Notes: A "FLASH" sign means, obviously, the story is going back in time. I don't own Marvel characters (thus making them Marvel's, duh!) or the song "House of the Rising Sun," but it's awesome and if you haven't heard it, go figure out a way to!
THE HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN
Belladonna's face smiled up at him from the cover of Venus magazine. The price had rose to 35 cents at the corner drugstore on account of his beautiful supermodel wife gracing the cover.
'Bitch,' Remy thought, tossing the copy back on the coffee table. He opened his small bag and executed a mental checklist for the hundredth time. It wasn't much; it was precisely what a man needed. He swiped a hand across his tired face to relieve some of the tension behind his eyes and rose from the plush white leather sofa to gaze onto the busy streets of New York from the apartment he and Belle shared. People scurrying to and fro, making great haste to reach their oh-so important destination.
Ah yes, the city. It was savage; it was brutal; it was quick, constant and cynical.
It wasn't Remy. He had to leave. He was suffocating. The lawn parties, the photographs, the flashy smiles from the painted mouths that would just as soon chew you up and spit you out. He had to leave.
But more importantly, he had to go back.
Bella entered and he turned from his spot by the big window. Her glamorous eyes shining bright like camera light bulbs dimmed at the sight of him--his body drained of passion and eyes tired.
How long had he been this way? When did his brilliant eyes lose luster? When did his life drain at the fingertips and his charming smiles became weak and practiced?
Remy met her spring-blue eyes. He waited for her to arrive so he could tell her face-t-face. He could never just leave a note. Remy flinched at the thought.
"I have to go, Belladonna." His voice caressed the four syllables because he knew it was the last time her name would ever utter forth from his lips.
She didn't sprawl at his feet and bawl, nor did she lash out, demanding he stay, both for which he was grateful. She simply stood with her arms folded across her chest and asked through thinned lips, "Why? Haven't I done everything? Wasn't I everything?" A small sob escaped her and she pinched a hand across her mouth. "Didn't I love you so much?" She met his eyes then but this time he was the one to turn away. He didn't ever want to see that desperation in another's eyes. They were his eyes once.
"Of course you did, but I can't stay." He held her shoulders in one moment, grabbed the black bag, and opened the apartment door.
"It's her, isn't it?" Belladonna called from behind him, her voice tight and pained. "That slut from Louisiana." She turned to face him, unfolding her arms and standing defiant. "Isn't it?"
He held her cool blue gaze for a transitory second before the closing door separated them, shutting with a soft click but not hiding the anguished cries emitting from the other side. Remy shook his head and released the door handle. He turned, adjusted the bag in his hands and marched on... back to his past.
Remy stepped slowly onto the train. What the hell am I doing? He paid the fare. Turn around and just move on. He settled into a seat. The wheels began to chug in a tedious heavy motion and a whistle screamed above the passengers, mirroring the frantic cries of Remy's common sense. Turn back, fool! But hus heart remained stubborn. Go back to her. You'd spill your blood to hold her close one last time.
Remy closed his eyes and leaned into his seat. The ride to New Orleans would be a long one.
FLASH**
The boy's breath exhaled past his lips in a small gray cloud. He wandered the dark streets of New Orleans, confident in the fact that the stars hung over him like tiny glittering sentinels. He considered the possibility of going home but decided against it; there was still liquor on his breath and his mother would never let him hear the end of it. Instead he meandered a bit past town's common streets and onto a coiling dirt road he'd never noticed before. Half drunk with blurred vision and foggy senses, he followed the road an approximate half-mile as the wind whipped in his face, chapping his long cheeks and slowly sobering him.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been on that particular road, following the moonlight that fell onto the ground before him in a silver path, when he heard music on the traveling wind. He proceeded on and the unmistakable sound of clinking glasses and boisterous laughter could be heard. Rounding a sharp bend, he beheld a fairly sized house standing just by the road which the boy now saw led to precisely nowhere, unless you counted the dead end of shrubs and wild forest flowers. He approached the house, amused and intrigued. Behind him, the wind howled as if to scream at him, "No!" All the more reason the young Cajun climbed the wide porch steps that wrapped around the entire house. The building was painted a subtle white contrasted nicely with black shutters and practically glowed from within as if it were a child's small box with a candle positioned in the center and radiating light throughout the entire house but casting shadows to the wicked outside world.
