Disclaimer: Characters belong to Marvel. I think.
Warning: Sex, language.
A/N: Just wanted to thank everyone who voted for House of Cards in the Fanatic Fanfiction Awards. I got through the second round of voting, which I was so surprised and grateful for. Thank you so much! Today is the last day of voting before the winners are announced. If you still feel so inclined, please do vote again for my story! I'm not expecting to win, but if I do, it will be gifts all round! ;)
Please enjoy the last chapter of this short, and look out for more from me on the HoC universe... ;)
-Ludi x
EDIT 21-06-2015: I realised that I had uploaded my tracked changes document which screwed up this chapter entirely. I'm re-uploading the proper document now, so hopefully things make more sense. Sorry about that! ^^;
The Other Side of Dance
. IV .
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Fuck goodbyes.
Remy stared up at the pillar of sunlight on the ceiling, a thin sliver of milky sunshine sliding in through the chink in his curtains.
He could've pretended she wasn't even there, if it wasn't for the light sound of her breathing, the scent of her skin and her hair.
The minute hand was inching towards eight O'clock, and he was still lying there, and now the decision had pretty much been made by default.
He considered making this worth it. He considered waking her up and taking everything he could from her before running out on her again. The memory of the previous night tantalised him like nothing else. To have that again, to have her again, if only to magic away this horrible dread inside him…
He swivelled onto his side and looked down into her face. He murmured her name.
Anna.
He prayed for her to wake up.
He prayed for her to sleep.
He prayed for her to give him a reason to make love to her again.
He prayed for her to give him a reason not to take advantage of her and ruin everything again.
Her eyelids flickered, but otherwise she didn't stir.
He lay back down beside her and listened to her breathe.
The minute hand slipped past eight O'clock and he waited.
He waited for this sword to fall with the sick expectation that it would sever him from her forever.
C'mon, he thought. It'll be better dis way. Let it fall. Gimme dis openin'. Gimme dis reason to walk outta her life for good. Take me outta dis. Please.
Because he didn't have to be here. He didn't have to be tied down to Essex. If he could walk away from her, he could walk away from Essex too. Clarity could be free. He could wake up in the bed of some random woman without the pall of his nightmares upon him, without her name on lips. Back to New York. Back to Nawlins. Back to seventeen again. Back to Belle…
Back to the circle of nightmares…
Eyes on the clock again.
Quarter past eight already.
He turned and wound a lone, brown curl round his finger, tugged on it gently.
Wake up…
Take it away…
I love you…
She didn't move and he sucked in a shallow breath, sank onto his back once more.
I love you…
No…
Stop…
I love you…
Dis ain't me. It ain't me.
But I love you…
He closed his eyes, tried to push it all away, and then…
KABOOOOOOOOM!
He was up about a split second before Rogue was, sweeping aside the covers with his heart crashing sickly in his stomach as he hurried to the window and yanked it open. He knew exactly which direction to look in, and he knew exactly what he would find.
A thick plume of oily black smoke, curling over the horizon.
"Merde," he muttered, knowing instinctively that more people had died and he alone could've prevented it.
"What?" he heard her say sharply behind him. "Is it the Sentinels?"
"Non," he replied in an undertone. "Not de Sentinels."
There was the sound of her clambering out of the bed, of scrambling into her underwear.
"Then what?" she insisted impatiently, coming to join him by the window. She looked out and gaped. He gazed at her out of the corner of his eye, his heart in his throat, gauging her reaction. A flash of horror was followed by a glint of steel. Her lips went hard.
"Bomb?" she queried.
And, "possible," he said, non-committal.
She half turned to him, about to speak, when both their phones pinged. Her eyes darted to his and in that second he knew exactly what she was sensing – that somehow he was involved in this and that nothing about this could be good.
He turned away from her to retrieve his phone before he had to stand that look for much longer.
It was Essex, demanding he call.
He speed-dialled his boss' number, just as another BOOOOOM shook the room.
"Where –" Essex started, as Remy grabbed his pants and pulled them on one-handed, paying as little attention as he could to Sinister's incoherent blaspheming.
"I'm on it," was all he said when there was pause enough to get a word in edgeways; he ended the call, threw the phone on the bed and pulled his shirt over his head. He heard Rogue shooting panicked sentences to who he presumed was Logan over the other side of the room, and he felt bad. He felt bad for springing this on her, but it was what it was. He had a job to do now. Already the adrenaline was pumping through his veins. It was a kind of torture to see her like this, but it was better than the torture of not seeing her once all this shit got underway.
Which it was already, technically.
He was dressed before she was, finally shrugging on his trench coat just as she was about to pull her boots on. He was gonna wait. He was gonna wait, goddammit.
"What is goin' on?" she asked him helplessly, breathlessly, and he couldn't help but chuckle as the room juddered under the force of another explosion and he caught his lighter just as it fell off the edge of the nightstand.
