: TWIST OF FATE :
PART ONE: DRIVE
(7) - In Mind -
"How de fuck did you do dat?"
Remy was agitated, pacing the same spot of only a couple of square feet, leaving a trail of water droplets in his wake. Rogue stood in the doorway of their motel room and carefully drew back the hood of her jacket. She felt… odd. Not bad. Just strangely detached. This had happened to her before, of course – when she tapped into a psyche and let it take over because it was convenient for her. It just hadn't happened quite like this. So quickly. When just looking at a threat had kicked in somebody else's power.
"Ah dunno," she answered after a moment.
Remy stopped, turned to her. She saw consternation on his face. No – something more than consternation. As though he'd dodged a bullet and the relief of that escape hadn't yet fully outweighed the horror that certain death had stood right there before him.
"Y' mean t' tell me you didn't plan what you did back there?"
She thought about it: the moment when the guy had drawn the gun on her and she'd walked right into its line of fire. She hadn't remembered any fear. Mind you, she couldn't remember channelling Colossus' power either.
"Ah dunno," she repeated with a disconcerted shrug. "It just happened. Ah just knew Ah didn't want those bullets to hit me, that's all. And they didn't."
His expression relaxed a little; but it was only a little. His fingers were moving at his sides, as if he wanted to reach out and touch her but didn't dare.
"Dieu, Rogue," he spoke on a long drawn out exhalation, "I thought… for a split second I thought you were dead…"
He trailed off, his gaze suddenly distracted by something at her midriff. She looked down and saw that there were tears in her shirt where the bullets had hit. Wordlessly she pulled apart the front of her wet jacket and raised the tattered material. Remy froze. A myriad of angry round bruises formed a mottled pattern all the way from her stomach up to her chest. She examined them curiously.
"Interestin'," she murmured. "Colossus could deflect bullets, but he couldn't stop them hurtin'. He must've been covered in these things. Ah never thought about it till now."
Remy grunted doubtfully, reaching out and touching one of the marks on her stomach with a thumb. She winced slightly but didn't move.
"Holy hell, he could've killed you," he murmured, as though touching the wounds had brought it home to him just how serious the situation could've been.
The psyche in the corner of her mind flickered.
And I woulda killed you, if you muties weren't so fuckin' hard to kill.
"Shut up," Rogue hissed, dropping her shirt and frowning. Remy stared at her.
"What'd I say?"
"Nothin'." She shook her head in sudden frustration. "Hang on a minute."
She closed her eyes and focused. Within a matter of seconds the thug's psyche was quiet.
"Wish Ah didn't haveta absorb him…" she sighed.
"He botherin' you?" he asked.
"He was gettin' kinda antsy up there," she explained, gesturing to her temple. "Needed to put him some place he'd be quiet."
He nodded, but she knew he didn't really understand; that all he understood was that she did what she had to. Instead he took her hand in his, peeled off the knuckleduster, lifted it up between them. She looked at it with something like surprise. Up till that moment she hadn't even realised she was still wearing it.
"Where'd you get dis?" he asked her.
"Rita's," she replied after a short moment. He nodded, tight-lipped, and threw it on the bed beside them. An uncertain silence followed, during which he searched her face with a new kind of intensity. There was something behind that look, a curiosity, a dread.
"Why'd you do dat?" he asked her at last. She bristled.
"Wouldn't you have stopped them beatin' on that woman?" she turned the question right back on him. He shook his head.
"Not like dat. For a moment dere I thought dat guy had killed you…" And his eyes wandered involuntarily to the tattered shirt and the bruises that could so easily have been something more, something worse…
"Ah had it under control," she returned flatly, about to move away; but he caught her by the arms, held her there.
"Did you?"
She caught the veiled implication in his tone. Her mouth twisted.
"Yes." The word was sibilant, almost fierce. "They coulda killed that woman; that asshole had a gun. God knows he coulda used it. Ah had to help her. Ah had to do somethin'."
"We coulda done somethin' together," he corrected her with a brusque shake of the head. "You ran off like you did dat day wit' Guess and Trask – you coulda ended up in a whole new pile o' shit and—"
"And what?" she cut in, exasperated. "Yah woulda saved me?"
He bit back an expletive.
"Merde, chere, don't you get it? If you got killed, on my watch…" He took in a sharp breath, began again. "Rogue, do you understand what I'm sayin'? Do you know de lengths I've gone to keep you alive?"
There was real earnestness in his voice, an admission, almost, of what she meant to him. A begrudging smile touched her lips.
"Touchin'," she observed with just a lilt of sarcasm and conciliation in her voice. "You do care…"
He looked half relieved, half vexed.
"Of course I do."
"Of course you do." Her smile widened, just a little, before it fell. "Dammit, Remy. Yah wanna know the truth? Those assholes just pissed me off. Callin' that woman a slut and a whore…" She paused, blinked away the memories – memories so raw to the bone that it was easier for her to just block them out. "Guess Ah just lost it."
It was the right thing to say. His expression cleared; he reached out and touched the haphazard curls at her cheek, curls dampened by the rain.
"Don't take it personally, chere. Those words weren't for you."
"Guess called me the same thing."
He blinked.
"Guess was an asshole an' all."
"Maybe. But what he said was the truth."
He pressed a finger against her lips.
"Non. It wasn't."
