Disclaimer: I do not own these characters except by right of conquest.

Rating: Rated M for strong language, sex and violence.

Author notes:

Warrior-princess1980 - Hah, well, that will change slightly in this chapter! ;) ishandahalf - Thanks Ish. I'm glad you're still enjoying it. Rest assured neither of them will be killed off. They have protagonist powers, and this is not darkfic! ;) Honestly, I think at this point they are both really wary of each other and whilst there's definitely chemistry there, neither wants to be the first to give in without having the upper hand over the other first - if that makes sense! Heist-type stuff will definitely be coming at some point, I promise! slightlyxjaded - You'll get to learn part of Remy's reasons for wanting to work with Anna in this chapter, although with Remy I think it's wise to assume we won't know the whole story for a while yet! ;) The Japanese part in the last chapter was basically saying the date, name, and the code number Trask had given him. :) Glad you're still enjoying it, dear! :) Spasticatt - OMG, I do that too when I'm writing particularly visual stuff. Love it! :D PKS - Welcome to the fic! I hope you continue you to enjoy it, and thanks so much for the review! :)

Happy Easter and much love from,

-Ludi x

- 52 PICKUP -

Chapter 14

Anna lifted the visor off and ejected Yashida's mem-chip with a shaky hand. She had expected Remy to still be standing in the doorway but he wasn't there and the door was shut. She could hear him on the other side though, talking to someone.

That didn't seem like a good thing and she frowned; but she had other things to attend to. Like the fact that she could feel a bout of the shakes coming on strong. So she took his absence as a blessing and headed into the bathroom. She opened up the medicine cabinet and took down the orange bottle. There weren't many pills left in there and she swore to herself. It looked like another round of begging Dr. Braddock to repeat her prescription.

She shook out two of the pills and swallowed them whole.

Two minutes later and the feeling had passed.

When she went back into the lounge, Remy was just slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"Who was that?" she asked him.

"Jes' some femme I forgot I gave my number to," he explained as if it was the kind of call he got every day of the week. "Must'a been drunk."

"You were talking to her an awful long time," she remarked suspiciously as she watched him turn and head for the kitchen.

"Yeah, well… Some femmes find it hard to take no for an answer."

His back was still to her. She didn't like not being able to see his expression.

"Yeah, whatever. I know you were arranging a hookup." He looked irritatingly unconcerned as he pulled down a glass from her cabinet and poured himself a glass of water, entirely as if he owned the place. "Must'a hurt your pride and then some, sugah, when you left me your card and I didn't call."

He looked at her, drank a mouthful of water without once taking his eyes off of her. It was the most reaction she got out of laying her all-Southern accent on him.

"But you did call, chere," he countered, putting the glass back down on the counter.

"I'm guessing being chased by your psychopathic former buddies wasn't what you had in mind."

His grin would've been annoying if it wasn't so darned cute.

"I dunno. I actually thought it was kinda fun. I'm all for a bit for foreplay. S'just a shame Graycrow had t'come and shoot you in the leg. After that, the night I had in mind was pretty much outta the window."

He drank again, but his eyes were still on hers, like he was expecting, wanting her to get pissed off with him. She refused to give him the benefit.

"So you're some sorta insane masochist, huh?" She sidled up to the counter with a nefarious little grin on her lips. "Lucky for you I'm your client now. You've got to do everything I order you to."

She fixed her gaze on his meaningfully and he raised an eyebrow.

"Why do I get the feeling when you say 'order' that actually means you got some intel from Yashida's mem'ries for me to work on? As opposed to the 'get down on your knees and let me whip you into submission' variety?"

She pouted, half put out that he'd swung so fast from open flirtation back to business.

"Ooo, look at you going ahead and changing the subject now."

"Hey, you were the one going all 'client privilege' on me just a second ago."

"Hm." She ran a finger over the edge of the bar, wondering not for the first time just what she was going to end up paying this man. She didn't believe for a second that anything he was doing for her was for free. "Tell me," she spoke, finally deciding to turn to business after all, "what d'you know about Madripoor?"

He drained the rest of his glass, regarding her closely as he did so.

"Madripoor? Did you pick up somethin' about it from Yashida's mem'ries?"

She thought it was self-evident so she made no reply. He set down his glass slowly.