"My next paycheck, dat's what," he quipped, and she stood there and looked at him with an expression of such confused misgiving that his heart sank and his heart soared, and he knew, he knew, that she wouldn't disappoint him.
God, he loved her.
Now more than ever.
He crossed the room, took her face in his hands and kissed her.
It was a way of saying goodbye, a way of stopping her from asking any more questions.
But it had never been her intention to ask any. He knew that when her hands came up, her fingers sliding through his hair, holding him closer. All she'd wanted was exactly the same as him. Just a goodbye.
He clung to her, knowing how little time they both had; and he couldn't allow himself to regret it when the next explosion interrupted their embrace and drew them apart reluctantly. He'd been granted more time with her than he could have expected or asked for.
He caught his breath, caressed her cheek, murmured, "See you on de other side, chere."
Without another word, he turned, he left.
He turned away from her, knowing what he was risking, but knowing, too, that he couldn't turn back.
Not even when she called out his name, not even when she gave him that choice.
-oOo-
Ten minutes later and he was there.
Loitering in an alley, tuning out the sound of screams and the stench of burning gasoline.
He scanned the crowds with only one thing on his mind – that familiar flash of white in cinnamon-coloured hair, the effortless turn of her gait, the way it could turn eyes in a sea full of people.
He had to focus on it.
If he didn't all he'd have left was this guilt and he was afraid he'd run a mile.
And he was already committed.
Falling down this chasm, scrabbling desperately at the sides for purchase.
Remy stretched the fingers inside his cut-off gloves, feeling the leather resist. The adrenaline was pumping so hard in him, he could feel his power surging right beneath his skin. He needed something to channel all this shit out on, and the fact that this was all his fault wasn't helping none. In fact, it was making it about a thousand times worse.
He squatted in the shadows, eyes flickering in the glow of the gas-fuelled fire. He saw them all: some time comrades, some time friends. He saw some of them fall, wounded. He saw them suffer because of him.
And he saw her there, knowing that it was all because of him. Knowing that he'd had something to do with it.
He swallowed, turned away, intending to head for the subway, when –
KABOOOOOOM!
The gas station spewed out its guts.
He was lifted off his feet by the blast, sailing a few metres before being dumped, unceremoniously, in the dust and the grit of the rubble-filled street, his ears ringing painfully.
He pushed himself up, spitting out dirt; looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of her hair, her body, in the smoke, a swirl of movement that told him she's alive… and then she was gone, disappeared behind the broken husk of a now-battered car.
Remy shuffled to his feet, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth, half grinning, half grimacing as he headed back for the subway.
Shit, my legs are shot…
Dieu, she's alive…
He swivelled round, eyes on the car, jogging backwards, thinking, come out, chere…
And out she came, ducking into the very same alley he'd just snuck out of.
He wet his lips, tasting blood again, and turned back, seeing the cordoned off subway entrance about a hundred yards from him… He flicked another glance over his shoulder, and his view of her was obscured by a convoy of emergency services whipping past in a blaze of blue and white and red… And he skidded to a stop outside the subway entrance, wiping at the corner of his mouth again as the vehicles screeched past, and then there she was again, crouching in the alleyway, rising slowly to her feet, hesitating, getting ready to run…
Dis way, chere, he whispered in his mind.
And she looked right at him, just as if she'd heard him.
Their eyes locked; her lips parted; he smiled.
He turned and hurdled over the construction signs into the depths of the subway, knowing instinctively that she would follow.
-oOo-
He had no idea where he was, but he had a fair idea of how to work this place.
Subway stations were all pretty much the same once you'd been in a couple, and even though this particular one was currently under renovation, he was about as familiar with his surroundings as he could be.
He knew what he was going to do, and that was trap her down her for as long as he could. He couldn't risk her losing her life above ground, and he had to keep her safe until Essex was there to take possession of his prize.
He was going to make damned sure she was going to be as okay as she could be after that too, but he didn't have time to think about that now.
He ran through the entrance-way, slapping the sides of the frame with both hands, slap slap, setting a charge into the concrete frame that he hoped would last long enough to see her through it first. Then he sprinted through the ticket hall, knowing she would be hot on his tail, jumping over the barriers and charging the gates as he did so – just enough of a charge, he hoped, to get her attention. He swung in against the escalator wall, catching his racing, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction at his handiwork. This whole set-up was fucked, but he couldn't help feeling pride in the fact that whatever he did, he did it well, even under duress. And even when it involved betraying her.
But she'll be safer like dis…
He heard her footsteps; boot soles slapping on unwashed tile as she ran in and then came to a halt. He didn't dare risk a peek. The angle he was at, she was sure to see him if he poked his head out, and that wouldn't be good. He needed her hooked. Enticed. Exasperated enough to chase him down.