She didn't respond. She didn't want to argue about it. She felt tired all of sudden. Like everything had been sucked out of her and she had nothing left to give. Even words were a struggle. And her head was aching something vicious. Sleep suddenly seemed the most appealing thing in the world.
Rogue went on tiptoes, raised her face to his and kissed him softly on the lips.
"Thanks," she said, as she broke away from him.
"For what?" he asked.
"For carin'."
And she stripped and got straight into bed.
-oOo-
She woke up the next morning with the mother of all headaches.
When she sat up the world whirled around her, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight, pressed her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose in an attempt to ward off yet another hangover. A 'psyche hangover', as she had now come to call it.
"Mornin'."
She opened her eyes, saw Remy at the low desk by the window in his underwear, sat in front of his laptop. He hadn't even looked at her, yet he'd sensed she was awake.
"Mornin'," she croaked back.
"You okay?"
She gave a non-committal grunt in reply. She couldn't say she felt good, but she couldn't say she felt bad either. She rose from the bed shakily and stood beside it for a moment. Whatever axis the world was tilted on at that moment, it slowly righted itself. The throbbing behind her eyes eased slightly.
"Got any Tylenol?" she asked him.
"In de bathroom." He was distracted by whatever it was on the screen in front of him, and she decided to forget about the Tylenol. Curious now, she walked up behind him, rested a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head slightly, kissed the inside of her wrist by way of greeting.
"What's that?" she queried curiously. The screen was a pixelated blur of database entries spilling down the screen in a flickering cascade of black on white.
"Clarity's 'drop'," Remy replied simply, easing back in the chair while he waited for the data to load up. He scooped up a disc from the desk, held it out to her. She took it; a silver disc marked 'Black Womb 2' in permanent marker. She guessed 'Black Womb 1' was the DVD currently whirring in the disc drive of his laptop.
"Hmm. Old school," she remarked with amusement as she handed him back the disc.
"Tell me about it," he sighed explosively. "Do you know how fuckin' annoyin' it is to haveta have kit that supports this fuckin' ancient technology?"
"So why don't he just use memory sticks and stuff?" she asked.
"I dunno." He shrugged. "Somethin' to do with storage. Involves migration and he says he ain't got de time. I told him to leave it another couple of years and he'll be dealin' wit' emulation, and dat's like a thousand times fuckin' worse. But you know Clarity. Creature of habit and all dat."
"Hm." She leaned in, rested her chin in his hair. "So what's this all about then? Ah thought we were s'pposed to be lookin' for X-Men."
"We are. Dis a side project. Don't worry. I'm an expert at compartmentalising."
She started slightly, realising that she'd heard him say those very same words before. In her head…
"You mentioned mutant engineering," she spoke up in a low voice. "This is about Sinister, isn't it. He headed up this Black Womb project, am Ah right?"
There was a pause, and she knew he would come clean with her now. At least, she knew from his momentary silence that he was weighing up just how much to tell her.
"You're right," he said at last in a more sober tone. "Truth is, I been workin' on dis side project for years now. Diggin' into Essex's life, trying to get into his mind, trying to see what makes him tick."
She frowned.
"Why?"
He said nothing for a moment, his eyes wandering across the screen, the disc still spilling out its guts onto a 2D plane. The image replayed on his face, caressed the tautness of his jaw.
"Because, chere," he replied in an undertone, "I'm hopin' I might uncover somethin' about me."
She made no reply. His words didn't surprise her. She had known this, from that day in the snow when she had absorbed him. There was nothing definite about this knowledge she held – no articulated words, no formulated thoughts – these were impressions, vague emotions that swirled about him like shadows and cigarette smoke. They bothered him. Essex bothered him.
He looked at her again when she made no response. He had expected her to be shocked, surprised, to have some reaction – that she didn't was curious to him.
"You don't look surprised," he noted softly.
Rogue tugged at her lower lip with her teeth. She didn't want to lie to him, but she didn't want to tell him the truth either – that she knew more about him than he would probably be comfortable with.
"You and Essex have a complicated relationship," she spoke after a moment. "Ah can guess that much. And Ah can guess you didn't stay workin' with him for all that time because yah liked the sonuvabitch."
He looked back down at the flickering screen, trying to get the words out, not sure how to explain what he wanted to say.
"Yeah, well," he finally began, "Essex is completely obsessed with the mutant race, with the power it wields. Jean Grey and Scott Summers were one of his obsessions. Rachel was another." He paused, running a finger round the edge of the laptop absently. "Everythin' else is just a game to him. Sport, while he bides his time. When he loses interest in somethin', he throws it away. It's just garbage to him." He met her eyes again, real honesty in them. "He took me in, Rogue. When I was still pretty much just a kid. Sure, he held me t' ransom, but… he took me in jus' de same."
He stared at her, trying to communicate the next words to her with his eyes; she held her breath, waiting, wanting to hear him say it…
"Don't you get it, chere?" he finished at last. "He's kept me all dis time. And he's never thrown me away. I'm not just a game to him. And I need to know why."
He looked back again, at the list of names, dates and figures flowing down the screen of the computer. She swallowed, finally understanding.
"Y'mean… Y' think that this Black Womb project… You think you'll find your name in there?"
His eyes were still on the screen, his jaw tauter than ever.
"Yes," he murmured. "I think my name is in there."
-oOo-
By the third day, and about fifty miles further east, the headache had finally dissipated.