Jaunty jazz and laughter erupted from inside, accompanied with the sound of fast footsteps, probably of those attempting to challenge the dance floor. The boy smirked to himself and sacrificed curfew to inspect his newfound treasure. He laid a hand on the door latch and opened it with a sharp, swift "click." Immediately, as if on cue, the cheerful brass orchestra's piece ended and a handful of low, sensuous piano notes floated through the air. When the boy entered, people were taking their seats and preparing to stare on in wide-eyed wonder at the breath-taking beauty standing beside the piano.
The house was very open, which told the boy that it wasn't a residence at all, but one of the gambling-whore houses that were so frequent in New Orleans. The first floor occupied the bar, tables, stage for the jazz band and a piano against a wall next to the stairs leading to the balcony above. On the balcony were several rooms lined across the interior perimeter, some of the doors open and the party simply continued inside with whiskey and music, but a closed door led you to make your own assumption.
The boy's eyes rose to the far wall where someone had scrawled the carving "House of the Rising Sun," a name that would soon poison him.
His eyes combed the considerable amount of people sitting at several tables covered in bourbon-colored velvet squares, a bouquet of dried flower petals scattered in the center of every tabletop. The house was all amber and wine.
The crowd's silence was contagious and the boy followed their eyes to catch sight of his twisted destiny standing and singing in her complete magnificence for the very first time. He met her eyes like emerald jewels peeking from tantalizing strands come loose from her bun and framing her diamond-shaped face. While she sang, she held his gaze and the corners of her mouth curved into a bewitching smile. Stars splashed in the boy's eyes and he heard heaven's trumpets blare behind him, oblivious while destiny screamed above, turn back. Turn back.
She wore a long dress the shade of deep rubies trimmed black, tight and square in the bodice but ruffled wide past her waist and flaring into a full bell shape around her legs. Beside her stood a small piano, chipped and painted a dreadful caramel color but the boy poking at the keys revived the instrument into something amazing, his nimble fingers luring beautiful notes from it and filling the entire house with a bittersweet melody.
The boy slipped into a seat at one of the far tables hidden in the back. The angel at the piano had already focused her attention elsewhere, a fact that both captivated and shocked the boy. In all his tedious seventeen years, neither girl nor woman had broke eye contact with him. She was a first- a glorious, radiant first.
Her piece finished and the entire crowd of savage men tamed for even just an instant roared with applause. He too clapped, hoping to hold her gaze again. She stood at the piano, chatting amicably with the fellow playing accompaniment. For a fleeting second, the boy swore he saw her eyes flash to his. His stomach flipped. Finishing his shot of whiskey, he stood and approached her.
Rogue noticed the boy advancing toward her from the corner of her eye and smiled. Scott captured her smile and mirrored the expression, choosing the precise moment to rise under the pretense of fixing himself a drink at the bar. "Be nice," he muttered. Her grin widened and she turned to face the auburn-haired youth.
"Hello dere," he began.
She laughed out loud and then again when his piercing eyes grew. "Mah Gawd, suh. Can you not think of anything moah original than 'hello,' hmm?"
Her sweet green eyes danced and his heart quickened despite his better judgment. "I guess it was a poor beginning. You're right. You deserve better." A cocky grin spread across his face and Rogue noted how undeniably handsome this man was- tall, slender build, scraggly auburn strands that fell across his eyes, and mah Gawd, those eyes. A man should nevah be that pretty; it's wicked temptation.
"What's yoah name, cowboy?"
"Remy," he replied. "And you?"
"Rogue," she said brightly and before he could ask, "Just Rogue."
He nodded. "I see."
**
Scott stood awkwardly at the bar. Of course he wasn't really getting a drink. It was just an expression he liked to use. He shuddered at the thought of him drunk and unshaven, stumbling into class tomorrow morning with a searing headache. Not me, he thought. Not ever.