She had gone quiet, was obviously scoping out the area. Then he heard the slight scuffle of her jumping over the ticket gates and he knew it wouldn't be long…
He hazarded a step down the escalator, then another, just as he heard the whine of the charge start to pick up volume and KABOOOM! The charged gate had exploded.
He was already halfway down the unmoving escalator when he heard her swearing behind him; he half-stopped when he heard her again, this time louder, calling out to him in the sweetest Southern lilt he'd ever heard her use, sickly sweet enough for him to know that every word was dripping with venomous sarcasm.
"Remy? Where are yah, sugah? Why dontcha come out t' play, darlin'?"
His lips twisted again to hear it. He had her now. She was pissed.
He skipped the last few steps at full speed and rounded the corner at the bottom; she wasn't far behind. He'd just managed to secret himself behind one of the hefty pillars lining the passengers' thoroughfare when he heard her skid right in after him.
Remy held his breath, listening to her footfalls, gauging her direction, her gait, her move. He heard her try a door handle, then – BAM! – it was the sound of one of his own charges blasting the door open, soon followed by the sound of her swearing when she found he wasn't inside. She was angry, frustrated. She wanted answers and she wasn't in the mood to beat around the bush finding them. He read it all in her presence.
"Ah'm here, Cajun!" Her voice echoed like barely thawed icicles down the corridor. "So why don't you come out and tell me straight what it is you want?"
He chewed on his lip, considering. She wasn't in the mood for this song and dance he was leading her on, that was for sure. There was every possibility she could walk away from him in disgust. But if he could get her mad enough…
He heard her turn to go, and it was then that he made his decision. He snapped out of his hiding place noisily and slid behind the next pillar over, whipping out a card as he did so.
Silence.
He held his breath, charged the card slowly.
"Dontcha think you're too old t' be playin' games now, swamp rat?" she called out irately, signalling exactly where she was, and he spun a card out in her direction, moving as he did so, right back to the pillar he'd left before as he heard the missile connect with solid concrete and explode with a CRASH!
It wasn't enough to total whatever it had hit, but it was more than enough to make a statement and grab her attention.
"Now that was just half-assed, Cajun!" her voice sailed over to him mockingly, and he chuckled mirthlessly to himself, swinging back round to the other pillar, calling back; "It's not like you're tryin' hard neither, chere!" letting her know exactly where he was before zipping into a corridor branching out to his right.
"Ah would be if Ah knew you weren't just playin' games!" came her acid reply, and he heard her release an energy bolt – probably psionic-based, judging from the way it fizzled out – right in the space he'd just vacated.
He swivelled round mid-step, announcing pointedly:
"No games, chere."
She didn't even bother to reply this time, and he whipped back round, slipping in neatly behind some old billboards just as she entered the hallway, hot on his tail.
He watched her watch out for him. Her boots and jacket were scuffed and scorched, her eyes were blazing, her hair was wild. Oh, he definitely had her mad now. There was no way she was going to walk out on this little trap now, and a part of him sank at the realisation. No turning back now. He was committed 100% to giving her over to Essex. Shit.
And that was when he caught sight of the exit, right at the same time as she did.
It was one variable he hadn't planned for, hadn't expected, and it was exactly what he didn't need. He knew she'd go for it even before she did, and even as she turned to make a break for it he had stepped out right behind her, and it had never been his intent to hurt her, it had never even been his intent to lay a finger on her, but it was desperation that took him now, desperation that made him reach out and grasp her by the shoulders and twist her to the side, throwing her to the floor with a horrible voice ringing in his ears, telling him he can't let her get back up topside, he can't let her out of his sight, not even for one moment…
She hit the floor hard, her back slapping cold tile, smacking the wind out of her, and she coughed and spluttered, momentarily stunned by his attack; and his first mistake was concern for her – he stepped in beside her to make sure she was okay, and before he knew it she was right as rain again, tackling his legs right out from under him, bringing him to the ground before he even had a moment to appreciate what had happened.
To her credit, she didn't waste any more time on him. She got to her feet and ran for the exit.
Shit!
Again that cold surge of desperation took him, driving him back onto his legs and into hot pursuit. He'd gained on her in a matter of seconds, and it was strange, strange how he ceased to think, how this one objective had taken him, body, mind and soul – he didn't need to formulate a movement – everything was automatic – he wouldn't, couldn't lose her now, not under any circumstance, not now, not after all this, all this waiting, this planning, this longing, this fear… …
He caught her by the jacket and spun her round to face him, only just clocking the rage on her pale face as he went to grab her and hold her still, but she was having none of it – she dodged his arm neatly, grasped onto it with her talons, and the next moment she'd flung him over her shoulders and he was sailing into a stack of old billboards.