"Madripoor's a small south-eastern principality on the Malacca Strait. An old Eastern European colony, back when they had them. I done some bus'ness there a year or two ago. Why?"

She shrugged.

"In his memory, Yashida talked about being Essex's financial backer. And he mentioned a 'Madripoor contingent'. I was thinking that that someone may be one of the 6 founders of Weapon X and…"

He was chuckling softly as she said the words and she stopped, glaring at him indignantly.

"What?"

He straightened his face and cleared his throat.

"Chere, most of Madripoor – not to mention all its assets – belong to the country's ruling family. Well, what's left of their ruling family anyways, since most of them got assassinated or died from 'undetermined causes'. And as far as I know, there's only one member left…"

"Lady Ophelia Sarkissian," she cut in.

"Yeah." He smiled his usual lopsided smile. "Great legs. Even greater ass. A little bit too much into bondage for my taste though."

The look she gave him was withering.

"I hope you robbed her blind."

He laughed again.

"Nothin' but, chere. Once I'd settled bus'ness with her, o' course. So. Do I gotta steal her mem-chip then? 'Cos it'd be a nice excuse to go reacquaint myself wit' the femme, dontcha think?"

She wasn't quite sure whether he was teasing her or being serious. She thought maybe it was a little bit of both.

"What I think, Remy LeBeau," she murmured silkily, before walking away, "is that you're trying way too hard to get under my skin."

"And is it working?"

"You wish," she threw over her shoulder at him, only to stop short when she remembered something. "Oh. Wait." She turned and sidled right back over to him, getting as up close and personal as she could without him misreading the fact that she was now entirely serious. She squared up to him like she was about to challenge him to a duel… Or pull him down into a passionate kiss. Despite years of practice reading women he suddenly wasn't quite sure. "I forgot something," she murmured.

He watched curiously as she dipped a hand into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out Yashida's chip.

"Thanks for the share, Cajun," she said. She hooked the front pocket of his shirt with a forefinger and dropped the chip in. "And just so you're sure… I didn't swap it out this time."

Reason told her that she should step back and turn away at that point… but instead she lingered there perhaps a moment too long, her palm pressing up against the hard plane of his chest, the warmth of his body tugging at the horrible loneliness of her self-imposed exile.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, they held one another's gaze, until his eyes dropped to her mouth… And almost at once they were kissing, as greedy and insistent as that night in his hotel room, as if hardly a moment had passed between then and now, as if everything else between had been nothing more than a distraction. She was dimly aware at the back of her mind that they'd both been working their way towards this, that every parry they'd calculated and every move they'd made had been nothing but a prelude to this… and that disturbed her somehow. More than the fact that she was kissing him back as greedily as he was kissing her.

She pulled back slightly, breathing hard, wondering at the loss of control he inspired in her, the buried desires he so easily unearthed. He didn't leave her a moment more to analyse it. In a trice he had chased down what she had so unceremoniously taken away, catching her open mouth again with his own, the pressure of his hand cradling the back of her neck, drawing her closer as if he feared she would deny him again.

She gave up all pretence of resistance.

His tongue brushed against hers and she whimpered, her hands moving to cradle his cheeks, to run her fingers over the tactile texture of his stubble, to press herself harder into his kiss.

The truth was, it was years, years since she'd last felt like this. Years since any man had incited her to this kind of driving hunger. Years since she'd wanted anyone this badly.

She heard the clatter of him sweeping away random objects from the kitchen counter and the next moment he'd cupped her backside, hoisting her up into the now clear space in an effortless display of strength and poise. The movement forced a gasp out of her, breaking their kiss – he looked up at her and she looked down at him. For several moments there was nothing but the sound of their breathing. When he leaned forward to kiss her again it was only to tease her lips with butterfly kisses that were designed to drive her precisely to madness. She tried to chase them, desperate to seek deeper contact, but he evaded her every move with expert ease, and when she caught his face to keep him still she heard him laugh, a low, sexy laugh in that whiskey-and-molasses voice of his.

The fact that he was actually teasing her at this crucial juncture of sweet submission was something she rarely experienced with men but at this moment she found it to be an incredible turn on. She wasn't going to let his little ruse go unpunished, not for a second. Fixing him with a stare that was all at once defiant and sultry, she slowly wrapped her legs round his waist and worked herself right up against him.