Remy spent most of the time off the road glued to his laptop. With each passing day he seemed to become more and more frustrated with whatever he was or wasn't finding on the discs Clarity had given him.
One night she woke up to find him sitting on the bed beside her, still scrolling through the list of names slowly, the room bathed in the eerie glow of the computer screen
"No joy?" she asked croakily, her voice still thick with sleep.
"No joy."
His voice was weary. She didn't know how long he'd been at it, but she knew it was too long.
"Yah need to get some sleep," she told him archly, reaching out and touching the small of his back. "Yah can't do this all night."
He yawned.
"I know."
Two minutes went by; the light of the screen was still flickering. She reached out again and tugged on the waistband of his boxers.
"Remy…" she began warningly, and he capitulated.
"All right, all right!" She heard the laptop click shut, the room cast back into darkness. The next moment he was getting in under the covers beside her.
"You might not be on there, y'know," she spoke up, when she sensed that he was still wide awake.
"Mebbe." The word was evasive. She rolled onto her side, placed a hand on his chest and said: "You've been lookin' at that thing for days, and you still haven't come up with anythin'. Maybe you're just not on it."
"Maybe not under dis name," he answered quietly. "I wasn't born Remy LeBeau, y'know."
"So how d'ya know who t' look for then?"
"A kid," he replied soberly. "Wit' freaky eyes."
His tone gave the lie to the shrug that accompanied it. Somehow or other it always came back to his eyes, this mutation that had marked him out as not normal since birth, as one of those rare breeds that was born a monster. It bothered him. It always had. Long after he'd got used to it. Piqued, Rogue propped herself up on her elbows and glared right down at him.
"Remy… sugah… Don't do this to yourself. You are who you are. Why ain't that enough for yah?"
He sighed, his hand touching her hair faintly before saying, "Nothin's enough for me, chere," and she raised an eyebrow, replying testily, "Oh? Really? Is that why yah asked me to come with you? 'Cos hookin' up with me once a year when yah started gettin' frisky wasn't cuttin' it for you no more?"
She saw it – the faint curve of his smile in the dark.
"You ain't an exception to de rule, Rogue," he murmured back quietly, tugging gently on the lock of hair in his hand. "Havin' you here wit' me 24/7 still don't mean I can get enough of you." He fisted her hair tenderly, wound the strands round his fingers, the gentle pressure of his grip communicating to her far more than mere words could have done. She knew what he wanted. A diversion from yet another sleepless night consumed by whatever demons haunted him, by an endless cascade of names surging down a laptop screen.
"Remy…" she traced the length of his collarbone in the darkness, "You need to sleep…"
"Non," he answered softly, "I need a distraction. I need you. Distract me, chere. Please."
She frowned. "You make me sound like some light entertainment when you're bored…"
"Non," he murmured, tugging her curls lightly, nudging her face impatiently towards his, "you're de most beautiful goddamn t'ing in de world, and if there's anythin' that can chase demons away, it's you…"
His mouth captured hers in a warm and liquid kiss, his body speaking to her in a way words could not. His thoughts, his fears, his loves, written in a language as enigmatic and timeless as the stars, one that she could taste but not read. Whatever his secrets, he wanted her to know, even as he tried to hide them from her. He couldn't help it. He couldn't help being drawn to her, couldn't help wanting her when the only thing he wanted was not to want, ever again. And she loved him for it.
She loved him more than anything else she'd ever known.
And she couldn't help it, couldn't help whispering, "Ah love you…"
But his lips caught hers again, silencing her before she could say it again and again and again…
And everything was good, everything was perfect, everything was it as should be – her with this man she couldn't trust but did, with this man who couldn't love but who she believed did, even if he didn't. Even if it was all just a game to him, all just lies, she believed he loved her. She believed it because they were the words she'd taken from him when he had meant them most, the words she replayed in her mind and cherished above all other things.
She loved him and he loved her – and everything was as it should be.
-oOo-
She's there. In the darkness.
She's never minded the darkness before. She can see in it, as perfectly as she can in the daytime. But now it's a curse. It's a curse and she closes her eyes, squeezes them shut tight. She doesn't want to see. For the first time in her life, she's afraid of the dark.
Her hands are angry and raw. She can't remember the last time she's felt such agony. It's so hot her brain is on fire, receptors fried, it can't handle the pain anymore, it's just one big haze of fucking pain and she thinks she'd rather die. She swears there's no more skin on her hands. If she looks down, all she'll see is blood and bone. There's no way her hands can be there anymore. Not if there's this much pain, this much hurt. It's right behind her eyes, stinging stars that cloud her vision. And she wants to die, she wants only for this pain to end and she can't see any other way out but death…
Then he's there. In the darkness, beside her. She hears him, his footsteps, his breathing. The man who scares the shit out of her and yet would be her saviour.
"Make it stop, please make it stop, kill me, kill me now, please…" she moans, and there's a cold hand on her forehead, no tenderness, no mopping away of the blood and the sweat, just all clinical measurement, and she moans again because every touch is agony and she can't bear it much longer…
"What will you give me, to make it stop?" says the voice above her, cultured and cold and sonorous.
"Anyt'ing, I give anyt'ing…" she says.
And the voice chuckles.
"Anything?"