He landed hard, but hardly painfully – the adrenaline in him was thrumming now, as it always did in a fight, but he felt no exhilaration, only the grinding momentum that drove him, the knowledge of what was really at stake. He was back on his feet again in mere moments, using the cloud of dust from his landing as a smoke screen, knowing instinctively that she would come after him now – that he'd pissed her off enough to have her full attention.
It was small comfort.
There was a row of vending machines, and he backed away behind them, watching her through the gaps between them, trying to get just the right angle on her, trying to ignore the fact that she was as beautiful and fierce as a wildcat and he was asking for all sorts of trouble.
To his surprise, she followed his trail almost exactly. He'd only just managed to get behind his new hiding place when her boot heel came whizzing in round the corner, missing him by mere inches and smashing into the nearest machine. It creaked, wobbled and finally toppled over, blowing his cover completely.
"So what is this about, Remy?" she growled at him fiercely, her hands bunched at her sides. "You bringin' me down here to keep me away from the others?! From Sinister?!"
"Maybe," he murmured, backing away from her slowly, wondering at the ease with which she had managed to locate him, at her increased dexterity… He knew she was going to give him a run for his money and that worried him. He knew it was entirely possible that she was mad enough now to beat him to a pulp, and the idea that he could lose sight of her was not one that bore thinking about.
As it was he was running out of space to manoeuvre, and being backed into a corner was never a good place to be. On instinct he ducked between the last two remaining vending machines; and it was almost as if she'd anticipated the move. In a trice a well-placed kick had sent his cover tumbling to the ground, and he skipped back, out of its way, thinking, how de hell did she get so damn fast! as she growled in frustration, "Just. Stand. Still."
She was almost crackling with anger, so terrifyingly beautiful that he if he was a lesser man he would've fallen to his knees before her, were it not for the fact that he suddenly saw – in a cold, numb moment of realisation – that the reason she'd got that fast, that she knew all his moves exactly as they were about to happen – was that she was syncing with him. With his psyche.
He didn't have time to regret that fact, nor even to berate her for it, because the next moment – just as he was moving away again – she had grasped onto the tails of his trenchcoat and charged the fucking thing.
It was a lack of control she hadn't expected – and even though he had hardly expected it himself, he knew exactly what to do.
He'd accidentally charged enough things in his life after all, back when he'd been a pup and had been unable to control his powers.
He whipped off his coat faster than lightning and it was second nature – he had a weapon now and he was going to use it to end this foolishness.
Without even thinking he'd thrown the glowing trench into the air, right in her direction, knowing the force of the blast would knock her to the ground and…
KA-BOOM!
She hit the ground in a snowstorm of torn and shredded leather, the remnants of his coat flittering about her as she coughed and retched against the unexpected attack.
And fuckin' finally. He had her where he wanted her. He had back some semblance of hard-won control.
He stepped in either side of her, said sardonically:
"You make it so damn easy, chere."
She was dazed, but not dazed enough to be compliant. He almost misjudged her; she scooted backward, trying to get out from under him and –
– he brought his boot down on her chest, pinning her there with perhaps a little more force than he'd first intended.
"Uh-uh, chere," he lilted softly, dangerously. "I don't t'ink so. You're stayin' right here."
He lifted his boot, bent down towards her, not surprised to see that her eyes were darting this way and that, searching desperately for an escape route that was nowhere to be found.
"Still lookin' for a way out, Rogue?" he mused, bringing his face close in to hers, close enough to catch her scent. "How d'you reckon I can keep you here, chere, right where I need you to be?"
He couldn't help himself.
He couldn't.
She was mad at him, and he was pretty mad at her, but it didn't matter.
Hell, she was going to be fucking pissed at him whenever Essex made his entrance, and by the time that happened, well… he'd be in the doghouse and he knew he'd deserve it.
She'd hate him.
And he wanted to have just a few more moments with her, knowing what it was like without her hating him.
Knowing what it was like to have her love.
Selfishness again.
He looked down into her face and there was a moment, a split second of hesitation.
Her eyes locked onto his, tempered steel and unguarded, uncomplicated trust.
Despite everything he'd just put her through.
And it made up his mind.
He folded his body of her hers, locking her beneath him, pinning her down, keeping her from running away again; and the previous night came flooding back again as he settled into her and she settled against him, two puzzle pieces slotting effortlessly together.
Her lips parted.
An unwitting invitation.
She couldn't help it, just like he couldn't.
Just like that, all the anger gone from her. All the anger gone from him. No reason left to fight. He was both amused and bemused by it. How simple it all seemed.
She stared up at him with those lips parted, just as she had the night before. Sweet harmony.
"Well, chere," he found himself cooing softly, "dis seems kinda familiar now, don't it?"
Her eyes flickered, vacillating between anger and desire, desire winning out. But, Rogue being Rogue, she wasn't about to give in without a little resistance first, and he knew it. There was still the faintest glint of mettle in her gaze as she said in a voice that was meant to be tart but came out like honey:
"If this is some ploy to get me away from the others when they need me, so help me God, Remy…"
He paused; he frowned.