But nevertheless, he stood at the bar. It had a great view. He could watch her sit at the table, leaning over a piece of tattered or torn scrap paper, pen held lazily between her slender fingers and her chin propped in her delicate hand. Her hair dangled in red waves over her shoulders and almost touching the paper, teasing it as she teased him- subtle and warm and oh so achingly red. Jean was red. He couldn't explain it, but she was the burst of beauty in his life, the poet in his heart, the splash of red in his black and white collage of emotion. His music came straight from her radiance to his heart and through his fingertips.
He was a student by day, attending the resident university twelve miles down the road, small and really nothing at all, but it was an education and Scott swore he would never farm or slave for his food for a living. Besides, after he met her, it was the best university in the world being only an ecstatic heartbeat from where she laid her head on her pillow every night.
He gathered the courage to casually stroll by her table, holding his breath and praying she'd lift her head and speak to him. 'O utter but one word and I shall sleep soundly through this night,' he prayed silently.
"Scott!" She smiled up at him and gestured at the seat beside her. "Please."
He returned her smile. "Of course. What are you doing, Red?"
"Oh nothing, really. Just dabbling to tell you the truth." She nodded at the paper before her. Scott saw a handful of note heads.
"You're writing!"
She blushed, "Hardly."
"You are, you!" He laughed as rose crept into her cheeks. "Alright, alright, maybe not this time, but some day I'm going to get you to write that composition you promised me." He winked.
"I know," she said, and casually tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I promised, Scott Summers."
"Wonderful!"
Jean flashed him a smile. She liked Scott; he respected her and never made her feel below him though she'd had to forgo an education to care for her brother and sister since her father fell ill, forcing her to pull a job as a waitress, "strictly waitress" she assured her father, at The Rising Sun. Scott had just started only months before her, had even taken residence there, so he took it upon himself to somewhat take her in and show her the ropes. When he spoke to her, he stared right into her eyes as if it were the last time he'd ever see her. She was quite fond of his attention.
"How is Mattie? Still have the sniffles?"
Jean rolled her bright blue eyes. "No, thank goodness. She managed to overcome with a little bit of chicken broth and bed rest."
"Oh well that's good." Even mindless chitchat had him hopelessly enthralled. It was pathetic, Scott knew, but he adored her. "And Peter? Well I hope." He was. "And your father?" Scott asked tentatively.
She sighed. "Worse, I'm afraid. I've managed to get Doctor Kelly to take a look at him within the next few days but that's the best I can do for now. I can't get but a minute of his time."
Scott nodded sympathetically. Xavier had been a truly brilliant man and a mighty hard worker, but when his pipe smoking caught up with him so did the tuberculosis. It was an awful shame. Since he'd been bedridden, the heavy responsibility of nine-year-old Peter and seven-year-old Mattie had rested upon Jean's fair shoulders of only sixteen years, their mother having died just after bearing little Mattie.
Scott, a twenty-six year old himself and just finishing up his schooling, swore that when he was out and able to support them, he'd take her entire family in. With her celestial blue eyes and round strawberry mouth, they could take care of each other.
The night was folding to a close and men were beginning to leave the upstairs rooms, buttoning their trousers as they stumbled down the stairs and beautiful women following only moments after. Scott flinched. He saw it every night but it continued to leave him with a heavy heart. And now Jean, his sweet Jean... no, not tonight. Don't think about it tonight.
Finally, Emma took a headcount of her girls and when everyone was accounted for, told Jean and the other non-residential workers they could head on home.
Scott walked Jean to the door. "Are you sure you want to walk alone? I can go if you'd like."
"No, no, don't be silly. It's only two miles." The autumn night was brisk and her creamy limbs prickled under the chill. Scott immediately shed his long coat and placed it over her small frame, his fingers sinking into her downy flesh. Jean inhaled deeply, the cold air unusually comfortable in her throat. "God, aren't the stars beautiful?" She asked. Scott tipped his head and beheld them.
"Yes," he answered absently. They smiled shyly at each other and she turned on her way. Scott didn't watch her go for fear he would race after and scoop her in his arms, showering her face with all the clumsy kisses a wanton adolescent like himself could muster. Instead, he turned back into the House of the Rising Sun and climbed the stairs to his own room.
