Author Note: I own one of those funky 7 - 11 promotional cups for the Wolverine movie with Remy on it. Sadly, this does not mean I own anything Marvel related. Sigh.
He slips down the hallway without sound, feet skipping loose floorboards out of habit. A nondescript, wooden door identical to every door around it, and he stops, trying the smooth, round handle.
Locked.
Flash of a grin and a tool appears in his hand. Barely a moment's work before a click that sounds too loud in the silent hall. A routine check to ensure he's undetected, and the man disappears into the room, door closing soft behind him, he remembers to lock it from the inside.
It's not the first time he's snuck in. Won't be the last.
Once, in what feels like another life, a woman explained to him that a bedroom's décor expressed the inhabitant's personality more clearly than any other room. In a boarding school such as this, it was more likely to be true. Students had only one place to express themselves through decoration and furnishing, one space to make their own for however long they stayed.
In that case, someone who didn't know better would assume this room was occupied by a number of roommates. Posters slapped haphazardly on the walls depict everything from current pop bands, to ballet dancers, the current sensational soccer player to sickening meant-for-the-office inspirational, and reproduction prints of art he's personally had his hands on. An eclectic cd collection on the bookshelf is arranged alphabetically, placing Garth Brooks next to the Band, Neil Young beside Rob Zombie.
Leather duster rustling now when he moves, Remy ignores the signs of clashing personalities and focuses his gaze on the photos that scatter the corkboard on the back of the door. Most are posed shots, students and teachers alike smiling at the camera. Only two are candid, centered on the board.
The first is reminiscent of the view he'd had through the library window not too long ago. The girl is sparring with her mentor, the older man pushed far enough that his metal claws are out as the camera captures her mid – kick. A bloodied scrap of fabric is tacked next to the photo, and though morbid, he supposes the first time she drew blood on the man who taught her to fight was enough of an accomplishment to keep a trophy.
The second photo makes him frown, even as his fingers touch it gently. She's wearing faded jeans and a black tshirt, bare fingers of one hand curled in his hair, a smile that makes his heart clench lighting her features. The photo image of him has his hands around her narrow waist, holding her close as he leans into her. From memory, he can recall the kiss that follows, the first time he kissed her deliberately. Kissed her just to taste her lips. Kissed her to express his feelings in that instant.
He hadn't been aware of a camera, hadn't known someone had captured that perfect moment until now.
Beside their photo, a playing card is tacked. Creased, worn around the edges, it's the queen of hearts he offered her not long after they first met. His frown tugs at the corners, ghost of a smile when he turns from the door, intending to head for the window. He's almost there when he stops.
Her closet is open.
He could believe that she'd left the door ajar when gathering clothing to wear after her shower. Could believe that she forgot to close it as she headed downstairs for her before bed snack.
But she'd remembered to lock her door, and the nightclothes she would have changed into wouldn't have come from the closet. Not that he's memorized her habits and patterns.
He opens the door more, peering into the closet that's as chaotically arranged as the décor. Priliminary look says nothing's out of place. Not that he's memorized where each item in her room belongs. A second, closer look, reveals the dufflebag.
Theives are, by nature, curious. It's the quality that draws them to the profession, the desire to know what's in the locked box. The need to dismantle the alarm system to see how it works. No matter how long he wore the leather and X emblem, Remy Lebeau would remain a thief. Kneeling, he examines the contents of the bag.
Lightweight, any-weather clothing. Jeans, running shoes, tshirts, a dark hoodie. Toiletries in small, travel sized portions. Passports – and he can't stop a smile of pride to see multiples, with multiple names. Drivers licenses too. No fewer than six white envelopes, each containing differing amounts of cash in differing denominations. A cell phone charger with a car adaptor.
It's the same type of thing he kept packed in his own rooms. The type of on-the-run survival kit he's lived out of for too long. A neatly folded piece of paper catches his attention, he reaches for it, expression carefully blank, movements slow and controlled.
Her handwriting is precise, sharp, rather than a typical curvaceous female hand. The paper contains a list of cities, notations on routes to reach each one. The same cities he had – until today – been considering fleeing to.
Feeling as though he's moving through molasses, he carefully repacks the bag, pushing it to the back of the closet where he found it. Movements stiff, he returns the door to the partly ajar state that caught his attention and strides to the window. In a matter of seconds, he's perched on the roof.
He lights a cigarette with a quick charge, and stares over the mansion's grounds. The sun is setting, red, orange, neon pink staining the sky like a preschooler's finger painting.
He knows she was a runaway, which could explain the bag. She, too, knew what it was like to live on the run, always moving and never certain where tomorrow would be.
Except for the list. The list that said clearly she was prepared to come after him if he left. And he had been about to leave. He had changed his mind, but he still had been about to leave.
No one's ever . . . cared (he won't even think the other word, not yet) enough to be prepared to chase him before. Hunt him down for his genetics or powers, yes. Find him for his skills for a job, yes. But even his father hadn't bothered to look for him when he left home. The one woman he'd had enough of a connection with to call an ex would be most likely to kill him if she ever thought to track him down.
Dieu, his girlfriend knew he was about to run, and rather than talk him out of it, she was quietly preparing to follow.
He runs that sentence through his mind again, and freezes, mid puff.
His girlfriend.
He hadn't called her that yet. Hadn't even referred to their evenings out as dates. To do so would make their relationship something solid, something he wanted. If it was real, if he allowed himself to think of what they had as something viable, it would be taken away. If she mattered to him, if he allowed himself to care (still not thinking the other word) then she could be used against him, could be hurt in order to hurt him. If he opened up to her, she'd see the things he's done, the things he's seen and all the darkness he hid behind charming smiles and careless grins, and seeing that, she'd leave.
Exhaling the smoke from his lungs, he considers. Her mentor was the best merc he'd ever worked with, and a damn talented tracker. An inborn ability to forcibly take any information she might need or want on his whereabouts was her mutation. The same ability meant she already saw the stains on his soul and hadn't even blinked. She possessed a stubborn streak wider than the Mississippi River she grew up near, a stubbornness he's already buckled under more than once. If things got dicey, she had a whole school of backup ready to come to her aid at a moment's notice.
She'd never allow him to flee, not from her, not from fear. He winces in anticipation of the beating she'd give him if he ever mentioned leaving for her safety.
He hears the door below open through the window he left open. Hears her enter her own room. Taking another drag from his cigarette, he concludes where his thoughts have been leading.
Girlfriend. She was strong enough, physically, emotionally, and mentally to carry that title. Only one question remains to answer, and he knows he has only minutes before she's on the roof with him. Knows that somehow, he needs to decide before he tells her he's staying.
Is he strong enough to love her?