Rating: R Fandom: X-Men: The Movie Characters: Storm and ensemble movie cast, but introducing… Gambit Archive: Ask me, I don't bite. Unless you don't ask…
Author's Note: I had to try my hand at putting Remy into movieverse. The way I'd like to see it done. Because it doesn't look like Singer is going to give it a try. Darn. 12/5/01
Disclaimer: 20th Century Fox has the movie rights, Marvel the rest. I'm not making any money here, just burning my own time and creativity.
Jean Grey sat up with a jerk, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, sweating despite the air-conditioned coolness of the room. Something fearful had brushed her mind while she slept, entered her dreams and turned them to nightmare. A nightmare filled with breathless pursuit and unnamed menace and frantic helplessness. But upon awakening, the feelings and the vague sense of warning were already fading. She felt automatically beside her for Scott's reassuring presence, didn't find him and gave a soft sob as she remembered why.
She was in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, in Manhattan. Miles from Westchester and Scott.
She spent a few minutes trying to calm her racing pulse, then finally slid out of the bed, shivering as the cool air hit her sweat-damp body. Grabbing her wrap from the chair nearby, she hastily belted it on and yanked open the door to walk restlessly out into the main part of the suite. Four bedrooms off a large common room, each with their own lavish bathroom, a balcony off the main room, a dining area and a small kitchen concealed at the rear. The city glittered outside the panoramic windows. Palatial and elegant, it was one of the most expensive suites the hotel had to offer. The Professor slept in the room across from hers. She stood in the center of the room, hesitating. The sense of menace was still strong.
//I am awake as well, Jean,// Charles Xavier said in her mind. //Please come in.//
She moved swiftly toward his room, pushing open the door to smile weakly at him.
He was sitting up in bed, several pillows propped behind him, his bedside light on. It looked hastily arranged, not as if he had been already awake and just heard her stumble out into the main suite. She walked through the room, pulling a chair from the conversation set near the windows over to his bedside with her telekinesis. It soothed her somehow to take that much action.
"Did I wake you?" she asked quietly as she settled in the chair. He was staring into space, gray gaze unfocused, as if he were deep in thought. Or using his powers, but she felt no sense of that.
"No," he said, frowning slightly. "Something intruded on my sleep."
"I had a nightmare," she confessed. The professor frowned deeper as his gaze suddenly focused on her.
"I as well," he said. And Jean was faintly alarmed. Dreams and night terrors were normal enough, but for both of them to have ones strong enough to wake them at the same time was a little too coincidental.
"Another telepath?" she asked quietly and checked her mental shields. They were sturdy and undamaged. No hostile force had attempted them. The professor shook his head once.
"I do not believe so," he said. "This was an emotional broadcast, perhaps unconscious. And strangely familiar."
"Yes," she said, remembering. "I felt helplessness. Fear. Wariness."
"Terrible isolation," he added thoughtfully. "Melancholy, then a powerful sense of exposure. It was a most intriguing event. I wonder if we would have detected it at all if we had not been sleeping."
"But my shields are still solid, nothing breached them," she said, checking them again to be certain. He smiled at her reassuringly.
"Nor mine, Jean," he said. "I have no real explanation for it. Unless it is some permutation of a mutant gift that we have not conceived of. Or one enhanced in some fashion. There was that odd sense of familiarity."
"I didn't feel that," she said, shaking her head. And he frowned at her thoughtfully again.
"No, you didn't speak with Mr. LeBeau mind-to-mind did you?"
"'Ro's thief? You think he had something to do with this?" Jean said, surprised.
"Perhaps," Charles Xavier said, a decidedly intrigued expression on his face. "And perhaps not him alone. I'm even more curious about our Mr. LeBeau now. I hope he decides to take us up on our offer some time soon. I would be most interested to study his particular mental abilities. Most interested indeed."
Ororo lingered in her attic room after changing out of her shorts and tank top into a pair of flowing silk pants and a matching camisole top. The wooden floor was cool under her bare feet. It hadn't taken long to brush her hair smooth again and pull it back in a thick tail on her neck. The small rain of dried grass and leaves on the bathroom floor had sobered her as she became lost in memories of how they'd come to be there.