THE HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN
Belladonna's face smiled up at him from the cover of Venus magazine. The price had rose to 35 cents at the corner drugstore on account of his beautiful supermodel wife gracing the cover.
'Bitch,' Remy thought, tossing the copy back on the coffee table. He opened his small bag and executed a mental checklist for the hundredth time. It wasn't much; it was precisely what a man needed. He swiped a hand across his tired face to relieve some of the tension behind his eyes and rose from the plush white leather sofa to gaze onto the busy streets of New York from the apartment he and Belle shared. People scurrying to and fro, making great haste to reach their oh-so important destination.
Ah yes, the city. It was savage; it was brutal; it was quick, constant and cynical.
It wasn't Remy. He had to leave. He was suffocating. The lawn parties, the photographs, the flashy smiles from the painted mouths that would just as soon chew you up and spit you out. He had to leave.
But more importantly, he had to go back.
Bella entered and he turned from his spot by the big window. Her glamorous eyes shining bright like camera light bulbs dimmed at the sight of him--his body drained of passion and eyes tired.
How long had he been this way? When did his brilliant eyes lose luster? When did his life drain at the fingertips and his charming smiles became weak and practiced?
Remy met her spring-blue eyes. He waited for her to arrive so he could tell her face-t-face. He could never just leave a note. Remy flinched at the thought.
"I have to go, Belladonna." His voice caressed the four syllables because he knew it was the last time her name would ever utter forth from his lips.
She didn't sprawl at his feet and bawl, nor did she lash out, demanding he stay, both for which he was grateful. She simply stood with her arms folded across her chest and asked through thinned lips, "Why? Haven't I done everything? Wasn't I everything?" A small sob escaped her and she pinched a hand across her mouth. "Didn't I love you so much?" She met his eyes then but this time he was the one to turn away. He didn't ever want to see that desperation in another's eyes. They were his eyes once.
"Of course you did, but I can't stay." He held her shoulders in one moment, grabbed the black bag, and opened the apartment door.
"It's her, isn't it?" Belladonna called from behind him, her voice tight and pained. "That slut from Louisiana." She turned to face him, unfolding her arms and standing defiant. "Isn't it?"
He held her cool blue gaze for a transitory second before the closing door separated them, shutting with a soft click but not hiding the anguished cries emitting from the other side. Remy shook his head and released the door handle. He turned, adjusted the bag in his hands and marched on... back to his past.
Remy stepped slowly onto the train. What the hell am I doing? He paid the fare. Turn around and just move on. He settled into a seat. The wheels began to chug in a tedious heavy motion and a whistle screamed above the passengers, mirroring the frantic cries of Remy's common sense. Turn back, fool! But hus heart remained stubborn. Go back to her. You'd spill your blood to hold her close one last time.
Remy closed his eyes and leaned into his seat. The ride to New Orleans would be a long one.
FLASH**
The boy's breath exhaled past his lips in a small gray cloud. He wandered the dark streets of New Orleans, confident in the fact that the stars hung over him like tiny glittering sentinels. He considered the possibility of going home but decided against it; there was still liquor on his breath and his mother would never let him hear the end of it. Instead he meandered a bit past town's common streets and onto a coiling dirt road he'd never noticed before. Half drunk with blurred vision and foggy senses, he followed the road an approximate half-mile as the wind whipped in his face, chapping his long cheeks and slowly sobering him.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been on that particular road, following the moonlight that fell onto the ground before him in a silver path, when he heard music on the traveling wind. He proceeded on and the unmistakable sound of clinking glasses and boisterous laughter could be heard. Rounding a sharp bend, he beheld a fairly sized house standing just by the road which the boy now saw led to precisely nowhere, unless you counted the dead end of shrubs and wild forest flowers. He approached the house, amused and intrigued. Behind him, the wind howled as if to scream at him, "No!" All the more reason the young Cajun climbed the wide porch steps that wrapped around the entire house. The building was painted a subtle white contrasted nicely with black shutters and practically glowed from within as if it were a child's small box with a candle positioned in the center and radiating light throughout the entire house but casting shadows to the wicked outside world.