And, "anyt'ing," she says again, and she opens her eyes then, sees that cold, fiery blaze looking down at her without compassion, without feeling, two burning spotlights in the darkness boring down into her soul and the fire in her hands is flaming again, and it's coming and she can feel it taking over and she can't control it, and she clenches at the pain and she screams…
And she awoke screaming, sitting bolt upright bathed in a cold sweat, real pain searing through her hands, blood and nerves boiling with a blistering agony up her arms and jangling into her brain…
And the next moment the light was on, and she looked down at her hands, and her dream had come true – what she saw was blood and bone – claws protruding from the knuckles of each hand, Logan's claws, not metal, not adamantium, just her bone and no healing factor.
"Shit," she heard Remy seethe beside her, and he threw back the covers, ran into the bathroom while she screamed incoherently at the things, the horrible alien things sticking out of her hands…
"Make them go make them go make them go please make them GO…!" she cried as Remy came running back into the room with towels, stupid towels, and what the fuck were they going to do…?
He sat on the bed beside her, wrapped them round her bloody hands and shouted at her, "Retract them!" But she couldn't, her brain was a red mist of pain and she was shaking so hard she couldn't even see straight…
"Ah can't!" she wailed.
"Yes you can!" he levelled back at her, his voice trembling only slightly through the mask of calm he'd imposed on it. "What did Raven tell you to do? Tell me!"
What was it? How was she supposed to see through the pain?
"Con-con-con-concentrate…"
"Oui. Concentrate. Do it."
"F-focus."
"Focus. Yes. Focus on it. Not de pain. On de claws. Dey not yours, chere. Dey Logan's. Give dem back to him."
Yes. Yes, give them back. Unfold. Unwind. Go back. Focus. Undo.
"Breathe," she heard him remind her, and she did.
She breathed.
"You just need to want it gone, Rogue. You've never really wanted it enough."
Raven stood at the window facing her, arms crossed, expression stern.
"Yah think Ah want t' be like this?" she asked acidly.
"No. Not consciously anyhow. But I think your powers are an excuse, Rogue. To carry on hurting. To carry on pushing out the world. To keep it out. And unless you want to touch, unless you want those voices in your head to stop tormenting you, you won't get either. You'll stay just the way you are. Lonely and cold and untouched."
And the claws retracted.
She opened her eyes and stared down at them, at the blood soaked towels. She was trembling, trembling so hard she thought she would shatter. Remy was holding her wrapped up hands in his, staring at her with blazing eyes.
"What de fuck was dat?" he asked her in an incredulous tone. It was several moments before she could find her voice.
"Ah – Ah was havin' a nightmare. Ah think… Ah think this was just a defence mechanism…"
It was a lie. The truth was, she wasn't entirely sure what had happened. It'd never happened before, not even during the worst episodes she'd encountered with the psyches in her head. Memories that weren't hers had sifted to the surface now and then… but she'd never manifested full-on powers before. Not like this.
His expression was doubtful. Like he didn't quite believe it either.
"Shit. Are you sure?"
She nodded half-heartedly.
"It used to happen sometimes, when Ah first joined up with the Brotherhood again."
Another lie. She wanted desperately for him to believe.
"It was rare, usually happened when I was under stress." The more lies she told, the easier it became… "It hasn't happened like this in years…"
"Hmph." His face relaxed somewhat. He'd bought it. Just about. "Musta been some fuckin' nightmare for you to start poppin' Logan's fuckin' claws of all t'ings."
She said nothing. How could she tell him that she'd never had a nightmare so bad before? That the nightmare had been his?
"You okay?" he asked her, this time with real concern. She nodded, gulping down the thick stickiness in her throat. He looked down at her hands in his, said, "Let's get dis cleaned up."
He leaned over, reached for the drawers in the nightstand and pulled out the first aid kit. She didn't watch as he removed the towels, cleaned and bandaged her hands. The pain dwindled from a searing blaze jangling up through her arms to a stinging throb to a dull ache. When he'd finished dressing her wounds, he handed her some painkillers and a half empty bottle of mineral water.
"Take it," he ordered.
She did.
"Thanks."
His smile was slight; he took her face between his palms with a gentle touch.
"Sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
Her voice was weak, but she'd stopped shuddering and her heartbeat had slowed to a regular pace. And there was relief on his face.
"Damn, you scared de shit outta me, Rogue."
"Think Ah scared myself more…"
"Heh. Just don't pull anyt'ing like dat again, chere. Don't t'ink my heart could take it."
She managed a smile, and somehow that made it all okay.
But when she lay down to sleep again, when she closed her eyes once more… It took an effort, an effort to dispel the image of those cold, red eyes gazing down into hers, the way they once had into his.
-oOo-
"How you doin'?"
Rogue looked up at him from her place on the windowsill.
Remy LeBeau with an artfully unshaved jaw and wearing only tracksuit bottoms. He was looking down at her bandaged hands.
"Ah'm good," she said, but she didn't feel good, not really. She hoped it didn't show.
"Leave dem a coupla days, we change dem den."
He rubbed his jawline. His accent was always thicker in the mornings, just after he woke up. He could've sold sand to Arabs with that voice. It seemed a world away from the voice he used in his nightmares. Hoarse and broken and thick with pain.
With fear. Of Essex.
And yet he'd gone back to him, worked for him again doing something she knew he'd hated.
She wondered why.
She didn't dare ask.