She shivered, remembering the erotic abandon with which they had come together under the tree. Felt the swollen soreness of her body where he had been. The tenderness of her mouth from his kisses. The lingering ache in her breasts. She could still hardly believe what she'd done. She had dragged him off and seduced him; something that was wildly out of character for her. Caught up in the need, the passion, the pleasure.
Simply being in the same room with him again later had been enough to send her blood throbbing in her veins, weaken her knees and dry her throat. She'd never felt so out of control in her life. But already she wanted him again. Wanted to feel his hands upon her, hear his voice, look into those demon's eyes. He had enthralled her until she could think of little else but him.
She stared into her own dark eyes in the mirror, looking for a rationale, attempting to understand why. Found no answers, so she turned away.
Second thoughts, far too late.
Scott had taken Remy on a full tour of the mansion. She could join them, but she found herself strangely reluctant to face Remy in front of Scott again. Instead she wandered restlessly among her plants, checking them absently for dryness and for withered or spotted leaves. Pacing the length of her attic room and back again.
She finally came to a halt before the open windows, staring out into the warm, calm night.
That he seemed to feel the same draw somehow wasn't quite the comfort now that it had been downstairs in his presence. She knew nothing of him, really, save that he was wickedly charming, dangerously clever, and powerfully sensual. And that she wanted him with a craving that frightened her. It couldn't be love, not this quickly. Yet was she just being a cynical fool? Or a cowardly one?
She stared up at the sliver of the newly waxing moon.
"Bright lady, what do I do?" she said softly.
Tour complete for the evening, Scott had led him outside and helped him bring his rental car inside the gates. Remy parked it in front of the garages, a faint pang shooting through him. It was from there that he'd seen the laughing, happy Ororo running across the grounds, white hair flying. For an instant at first he'd believed she was running to him. But the hail of water balloons and pack of yelling teens behind her soon disabused him of that notion.
Somberly, he retrieved his duster and sunglasses from the car and joined Scott at the garage doors. Since the encounter with Cerebro, both of them had been quiet.
"I'll show you your room," Scott said simply, leading him through the extensive garages and back into the mansion. Remy followed him without comment.
The second floor of the central wing housed the teachers' rooms, between the boys' and girls' wings. The Professor's master suite in the center, all others around it.
He was amused to note Summers had put him in a room close to the boys' wing. He walked inside, scanning the quality of the furniture and the art automatically. All top grade and finely made, if not the heirloom quality he'd seen in other parts of the mansion. A guest room for less welcome guests? At least it had it's own bathroom.
Remy turned around slowly in the center of the room, soaking up with a thief's trained observational skills the location of exits, hiding places, and any defensive weaknesses. The window seats were obscured by curtains. The walls were relatively thin, little soundproofing. Changes would have to be made. If he remained.
"Very nice," he said noncommittally as he laid his duster over the end of the bed. "De art is staid, but acceptable."
Scott leaned in the doorway, arms folded over his chest, a wry smile on his lips. "Glad you approve."
Remy shot him a quirked smile. "Wouldn't go dat far. Where's your room?"
"Down the hall with Jean. Logan's across from you." For some reason, Scott was consumed with a quick sense of déjà vu that seemed to amuse him. Remy let the impression flow away with a shake of his head and a tightening of his shields, then raised a brow at the other man and gave him a sharp look.
"Ororo's room is in de attic."
"I'd rather not make assumptions." The reply was cool. The warning and implication clear.
Remy smiled tightly in return, undaunted. "Well, dat way, at least one of you would know when I sneak out."
Essex was displeased with her Guild's performance. And Madame Candra was displeased as well. The execution of Tupper had spurred her men to scour the city to the best of their considerable abilities, but she was swiftly reaching the conclusion that the thief had simply left town.
It was Remy LeBeau's finest skill, after all, running away.
He had perfected it just for her. As had his damnable clan.
She walked slowly through her private penthouse, staring out through the tall windows over the glittering Manhattan skyline with narrowed gaze. Somewhere. Not far. She lifted the delicate crystal goblet to her lips, sipped at the rare ruby red vintage within. Her long red satin nightgown rustled about her in the cool air-conditioned silence.