Jaunty jazz and laughter erupted from inside, accompanied with the sound of fast footsteps, probably of those attempting to challenge the dance floor. The boy smirked to himself and sacrificed curfew to inspect his newfound treasure. He laid a hand on the door latch and opened it with a sharp, swift "click." Immediately, as if on cue, the cheerful brass orchestra's piece ended and a handful of low, sensuous piano notes floated through the air. When the boy entered, people were taking their seats and preparing to stare on in wide-eyed wonder at the breath-taking beauty standing beside the piano.
The house was very open, which told the boy that it wasn't a residence at all, but one of the gambling-whore houses that were so frequent in New Orleans. The first floor occupied the bar, tables, stage for the jazz band and a piano against a wall next to the stairs leading to the balcony above. On the balcony were several rooms lined across the interior perimeter, some of the doors open and the party simply continued inside with whiskey and music, but a closed door led you to make your own assumption.
The boy's eyes rose to the far wall where someone had scrawled the carving "House of the Rising Sun," a name that would soon poison him.
His eyes combed the considerable amount of people sitting at several tables covered in bourbon-colored velvet squares, a bouquet of dried flower petals scattered in the center of every tabletop. The house was all amber and wine.
The crowd's silence was contagious and the boy followed their eyes to catch sight of his twisted destiny standing and singing in her complete magnificence for the very first time. He met her eyes like emerald jewels peeking from tantalizing strands come loose from her bun and framing her diamond-shaped face. While she sang, she held his gaze and the corners of her mouth curved into a bewitching smile. Stars splashed in the boy's eyes and he heard heaven's trumpets blare behind him, oblivious while destiny screamed above, turn back. Turn back.
She wore a long dress the shade of deep rubies trimmed black, tight and square in the bodice but ruffled wide past her waist and flaring into a full bell shape around her legs. Beside her stood a small piano, chipped and painted a dreadful caramel color but the boy poking at the keys revived the instrument into something amazing, his nimble fingers luring beautiful notes from it and filling the entire house with a bittersweet melody.
The boy slipped into a seat at one of the far tables hidden in the back. The angel at the piano had already focused her attention elsewhere, a fact that both captivated and shocked the boy. In all his tedious seventeen years, neither girl nor woman had broke eye contact with him. She was a first- a glorious, radiant first.
Her piece finished and the entire crowd of savage men tamed for even just an instant roared with applause. He too clapped, hoping to hold her gaze again. She stood at the piano, chatting amicably with the fellow playing accompaniment. For a fleeting second, the boy swore he saw her eyes flash to his. His stomach flipped. Finishing his shot of whiskey, he stood and approached her.
Rogue noticed the boy advancing toward her from the corner of her eye and smiled. Scott captured her smile and mirrored the expression, choosing the precise moment to rise under the pretense of fixing himself a drink at the bar. "Be nice," he muttered. Her grin widened and she turned to face the auburn-haired youth.
"Hello dere," he began.
She laughed out loud and then again when his piercing eyes grew. "Mah Gawd, suh. Can you not think of anything moah original than 'hello,' hmm?"
Her sweet green eyes danced and his heart quickened despite his better judgment. "I guess it was a poor beginning. You're right. You deserve better." A cocky grin spread across his face and Rogue noted how undeniably handsome this man was- tall, slender build, scraggly auburn strands that fell across his eyes, and mah Gawd, those eyes. A man should nevah be that pretty; it's wicked temptation.
"What's yoah name, cowboy?"
"Remy," he replied. "And you?"
"Rogue," she said brightly and before he could ask, "Just Rogue."
He nodded. "I see."
**
Scott stood awkwardly at the bar. Of course he wasn't really getting a drink. It was just an expression he liked to use. He shuddered at the thought of him drunk and unshaven, stumbling into class tomorrow morning with a searing headache. Not me, he thought. Not ever.
