"I got one foot on the platform
The other foot on the train,
I'm going back to New Orleans
To wear that ball and chain."
--The Animals



"Alright, Scotty! Show that piano who's boss!"

Remy rose his glass to the young musician pounding joyous notes out of the stringed instrument. His fingers pranced across the dirty ivory keys, his shoulders jerking with every slam and his face bright with ecstasy. This was happiness, he decided. Jean beside him on the bench, delighted with his jaunty tune, and two good friends behind him, dancing and laughing their heads off like children! He grinned.

"Are you two tired yet, or what?" Scott gasped, sitting back from his piano and swiping a hand over his perspiring brow. His collar was loosened and his shirt slightly damp against his chest. Beside him, Jean's hair was twisted up into a sagging bun, wisps sticking to her cheeks and neck from the heat. Her eyes were a radiant blue flashing him coy, knowing looks between pieces, making his heart thrash everywhere and his pulse race in his veins. Her face tired from the night and warm from the heat, she looked lovely.

Remy plopped unceremoniously into a chair. "I suppose you're right. It's getting late." He caught Rogue's waist and guided her until she sat on his knee. "I should be goin' chere." She buried her face in his neck.

"Already?"

Scott eyed Jean. "Perhaps we should let them alone." She colored slightly and nodded her consent, accepting his outstretched arm to escort her to the front of The House.

Remy stroked Rogue's side, his head resting atop her own. "I'll be back first t'ing tomorrow. I've gotta see my mot'er tonight."

Rogue sensed a twinge of something she couldn't place in his voice and raised her head to regard him with concern. "What do ya' mean, Remy?"

His features didn't slip into an easy grin. Instead, he sat and thought for a second's pause. "I'm not sure, Green Eyes. Just somet'ing ain't right about the way I feel tonight. Somet'ing in my belly tells me to make it home." Rogue's brows were etched and she stared deeply into his eyes. He shrugged quickly. "Goin' crazy, maybe, no?" He chuckled lightly and nudged her slim body off his leg.

Once standing, they embraced again, she kissing him full on his mouth with sincere passion. "Come back tomorrow?"

"Even if de world collapsed tonight."

She grinned and Remy went weak. "Promise?"

He swept her up in one swift gesture. "Would I lie to you?" Before she could respond, he captured her chin in his right hand. "Don't even say whatever wicked poison you've got on dat tongue."

She settled for another kiss and he headed home.


**

Remy's step was light on his journey home. Life was indisputably better. He tipped his head to the stars and stopped in his tracks, gazing at the heavenly bodies. The anxious knot stirred in his stomach. "Don't ruin dis," he muttered to the sky. "Please."

He entered his small, humble home and immediately stiffened. He smelt the liquor, heard the screaming, felt the fear.

He crossed his house in three steps and swung open the door to his parent's room. His father, ugly and hulking like a drunken beast, had cornered his mother. Her left eye already adorned a black and purple bruise and sopping tears swam down her thin, tired cheeks.

"Remy!" Jean-Luc roared, spinning unsteadily to face his only child. "C'mere boy." He grabbed his son by the back of the neck and shoved him until he faced his weak, sobbing mother.

"Jean-Luc, leave him alone! He's just a boy, you bastard!" She screamed at her husband.

Jean-Luc's eyes flashed a furious black and he backhanded his wife into the wall on which she leaned.

Remy snapped. Too many times, his head screamed. Too many, too many. "Leave her alone!" He shouted over his father, his eyes red and blazing. "Don't you touch her, not ever again! Stay at the whorehouses where you belong! Just go and stay away from here!"

Jean-Luc stalked toward Remy, his hand pulled back and ready to strike like a serpent. Remy dodged his father's clumsy, drunk advances nimbly. Panicked, the seventeen-year-old ran from the room and into the kitchen. Jean-Luc followed, destroying anything hindering his advances.

"Get back here, boy! I ain't finished with you. Who the hell do you think you are, ungrateful prick!"

He closed the space between him and his son. Remy backed into a counter.

Jean-Luc snatched his son by the shirt and brought his face until it was inches from his own. "I'll kill you. You ain't nothin'!"

"You're drunk," Remy spat through clenched teeth. "You're always drunk."

His father clamped his big hands around Remy's throat. Oh God, Oh God, help me Christ our Savior Lord. Remy fumbled behind him and snatched the first thing his hand found.

Jean-Luc continued applying hard pressure against his son's neck, intent on ending his "miserable, pathetic, useless," life. "Miserable, pathetic, useless. That's all you are. That's all your ever be. You're like me, boy, face it. Never be great. Never be anything."

Remy couldn't breathe. Weakly, he raised his hand and stuck the kitchen knife's blade into his father's shoulder. Jean-Luc bellowed in pain but only squeezed harder against Remy's neck until he thought his bones might break. Remy stabbed him again, and again, and again until glazed, lifeless eyes stared up at him from his own bloody pool.

"Remy!" His mother screeched, rushing to her deceased husband's body, dipping her hand in his cool, sick blood. Remy looked down and saw his own hands to be drenched in the same sticky liquid.

"Oh God," he choked.

Remy's mother met her son's eyes. "Go," she whispered. "Go, Remy. The sheriff..." Her wild eyes swallowed the sight of her dead husband once more. "Go," she repeated.

