The Witness' Stand, Somewhere

Somewhen

Jean opened her eyes to stare upwards at a white ceiling. It was dimpled with age. A small antique brass chandelier hung in the center of the ceiling. Once it was fueled by gas; it was now fitted with electric bulbs. It was unlit, but some light filtered through the draperies on the nearby bay window. The furnishings in the room were draped with white dust cloths. The wood floor beneath her was bare of any carpeting. It appeared as if the apartment was uninhabited. She inhaled and slowly released her breath before sitting up. Remy was laying on the floor beside her. His eyes were closed. He seemed to be asleep. She leaned close to him to make sure he was still breathing. He smelled positively awful and was entirely filthy. His hair stook out from his head and face like a lion's mane, crusted with dust and grit. Jean shook her head, staring down at him. The shirt she had bought for him was shredded and a color somewhere between brown, orange and gray.

"Remy," she whispered.

His eyelids fluttered.

"Remy," she said again, putting her hand on his shoulder to give him a gentle shake.

"Mnh," Remy said, his eyes still closed. His hand reached upward, searching the air until he found her hair. His hand touched the back of her head.

"Remy, get up," Jean told him.

"Mm, m'okay," he mumbled and leaned forward, his hand pulling her close. His mouth pressed into hers and his arms drew around her.

Jean inhaled sharply with surprise, breathing in the sharp stink of unwashed body and - camel?

"Mmph!" Jean said and roughly shoved Remy back to the floor while sitting up and climbing to her knees.

Remy was fully awake now, blinking with surprise. "What?" he said, looking around the room. "What's goin' - who? Jean?"

Jean rubbed her forearm over her mouth. "Ugh! Remy!" she exclaimed.

Remy propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her. "Oh, sorry, Jeannie. I thought you were someone else."

"What?!" Jean squawked with outrage. "Who? Who did you think I was?"

"Erm," Remy stalled, eyes still casting about the room while scratching behind his ear. "Where are we?" he finally asked.

Jean exhaled and let her arms fall to her sides. Remy sat up fully. "Where'd you take us?"

"An apartment," she said. "It's a safehouse. Above The Witness' Stand."

Remy shook his head in incomprehension for a moment, then understanding dawned on him. "The Witness' Stand? The Witness' shop? In New Orleans?"

"No-," Jean began, then reconsidered. "I mean, yes? I think so."

Remy studied her carefully, questions written all over his face. "How'd you know about dis place? What made you think t'come here?"

Jean combed her fingers through her mussed hair. "I didn't know where to go, or when to go, so I just took us nowhere. Your father told me it was outside of time and space."

"My father?" Remy asked, he looked mildly mortified. "You met Jean-Luc?"

Jean nodded. "Feels like forever ago...it was more like hours. But yes. We didn't know where you went after the doughnut shop. Jean-Luc received a call from the school saying you were there. We were on our way."

"But how would anyone know I was at the school? I only just popped up there! I didn't see anyone except...little Jean, little Scott and my...self. Wait! My little self was there! I'd give my right arm t'see de expression on Jean-Luc's face when…they called my dad? So they weren't gonna kill me? Ugh, my head hurts," he said, putting his forehead down on his raised knees. After a moment, he asked: "How long have I been gone?"

"Maybe a day?" Jean said.

"A day only?" he moaned.

Jean put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Let's work it out later. Right now, you need to get cleaned up. You're a mess. And you absolutely reek."

Remy sighed and they both climbed to their feet. They were in the sitting room at the front of the apartment. Jean took Remy across the hall to a closed door. She opened it to find a small bathroom. The floor was made up of small black and white tiles; the walls in glossy subway tile. A pedestal sink with a mirrored medicine cabinet above it was to the right. Beside the sink was a toilet with an old fashioned tank and pull chain. To the left was a clawfoot tub surrounded by a clear plastic shower curtain. Above the tub was a small stained glass window with a pair of red birds in cut glass. Light shone through it, painting the white tub with dappled colors.

"Here, you get undressed," Jean walked to the tub and turned the taps. The pipes gave a cough and a clank, but then water began to flow and fill the tub. She turned to see Remy staring at her.