But nevertheless, he stood at the bar. It had a great view. He could watch her sit at the table, leaning over a piece of tattered or torn scrap paper, pen held lazily between her slender fingers and her chin propped in her delicate hand. Her hair dangled in red waves over her shoulders and almost touching the paper, teasing it as she teased him- subtle and warm and oh so achingly red. Jean was red. He couldn't explain it, but she was the burst of beauty in his life, the poet in his heart, the splash of red in his black and white collage of emotion. His music came straight from her radiance to his heart and through his fingertips.
He was a student by day, attending the resident university twelve miles down the road, small and really nothing at all, but it was an education and Scott swore he would never farm or slave for his food for a living. Besides, after he met her, it was the best university in the world being only an ecstatic heartbeat from where she laid her head on her pillow every night.
He gathered the courage to casually stroll by her table, holding his breath and praying she'd lift her head and speak to him. 'O utter but one word and I shall sleep soundly through this night,' he prayed silently.
"Scott!" She smiled up at him and gestured at the seat beside her. "Please."
He returned her smile. "Of course. What are you doing, Red?"
"Oh nothing, really. Just dabbling to tell you the truth." She nodded at the paper before her. Scott saw a handful of note heads.
"You're writing!"
She blushed, "Hardly."
"You are, you!" He laughed as rose crept into her cheeks. "Alright, alright, maybe not this time, but some day I'm going to get you to write that composition you promised me." He winked.
"I know," she said, and casually tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I promised, Scott Summers."
"Wonderful!"
Jean flashed him a smile. She liked Scott; he respected her and never made her feel below him though she'd had to forgo an education to care for her brother and sister since her father fell ill, forcing her to pull a job as a waitress, "strictly waitress" she assured her father, at The Rising Sun. Scott had just started only months before her, had even taken residence there, so he took it upon himself to somewhat take her in and show her the ropes. When he spoke to her, he stared right into her eyes as if it were the last time he'd ever see her. She was quite fond of his attention.
"How is Mattie? Still have the sniffles?"
Jean rolled her bright blue eyes. "No, thank goodness. She managed to overcome with a little bit of chicken broth and bed rest."
"Oh well that's good." Even mindless chitchat had him hopelessly enthralled. It was pathetic, Scott knew, but he adored her. "And Peter? Well I hope." He was. "And your father?" Scott asked tentatively.
She sighed. "Worse, I'm afraid. I've managed to get Doctor Kelly to take a look at him within the next few days but that's the best I can do for now. I can't get but a minute of his time."
Scott nodded sympathetically. Xavier had been a truly brilliant man and a mighty hard worker, but when his pipe smoking caught up with him so did the tuberculosis. It was an awful shame. Since he'd been bedridden, the heavy responsibility of nine-year-old Peter and seven-year-old Mattie had rested upon Jean's fair shoulders of only sixteen years, their mother having died just after bearing little Mattie.
Scott, a twenty-six year old himself and just finishing up his schooling, swore that when he was out and able to support them, he'd take her entire family in. With her celestial blue eyes and round strawberry mouth, they could take care of each other.
The night was folding to a close and men were beginning to leave the upstairs rooms, buttoning their trousers as they stumbled down the stairs and beautiful women following only moments after. Scott flinched. He saw it every night but it continued to leave him with a heavy heart. And now Jean, his sweet Jean... no, not tonight. Don't think about it tonight.
Finally, Emma took a headcount of her girls and when everyone was accounted for, told Jean and the other non-residential workers they could head on home.
Scott walked Jean to the door. "Are you sure you want to walk alone? I can go if you'd like."
"No, no, don't be silly. It's only two miles." The autumn night was brisk and her creamy limbs prickled under the chill. Scott immediately shed his long coat and placed it over her small frame, his fingers sinking into her downy flesh. Jean inhaled deeply, the cold air unusually comfortable in her throat. "God, aren't the stars beautiful?" She asked. Scott tipped his head and beheld them.
"Yes," he answered absently. They smiled shyly at each other and she turned on her way. Scott didn't watch her go for fear he would race after and scoop her in his arms, showering her face with all the clumsy kisses a wanton adolescent like himself could muster. Instead, he turned back into the House of the Rising Sun and climbed the stairs to his own room.