Her Assassins had been unable to catch up with LeBeau on the streets again, but there were still other resources available to her. Essex' men had provided a general area where LeBeau was assumed to live. From there, all it would take was a great deal of money and a few judicious threats come morning to dig up comprehensive information on rental and ownership of dwellings in the area. Then she could personally assist in narrowing the search down to the most likely possibilities. She did have some small insight into how LeBeau's convoluted mind worked.
She smiled in the dark solitude of her lavish apartment. She had been told it was a cold thing, her smile. By Remy LeBeau himself as he knelt in front of her in chains, his splendid body displayed for her like the work of art it was.
Later next day, she would send her people out to eliminate the places that showed normal activity and persons in residence. Not to kill, of course, simply to observe. Then the rest – the empty or the untenanted apartments – she would check out personally.
As he had knelt before her, she had marked him with hot iron, since he was immune to her power. Immune, somehow. But she had smelled his flesh burn, savored the pain in those devil's eyes, drunk down his scream. The delicious memory made her pause, her hand tightening on the goblet in her hand. No, not her hand, but her power. She looked down at the glass with remote interest, focusing. The delicate crystal shattered with a sharp sound, then crackled loudly as it compressed under the force of her will. Smaller, tighter, and finally flowing under the pressure until all that remained was a smooth crystalline sphere in the palm of her hand, the remains of the dark red wine encased inside.
She would know his home when she found it. Then she would have him. And if he fell into her hands first – and she could keep Essex from discovering that fact – well then, the good doctor would just have to find himself another thief.
Because she had no intention of giving up Remy LeBeau once she had him under her control again.
She had turned out all the lights in her attic to let the stars and the slender moon light the room instead. It was very late. And more than an hour had passed. The tour would have been long over, unless Scott or Logan had pushed Remy into a Danger Room session. She didn't think that very likely. Scott was quite adamant about novices to the Room receiving adequate preparation. Even though she had little doubt Remy would be troubled by anything the Danger Room could throw at him. His confidence in his skills didn't seem misplaced – he'd almost gotten away that first night. If he'd been prepared to face their powers, he probably would have escaped.
And they might never have met.
Pain shot through her at the thought. Despite her previous attack of conscience, she was still powerfully intrigued by him. By the touch of longing in his voice when he first arrived tonight, the regret when he spoke of having no family, the way he looked at her as if she were precious. Then there was his excessive gallantry that should have rubbed her the wrong way, but instead charmed her, as in the way he had diverted attention from her lack of control in front of Scott and Logan. A lack of control that still shocked her.
Would it be that way every time she saw him? That helpless desire?
All she would have to do to find out would be to go back downstairs.
But she was almost afraid to find out. It was far too soon. Just a few hours ago she'd dragged him off into the woods. And now… She leaned against the railing outside the French doors, the metal cool against her back, seated on oversized pillows taken from the couch on the far end of the room. It was the same window he'd climbed through only one night before.
"Why so afraid, chère?" his voice came to her from the darkness behind her. She jumped slightly, heart pounding, and turned her head to see him standing at the top of the stairs. A lean shape in the dim light. She hadn't hear a sound until he spoke.
"Remy," she said, staring at him, drinking in his presence. "I'm not afraid, just tired."
He held a long dark coat over his shoulder. His expression was closed, impossible to read, as if he somehow knew she was being evasive. He came toward her, slinging the coat over the stair railing as he did so, the leather rustling softly in the tense silence. She stared at him, breath leaving her on a shaky sigh, absorbing the sharp beauty of his face, the grace of his motion. He had loosened his hair from it's tight tail. One side was tucked behind an ear, but the rest fell around his face, leaving half in heavy shadow. She realized she was holding her breath. He came to a stop a few feet away, watching her.
"Do you want me to go?" he asked, eyes gleaming in the starlight. His gaze met hers; brilliant, challenging, fascinating.
She shook her head, then clenched her hands tightly together in an effort to keep from reaching toward him. She had her answer; the desire was still strong.
"I don't understand what I'm feeling," she said softly, her voice breaking. "I want… so much to be with you. But I don't really know you at all, like you said."
"Den be wit' me, chère," he breathed, sinking to a crouch in front of her. Close enough to touch. Her pulse sped up. "We can learn together."