He moved away, grabbed a sweater from a bag and pulled it over his head. It clung to him in all the right places, fell loose in others.
"Whaddya want for breakfast?" he asked her as she watched him. He was beautiful. She knew he knew he was attractive and handsome and sexy as hell. She didn't think he knew he was beautiful. He was at his most beautiful when he was like this. All just woken up and thinking about what to wear and whaddaya want for breakfast?
She smiled despite herself.
"Beignets?"
He threw her a look.
"Yeah, like we're gonna get dem round here."
She pouted. She really wanted to be spoiled today. She thought she deserved it. It was beignets or nothing.
"Don't you go makin' a bahbin at me, chere," he scolded her playfully. "We ain't en Ville right now, we're stuck in de middle of nowhere, where de hell a man gonna find some beignets for his beb?"
Oh yeah, and then there was his I'm Cajun and proud of it moments. Although she thought that he laid it on a bit thick sometimes. Just for her benefit. She couldn't help but laugh.
"Ah'm fine with anythin' you are, sugah."
"Hm." He looked at her with eyes twinkling. "You sure that's the way you want to put it to me, hon?"
"Uh huh."
If her hands weren't bandaged to the size of bowling balls, she figured she would've grabbed him right now and tackled him right back into bed. So much for that.
The smile he sent her told her he was thinking the same.
"I'll be right back," he told her, stuffing his wallet in the back of his pants and leaving before their banter could get anymore hopelessly suggestive and frustrating.
As soon as he was out she turned back to the window, a frown fighting the smile on her face. She knew he'd been trying to take her mind off things, trying to keep her spirits up, and she was grateful to him for that. But something wasn't right. She'd felt it coming on for days, weeks now, but she'd been writing it off as stress or her period or any number of things. As time had worn on, the excuses had been wearing thin.
First it had been his dreams of Belle and Julien. Then it had been manifesting Colossus' powers with those meatheads back in that town whose name she couldn't remember. And now last night. Logan's claws. Sticking out of her hands and the pain he must have felt every time he'd popped them.
Her hands tingled, reminding her of the night before.
There had been other little things. Things like blacking out and finding herself stuck in someone else's memories for a minute or two. Then of course there had been the nightmares. Remy's nightmares.
She looked down at her hands.
He'd done a good job. The bandages were neat and clean. Expertly done, like he'd done it a million times before. And then she thought about his hands. Their roughness on her skin. A pleasant roughness. The kind that sent shivers up and down her spine when he ran them over her stomach and her breasts and her thighs and—
Yeah, Rogue. We get the picture.
The point was, his hands were scarred. From his power, no doubt. At some point, he'd burned them so bad it'd left its mark. The nightmares, they told her more of the story, the agony his powers had once inflicted on him.
You know better than most, Rogue, that there are some of us whose powers are a curse rather than a blessing.
"You were right, Irenie," she whispered to herself, to her blurry reflection in the window. "And Ah think Remy knows that too…"
And yet… it was Logan's power she'd manifested. Not Remy's.
"What the hell is goin' on up there?" she spoke a little louder into the silence. "Why the hell is this happenin' to me?"
And she didn't like the answer.
The idea that she might be losing control.
She thought of Raven, Mystique, her foster mother, her mentor, her jailer. The disapproving look on her face.
You've gotten sloppy, Rogue. You're letting them take over again. I knew this would happen. You walk away from your family, your home with the Brotherhood to be with that thief, and now, while you're all loved up with him, your training's suffering. Don't say I didn't warn you, Rogue. Don't say I didn't tell you so.
She could hear her now, in her head, clear as day.
It was a good thing she'd never absorbed her mother, or her psyche would be railing at her right now.
Nevertheless, had Raven said all these things, she would've had a point. She was rusty. Complacent. The voices never bothered her anymore. She hadn't focused on them for ages now. Keeping the psyches in order… well, it had been the last thing on her mind lately. Maybe some of them had broken free. Maybe Colossus and Wolverine were roaming around up there getting all antsy.
She got up from the windowsill, double-checked to make sure Remy really had gone. Then she pulled the curtains, lay down on the bed, rearranged the pillows, made herself comfortable. She breathed deep and slow, the way Raven had taught her.
Then she closed her eyes and dove straight into the fast moving rivers of her mind.
-oOo-
What once had been darkness and chaos was now clinical clean whiteness.
In the quiet hours of her long convalescence from the injuries she had sustained in the Hound Pens, this is what she had done.
Remade the fortress of her mind, gathered together all the hungry revenants that tormented her, the psyches she had claimed. She did it for Xavier, she did it for everyone she had loved and lost, but most of all, she did it for herself, because she wanted her freedom, she wanted to sleep at night without hearing those screams in her head. Now when she came here, it was quiet. The chaos had given way to peace, the disorder to order.
She stood at the head of a long, white corridor, a corridor that seemed to stretch on into infinity, one that was so white it seemed to shine with its own inner glow. She stepped forward, began to walk, her footsteps echoing in the quiet, the sharp clack, clack, clacking of her heels exuding a palpable dissonance. So she turned the sound off. It was her mind after all. She could do what she wanted with it. It had just taken her a hell of a long time to figure that out.
On either side of her, each wall was lined with doors, also white, windowless, featureless. Each was identical to the next.
