Chapter Three – Restless
Summary:
Between bouts of unconsciousness, Remy is trying to figure out what happened to him, where he is, and why this madwoman is claiming to be his wife. Some answers are more forthcoming than others.
"...restrained…his wrists and ankles..."
Gambit stirred as the the unfamiliar voice woke him. Well, not exactly unfamiliar, the speaker sounded like that of the doctor who'd been part of the team who'd found him. But, Gambit had been drifting in and out of consciousness for a while now and there hadn't been time for introductions.
This time, he resisted the return towards the dark void. His head was heavy and stuffed with cottonwool. It made it hard to think and concentration flitted in and out with the throb of his head.
Keeping his breathing even, he continued to feign sleep while he doubled down on the statement which had woken him. Restraints.
With a slight twitch of his arms, he confirmed they hadn't restrained him At least not yet, though he feared that might still be an option. He would not allow himself to be taken prisoner. Which meant…which meant…focus…he needed to remain free and conscious.
"How long is he gonna be out?" A gruff voice carried across the room at a volume louder than the doctor's. From the way the sound bounced off the walls and filled the space, Gambit mentally placed the men at the doorway just outside the room where they kept him. His brain was too hazy to be more accurate than that.
The doctor's response was too low for Gambit to hear the nuance. But, he did determine they hadn't yet realized Gambit was awake—at least momentarily.
"She wants to be with him when he wakes."
To his surprise, Gambit knew exactly to whom the gruff man was referring. The thought of her anguished face being the first thing he saw when he opened his eye, her willing him to accept the lies she concocted…. Anxiety churned in his stomach and he couldn't discern if the butterflies were of disgust or desire. The more he tried to pin down the feeling, the quicker it flitted away on rebellious wings.
He was grateful when the doctor hesitated in his response. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea…"
Gambit resisted the urge to scratch his wrists. They scraped against the sheets, but he couldn't feel the material against his skin. It only took a moment to realize his wrists and right ankle were swathed in gauze bandages. His left foot was heavier than the right. A snug wrapping constrained his sprained ankle, but didn't restrain it. In effect, he was free to leave.
Testing the theory, Gambit attempt to roll to his side like one might do in a restless sleep. His body moved freely, but a white hot pain lanced his skull, immobilizing him before he could do more than fidget helplessly in bed.
This time Gambit did not resist as he succumbed to the pull of the darkness. Vibrant green eyes haunted his dreams.
The astringent burn of a sterile environment burned his nose and clawed at the back of his throat. That's how Remy knew he was awake. Medical equipment beeped with the steady rhythm of his heart. He didn't want to open his eyes, not yet. Once he did, the others—whoever they were—would know he was awake and he wanted to have a better understanding of the situation before falling back into their clutches.
He was in a medical facility. Or—a shudder ran through him and the beeping of the monitors quickened—a lab. A sliver of fear raced down his spine and a tangible mass of anxiety writhed in the depths of his guts. A counterintuitive instinct insisted he run—fight—and reveal himself, but he strangled the impulse with a lifetime of a thief's patience ingrained into the very core of his being.
His reaction confused him. Admittedly, Remy was never particularly fond of doctors and he held a certain wary caution around clinics, but this extreme reaction was new. He had no memory, no cognitive reason, to warrant such an instinctual response, such visceral terror. It was etched into his bones, suffered into his blood, seeped into the core of his being. He needed answers and he didn't trust anyone here—didn't know anyone—to give him the answers he needed. That left finding a way to get in touch with his family. He twitched his fingers. The ring had been removed, but he still felt the weight of its presence around his finger. Or, Belle.
Remy forced himself to breathe. To maintain the steady pattern of sleep. The regulated breathing helped to calm his heart, to calm his mind enough to think. His head had settled into a steady, throbbing pain. His thoughts, still lethargic and heavy. Experimentally, he allowed his head to loll to the side. Immediately, pain lanced through his skull, enough to make him whimper in response. This would make things more difficult. Not impossible, but required a different sort of plotting.
Before any further reconnaissance could be made, he needed a better assessment of his condition. Waking up under the collapsed building was still the most vibrant memory circulating among his otherwise spotty subconscious. Even with Swiss cheese for brains, he knew that it was unlikely to walk away from that unscathed.
Mentally working down his body, he kept a running tally of his injuries. The aches were expected, while the stiff joints were more of a mystery. His ribs twinged—bruised. Probably not broken since he didn't feel the constraining wrap of bandages nor the the sharp pierce of pain when he inhaled. Still, it might make smoking difficult for a few days. Despite himself, his brow furrowed at the thought. It had been only God knows how long since his last cigarette, yet the insistent craving for nicotine was nowhere to be found.
Across his skin, the assortment of scabbed over abrasions itched. His right knee twinged with the memory of an old injury he couldn't recall and his left foot was still weighed down in a way that he right was not. Flexing his ankle sent a lightening bolt dancing across every nerve ending. It was unlikely to support his weight if he needed a quick getaway.