It had the desired effect. A hot breath blasted from between his lips; the sound he made was strangled. She bit her lip, showing him a feral smile, and his eyes flickered, conceding her the point. He moved forward and gave her what she wanted – and as they kissed again she felt his hands on her blouse, unbuttoning it with a practiced pace. In a few seconds the garment was undone, and he pushed the sheer material off of her shoulders impatiently, his mouth leaving her own to make a searing trail over the length of her jaw and the column of her neck. She drew in a shaky sigh, shrugging off the rest of her shirt and rubbing her cheek in his hair as his right hand slid over the smooth expanse of her stomach and waist before moving up to cup her breast through the simple cotton of her bra, his thumb teasing her nipple to attention.

She opened her mouth and moaned, getting a breathful of his shampoo, of his aftershave.

She didn't know him. Didn't trust him. Didn't believe for a second that this wasn't all just part of some game to him. But she wanted him, even after all this time and after everything that had happened.

She struggled with the need to separate this feeling off into its own little box, to stuff it away in some inner closet before it burgeoned out of control and gobbled her up. But goddammit she needed this. She needed it so bad. She needed to feel this alive again.

Following her instincts and casting all doubts aside, Anna reached downward and fumbled at his flies.

But there was something wrong with her fingers, and she could barely coordinate a movement in them to get the first button undone.

Confused, she looked down between them and saw that her hands were shaking.

Violently.

All at once her body was seizing up and the tremors were taking over.

Shit!

She shoved him aside and jumped down from the counter, landing unsteadily before running to her room.

"Anna!" she heard him call behind her breathlessly. "Anna, what th' fuck…?"

She ignored him, storming into the en suite and leaning heavily on the sink to gain some purchase – mostly on herself. The tremors were coming hard and fast and she looked up at her reflection, pressing her lips together so hard in an effort to contain herself that they went white.

And then Remy was there. His gaze sweeping over her with a touch that scorched like flame.

"Anna, what the fuck…?" He stopped mid-sentence, and she could feel his eyes on her, and it was almost more than she could bear, for him to see her like this.

"Holy shit, Anna. You got the tremors…"

No fucking shit!

His statement was so offensively self-evident that it infuriated her. Her ataxia was increasing rapidly, but she needed her pills. She needed them now. And she wasn't going to ask him to get them for her.

There was a jumpstart in her brain and for a minute she was Shingen Yashida sitting in the back of his limo calmly reading the Asahi Shimbun and then the next she was reaching up and opening the medicine cabinet in a fast, jerky movement. The bottle was there but she couldn't aim for it. She just dove her hand right on in, knocking over almost everything on the shelf. She concentrated hard and somehow her fist closed over the bottle, and…

Another jumpstart and she was Bolivar Trask, looking round the faces at the conference table, whilst the woman with the dark hair and the Eastern European accent says, "Then what do we do with the ones who were a success? Do we just let them wander back into society as if nothing ever happened?", and then she was looking down at her shaking hand as she popped open the lid and shook out one, two of the pink pills into her trembling palm; then three and four. She shoved them into her mouth and swallowed hard. When she moved to shake out two more of the tablets, that was when she felt Remy's hand close over her own, stopping her.

"Don't touch me!" she yelled at him, but he didn't stop, he calmly worked the bottle out of her vicelike grip and set it aside.

"OD'ing on those ain't gonna do a fuckin' thing," he told her evenly. "Lemme help you. I seen dis before."

"The fuck you have…" she seethed at him, another wave taking her and why weren't the fucking pills starting to kick in and—

And he moved behind her and put his right palm on her bare back, between her shoulder blades.

"Put your weight on me," he instructed quietly. She was almost beside herself, tears of rage and embarrassment working out of her eyes involuntarily.

"Please get out, please just go…" she moaned, but he didn't listen, he reached around her and placed his left hand on her forehead, pushing her head back towards him gently while simultaneously pushing her away with his right. The pressure of his hands immediately had a steadying effect, and while it didn't take away the pain of the tremors, it eased her body into a position that could deal with them better.

"Jes' lemme take your weight, chere," he murmured softly; she could feel the heat of his breath on the back of her neck. "Don' be afraid of fallin' – let your legs go if you haveta. I got you."