Here he was, thinking of this in terms of them, and she was thinking about it in terms of everyone else.
It was the one thing that truly set them apart, and to be honest it was a bona fide mood-killer.
"Logan will be fine, chere," he muttered, trying not to sound jealous. "Don't worry."
He shifted slightly, needing to get this ride back on track; he slipped his knee between her legs, a move that never failed to get, and she responded just like he knew she would, her breath coming choppy and laboured from those sweet cherry lips that he wanted so badly to kiss.
"You don't need t' do this, Remy," she struggled to articulate the words; but he barely heard her, mesmerised as he was by the promise of her mouth.
"Do what?" he murmured back, and she whispered:
"Protect me."
Again a pinprick of guilt stabbed him, because she thought he had brought her here to keep her safe.
And he had.
He had.
Right?
His eyes flickered, daring to meet hers, so open, so honest. She trusted him. Fool! And he… he was all the more foolish in that her trust demanded his own. He couldn't help but tell her so.
"I'm a fool, Rogue," he murmured with real passion. "I can't trust you to take care of yourself. If anyt'ing happened to you, I'd never be able to forgive myself if I hadn't done everyt'ing in my power to keep you safe first."
And it wasn't a ruse. There was no cynicism in his words. He meant them, and she melted like butter to hear him say them.
"Ah need to help the others," she insisted in a last ditch attempt at self-preservation, and –
"And I need you to stay right here," he returned.
She looked at him; he looked at her. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest, knowing as he did that it was impossible for her to resist him, and impossible for him to resist her, and that they were both committed to this farce. Except that he knew where this was leading. And she didn't.
"Come back to us, Remy," she whispered, and her gaze was so full of faith in him that it almost choked him to see it. "Come back to me."
Non, non, non, non non…
"I am wit' you, chere."
Dontcha do dis t' me…
"That's not what Ah mean, and you know it. You shouldn't be with Sinister, you're not one of them…"
I ain't watcha think I am…
She was killing him, killing him with all this sweetness and this trust, and he leaned forward, touched his nose to hers and whispered, "Shhh;" and before she could reply, before she could protest, his mouth was on hers, finally, finally…
He didn't think; didn't think, as he had been thinking all night and all morning now, how he was going to live without this, how he was going to survive a life without knowing what it was to hold her like this, with their bodies this close…
And that was when he felt her nails dig into his back.
His hissed as their kiss broke, and she took the moment of distraction to roll them both over – he hadn't been prepared for it, hadn't braced himself for it – the back of his head slapped the cold tile floor and for a moment he saw stars.
"You are some kinda fuckin' bastard, Cajun," he heard her snarl, her hands holding his wrists either side of him with an iron grip. "If you wanted to keep me outta this goddamn battle with the Marauders, you coulda gone the whole fuckin' hog and prevented it from happenin' in the first place!"
He couldn't help a bitter smile crossing his face at the suggestion. After all the months of careful planning and subterfuge, if only, if only it had been that easy.
"You t'ink I hold dat kinda leverage wit' Sinny?" he rasped sarcastically. "You t'ink I give dat much of a damn about Logan and the rest of his Brady bunch?"
"They probably think Ah'm dead right now!" she snapped acidly at him and he laughed humourlessly.
"Let dem t'ink it, chere. I'm not done yet. I still want you somet'ing bad… You know it, Rogue. You've seen it in my memories, in my head… I can't get enough of you…"
It was torture to waste any more words on this moment. So he did what he always did when he was tired of the verbal fencing, and that was use his body. He moved against her, just so; and she gave a wisp of a whimper that was so goddamn sexy that it almost, almost, made up for all this shit. She wasn't buying it though – he knew she wasn't stupid enough to. He saw her grit her teeth against all his insinuation, felt the grip of her hands on his wrists tighten.
"Ah ain't come down here t' make out with you, Cajun," she seethed, her anger piqued again, and if he could just prod her a little further, if he could just push that button enough to get her to cloud her own judgement… …
"Shame," he threw at her gruffly, trying to focus out the pain searing through his wrists. "I kinda like it when you go all BDSM on me…"
He knew he'd done it. Knew he'd said exactly the thing to get under her skin.
With a feline growl she went for his throat, and as soon as her hands left his wrists, he'd whipped his arms out and slapped them away, slamming his palms into her shoulders and twisting her right back over onto the hard, tiled floor with a heavy smack.
She blinked.
It wasn't just the surprise of his attack – it was more the fact that he had her body pinned with his own and somehow – somehow – his thighs were locked round her hips, and he was pressed up against her pretty much as intimately as it could get when they both had all their clothes on.
A heavy breath whistled out from between his teeth as all the intoxicating sweetness of the night before came flooding back into his mind – traitorous thoughts that, up till now, he'd been trying desperately to push away.
