A/N: Your French translations for the chapter. Enjoy ;)
ouais - yeah
mort - dead
merci - thank you
chère - dear
frère - brother
Chapter Ten
Oh what a tangled web we weave
~ Sir Walter Scott
Early morning inside a high-security prison was not much different than any other time of day. The atmosphere was structured and tense, a heavy feeling that made you want to crawl out of your own skin. There was one key difference though, a quiet shift from the normal routine. Right before daybreak, it got deathly quiet. The prisoners were up, moving but silent, which left most watchmen checking the time and counting the minutes until the shift ended.
This morning and every morning, this was the time when agitation and boredom struck both the guards and the prisoners until the first meal of the day arrived in chipped, well-scoured trays. It was a time to be cautious, a time to keep tensions low and moral high.
He would know, wouldn't he? After working here for almost twenty years, he could feel the patterns and subtle shifts of the place; he knew when to be on his guard and when it was all right to relax a little. Early mornings, he'd discovered, were when everything could change in the blink of an eye.
He patrolled the cell block, thinking longingly of his bed and wife at home. The bed would be empty by the time his shift was done, but Renee almost always made him a late breakfast before she left for work. He fantasized about scrambled eggs and greasy bacon as he made his way past the cells, checking quickly inside each one through the barred portholes.
Before the last cell, there were two kept empty on either side. He steeled himself before striding past them.
An unfamiliar woman sat on the inside, manacled at the hands, neck, and feet. Her hands were folded tightly, almost as if she were praying. He snorted quietly. For all the good that would do her here.
The woman started at the noise. "Oh, thank God. You have to let me out," she said desperately. Her voice was a harsh rasp, barely audible. "I don't belong here."
He smirked. "Keep trying, mutie. That's the same trick you've been using since you got here."
"I am not a mutant!" Her dark eyes flashed. "I need to call my lawyer. I don't belong here. Don't I get a phone call or something?"
He spared her a glance. "Not here you don't."
There was an echoing clatter of metal scraping metal as she stumbled to her feet, only to fall heavily to her knees. The gray in her hair shone brightly under the fluorescent lighting. "I'm not supposed to be here," she hissed, mumbling something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "you incompetent moron". She glared up at him through the slats, her face coldly furious. "Call anyone. My name is Raven Darkholme. I don't belong here," she repeated, accentuating each word.
He turned away from her. He was so tired he'd forgotten one of the most important things he'd learned working here: Never talk to them. Never encourage them. Leave that to the correctional officers. He was there to make sure they didn't break out and kill each other.
"Don't you walk away from me!" Panic roughened her already hoarse voice. "Listen to me! I don't belong here," she screamed, pounding the chains against the floor. The scraping noise echoed strangely against the white walls and concrete floor, bouncing eerily through the hallway. Around him, prisoners grumbled and swore, irritated with the noise.
"My name is Raven Darkholme," she rasped, pounding a fist against the heavy door. She sounded genuinely terrified. He reminded himself she had done the same thing a hundred different times, with a thousand different faces. This was no different.
He hurried away, his skin crawling. Mutants. They were all the same. Manipulative and violent, given the chance. He'd seen what this one could do. Snapped a guard's neck on the first day. Not someone he knew, but all the same. Mutants were better dealt with by people who knew how to handle them.
"Listen to me! I'm not supposed to be here!"
XxXxXxX
Rogue drummed her fingers against the desk, trying to come up with the words she needed to sum up her Psychology paper introduction. Kitty, typing on a computer next to her, jiggled her crossed legs and bounced in her seat. She was clearly having the same sort of trouble.
"Rogue, what's another word for diagnosis? I've used it like, six times already," Kitty groaned. "I sound like a bad Wikipedia article."
"Umm... opinion? Prognosis? Conclusion? Ah don't know. Ah can't even finish mah introduction." Rogue propped her chin in her hand, sighing. "Ah absolutely hate writing papers."
"You know, Hartford isn't gonna give us better than a B anyway, not after those complaints he was getting from the school board. Why are we even trying?" The petite girl raised an eyebrow in Rogue's direction and made a face. "You wanna drop out with me? I hear the Burger Barn is hiring."
Rogue shrugged sympathetically, grimacing. "Kitty, you're the last person who should be droppin' outta high school. Even with the teachers pickin' on us you do better than everybody else. Besides," she added, "Ah think Ah would kill someone if Ah had ta work at the Burger Barn."
"Ladies, let's quit the chit-chat and get some work done, all right?" Mr. Hartford peered over their shoulders, frowning. "Rogue, you barely have a paragraph finished. Please try to concentrate on your work in this class and not Miss Pryde's latest gossip."
She and Kitty exchanged exasperated glances and went back to work. Rogue bit her lip, wondering if pain was at all associated with clearer thinking. It certainly wasn't helping her.
"Henri's dead, Remy." She blinked. Jean-Luc LeBeau watched her with haunted eyes, his expression grim. "Remy, your brother is dead. Do y' understand?"
"Ouais," she mumbled. Kitty kicked her chair as Mr. Hartford and a handful of kids from their class turned around to stare at her.
"What did you say, Rogue?"
"Nothin' Mr. Hartford," she said quickly. The smell of damp earth and chemicals overtook her so suddenly she almost gagged. Henri's dead, my brother is gone, mon Dieu mon frère est mort. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, wincing. The thoughts were painfully sharp, like broken glass or jagged metal.
What's going on? Kitty scribbled quickly on her notebook, a worried frown creasing her face. Rogue pushed it away and shook her head.
"Later," she mouthed. Her fingers shook as she tried to type. By the time the bell rung she could barely form a sentence, let alone one that described the typical symptoms of social phobias.