She stared at him, searching his face, his eyes. He didn't bother to hide his desire from her, and relief that it hadn't been misread before surged through her. She really wasn't alone in this. There was a longing in his expression too, a softer edge to the need. And that more than anything else sapped the pain and strength from her regret.
"This attraction… I thought being with you might make it easier." It was a dodge. She hadn't thought at all, just wanted and taken, and after the fact hoped. She took a deep shaking breath, watching the play of starlight on his face, the brief flashes of emotion.
He gave a dark laugh, no real mirth in it. "Non, chère, dis kind of fire just feeds itself. "
"Or burns itself out?"
He shrugged slightly, head cocked, then was silent for a long while, watching her.
"I think we're just two lonely people who stumbled over each other," he said, a weary sadness filling his expression. She couldn't help it then. She lifted a hand toward him and he met it with his own, threading his lean fingers through hers. His touch, the warmth of him, stirred the desire in her again, made it strong, yet also steadied her nerves.
It was right when they touched.
"It's too soon to be love," she heard herself say softly. Then wanted to take the words back as soon as she said them. Her heart pounded heavily in her chest, fear and longing mixed.
"No, dis isn't love, chère," he agreed just as softly. "Maybe it's just de possibility of love."
"How can you know?" she asked, her voice little more than breath. "I don't feel sure of anything."
His other hand reached out and passed gently but surely over her breasts, making her gasp as he brushed her peaked nipples. His eyes burned in the darkness.
"For now, dis is just desire," he said softly, leaning closer to her. "It's a start, it brought us together, but I want more wit' you, chère. I want everything."
She stared at his mouth, those flawless lips. His words sank into her heart, simultaneously warming her and frightening her. Life was never this easy, and this was simply too good to be true, but she didn't have the will to fight it any longer. She wanted too much for it to be true. For him to be true.
"I want everything too, Remy."
Trembling, she rose to her feet and led him to her bed. Silently in the dark they stripped each other's clothes away. He caught her in strong arms, lifting her into the air then laying her down. Mouths fused as they sank onto the cool sheets, bodies pressing close, hearts longing.
Together in the night.
The big man had dragged her down to the kitchen and watched in sneering amusement as she loaded up on food. Anything she could get her hands on – with a strong leaning towards meat and dairy. She polished off an entire block of cheddar cheese in half a dozen bites. Calcium. She craved it. Then a stack of lunchmeat. She didn't bother with bread.
If she didn't know better, she'd think the big guy was impressed by the messy way she ate. Hunger didn't allow for niceties like plates. She stuffed food in as she discovered it. And there was plenty to discover. The kitchen was big and industrial-looking, like a restaurant kitchen, with food stored everywhere.
"Gonna puke it all back up if you keep on like that," the big man growled once. She stared at him over a half-eaten apple, eyes narrowed. With food inside her, her defiant nature had returned.
"What do you care?"
"I ain't cleaning it up," he rumbled, glaring. "An' I hate the smell."
She slowed down slightly. But only slightly. Thankful that her stomach didn't protest that way. It just ached from being stretched again. She felt full, yet still ravenous, and kept eating until finally she couldn't stuff in another bite.
"Done?" he said, watching her with his strangely dark, flat eyes. Big snakes in the zoo had eyes like that – alien and deadly.
"For now," she snapped, then crouched and backed away as he came toward her. Big. Sneering. He had claws on the ends of his fingers. His teeth were pointed. And he showed no sign of a limp from where she'd stabbed him in the thigh. Mutant, then. Just like her. She glared at him. He lifted his lips in a silent snarl, glaring right back, gaze running over her in a way that made her terrified and a little sick inside. Hungry, almost. Like she was prey.
Then his hand darted out with startling speed to grab her between the bone spurs on her arm and he proceeded to haul her out of the kitchen.
"Hey, ease up!" she squawked, pulling futilely against that iron grip.
"Shut up, girlie," he growled, yanking her forward. She stumbled, almost fell, but his formidable grip kept her upright. He dragged her up the stairs and back through the room where she'd seen the cold man. Thankful that he was gone. Dr. Essex was the cold looking man's name. And she didn't like him. He frightened her even more than the big man did.