Rogue stopped and stared. As far as the eye could see, the corridor continued onwards into the great expanse of her mind. Not a single door appeared to be ajar. She swung round. Again, that corridor – no beginning, no end, no sign of any disruption. On the other side of each door, a psyche silently rested, dreaming whatever dreams came to them. Most of them would dream forever.
Looks like everythin's in order…
But there was still a thread of doubt in her. It was almost too quiet, and she didn't like it.
Perhaps Ah should turn the sound back on…
She turned around again, showing no surprise at the glass door that had now sprung up before her, right in the middle of the corridor. There was nothing on the other side; just smoke, mist, swirling slowly in an indistinguishable thick greyness. Rogue reached out and pressed a palm against the pane, pushed the door open softly. When she took her hand away, its imprint remained for a long time afterwards.
She stepped over the threshold into a world of running water and crystal and birdsong, of tranquillity and light. Beneath her feet the ground was translucent, like mercury moving through glass. This was the epicentre, her place and hers alone. The place where she came to escape, to retreat from the darkness.
She stopped and looked up. There was no sky; only light, white and silvery as moonlight, soft as starlight. There was no end to it, no horizon – it went on forever. She remembered – for the greater part of her life, this sky had been roiling thunder clouds and lightning. A never-ending storm in her mind. Strange, to think it hadn't been that long ago. She closed her eyes and felt the softest of breezes caress her cheek.
All it had taken was wanting all the death and the chaos to disappear. For her to let the guilt go, and for the healing to begin. What had been left was a space she had been free to recreate as she saw fit.
She walked again, and as she did her world came into view – the lake and the cedar tree, beyond which stood the mansion. This was her sanctuary, the place she came to huddle in on herself and seek solace. The lake shimmered like ice in the milky light; the cedar stood tall and solid, barely moved by the wind.
And there, under the boughs where she had sought shelter so many times before, she saw it. A familiar figure standing beneath the vast canopy, leaning against its mighty frame, looking out onto the lake as she so often did herself.
No… No, it can't be…
Her pace quickened involuntarily; as she approached, the figure turned towards her, fanning a pack of cards between its fingers in a gesture so familiar that her heart jumped into her mouth.
She couldn't quite believe it was him until she stood right there just a few feet from him.
"Remy," she breathed, a giddy confusion taking her, and in a moment the cards in his hand had disappeared into his pocket and he smiled. Smiled that warm, honeyed smile, as if everything was exactly as it should be.
But it wasn't. He shouldn't have been here.
"Rogue," he said; and there was something in his voice, low and soft and almost yearning, that she didn't recognise.
He stood there, hands in pockets, that welcoming smile still on his face; waiting, as he always did, for her to make her move.
And she found that for those few short moments, through all her confusion, there were no words she could find to say, until she looked into his eyes and realised that it was him. The ghost of a man she had never meant to absorb, to steal.
"Remy… What are yah doin' here?"
You're not supposed to be here…
His expression was calm, clear.
"Been waitin' for you, chere." And his voice was so substantial, so real… "Figured you'd show up some time soon…"
She stared at him. She didn't understand.
"How… how did you get here?" she tried again. And he frowned. Just as the real Gambit would've frowned at her when something didn't fit.
"My door was open," he explained at last. "So I walked through it. Thought you wanted me to come out." He paused, continued in a quieter tone, "De door to dis place was open too. Right dere in dat long, white corridor, like it wanted me to walk through. Like it was expectin' me. So in I went. To here." He looked up, at the endless sky, at the lake, at the mansion that stood so solid and comforting behind them. "Pretty place you have here, chere," he murmured with real feeling in his voice. "So you. I remember comin' here wit' you. In de moonlight. You wore dat white dress, and de butterfly necklace I gave you…" He looked back at her, and the yearning she had heard in his voice was now in his eyes. "You kept it. All dese years. It did mean somet'ing to you…"
And he reached out, placed his hand upon her chest, where the butterfly pendant lay hidden beneath her shirt. She took in a trembling breath. Where she should have felt the warmth and pressure of his hand on her body, she felt nothing. Barely a whisper of contact. There was a veil between them. In her mind she was solid; but he was a ghost, a phantom. The psyche of Gambit, a mere shade, a facsimile. He wasn't real.
But he was real enough. Real enough to want to touch her. Real enough to frown in sudden frustration when he realised he could not.
He removed his hand, slipped it back into his pocket and grinned wryly at her.
"Looks like de tables have turned, chere. Now I'm de one who can't touch you."
Why was he being like this? So… nice? She could hardly bear it. Hardly bear the sudden impulsion to take him in her arms and kiss him and kiss him and tell him she loved him when he was in this place of all places, in the place which should have been locked from everyone except herself.
"You're not supposed to be here, Remy," she managed to tell him on a breath; and there it was again, that wounded frown…
"But my door was open, chere," he began, unhappy confusion on his face. "You woke me up… You wanted to see me, Rogue… Dis your place here, I know it. You wouldn't just let anyone in here, would you?"
She shook her head; no, she wouldn't – never – and that was the problem – whatever had happened, whatever was happening – doors opening where they shouldn't, the psyches in her head waking… it was worse than she'd thought…
He seemed to sense her own confusion. He paused, started again: "I thought you trusted me enough to show me dis place… I waited for you to come. Like you did dat night, in de white dress, when we were wit' de X-Men and everyt'ing was good b'tween us…"
He was breaking her heart, recounting all these memories she was sure he'd forgotten…
"Ah'm sorry, Remy," she half-whispered. "Ah hate to say it… It wasn't me. Ah never woke you up, never opened your door. You're supposed to be asleep right now. Like the others."