His eyes locked onto hers and he could see, from the parting of her lips and the clouding of her gaze, just how much she was trying to deny the exact same recollections.
Most other women would have caved.
But he knew she was stronger than that and he knew that she wouldn't.
"Ah am so done with this, Remy LeBeau," she fumed with a steely resolve that only partly masked whatever it was that was roiling underneath. "If yah think this is what Ah want, you are sorely mistaken. Ah'm gonna ask you nice now – let me go."
Her body was as rigid as it could get underneath his, and it was another kind of torture not to have her yield to him.
"Funny," he couldn't help but mutter. "Dat wasn't what you were sayin' last night…"
The look she shot at him was pure thunder.
"Last night is the only reason Ah ain't kickin' your fuckin' ass right now," she snarled like a wild thing. Her thigh gave an involuntary twitch against his and it was like a fucking aphrodisiac – he could hardly bare to ignore this one insignificant token of inevitable surrender.
"I kinda figured, chere," he muttered almost incoherently. Because somewhere beneath it all, the inner mechanisms of his mind were doing a quick calculation: Sinny would be here any minute now, and he had to keep her down here, and he didn't want to fight… and besides all that he couldn't stand the thought of handing her over to that monster without a final kiss…
So he dipped his face within an inch of hers.
"Sorry, but I ain't gonna letcha get back up topside and get yourself fuckin' killed. And I'd rather not beat you t' a pulp to keep you here. So how else you t'ink I'm gonna distract you, huh?"
He didn't wait for her to answer – his mouth had recaptured hers again almost on the tailend of his own sentence, and it was like all the fight just suddenly bled out of her at the touch of his lips – her body melted, her arms came up around him, her legs wrapped round his hips, her kiss was just as hungry as his own and Essex had to be here right now, he had to be coming any minute now…
Fuck it. He didn't care.
He was beyond desperate, beyond anything but the rash desire to hold onto this one little nugget of warmth and joy and unconditional love, this one thing he knew he might never get back after today, and he didn't care what Essex thought if he did see them, not caring if he walked right in on them whilst he stripped her naked and had wild, passionate sex with her right there and then, because he had no doubt that that was what this was going to amount to, the way their bodies were singing right now and—
BOOOOOM!
The room shook, and he didn't have time to curse the interruption; Rogue had already torn her mouth away from his, saying breathlessly, "What the—?"
And BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM! went the room again, light fixtures swinging, dust and plaster shifting from the walls and the ceilings. Remy saw it in Rogue's face; the realisation of what it was causing this new ruckus topside. She scrambled to her feet as he tried desperately to breathe, to fight back the sweet agony of his arousal; he propped himself up on his elbows, watching the horror, the dread in her eyes as it dawned upon her…
"Sentinels," she hissed, and Rogue being Rogue, he knew exactly what would come out of her mouth next… "We haveta help the others!"
She was about to go, run right out of there and leave and he knew, at all costs, that he couldn't let her out of his sight. Instinct made him reach out and snatch her hand in his, made him call out in a voice that was far too sharp, far too urgent, "No, Rogue!"
She barely heard him, shaking off his grip in a single action; but he jumped to his feet, put himself in her way and she glared at him heatedly, saying, "Are yah crazy, Remy? They need us up there!"
She had already half turned to leave again and he whipped out a hand, caught her by her upper arm, forced her to turn and face him.
"And I need you. Don't go, Rogue."
He knew he was giving himself away. He knew his voice was laced with desperation, and he knew she could hear it. He knew it all, but he couldn't let her out of this place. It wasn't so much that he was afraid she'd escape Essex's clutches. It was the fact that if she went topside, she'd be risking her life. She was safer here. With him. With Essex. She was safer if he was there to supervise the handover. He didn't trust Essex with her alone. He had to be there. This was the only control he had over this mess. Take that away and he knew – he just knew – he would lose it.
Hell.
He was barely on the point of losing it now.
She could sense it radiating from him.
"What is it, Remy?" she asked, quiet, controlled; and there it was, all mistrust she'd been fighting to put aside because she loved him. "What have you done?"
And there it was too. Everything was shitty between them again.
He couldn't bear it. He drew her in closer.
"Not'ing," he murmured, but it was a lie and she knew it.
"You did this…" she accused him, and again it was like a lance through him, that she thought him capable of being responsible for all this when really, he was only complicit in it, and that was bad enough.
"Non." He shook his head with conviction and willed her to believe him when he knew there wasn't a single reason for her to. And she looked up at him, so hurt and wounded and beautiful, this wonderful edifice of trust she had built for him crumbling in a single moment he had known to expect but had hoped against hope would never happen.