"I'll find towels," she said. "There's a shop next door. I'll go get some soap."

"Okay," Remy answered slowly. He let his arms drop and his coat slouched off his shoulders. It fell to the tiles with a puff of dust.

Jean nodded at him and left the bathroom. Remy continued to undress, looking at himself in the mirror over the sink. Jean was right, he was a mess. Under the dirt, he was sunburned, scratched, and bruised. His formerly pink shirt joined his coat. He pulled his black tee-shirt over his head. By the time he'd taken off his boots and jeans, the tub had mostly filled. He climbed in and immediately submerged himself. Nothing had ever felt better. Resurfacing, he took hold of the hand shower and sprayed himself in the face, then held the shower over his head, creating a waterfall out of his long hair. When he opened his eyes, he could see the water in the tub had already turned brown. He pulled the plug and let the water start to drain.

Remy was lounging back in the water, watching the tub refill when Jean returned. She had towels and a plastic shopping bag in her arms. Remy glanced up to look at her. She didn't meet his gaze. Jean hung a towel on a bar beside the bathtub and handed him a washcloth. She turned to the shopping bag she'd placed on the sink. Jean removed a boxed bar of soap from the bag, opened the box to remove the soap, and gave that to him as well. She put a bottle of shampoo on the floor beside the tub. Then she sat on the closed toilet lid cover behind him. Neither of them offered commentary on his nakedness.

The tub was filled. The faucets turned off. A droplet splashed into the water, interrupting the silence. Remy stared at the tiled wall in front of him. Jean sat quietly behind him, not speaking. He slowly picked up the bar of soap from the soap holder and applied it to the washcloth.

"Everything okay?" Remy asked, unable to withstand the oppressive quiet.

"I wonder," Jean said slowly.

"What?" Remy asked.

"Nothing, nevermind," Jean replied. "What happened to you? Why are you so dirty?"

"It's a long story," Remy said. He scrubbed his face with the washcloth. He held it away from his face and looked at it. It very much resembled the Shroud of Turin.

Jean sighed, frustrated, resigned and disappointed.

"But I guess we have de time," Remy continued. "All de time we could want, enh?"

Jean moved behind him. She picked up the shampoo bottle. He heard her open it, put shampoo into her hands. "Yes," she said. He felt her hands in his hair. Remy closed his eyes.

"All right," he began slowly, as her fingers combed through his hair, nails scratching his scalp in an extremely satisfactory way. "So you're not gonna believe dis…I went to d'doughnut shop...and guess who was there. Eating a cruller." And then he told her everything. He left out no detail. Jean listened, occasionally asking questions or exclaiming surprise. She had to have him pause right after the part where he'd been taken by the Marauders so she could rinse the soap from his hair. Remy kept talking, gesturing with his hands and spraying water droplets onto the tiled walls and floor.

"Achmed!" Jean exclaimed, while she pulled a black comb through Remy's tangled hair. "But that's too-! How? It can't be true!"

"That's what I thought too!" Remy replied and continued. He was really getting into this storytelling thing. He made his hands claws as he described Sinister injecting him with poison. His fist splashed the water at the part where the cave exploded. He even did a good Sinister impression, with the exaggerated pauses and declarations of doom. Jean laughed.

"Don't do that again, it gives me the creeps," she said, a smile in her voice.

"That's it then," Remy said finally when his story had concluded. "That's all she wrote."

Jean said softly, "That you went through all that...to protect me… I don't...I...Remy. That you survived is a miracle." She handed him the towel, turned away, and stood to approach the sink.

"Be a real miracle if I ever get all this sand out of every crack and crevice in my body," he said, rubbing the washcloth in his ear.

Remy unplugged the tub and stood. He toweled his chest and shoulders dry, rubbed his damp hair, then wrapped the towel around his waist. When he turned, Jean was still there, facing him this time. She had a pair of scissors in one hand, an electric razor in the other.

"You're scaring me, chѐre," he said, eyes widening.

She smiled grimly and clicked the shears. "Have a seat," she gestured to the toilet. Remy sat on the lid, eyeing the scissors warily.