The two of them hurried to the cafeteria without speaking. It wasn't Kitty's lunch period, but that didn't seem to be stopping her from trailing along next to her roommate. By the time they reached Rogue's usual table – a secluded spot away from the rest of the students – Kitty looked like she was about to burst with curiosity.
"So what happened in there? You sounded like Remy for a second." The younger girl stopped twirling her bottle cap and gaped at Rogue. "Wait. No way. You didn't touch him, did you?"
Rogue feigned interest in the apple she was shining against her sleeve. To be honest, she was surprised Kitty didn't already know. "Mighta. Aren't yah supposed ta be in Chem right now?"
Kitty grinned widely, ignoring her question. "Oh? You might've? You're blushing really badly, by the way."
"Ah am not blushing," she said firmly.
"Yes, you are," Kitty sighed happily. "So what happened?"
Jean-Luc glowered at her, fury so deeply etched into his face it looked like it might never leave. She winced and glanced at her hands. They were bare and covered with thin white scars. A fresh bandage was wrapped tightly around her right hand, already turning red in the middle. She concentrated on the rust-colored stain spreading slowly out from her palm.
"Remy. Pay attention. What. Happened. Y' have t' tell me exactly what happened."
"Rogue, you're not listening to me, are you?"
She shivered and shrugged. "Sorry Kitty. Ah didn't mean ta zone out on yah."
"That's okay. I can always ask Remy for details later," she beamed.
Rogue glared, inwardly shuddering at the thought. "Yes," she said slowly, "Ah did absorb him. It was nothin' important, okay?"
"I don't believe you." Kitty stood and grabbed her books. "You were right, I have to get to Chem – see you later!"
Rogue rubbed her temples. Her thoughts tumbled in and out of a slow, twanging French she recognized from the few times she'd heard Remy speak it. She pushed his memories away, only to have them push back just as hard. In the middle of the crowded lunchroom, she could smell the wet wood of the bayou and hear the low sound of Jean-Luc and Tante Mattie arguing a room away. She rested her head on her arms and let it wash over her. Memories swam in her mind's eye, as clear as if they belonged to her alone. When the bell trilled again, Rogue stood, feeling cold. She would have given a lot of things not to have a gift like hers.
XxXxXxX
Rogue dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands, resting her cheek against her knee. The ice crusting the fountain scraped off when she moved, sending flurries of snow into the air. It was late enough that the temperature had dropped, and she could see each breath as it plumed from her lips.
The fountain wasn't an ideal place to think. It was in the middle of the lawn, and easily visible from nearly every window at the Institute. At dusk, though, it was a little safer, and a lot quieter than anywhere inside the house.
Rogue traced swirling patterns into the ice. The patchwork of information she'd absorbed was dark and confusing; a brief glance at Remy's life that she didn't want to see. She liked to pretend that he was like she had been: misguided, used by the wrong people, but still good at heart. Everything she had absorbed from him – now and in New Orleans – told her that wasn't necessarily true. She frowned fiercely at the thought, but couldn't think of anything that would make it less real.
Frustrated, Rogue flew up to the house and let herself in from a second floor balcony. The light was already on in her room when she got to the door.
"Hey Rogue," Kitty greeted. Remy was sitting next to her, and Rogue's stomach clenched for a hundred different reasons.
"Hey Kitty, hey Remy," she mumbled, sinking onto her own bed.
"You know, I was just going to head downstairs," Kitty said brightly. "I forgot my math book on the table." She hopped off the bed and phased through the floor, ignoring Rogue's pointed look.
"What was that all about?"
Remy shrugged and crossed the room to sit beside her. "M' thinking that was her way of tactfully givin' us some time t' talk." He kicked his crutches under the bed.
Apprehension tingled in her limbs. Rogue bit her lip nervously. "What about?"
He gave her a half-smile. "She said you were talkin' t' yourself today, an' she thought maybe it was somethin' you'd gotten from me." His expression turned curious. "Was it?"
There wasn't much point lying about it. "Yeah. It wasn't very clear, though."
"What wasn't?"
"Your memories… it was just some stuff that'd happened before yah left New Orleans."
Remy's hands clenched, and she could see the thin scars that worked their way up to his wrists. They were painfully familiar. "An' what did y' see, chère?"
Rogue tucked her legs up against her and looked away from him. "Ah'm sorry about your brother."
Remy stayed very quiet, his eyes burning. After what felt like an eternity, his hands relaxed and he smiled sadly, shaking his head. "Merci, I guess. I suppose y' know what dat's like, huh?"
"Like yah said… we could write a book." She let the subject drop. Right now, it wasn't important what he'd done or who he'd been. For right now, she could pretend it didn't matter.
He chuckled, and she could hear his relief. "Dat we could."
"Remy?" she ventured, plucking at a loose string on her bedspread, "Yah didn't happen ta talk with Kitty about anything else, did yah?"
He grinned impishly. "Whatever do y' mean chère?"
Rogue felt herself blushing hotly, so she buried her face in her hands. "Ah can't believe you," she groaned. "Now the whole Institute's gonna know what happened last night."
"Last night? I was just askin' her about de training y'all do here. What did you think I was talkin' about?"
One look at his face told her he'd known what he was doing all along. She smacked his arm lightly. She hadn't put much force behind it, but he still winced.
"Rogue, c'mon, y' know I was just kiddin' with you. No need t' maim me."
"That's what you think," she muttered darkly. "C'mon, let's head down ta dinner."
He picked up his crutches and somehow managed to one-handedly open the door before she could get to it. "As de lady wishes."