He was silent a long moment, taking in her words. He took his hands out of his pockets slowly. This time his frown was dark.
"Merde," he swore under his breath. "Does dis mean…"
"Ah don't know what it means yet," she interrupted quickly.
Lightning split the atmosphere above them, making them start; the next moment a sudden rainfall broke, a sheet of water falling in a heavy torrent from an invisible cloud and down into the lake beside them. The lawn, the cedar tree, the mansion remained untouched. Only the lake bore the brunt of the storm she had created. She realised it was her mood. Her emotions were changing the world about her. She tried to swallow them down, tried to stop the squall that had so suddenly developed, found herself unable to do so.
"How… how long have you been here?" she asked him earnestly.
"How long?" His brow furrowed as he thought about it. "I ain't sure, chere. Days could pass here and you wouldn't know it. Dere is no time here…"
No, she thought, there isn't. Of course. She nodded absently. The rain was still sheeting down, breaking the perfect tranquillity of the lake.
"You gonna stop dat?" he asked her. She ignored him.
"Are there any others out?"
And she felt relief when he shook his head.
"Ain't seen no one else, chere… All de doors were closed anyways…"
The rain lessened a little. Before long it had petered out completely. All was silent again, their senses filled only with one another and the fresh tang of moisture on the air.
"I'm sorry," he apologised softly. "Didn't mean t' cause you trouble…"
"No," she stopped him gently. "It… it wasn't you. That's why this is so strange…"
That frown again…
"Who?"
"It's…" She checked herself quickly, said: "It doesn't matter."
She turned, eyes scanning her sanctuary for signs of anything amiss. There wasn't even an inkling of the chaos that had reigned here before. The only thing out of place was him.
She glanced back at him, standing there patiently, eyes watchful.
"Guess I should be leavin' now, neh?" he remarked wryly, reading her look.
"Ah'm sorry," she half-whispered.
"For what?"
"For makin' you go back there," she explained; but a look crossed his face, and he said with a faint smile; "It ain't a bad place, chere. Though it would be better if you were there to keep me company…"
They walked away from the lake, the tree and the mansion, slow, uncertain. It was strange, to stand beside a phantom in her mind, the phantom of a man she knew and loved, a tangible thing mentally, but not physically. And yet he seemed real in that sense. Physically. She felt as if she could reach out and touch him, place her palm in his. But this wasn't Remy, not the one she knew. This Remy was the one she had absorbed in the snow at the Hound pens, at a moment when everything had been at stake. Turmoil, agony had filled that short space of time for her, when she had seen the face of Death. And he… he had seen it too. At her hands.
But not this Remy. This was the Remy she had absorbed at the single moment of his life where she had meant everything to him. And now she realised it. That the wistfulness, the yearning, the gentle words… the need to reach out for her, to grasp her and hold her close with all the tenderness in him… These were the things he had been thinking, feeling, the moment she had absorbed him.
She swallowed the sudden surge of emotion in her.
It was the realisation that even back then, all those months ago, in the darkest of times… he had cared for her.
There was the door, the swirling, misted glass. She pushed it open onto that long and endless corridor, and there, just as he'd said, was the room she had made for him. A carbon copy of all the other doors about them, but this one… it was ajar. Open, where it should have been closed and locked.
She couldn't move. Couldn't bring herself to walk into the cage she had made for him; but he had no such compunction, brushing past her and opening the door a little wider. He looked back at her, saw the apprehension on her face, smiled.
"It's okay, chere. It ain't a bad place you made for me. I promise."
His expression was so gentle, so encouraging, that she felt reassured. She stepped forward and followed him into the room.
It was the safe house.
She halted in the doorway, taken aback, her heart lurching at the familiar sight. She had recreated it perfectly for him. Even the scent, even the ambiance. Months had passed, but not here. Everything here was as she last remembered it.
He stopped, looked over his shoulder, said in a softer voice: "I told you it'd be okay."
She gathered herself, nodded. Stepping into the room, she closed the door shut gently behind her.
"You see," he began, walking up to the mattress and staring down at it, "it ain't so bad."
There was that wistfulness in him again – one she'd never seen before, not even on the face he wore outside in the 'real' world. It struck something deep inside her. There was real emotion in him, real feelings for her, and she'd banished him to these four walls.
"If Ah'd known you were gonna wake up…" she trailed off uncertainly.
"No apologies, chere." He looked up at her. "Only wish dere was somet'ing I could do to help you…"
She made no reply to that. She was still searching for something, even here in this little safe haven. She walked to the other side of the mattress, running her hands over the furniture as she passed. So solid. So real. She reached the nightstand and stopped. When she raised her hand, there was dust on her fingers.
"Ah swore Ah'd never absorb you," she told him quietly, feeling she owed it to him. "You were the one person…" She looked up at him, wanting his hate, his disapproval, finding nothing but trust. "Ah'm sorry. Ah broke that promise."
His smile was wry.
"I know. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here, neh?" His smile was warm in the pit of her stomach. "Guess you know everyt'ing about me now, chere."
There were his cards again, fanning between his fingers with dextrous nonchalance, a disguise for the fact that he did care. She saw right through it.