"D'you even know what you're doin'?" he asked.

"It can't be any worse than it is," she told him. "And if I make a mistake, I suppose I can just shave the whole thing."

Remy made to stand hurriedly, but Jean told him: "Kidding, kidding!"

He sat again. She used the small black comb to smooth the beard on his face. Her face was very close to his.

"What about you?" Remy asked. "What did you get up to while I was gone? How did you run into Jean-Luc?"

"Shh," Jean said as she made a few experimental snips at the side of his face, trimming the hair shorter, while leaving it a more reasonable length and shape. "No talking."

"So you talk now," he said. "What's your story?"

Jean paused, her mouth a grim line. Her green eyes stared into his red ones. "I don't even know how to start," she said dully. She resumed her grooming of his beard, unable to meet his gaze. "I've been given another chance, a fresh start, and I ruined it. I really messed up, Remy."

"Jeannie -," he started.

"No, hush. I'll tell you," she neatly trimmed the hair on his upper lip. "Don't move unless you want a bloody lip."

He looked at her with trepidation.

"I woke up in an underground city, Sinister Prime's city. There were five of us, five of me. Only Number Four had died before I really...came back to myself." Jean shortened the wild hair on Remy's chin. "Sinister Prime was rebuilding his stock. He tried... to inseminate me on more than one occasion that I can recall."

Remy made a sound of protest, but she put her fingers over his lips. "There was another clone," she continued. "One of you. He was defective, supposedly. Because instead of exploding like all the other clones of you, he was unable to charge anything. He was very kind to me. He helped me escape. He took insane risks." Here Jean shook her head, remembering. "I was desperate. We...I had sex with him. Because I knew Sinister would try again and I was not, not, not going to-have his child. No."

Remy was watching her face, but she wouldn't meet his gaze. She didn't want to see the expression on his face. She could feel his confusion and anxiety. Disgust, too. But for herself or for Sinister? She didn't press further. She continued grooming him.

"I had feelings for him, your clone. Maybe I was so, so hungry for companionship, I imagined I might love him. But he was not whole. He was sweet, and funny, and fearless. And almost...like a child." At the admission, Jean felt revulsion for herself. "I used him, Remy. Poppet -that's what your clone was called- Poppet and I were together when there was an explosion. He and I escaped. The other three clones of me died. They were killed. By the other X-Men. Stabbed, burned. I felt them die, and it was like we were coming back together. So I have these-other me's-in my head. Controlling, cruel, hopeless, angry. Selfish. So selfish. All the worst parts. And the only good one, the brave one, the one who sacrificed herself to save us, she was already gone. I'm the leftovers."

Remy put his hands over her hand, the one that still held the scissors. "That's not even close to true," he told her. "I've been with you all dis time and you've not been any of those things." He paused, then tried to smile. "Okay, maybe a tad domineering," he admitted.

Jean sat back on her heels in front of him. "You haven't heard the worst," she said, brushing fallen hair clippings from his knee. She inhaled slowly. "Before I ran into your father, here, in this apartment, I-I followed a lead Matt Murdock called with, about your assassin. Poppet's murderer. I went on my own, when I should have waited. I broke into a woman's apartment. She caught me. There was a struggle. And then she was shot. I shot her."

Remy watched her and this time she looked into his eyes. "I think she's dead. Only I don't know, because I ran away. An assassin did come then, a real one. And threw a knife at me."

Remy lowered his head, his long hair falling like a sheet over his face. "Jean," he sounded tired. "I don't know what t'say."

"You don't have to say anything," she told him. "I don't want to hear it anyway. There's nothing you could say to make it better."

Jean swallowed, her throat dry. She whispered her secret: "I hate myself."

He looked up at her then, and for once his expression was one full of emotion, not a mask. "Jean, listen t'me," he told her and she began to protest, not wanting to see the empathy in his eyes. She put up her arms to ward him off. "No, just listen. I know how you feel. I know exactly how you feel. Do you know what deserves your hate? Hate what Sinister did to you. Hate that your friend was murdered before your eyes. Hate the circumstances. This person you are doesn't deserve your hate. This person you are deserves love."

