hadn't been so much of a home to him as a base of operations. The centre of his own private little web.
He'd driven them over to a particularly ramshackle part of town, parking his bike on the curb of a street lined with stores that were almost entirely boarded up.
"Ah thought we were goin' to Chicago," she remarked sarcastically as he swung off the bike.
"Gotta get some supplies," he explained, jabbing his thumb in the direction of one of the few shops on the street still open. Murray's Guns ran above the door in peeling grey letters.
"So this is your supplier?" she voiced incredulously.
"Yup. Great knives. Works of art." He patted his pockets for his wallet. "Won't be long."
She jumped off the bike behind him, and he looked back at her.
"You comin' in?" He sounded a little taken aback.
"Sure. Ah might find somethin' Ah like."
He paused a moment, then turned abruptly with a shrug. A little confused at the sudden change in his demeanour, she followed behind him and into the store.
Dusty was about the only word she could find to describe it. It fell from the bell above their heads as they walked in; it lined every shelf; it floated across the room like a grey filter in the sunlight. Remy was already walking through it, stomping in his heavy boots over to the cashier desk, behind which stood a woman, polishing an antique ladies' gun.
"Hey Rita," he greeted her, and the woman looked up.
She was strangely pretty, despite the eyes set too far apart, the mouth that was too wide. Her pallor, combined with her jet black hair, gave her a certain allure. And her eyes were clever ones, shrewd and vivacious.
"Remy." Her voice was deep and low; she spoke with a casual familiarity. "I take it you're here for the package."
"Nothin' but."
He leaned on the counter, turning slightly sideways so that his gaze fell on Rogue, his face unreadable. Rita's eyes followed his, clocking Rogue with an expression of mixed amusement and surprise, the kind of look a father would give to his son bringing home a prom date. Remy saw the look, cleared his throat.
"Rita, dis Rogue. Rogue, dis Rita."
Rita lifted a black eyebrow.
"Interesting name," she remarked.
"Thanks," was the only word she could find to reply with. Rita seemed unconcerned at the relative awkwardness. She ducked behind the counter and when she reappeared it was with a wrapped up parcel in her hands.
"There ya go," she announced, slapping the box onto the desk. "You want me to order more?"
"Nah. Gonna be away for a while. Dunno when I'll be back…"
Rogue didn't wait to hear anymore of Gambit's reply. She sidled off into the aisles, her boots clomping ominously along creaky floorboards. Left and right, high and low, a panoply of weapons lined her entrance. Formidable… but quaint. Like an antique shop full of wonderful treasures. She began to see why Remy came to this place and no other.
Apart from Rita, that was.
She walked down the aisle, touching the items on the shelves with curious fingers. Like people, she liked to think she could read objects as well. It was a form of psychometry – reading the past, the secrets, the history of this and that, touching their life briefly with her own. Objects couldn't hurt. It was the people behind them that did.
She passed over the guns, the knives, the crossbows. She wanted nothing that could kill. As she came to the last shelf, her fingers ran across a smooth curve of brass coloured metal – she stopped and examined her find. A knuckleduster, old, abandoned, wedged between two dog-eared boxes of ammo. She swiped the dust off of it, turned it this way and that in the paltry sunlight, feeling the weight of it. She slid it over her hand. A perfect fit. Like it was made for her.
When she got back to the counter, Remy had already gone off to find other supplies in the store. Rita was still polishing that same old gun with an absorbed air about her. She only looked up when Rogue placed the knuckleduster on the desk with a small thunk.
"Interesting buy," she echoed her earlier statement, but she boxed it up anyway without any further comment.
"It caught my eye," Rogue explained, counting out the cash she owed and handing it over.
"So. You like old school. And fisticuffs." Rita grinned and shoved the bills greedily into the till. "Interesting."
"Just about everythin' about me seems interesting to you," Rogue observed, a little piqued; but Rita merely gave a small laugh.
"I'm sorry. It's just that… Remy doesn't often bring friends. And never any ladies." She paused, shooting Rogue an odd, appraising look with her blue, penetrating eyes. "So. You his girlfriend?"
There was something in the question – just a little too blasé, a little too flippant – that told Rogue pretty much everything she had already guessed.
"Ah dunno," she replied dryly. "Girlfriend sounds kinda… formal." She glanced back over her shoulder at Remy's silhouette moving between the shelves. "Remy don't do formal."
"No," Rita agreed – and this time her tone was humourless. "He doesn't."
She passed the package to Rogue and Rogue took it.
"Thanks," she said.
"You're goin' outta town," Rita noted casually in return. "Maybe you might wanna think about gearing yourself up a bit more…"
"No," Rogue cut in quickly. "This'll be fine."
Rita shrugged.
"Suit yourself." A faint smile dimpled the corner of her mouth. "Kinda figured 'armed-to-the-teeth' wasn't your scene anyway."
"Mah hands are enough."
They've always been enough…
"Hm." The smile on Rita's lips turned to one of amusement. "I guess that's why Remy likes you. He's pretty handsy himself." She picked up the gun and the cloth, finishing with; "Have a safe trip."
Rogue didn't bother to thank her. She turned and called out to Remy; "Ah'll wait for you outside," before leaving the store with her cheeks flaming.
xxx
She shoved the small package into her one and only bag, biting her lip to stop herself from swearing out loud. She was being irrational. She was being emotional. She was being everything Raven had warned her against. Hell, she was being everything Remy had warned her against. And that was the whole point, really.
She leaned heavily against the back seat and blew errant white curls out of her face. For lack of anything else to occupy her mind, she dug into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. She'd set it on silent, hadn't even looked at it since she'd left the Brotherhood. Now she saw a queue of messages lined up for her. Ten missed calls, twenty-five texts. She knew who it was. Raven.
Her stomach gave another lurch. Her thumb hovered over the phone's envelope icon, only a few millimetres away from spilling out the contents of what she guessed was Mystique's vitriol. Or maybe it was grovelling, begging for Rogue to come back. Either way, it couldn't be as bad as the thought that Remy could be in a passionate clinch with Rita behind the cashier desk right at that very moment.
She swore then. More than once.
There's nothin' goin' on b'tween them. He asked you to come with him, right? Why would he do that if he already had someone else? Why would he even bring me here? And even if he was sleepin' with her, it's not like we're together or anythin', is it? Ah'm not his girlfriend, Ah'm just his…
And she found she couldn't finish the thought. She didn't know what she was to him.
Nevertheless, the train of thought had calmed her somewhat. In a few short hours, none of this would matter. They'd be out of New York, they'd be heading to Chicago. Everything here would be left behind, maybe forever.
She looked at the phone in her hand, the screen now sleeping. Raven's words would have to go unread. It was time to cut the strings. It was time to start anew.
And what the hey, there's a phone store right next door. Maybe today's gonna be a good day after all.
Rogue slipped the phone back into her pocket and pushed herself off the bike. She walked to the phone store with only one thought on her mind.
She was going to Chicago and that meant one thing.
She was going to be free.
-oOo-