With his examination complete, Remy resigned himself to a little longer in the strangers' custody. The skull-splitting pain made it hard to concentrate for more than a few moments at a time. His few minutes of lucidity were quickly catching up with him. He still wanted answers, but he just...he needed...a minute to clear his head... He'd get more information...later. Be they a rival Guild, a government organization, or free agents, they would soon discover their machinations were no match for Prince of Thieves.
—
"How is he doin', Hank? When will he wake-up?" The honeyed drawl washed over his harried thoughts like a soothing balm.
"Those are two fairly different questions, my dear." The deep rumble of the doctor responded. A whisper of something akin to relief brushed against the holes in Remy's memories. Finally an answer to fill in the blanks. The doctor, his name must be Hank. Was this something he already knew? Or, was this a completely new fact? "His physical injuries were relatively minor all things considered and are mending as expected. As for when he will wake up, I am not certain. There's no obvious medical reason for him to sill be unconscious."
"What am Ah gonna do?" There was a catch in her words. A tangle of breath which would be tears, if she had not run out of them.
"Have faith, my dear, have faith. You promised to always find your way back to him, have faith that your husbands will do the same."
Back to you. Remy mentally scoffed. That sounded like she couldn't keep track of her husband. What did she do? Lose him on the regular?
The mocking ceased when he remembered that before he had fallen unconscious, she claimed he was her husband. No, he denied any reality where that might be true. If he was anybody's husband—and the wedding band he'd worn would seem to state that he was—he was Belle's. If it wasn't just that they loved each other (he did love her, right?), their marriage would bring peace to the Guilds. He could not imagine ever being married to anyone else. The peace they bought with their union was worth any sacrifice they made.
Remy swallowed back the bitter taste of resentment which always rose in his throat whenever he thought about the arranged marriage. It wasn't that he didn't love Belle. He couldn't imagine loving anyone as much as he loved her. Even before the arrangements had been made, he had planned for a future with Belle. But, he hadn't wanted it so soon. He didn't want to be married so young. There was so much life to experience, he didn't want to be tied down—trapped. There was so much of life he wanted to experience. But, what the Guild needed, was more important than what he wanted. It was scarcely a sacrifice to be given permission to marry the woman you love. Right? For that marriage to guarantee the protection to your family and friends. He could sacrifice a little independence for that. It wasn't too much to ask, was it? Still, he chafed at the idea of being restrained.
"Could he be fakin' it? He doesn' like givin' up the advantage." While his thoughts had drifted, the conversation had continued. The Southern belle spoke with too much certainty about Remy's behavior. He could not reconcile how she could know so much about him when he knew nothing of her. He'd been feigning sleep or drifting in and out of consciousness for over a day and a half, and with the exception of that first evening, she had remained steadfastly by his side. Over the course of her vigil, she'd held his hand, praying he'd wake or chattering about a stranger's life. His heart would have to be made of ice to say her pleading hadn't moved him, but she was a stranger to him. Another person wanting to use him for reasons he couldn't quite comprehend yet. He didn't want to get to know her. Did he?
With an internal grimace, Remy rebelled against the thought. He didn't want anything about her to be soothing or pleasant or comforting. Belle was his wife, not this…this…other woman. Not only did he love Belle, the peace was dependent on their marriage, on him staying faithful. He would not screw this up.
No, Remy told himself, I'm just feelin' relieved cause she ain't sitting next to me anymore.
In the pause as Hank considered the femme's supposition, the chatter of children broke the silence. "Can we see him?" "Is he still sleepin'?"
"Sorry darlin', they got away from me." The gruff voiced man followed so shortly after the voices of the children, Remy was certain the three had arrived together.
"It's okay, sug." Remy could hear the forced smile in her voice. "Ah was just talkin' to Hank about when we could visit."
There's a thrill of anticipation in the air. A collective holding of breaths.
"To answer your question, it is possible…" there was hesitation in the doctor's voice. "…he may be choosing to remain 'asleep,' but with the…injury…to his brain this could be natural. There's no telling the extent of his…condition…until he wakes up."
The Doc was dancing around his answers. He was speaking in a veiled language, leaving pieces out. The question was, who was the doctor keeping the information from? Remy didn't dare risk opening his eyes even a sliver at this time, not when they were speculating on the veracity of his unconsciousness. He could feel their eyes on him—even the children's. Eventually he would need to face them, but he wanted to do so on his terms, not theirs. It would be better for him if he could come to the conversation with more than the big blank in his skull.
"What about the girls…?" She'd left the question unfinished. Remy squirmed, wishing he knew what they were talking about.
Hank 'hmmed' for a moment. "I don't think it would harm him…but I am concerned about the effect his apparent condition may have on them. It may be difficult…."
If she responded verbally, Remy couldn't hear her. There was a low murmur of conversation among the adults as they debated the merits of this or that action.
"All right, I'll take that as my cue," the gruff voice man interrupted the silence. "C'mon girls, Kitty's waitin' for ya in the kitchen. Said something about cookies and ice cream."
A wave of excitement, edged with uncertainty blanketed the room as the hustle of small voices and the flurry of movement headed away from him. Overlapping voices more or less prodded the children in the same direction with instructions to "Breathe," and "Keep moving," and "It's gonna be okay."