"Do you know how disgusting it feels?" she asked. "Knowing that he made me? That he owned me? That he felt like he could do whatever he wanted to me, to my body?"

"I have an inkling," Remy whispered. "Maybe he made your body, Jean. But he didn't make your beautiful mind, your soul. Only one being has the power t'do that, and Sinister ain't Him."

Jean was crying. "I wish I had your faith. Everything is a mess. Why did I have to come back? Why was I called? Why? Haven't I been through enough?"

He put his hands on her upper arms and squeezed. "We'll try to make it right, chѐre. We'll figure it out. You and me. I want to help you. And I need you," he said. "And I mean that literally, because without your help, I don't know how in de hell we're supposed to get out of dis here missing time place."

"You can just use the door," she said miserably. Jean looked at him through her tears, her face blotchy and swollen, her darkened hair in disarray. He smiled at her, thinking she looked more beautiful, more real, than she'd ever had.

"Remy," she croaked, and then turned aside to seize a handful of toilet paper to wipe her face. "I don't need you to help me try to fix it. I don't need you to do anything more for me than you already have." Her breathing was hard and shaky. She tried to marshal her emotions, but her throat felt tight, and the more she struggled to stop the tears, the harder they fell. "I'm glad you're here. Thank you for listening to me. Thank you for just being here with me. That's all I want."

"All right," Remy said, and put his arms around her. "All right, I can do that." He felt her press her face into the space where his neck and shoulder met. He moved to sit beside her on the floor. She returned his embrace. His lips moved to her hair and he pressed a kiss there. Remy didn't know how much time passed that he spent holding her, that she held him. Only her tears subsided and breathing slowed. Jean's hand absently stroked the back of his arm, her lips still pressed against his shoulder, breath warm on his neck. He became more and more aware he was wearing nothing but a towel. "I mean, there must be other things you would want me for…?"

Jean drew back slowly and looked at Remy. Her expression was not one of approval. "You. Are. Incorrigible."

"That's Stormy's line," Remy told her, giving her a watery smile.

"I can tell, that even you know, that your usual attempt at sexual innuendo is wildly inappropriate. And I would normally tolerate your use of levity to break the tension. But. I have something else to tell you, Remy," Jean said and reached for the plastic shopping bag.

Remy's smile faded. "You're not going to put mousse in my hair, are you?"

"Oh, Remy," she whispered. "What am I going to do with you?" Jean was holding a rectangular box in her hands. It was pink. Jean stared at it. She showed him the box. It was a pregnancy test.

"Not again," Remy murmured.

Jean inhaled: "Remy. I think I'm pregnant."

They regarded one another for a long moment. For perhaps the first time ever, Remy seemed to be at a complete loss for words. His brow wrinkled. Jean's heart thundered. The moment of silence was interrupted by the sounds of muffled footsteps in the hallway. They both turned toward the sound.

"Who is that?" Remy asked her. "Jean-Luc?"

Jean reached out with her telepathy. Her expression became confused. She stood slowly and Remy climbed to his feet, holding the towel around his waist.

"No," Jean replied. Together, they left the bathroom and returned to the living room. There was a man there, pulling the dust covers from the furnishings. A coffee table now sat in the center of the room. A briefcase sat atop it. The man turned, folding one of the white sheets over his arm. He regarded the pair for a moment, his expression was uncharacteristically grim.

"Oh," Remy started. "It's Th'Witness. Jean, dis is..."

The Witness raised a pale eyebrow, waiting. He was not wearing his glasses, and his eyes flashed in the dim light.

"...Someone I know," Remy finally finished. "He runs de shop downstairs."

Jean recognized the name, as Jean-Luc had asked after his whereabouts. He's a grumpy grouch, the boy had told his grandfather. The Witness turned his attention to Jean. "Thought I'd get de place ready for visitors," he told her. "I'm a bit late. Got inta a philosophical debate with the Devil during lunch."

Jean stared, dumbstruck; her arms hung limply at her sides.