"No. Ah've never wanted to…"
He looked up at her over his cards.
"But you could look, if'n you wanted. Right?"
She couldn't deny it.
"Yeah…"
He was still doing it, still fanning those goddamn cards in his hand, and he was so real, so visceral that she could have believed that this was just another one of their barbed and pointed exchanges.
"It's okay, Rogue," he said at last, closing the pack again with a sharp shuck and sliding it back into his coat pocket. "You did what you had t' do. You bein' here tells me one good t'ing at least – dat you made it outta dat hell hole at de Hound Pens alive."
"How much do you remember?" she asked him curiously.
Again, that wry smile…
"I remember lyin' wit' you in de snow. Den bam, a whole lotta stars. Was dat you, Rogue? Did you crack me on de head wit' somet'ing before you absorbed me?"
The colour on her face said it all.
"Why, chere? What'd I do t' make you so mad?"
"Not mad," she murmured. "Just…confused. What you said—"
"What I said," he repeated, laughing mirthlessly. "Knew dere was a reason I promised myself never to say dose three little words anymore."
His expression was bitter; she couldn't bear it.
"Remy—"
"You know what de crazy t'ing is, Rogue?" he cut in right over her, holding her gaze with clear eyes. "I meant it when I said it. Hell," and the wry smile was back, "I still mean it."
"Remy…"
She couldn't say whatever she had planned. Her heart ached. Ached with the knowledge that this wasn't him… But he had walked round the mattress to stand in front of her… And he reached out, touched a white lock of her hair in a gesture that was weightless, ghostly, said: "If I was de real me, out dere in de real world wit' you… I'd tell you every day. Dieu, I hope he does. I hope he tells you I love you. He's a fool if he doesn't." His hand brushed her cheek; his touch was like feather tips on her flesh, fleeting, ephemeral, and she closed her eyes, falling into his words, into a caress she could barely feel…
"You have no idea how much I've done for you," he whispered. "How much I've done to keep you close, to keep you livin'…"
She opened her eyes slowly.
"Ah know…"
His palm, cupping her cheek, leaving no warmth…
"I did it b'cause I love you, Rogue. I've tried to let you go and I can't. I spent so many nights tryin' to forget you when all I wanted was to have you back there beside me…"
"Ah love you too…" she whispered back, and though she could not feel his touch, there was still that smile, uncurling the most wonderful thread of warmth in her…
"I know," he murmured. "I've always known."
He leaned forward, rested his forehead against hers, no weight, no pressure, no touch, but they stayed there, just like that, for the longest moment, finding exactly what they wanted in one another in a place where they could never be.
He broke it first, stepping away from their embrace with a light-headed laugh.
"Merde. Dis is some kinda hell you've put me in, Rogue, in a place where I can kiss you and touch you and not feel a damn t'ing."
She smiled sadly.
"Yeah. Looks like we're back to square one, sugah. Back to the ol' can't touch, won't touch thing…"
"Yeah…"
They shared another look. So many questions to ask, so much to share… All impossible in this place.
"Ah should go," she said at last.
"Yeah. I'll just go back t' sleep…" He glanced down at the mattress with an expression that said he would've liked her to join him, for her to lie beside him, for them to just sleep together…
And suddenly she made up her mind.
"No. Don't."
He looked up at her sharply and she continued: "Ah need you, Remy. Ah need your help. Stay awake, keep a watch on the others for me."
His mouth was flat.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded, deciding it would be best to be honest with him here, even if she couldn't be on the outside.
"Ah've been manifestin' powers randomly. Sometimes it's helpful, sometimes not… But Ah never consciously think about it. It just happens. And sometimes…" She paused, taking in a deep breath. "Sometimes Ah relive mem'ries. They just take over, and when they're done Ah'm right back where they were before they started, like Ah blacked out or somethin'. Ah… Ah think Ah'm losin' control…"
His mouth grew flatter.
"Have you talked to him about dis?"
She knew instinctively who he meant.
"No. You – Remy – he doesn't know. Ah'm… Ah'm afraid to tell him… Sometimes Ah have dreams... Your dreams… His dreams… Of Essex…"
His expression was an all-out frown now.
"So there are t'ings you know 'bout me, chere…"
She coloured.
"Not much. Just… things…impressions…"
His frown deepened further.
"And he doesn't know, does he. You've never told him. Dat you absorbed him dat day at de Pens."
Her heart was in her mouth again. She shook her head silently, feeling that she had somehow betrayed him. "He would hate me if Ah told him…" she explained at last in a hoarse voice.
"No, Rogue. He could never hate. Not you." She couldn't quite believe it, even if he was the one person who should know above all others. "You'll have to tell him," he continued. "Sooner or later."
"Ah know," she returned quietly.
He looked back down at the mattress, then at her.
"All right. I help you. If I see anyt'ing, anyone, I call."
She let out a pent up breath of relief.
"Thank you."
"No t'anks, chere," he insisted. "For you, I do anyt'ing. Jus' say de word."
And she wanted to stay here, she wanted to ask him about his life, about why he was the way he was, about all the secrets he kept hidden deep inside… And she knew she couldn't. That he wouldn't tell her. Not yet.
"Just promise me one t'ing, Rogue," he said, as she turned to leave.
"What?"
"Just promise me you'll tell him. Tell him what you know. He needs you, chere. More den you think."
-oOo-