She struggled with the urge to trust him – him, this man she had trusted enough to share the closest possible intimacy just a few minutes ago, but who she didn't, couldn't, trust with this. No one else was ever supposed to see her like this, in this horrible, all-consuming pain. But his touch was so soothing, so insistent, that she couldn't help herself from sinking into it. She was relieved, so relieved, to have someone there to take the pressure of the tremors from her – she let her limbs go, let them do what they wanted – and when she sank slowly to the floor he went with her, never taking his hands from her, holding her in a kneeling position on the ground until the pills finally kicked in and the shaking slowly left her.

It was only when her breathing evened out that he removed his hands. He was careful after that to keep his distance, and while she appreciated it was because he wanted to give her some space, it felt something like a rejection after the kisses they'd just shared.

"How long you been havin' these episodes, chere?" he asked her quietly. The question was a quaint one to her and she laughed mirthlessly.

"The question you should be asking is how long has it been since I never had one?" she muttered bitterly.

In the following silence she felt him appraising her clinically. It made her bare skin goosepimple and she realised how exposed she felt, sitting there on the cold bathroom tiles in her bra and little else.

"Where did you learn to do that thing you just did?" she asked, more in an attempt to fill in the awkward silence than anything else.

"There were a lotta Essex's patients who had the same kinda episodes, back in his compound," he replied soberly. "I seen some o' them. The mem-therapists used to use that technique to stop them from hurtin' theirselves." He paused. "You must be a doin' a helluva lotta fuckin' 'facin' to have attacks dis bad, chere."

She was silent. His gaze was on her like a spotlight and she looked down into her hands to avoid it. She was almost surprised to see that the tremors were gone, that her hands were still. What she felt was empty, drained of everything except the slow creep of shame, of humiliation, stealing over her. She felt foolish, unattractive, lost. Broken.

"You call them patients, Remy," she muttered, shivering from the cold and her own growing sense of mortification. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and took in a shaking breath. "They weren't patients. They were test subjects. Essex's test subjects. Sure, they were mem-junkies all right. But they didn't make themselves that way. Essex did."

She raised her eyes to his. He was wordless, his lips pressed together, taut.

"He put them through the interfacing process," she continued in a low monotone. "They did it so many times they can't comprehend what's real and what's the past anymore. That's what happens when the bleed effect takes over 24/7. There's no going back."

Her eyes dropped again as she swallowed down bitter memories, and she found she couldn't elaborate – she didn't know if she would break down if she did.

"How do you know all this?" he quizzed her.

She thought he knew what her answer was going to be before she gave it.

"Because he did the same to me," she whispered.

It was a source of shame, irrational perhaps, but acute and penetrating; silence fell again and after a moment he got up, went into the bedroom. When he came back he had a dressing gown in his hands. Without a word he got down on his knees in front of her and draped the robe over her shoulders. She was a little surprised and a little touched at the gesture. She tugged the fabric round her gently, letting its warmth dispel the cold, letting her screaming mind be comforted somewhat. When she deigned to look into his eyes again, they were serious. He didn't look shocked, and he didn't look disgusted.

"You were a test subject," he stated, coolly, calmly. There was only one other stranger she'd told this to and their reaction she remembered clearly. Shock. Horror. Righteous indignation. Pity, for the indignities she had suffered. These had all been appropriate responses at the time. But she was glad she didn't see them in him now. He was as accepting as if she'd told him what her favourite colour was. And it opened up in her something she hadn't really had until that moment. Trust. In him.

She held his gaze and pushed her hair back from behind her ear, turned her head so that he could see. And what he saw was a small square brand on her skin, the tattoo-like imprint of an embossed matrix code.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. It was the only tell-tale sign in a face that was otherwise devoid of expression, and yet again she wondered at his seeming indifference.

She dropped her hair and looked at him. There must've been a question in that look because a small, self-deprecating smile touched a corner of his lips and he spoke.

"You asked me why I came back t' warn you, chere," he said softly, never breaking her gaze. "Why I wanted t' work with you, why I let you hire me for free." She said nothing and his smile flickered, but didn't entirely disappear. He looked aside and pulled his hair back.

She gaped.

There, in exactly the same spot as her own, she saw that he had an almost identical brand tattooed too.

-oOo-