"Thanks Logan. Thanks for everything…" A dry sob caught in her throat. It was followed by the rustle of fabric—a hug. A surge of emotions as sour as bile churned in his stomach and festered in his heart. Stupid, confusing emotions.
"Anything for ya, darlin'." With that, a door shut and the commotion of children ceased. Whoever this Logan was, he appeared close to the Southern Belle. He'd brought his children and Remy had heard her fondness for these girls. More mysteries to puzzle out.
After a long moment of silence, she spoke. The honey drawl was tainted by grief and worry. "Now that they're gone, Ah need ya to be honest with me. His memories. What happened to 'em?"
"I wish I could give you a definite answer, but I honestly don't know." The doc took a deep breath. A moment to gather his thoughts, soften the blow. "The memory loss may very well be temporary—a result of the building falling on him and the head injury. On the other hand, it may be more severe—longer lasting. There's no way of knowing for certain until we can talk to him."
The strangers spoke of memory loss, which Remy would be a fool to deny. Things had been off since he first woke in the crumbled building. The gaps in his memory were almost a tangible thing. It only struck him now to wonder how much of his memory he had lost. How much time had passed between what his last memories and the present?
A seed of doubt niggled at the back of his brain. He didn't dare allow himself to dwell on that possibility. The ramifications were more than his jumbled brain could handle.
What if they were right?
rrrrThmp…rrrrThmp…rrrrThmp…
If Remy didn't already have a headache, the near deafening whirring, thumping sounds would certainly have given him an instant migraine. It was not the way he wanted to regain consciousness. He couldn't determine if this was bettor or worse than waking up trapped under a building.
With a flutter of lashes and a slight flinching at the sudden inundation of light, Remy opened his eyes. Even with his eyes half lidded to lessen the sensory overload and piercing headache, there wasn't much to see. He was lying on a bed inside a narrow tunnel. The walls were smooth, featureless expanse. While he was mostly certain it was simply his brain playing tricks on him, the tunnel felt as though it was closing in on him.
A flicker of memory flashed across his mind so briefly he couldn't grasp onto anything more than a surface impression. Restraints binding him to the table. His wrists rubbed raw. Though even the thought of movement caused his head to rebel and his stomachs to heave, he flicked his wrist. It moved without constraint.
"Please lie still. The scans are nearly complete," a calm, erudite voice came from no where and everywhere at once.
Panic welled in his chest, sending his heart into double time while his lungs refused to cooperate. I have to get out. I can't let him….not again….He couldn't have me….
Despite the pain and the inability to sit up, Remy disobeyed the voice and began inching his way towards the entrance of the tunnel. It wasn't for nothing that he was a Master Thief with a reputation for getting out of tight circumstances.
Simultaneously in his ear and miles away, the voice spoke again, "Remy, stop. I'm discontinuing the scan."
The reassurances did nothing to calm the panicked thief. Though the bed was slowly regressing from the tunnel, Remy did not stop his scramble to free himself. The moment he was freed from the tunnel and could sit upright without smacking his head Remy slid off the still moving bed.
Around him, the world spun, making it impossible to focus on the room in general or the people rushing towards him in particular. For the split second before he could compensate, his injured ankle gave way and his leg threatened to buckle. He grabbed hold of the machine—which he vaguely recognized as an MRI—to steady himself.
All talking at once, the crowd of strangers continued towards him. Closing in on him. Among them, he recognized the silhouette of the blue furred doctor who'd been part of the rescue party. They captured him once, they wouldn't find taking him a second time to be quite so easy.
While the odds didn't appear in his favor, he always had the knack of succeeding on the long odds. Taking a quick inventory, he found he didn't have much to work with. He wore a little more than a flimsy hospital gown and his ankle was wrapped in an elastic bandage. The power beneath his skin buzzed and pulsed. It wanted out, so he let it. The MRI glowed a lurid fuchsia.
"Stop," Remy growled in a dry rasp. Fire burned in his throat like he'd been stranded in a desert for a year.
To his surprise, they did stop. Their eyes grew wide in a knowing caution as shadows cast by the flickering glow from the charge danced across their faces.
"I mean it." The conviction slipped from his words. They weren't terrified of him, his powers, or what he could do. Who are these people?
Lost in thought and pain, he missed the movement gliding across his peripheral vision. He didn't notice until it was too late.
"I'm sorry 'bout this swamp rat," the honey and magnolia drawl of the woman claiming to be his wife snapped him out of his thoughts. Before he could react, she planted a kiss directly on his lips.
He leaned into the kiss wanting to taste more. Parting his lips, he hoped she would return the gesture in kind. She did with a gusto which left him wanting. Her lips were soft and supple. Her kiss was hungry.
Too hungry.
The world around him swirled and an encroaching darkness stole across his vision. Her kiss—her powers—pulled at his spotty memory and over charged powers. There was nothing he could do to stop the absorption. She wrapped a surprisingly strong arm around him and controlled his fall. Before darkness claimed him once again, her free glowed the same lurid fuchsia as she pulled the charge from the machine.
In another world, another time, I might have loved her….