"Ah don't believe you really know which side of the fence you're on, do you, Remy," she spoke in an undertone, and he managed to hold her gaze, because he knew the answer to this question, it was the only thing he was sure of in the face of all this shit…
"I know exactly whose side I'm on, Anna," he murmured with meaningful intensity.
Yours, Anna. Always.
But he didn't have the luxury of impressing the truth upon her, that there was only one person whose side he was on and that was hers, because at that very moment, Sinister arrived.
He watched her. Saw the betrayal unravel, absolute and complete, on her face. And despite knowing it would come to this, despite knowing exactly how it would be… It was agony to him. Agony to know that all the trust he had helped her so carefully build in him had come crashing to the ground in that single moment.
How he stopped himself from bringing the pitiful charade to an end right there and then he would never know.
"Well done, LeBeau," Essex was congratulating him with that same old thin sliver of smile as he walked towards the two of them, Rogue paralysed with sick horror, Remy standing stock still with his hand still on her arm, feeling her suppress a shudder that he fought to quell with his embrace. Essex stopped within a couple of metres of them, that smile far too full of mirth for Remy's liking.
"I would've allowed you your fun," the monster continued sardonically, and Remy realised just how much he must've witnessed of his cosy little 'moment' with Rogue. "But as you can see, things have become a little… inconvenient outside."
The expression on Rogue's face told Remy that the full scale of this whole thing had slowly dawned on her. From the sudden coldness in her eyes he saw that she realised that it had been a set-up of the most cynical kind. Right from the moment at the pier, he'd been leading her on a song and dance. The rendezvous, the power play, the sex, the explosion, the Sentinels – it had all been a ruse. A ploy, to get her here, where Sinister could finally lay claim to her.
He wanted to tell her, no, it wasn't. Up till now, he'd meant everything. It hadn't been a set up, not in the way she thought it was. Up to this very moment, everything had been from him. He'd been playing on his own terms. Not Essex's.
But he couldn't tell her that.
He couldn't tell her without fucking this all up and endangering her life for real.
She glanced back over her shoulder, and this time there was no ice there. Only hurt, only regret that she'd allowed herself to be so deceived.
"So this is your way of 'protecting' me, Remy," she levelled at him with quiet bitterness, and he pressed his lips together, said nothing. It was the only way of dealing with this, of preventing himself from falling to bits right there in front of the two people he couldn't give himself away to.
Essex chucked softly.
"Ah, come now, my dear, you shouldn't blame him," he spoke up mockingly. "After all, the only thing Mr. LeBeau here knows how to protect is an investment. And look at it this way. You're much safer down here with us than you are up there."
As if on cue the room rocked under the slow, thundering booooom of the Sentinels overhead; a sheet of plaster shook loose from the ceiling, crashing onto the ground between them. Remy knew Rogue was going to make a move even before she did – he reached out and grabbed her utility belt just as she was making a dash for it, and, so help him God, he charged the damn thing. It was the only thing, short of knocking her flat out, that would keep her from running, or from trying to, leastways. And if she tried too hard… well, Essex wouldn't like that at all. It would put her in danger. And he needed her safe.
She froze in place, shock widening her eyes as she looked back over her shoulder at him – and this time he saw there was real ice there.
"You wouldn't dare…" she rasped at him; but he shook his head, only daring to speak now, when he knew it would be the truth: "You're stayin' here, chere. Sorry. I don't wanna hurt you, but I will if I have to. It's better for us both if you just play along and don't try anyt'ing."
"Yes, stay, play along," Sinister intoned mellifluously, finally moving to cross the space between them. "Do as he says, and you won't be harmed, Rogue. And I'd rather you weren't harmed, despite what you may think."
Remy was proud of her when she actually did stay put; he wouldn't have put it past her to try and figure some other way out.
"What do you want from me?" she asked instead, her voice nevertheless laced with defiance.
"What do you think?" Essex returned in a voice like velvet. "I want only you, my dear."
"So you can experiment on me?" she threw back with disdain, but he only laughed.
"Experiment? No, merely to collect you, my dear. I am, after all, a collector. Of mutants." "That's not what Ah remember," she retorted, low, accusatory. "Ah saw them, y'know. Years back, when Ah was clearin' out one of your labs with the X-Men… All those people you were usin' as test subjects… They were mutants, weren't they. At least, some of them used to be. The rest were just body parts in jars… Yeah, you're a collector all right. Of a sick, twisted, perverse freak show!"
Sinister laughed.
"Them?!" he exclaimed incredulously, as if he couldn't quite believe her words. "They were not worthy to be a part of my collection! They were mere worms, lab rats, undeserving of the X-gene that they had been blessed with. No! The X-Men were worthy additions to my collection. Sadly, most of them were eliminated forever by those simpering government fools, but enough remained in order for me to carry out my grand project. Oh, I collected a great many thanks to our friend here –" and he shot an appreciative glance in Remy's direction, "yet, unfortunately, I lost the one prize that I had set my sights on for so long."