The big man hauled her straight back to her little room with the bars on the windows. Shoved her inside with a last glare, then slammed the door. The lock clicked over audibly. She flipped an obscene gesture at the door, then looked around her little prison room again. Single window, barred. Bed. Nightstand. Lamp. Dresser. Second door.
She brightened slightly and tried the other door. Looked into a tiny bathroom. Sighed heavily. It didn't even have a window of it's own. Just john, sink and narrow shower stall. No way out that way. And there wasn't even a closet in the room. Nothing to use and nowhere to go except back the way she'd come.
She looked into the mirror on the wall, sneering at her reflection. Pale straggly hair hung lank around her face. She was dirty and bruised and thin. The damning patch on her forehead, just off the ridge over her left eye, had grown into a sharp point, sweeping back like some strange horn. There was a matching one starting on the right side now too. No wonder her mother had called her a demon from hell. She looked like one. She turned away from the mirror, shivering with self-disgust.
The shower tempted her. Locking the bathroom door warily, she stripped off her meager clothing and climbed in. Ran the water hot and scrubbed the blood and filth and scabs away. Most of the patches where the spurs had broken off during the tangle in the alley had already healed over again. But there were signs of new ones getting ready to erupt. The lumpy spots under her skin a dead giveaway.
All along the outside edges of her bones – like upper arm, forearm, back, ribs, thigh, forehead, shoulder – the sharp spurs jutted. So far her hands and feet had been spared. The spurs grew until they broke away, but had to be a certain size before they'd break off clean and with the least amount of blood and pain. About six to eight inches was the right length. They weren't horns, but acted kind of like them. They grew and shed in similar ways.
She'd read about horns and antlers in books swiped from the library, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to her. Trying to figure out why she'd become a freak. She hadn't found an answer in any book. And there was no one to ask. No one who would talk to her, now, except the big man and his frightening boss.
But she remembered when she was normal. It hadn't been that long ago. The pain was sharp and bitter, anger overlying the loneliness and the crushing sense of injustice. Why her? What had she done to deserve this life, this curse? She remembered being able to wear clothes that didn't tear apart when she moved because of sharp bones protruding through them. Remembered friends from before, and then the horror on their faces when they saw what she was becoming. Remembered the days when people didn't stare at her in shock or disgust… or fear.
Stuffing her painful thoughts away, she concentrated on the moment. The feel of water on her skin. The sensation of being clean again. She washed her tube top and shorts in the shower too, not wanting to put the filthy things back on again once she was clean. Rung them out and hung them over the shower door to dry. That left her with nothing to wear. With a shrug she dried off, then went out into the room and stripped the top sheet from the bed. A bone spur started the first rip. She fashioned herself a kind of wrap made from strips of the sheet. Not high fashion, but a least it kept her boobs from bouncing everywhere.
Her mind and body were slowing, drowsiness overcoming her now that she was clean and finally had food in her belly. Maybe sleeping would be a good idea. Then, rested, she could look for another way out. Because that Essex guy creeped her out and she didn't want anything to do with him. Or the big guy, Creed.
She crawled back onto the bed and burrowed under the top blanket just to ward off the air-conditioned chill. Pulled a pillow close and hugged it against her chest. At least her bones tended to grow out and back, kind of like porcupine quills. She could still sleep on her stomach, though it hadn't ever been her favorite way to sleep. The bed was soft and inviting.
After a short nap and she'd digested her food, she'd find a way out of here she vowed to herself. She wasn't staying put for these sicko mutant creeps, no way.
Sarah Redmond, mutant runaway, snuggled down into the bed and was soon fast asleep.
Remy LeBeau woke to a cool summer morning in the country, his goddess snuggled close in his arms. The quiet outside was faintly disturbing to one used to the hustle and bustle of New York City. The morning light wasn't quite to full brightness through the still-open windows, but was already bright enough to make him squint. So he burrowed his face into the cloud of white hair beside him. Not quite ready to let go of the night. He breathed in the soft sandalwood scent of her overlaid by the earthier aromas of sweat and sex and sun-dried grass left over from the romp on the grounds last night.
She shifted slightly with his motion, then woke with a start and a gasp, turning over abruptly to stare into his eyes, her face flushing faintly. Her hands spread flat on his bare chest, fingers tense. Her pulse throbbed hard in her neck.