"Remy," The Witness said. "You'll find some clothes in the closet at the end of the hall. You and I share a similar fashion-sense. Sure there'll be somethin' you like."

"Awright," Remy said, mildly perplexed. He returned to the hallway and disappeared from view.

Jean and The Witness regarded one another. "D'you know me?" he asked her.

She recognized the little boy inside the man. "Jackie?" she asked softly.

He nodded once. His expression was sincere, open.

"But you're…" Jean began. How was it possible for him to be grown when only yesterday he was a child?

"You wondered why you came back. Back to de here and now, I mean. Back from de white room," The Witness began, using Jean's own words to describe where she'd been in between lives. "You felt like someone...called for you."

"Yes," Jean answered with a jolt of surprise, wondering how he could have known.

"It was me," The Witness said. "I called."

"How?" Jean asked. All at once she began to shake.

He shook his head from side to side. "I saw...witnessed...an opportunity. For you t'come home. I put my heart an' soul into calling your name."

"Why?" Jean whispered, her face flushing red.

"B'cause I needed you," The Witness said.

"Did you," Jean said through her numb lips, her jaw clenched hard. "Did you...arrange for this to happen? Somehow?"

The Witness sighed. "You're angry. Y'have a right t'be. You think your life is not your own t'live. You think you got other people pullin' the strings."

Jean closed her eyes, her anger was clouding her vision. She could taste the metallic tang of fear and fury on her tongue.

"I never care if other folks believe me or not. I only care that you do. And you trust me when I say...the strings were already there, and I don't pull 'em. I just cross 'em. Bring 'em together. But I never, never make the decisions. That's not my place. You do that, you decide at the crossroads...on your own."

Jean reopened her eyes to look at this strange...person. Whoever he was. Who she feared him to be.

"It's always been your choice," The Witness said quietly. Then he broke his gaze and looked away. "T'have me. To not."

Jean looked down at the box she still held in her hands, her vision blurred with tears. "I can't do this," she whispered.

The Witness nodded sadly. "You are...de strongest person I've ever met, in all my years. Not rigid, not hard. Strong. You bend, but you don't break. You can do whatever you put your mind to. You can do anything."

Jean steeled herself, not wanting to talk anymore, not wanting to listen. Just wanting to put her hands over her ears and scream. Instead, she drew a breath. "I've given everything," she said, her voice shaking with barely controlled emotion. "My love. My mind. My body. My life. I have nothing more to give."

"Not even game for another round of 'The Floor is Lava'?" he asked sadly, without joy or hope.

Jean felt as if her heart would shatter. She clutched a fist to her shirt, as if she could hold that beating organ. Make it still. Will it not to hurt so badly.

"You don't have t'do anything, not for me. Y'don't even know me. I'm a stranger. I ask for help for someone else, since he rarely asks for himself," The Witness nodded towards the doorway.

"I need you t'help him," The Witness said. "Will you?"

Remy reappeared from the hall, looking down at the shirt he was wearing as he entered the room. "Hey, I had a shirt like dis when I was a kid! Tante Mattie threw it out," he was saying. He looked up at The Witness. "D'you think I can keep this?" The smile dropped from his face as he looked from The Witness to Jean. "What happened?"

Jean looked up at Remy, felt his concern wash over her like a soothing balm. "Of course I'll help him," she said. "I'd do anything."

"Wait, what?" Remy said, now alarmed. "Help me wit' what?"

"Help you face some hard truths, Remy," The Witness moved to the coffee table and opened the briefcase there. The small gold metal plate on the briefcase read: DENTI. He began removing files from the case, a laptop. "Because without de truth, you'd wish you'll never be born."

~ oOo ~

Not pulling any punches in the next chapter. Regardless on where you stand on certain issues re: reproductive rights, I hope you consider the following chapter with an open mind. It is a consideration of both sides, which I hope I treated fairly.

I started a new story since this one is complete and just waiting to be reformatted for ff .net. It's called Dealer's Choice and it's rated M. Completely different story than this one, linear format for one. It is a drama/mystery/action/horror/love story. The only similarity is that I still will write about political/social issues.