"Rachel Summers," Rogue cut in on gritted teeth, and he nodded.
"Rachel Summers. The pinnacle of evolution. In her genes I would find the finest expression of homo superior possible. She was to be the gem in my collection." There was a light in his cold, red eyes, burning with a maniacal brightness that dimmed suddenly as he looked on her with a sneer of disdain. "Due to unforeseen circumstances, she slipped through my grasp. No thanks, in small part, to the two of you." The look he passed Remy was like an icy flame; he was used to it, let it pass over him; Sinister continued coldly: "It seems I miscalculated. It seems I did not factor in the effect you would have on one another."
"How could you?" she tossed at him, and Remy felt a swell of pride to hear stick up for them. "What the hell would you know about—"
"What? Love?" He said the word with scientific curiosity, nothing more, nothing less. "I know something of it. The pull it has. Delicious and fleeting temptation. It is transitory. A hindrance, an inconvenience, to great work. I abandoned it long ago." He stroked his chin as if lost in some inner reminiscence before continuing: "But yes. You were – are – still young. It takes time – years, decades – to overcome the limitations and inclinations of the flesh."
"Flesh has nothin' t' do with it," she told him; and Remy realised, on an imperceptible intake of breath, that deep down, despite it all… she still trusted him. She still loved him. Essex, however, was oblivious to the implication of her words.
"I think you know it does," he sneered.
She said nothing, made no response to his gibe, confident enough that she was in the right and Essex was in the wrong. And Remy admired her for that. He admired her for believing what she said was true when he'd never had the guts to the same. When she turned her glance back on him, green eyes now calm and unafraid, again he felt that swell of pride and love for her.
"Let me go, Remy," she ordered him quietly. "Ah ain't gonna run."
He believed her. He didn't spare a moment to think how it would look to Essex. He released the charge on her, let go of her utility belt. When he looked across at Sinister, he saw that his boss (he still refused to call or think of him as his father) was gazing at the both of them with undisguised interest, that he should let her go, and that she should refuse the attempt to make an escape. She saw the look too.
"It's called trust, Essex," she told him with such matter-of-fact simplicity that he raised an eyebrow.
"You still trust him? Despite the fact that he has handed you over to me?" He stroked his chin again, grinning. "Interesting."
"Not really," she replied disinterestedly.
The conversation was momentarily interrupted by the room rumbling under the footsteps of the Sentinels and whatever fight was going on up above. More plaster crashed to the floor about them and Remy shifted nervously. If they stayed here much longer they'd be toast and Rogue would probably die hating him. His gaze darted towards Sinister, who looked completely unconcerned.
"Why do you need me?" he heard Rogue say, and he knew instinctively that she was buying herself some time while she figured out her next move. "Ah ain't no Rachel…"
He didn't know whether to applaud her or remonstrate with her at that.
Don't bother, chere. We gotta get outta here and you're just stallin' de inevitable…
"No," Essex was replying. "Not by any means. But you're an X-Men. And you are… shall we say – special."
The room rocked again slightly; neither of them noticed, and Remy could feel the anxiety building in him despite himself.
C'mon, chere, don't draw dis out…
He was almost surprised when he heard her say his name.
"And Remy?" she asked of Essex like she couldn't help it. "What about him?"
Essex's eyes narrowed; Remy held his breath.
Don't ask dat question, chere.
And he prayed that Essex wouldn't answer it.
"Yes," Sinister replied after a short moment, his tone soft and sibilant. "He is special too. Very special indeed."
"In what way?" she asked, and he knew, he knew that she was biding her time, waiting to make her move, and he suppressed it, the urge to reach out an arm and hold her back, draw her away from making this mistake and putting herself in danger… But he knew he couldn't do that without putting himself on the line too…
Essex's lips curled with disdain.
"What does it matter to you?"
And there it was again, a faraway rumble, dust filtering to the floor from more pockets that had opened up in the ceiling right overhead…
"Does he know why he's special? Is that why he's still workin' for you?"
He couldn't bear it then – he knew he had to warn her, that playing Essex like this was dangerous… and he took a step forward, said; "Rogue…"
And BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
A slat of plaster right above them worked loose and the next moment, before he could even get an arm out to stop her she had sprung forward, bowling right into Sinister and he thought shit, knowing, as she didn't, that Essex was about ten times stronger than he looked…
And there was a long moment of confusion, a moment where she realised that she'd miscalculated, where what was left of the roof came crashing to the ground, where he saw her reach out as if in slow motion, bare hand against Essex's white dead face, and Remy stifled a cry, thinking, no, chere, don't do it, don't absorb him…
And the dust cloud lifted and the dust cloud sank; and when it had all cleared he saw Rogue lying on the floor at Essex's feet, pale and white and still as the dead.
-oOo-
Continued in chapter 8 of Arrow of Time.