"Good morning, chère," he said quietly.
"Good morning," she replied, dark eyes wide. Obviously not used to mornings after. He smiled gently at her, leaned close and kissed her softly. A tender touching of lips that was barely an echo of the passion they had shared last night. But the heat still simmered below the surface. He kept a firm, deliberate hold on his own desire, not wanting to overwhelm her.
"I think a bath would be a good thing for you dis morning, chère," he said, remembering last night's reluctant confession that after their second time she was sore. And how the creative way he had found to work around that obstacle had left her gasping and writhing with helpless pleasure. His own pulse sped up just to remember it. Maybe, once more?
Her hands stroked across his chest and up to his shoulders. Tangled in his hair. She smiled at him with clear longing, remembering as well, eyes darkening with desire.
"I think you're right, unfortunately," she answered with a regretful sigh.
"I hold you t' dat 'unfortunately' later, chère," he said, then kissed her nose. She laughed at the gesture, surprised. He grinned down at her, finding her so beautiful, so precious, so tender in the morning light. With pillow creases on her face, tangles in her hair and his own beard-burn staining her neck. Truly a goddess. "No woman should look as good as you first thing in the morning. My heart, it's ready to burst." She delighted him by blushing at his extravagance and peeking up at him shyly from under her lashes.
Then she rolled over in his hold, his hands still around her waist as she arched up on the bed, stretching lavishly like a cat. Eyes closed in sensual abandon. Breasts high, waist long, thighs gleaming. Stunningly beautiful.
"Ah, bon Dieu," he growled, swallowing hard. He was trying to be a gentleman, be considerate and yet she was tempting him so very much. He rolled over on his back, laying his forearm over his tightly closed eyes, teeth gritted as he struggled for control. The fire between them was still searing hot, banking it only possible for a little while, it seemed.
"What's the matter, Remy?" she asked, a ripple of teasing laughter in her voice. He groaned. A monster. He'd created a monster. Sexy as hell, but still a monster. He turned his back to her in an attempt to maintain control. She needed to be able to walk today, even though he'd be happy to carry her wherever she needed to go. The whimsy almost tempted him to make the offer, but before he could speak she gave a sharp gasp. Then he felt her fingers on his hip and he tensed in sudden anxiety.
"What's this?" she asked, concern clear. He laid his hand tightly over hers where it rested on the point of his right hip, looking back at her over his shoulder. She looked shocked, her brows lowered with concern. "A burn scar – but it looks shaped…"
He remembered the searing agony of the iron, the dark pleasure and gloating satisfaction of the one who'd done it to him. And he couldn't help himself – he shuddered, heart suddenly pounding with fear rather than desire.
"Non, it's a brand," he said quietly, gaze hooded. Her breath sucked in again.
"Someone branded you?" she said, horrified.
"Some people pay good money for brands, chère," he said, forcing a lightness to his tone that he didn't really feel. "Dey're like tattoos or piercings dat way."
"Something I notice you don't have either of," she said, her tone steadying, gaze sharpening. "And I've seen cosmetic brands, Remy. They're seared, raised areas. This is deep and dark, into the muscle and not just the skin. Let me see it." She tugged at his hand and he let her move it away after meeting her level gaze for a moment. She knew there was more to it than that, he could tell she did. Perceptive and wise. He hadn't been off in his description of her last night. Better add to it stubborn and persistent, he thought ruefully.
"Happened a long time ago, chère," he said quietly as she examined his hip. Her fingers traced over his skin lightly, following the rough, three-inch long, crescent-shaped mark, the numbness of the area rendering it ticklish. He snatched at her fingers, then rolled back over to face her, catching her up against him. "It's not'ing, chère, old business. Dis t'ief's life has been busy. Made a few enemies, dat's all. But I learned. I don't get caught any more."
"We caught you," she said somberly, her eyes glistening.
He forced a smile. "Maybe I saw my stormy goddess in dat room and wanted her t' catch me, chère," he said lightly. She reached up and cupped his face, sorrow and compassion in her gaze.
"I'm so sorry someone hurt you, Remy," she said. He looked into her dark eyes, shuddering again. From a different kind of fear this time. He'd lied to her last night. Maybe it wasn't love for her yet, but he was dangerously close already. She was everything he'd ever wanted, and so very much more.
He pulled her close, lowering his head to her shoulder and hugging her tightly to him. She held him just as tightly in return, murmuring voiceless words of comfort. The fire smoldering between them held in check by compassion and need. But it took a long while for the panic and the fear to fade.
He had gone down first while she still soaked in the bathtub. Easing the aches and the soreness caused by unaccustomed activities. She snorted wryly at her own circumspect thoughts. A night of reckless abandon and sexual fervor, more accurately. She didn't clearly remember how long it had been since she'd last made love. Didn't even really remember the man, to her mild shame.
The morning's bath had been a rare indulgence. As had been the time spent in meditation as she let her skin air dry. But these new feelings, this new connection consumed her so completely, it seemed a necessity. A way to try to center herself again.
Thus it also took her much longer than usual to finish her morning preparations. To brush out her long, damp hair, still tangled from the night. To dress in her usual close-fitting jeans and a bright, cheerful top. To add a necklace of sleek amber beads around her throat and a touch of lipstick to her mouth. For confidence. She used every moment as a way to compose herself. To control herself. To remind herself who and what she was; a teacher, a mutant warrior, and then a woman. Something in her was still alarmed over the way a man she barely knew could stir her so thoroughly with just a simple touch or a look, and yet show her how wary and somehow fragile he could be, as when she found his scar. It just showed her how vulnerable they both were. And how much they both still had to learn.
When she entered the dining hall, she immediately spotted Remy at the buffet table. There was a group of giggling, blushing girls clustered around him. He was smiling with gentle amusement and nodding with polite remoteness to them all, yet still striking most of them dumb in blatant worship. He was too handsome for his own good.
She stared at him again and realized how foolish she had been to think she could control her reactions to him with a little meditation. He was pure temptation. He had caught his auburn hair back carelessly in a loose tail on his neck, the sleek, shining mass held in place with what she only now recognized was one of her own clips – a carved wooden oval with a plain gold pin stuck through it. She'd never be able to wear it again without thinking of him.
He wore the same jeans that he'd worn last night, but he'd borrowed one of her workout shirts in lieu of his own silk shirt. It was a simple blue tee shirt that was loose on her, but the thin cotton hugged his chest and shoulders like it was painted on. It showed every muscle and line of his lean body and displayed his tanned arms to advantage. While the jeans hugged slender hips and corded thighs. He was stronger than he appeared, as she well knew. Fit and hard.
She stood frozen in the doorway, breath coming short. He was beautiful, in a way that men seldom could be without seeming effeminate. His jaw was strong enough, his face just hard enough to avoid that, yet still retain true beauty. And she was gawking at him just as badly as the girls.
Remy looked up at that moment, expression grave, his red-on-black eyes finding her immediately. She gasped at the blatant need, the searing heat in his gaze. Heat swiftly banked when one of the younger girls spoke to him. He smiled down at the teen, making the poor girl gape stupidly at him, her jaw practically on the floor. Ororo felt a quick flare of envy. She knew the power of that smile, longed to see it directed at her again.
"Why did you two even bother to come down?" Logan growled beside her. She didn't turn to look at him, but crossed her arms defensively over her chest.
"There are classes today, Logan," she said, gathering her tattered dignity. Trying to hide her arousal and knowing it was futile around Logan since he could smell it.
"Fuck that," he said harshly. "It's summer."
"Language. And are you willing to take over my classes then?"
"Classes are cancelled for the rest of the week," Scott said from behind them. Logan just snorted in amusement. She turned to look at Scott in surprise.
"Why?"
"LeBeau mentioned something last night that sounded familiar. He said a man named Essex hired him to break into our files. This morning, I finally remembered where I'd heard the name before. There's a Dr. Essex due to speak at the genetics symposium that Jean and the Professor are attending today."
"Imagine that," Logan snarled, coming alert. He had his arms crossed over his chest too, a scowl on his face.
"A geneticist hired him?" Ororo said, astonished.
"Apparently."
"Why? And how would this man even know about us?"
"That's what we need to find out," Scott said grimly, staring across the room at Remy LeBeau.
- - to be continued - -