Remy nodded fiercely, dumbly, and stumbled to the door. "Remy!" She called behind him. He turned to stare into her deep, long-suffering eyes. She hugged him hard and kissed his brow. "May God protect you."


**

"It's late," Scott said, his tone a low rumble between the soft, deep notes he plucked from the piano. Jean, settled again beside him, nodded with eyes closed, enwrapped in his slow steady tune.

"Mmhmm," she hummed.

"Don't want to start heading home?" He inquired, his hand still dabbing the keys, the melody still wafting through the closed, dark house. They were low enough not to wake those upstairs, or interrupt them...

Jean opened her eyes and stared at Scott's profile. He divided his attention between her and the music. He regarded her questioningly. "What is it?"

Jean sighed. "Oh Scott, I..." She began. Scott, unsure of what else to do, continued playing and listened to a confession he knew was coming. "Scott, Sebastian Shaw visited our home early this morning." She waited for a response that was not forthcoming from his stony visage so she continued, the taunting melody in her ears. "He told me that... that he would save my father, or at least do what he can." Those soulful notes played on. "He said he'd do it for free if..." her voice grew weak and trailed off.

The abrupt halt in the music hung the moment on thick air. Scott turned fully and faced her, his words sharp. "Nothing's free, Red."

She held his gaze for a long time. He watched her lower lip tremble and her wide eyes glimmer with swelling moisture. He knew the answer before he asked the question.

"Are you going to do it?"

"I don't see any other way! I don't want my father to die, Scott."

Scott looked at her, young and beautiful and fresh as the morning dew. Lost to him forever. His face was pained and his eyes longing. "Jean," he began. "If you do this, I can't watch it. I can't watch it happen. If you do it, I won't stay."

She looked hurt at first. "I thought... you loved me," she croaked, confused and agonizingly naïve, Scott thought.

"I do love you, Jean Grey. Too much." She swiped at tears in the corners of her eyes and Scott's heart twisted. He snatched her hands as he was fond of doing and held them against him. "Listen. If you come with me, I can't promise you anything but my own real love."

Jean pondered it momentarily but shook her head. "I can't, Scott. I have a family here. I can't leave them, not now."

He waited for her answer to change, but when it did not, he shook his head solemnly and rose from his bench. He dipped down to kiss her mouth- all raspberries and round. "I'll come back for you," he whispered against her. It sounded ridiculous, he knew, but he'd return to this woman or die trying.

She nodded but her words failed her, except only two.

"Love you."




*******FLASH******

Remy remembered The City Of New Orleans from six years ago- not New Orleans, where he grew up as a boy, sinned as a boy, loved as a boy, but the train named "City of New Orleans" on which he sat a passenger right now and sat a passenger all those years ago when he ran...

Remy focused on the five cards fanned in his hands. Penny a point... no one kept score.

He squinted as the black and red blurred together. Diamonds, clubs, spades, hearts. He used to be so damned good at this, but that was before he let New York and life with Belladonna swallow him whole. He shook his head. No, that was the Remy he was trying to leave behind. That was the Remy that stayed chained beside a wife he did not love for years. But now, with the southern pasture and old graveyards whizzing by him, he was the Remy he used to be- young, cocky, dangerous, a lover.

"You biddin' or what, boy?" The man with gray hair passed him the bottle in a paper bag. Remy accepted it and swigged before shoving his scattered pile into the center of the table.

"Why not?" He smirked as their eyes became huge. Remy passed the liquor on as a waitress set down his own glass of wine in front of him. He smiled up at her, stopping suddenly when he saw her eyes. They were green. An incredible, striking green just like a woman he knew once.

She flashed him a friendly smile and stood awkwardly beside him as he stared. A few more swallows from the brown bag and the woman was perched on his knee, laughing and whispering with him.

When the conductor announced to the group that it was three a.m., Remy stood and announced his departure. He moved to leave but turned as if on second thought to the green-eyed girl. "You comin'?" He inquired. She hopped form her seat soundlessly and walked with him to his room.

He shut the door behind her and turned to gaze again. Dose eyes, My God.

They were bright and thoughtful and achingly green- green like he'd dreamed about for so long now.

She slipped into his arms and silently pressed her mouth against his. He responded fervently, slipping his tongue past the unknown girl's lips and burying his hands in her long, dark hair. She fumbled with his trouser button, pressing all the more eagerly against his sculpted body.

"No," he gasped, wrenching from her. "I'm sorry. I can't do dis. It's not right."

The girl paused, staring at him quizzically before leaping back in his arms and kissing him once more. He pulled her clinging form. "I don't mind, honest!" She cried, trying to get back at him. He shook his head.

"You will in de morning."

She looked at first as though she were going to protest again, but simply nodded and left the room.



The afternoon was a shower of blinding yellow and white flooding his cramped room as the sluggish chug-chug-chug of the train's wheels carried on. Hours later, the train slowed and finally halted as the conductor screeched an all-call.

Small black bag in hand, Remy stepped slowly from the train as the sun slowly hid behind the horizon, taking in the city of sin and poetry- his city. His fine tailored trousers and simple white button-up was enough to make him stand out, a shining New Yorker amongst the hard-working class. He unconsciously fumbled with his sleeve as the train- his escape- pulled away behind him in a cloud of brown dust.

Remy inhaled deeply, bracing himself for this place once more. He scanned his surroundings. The Lola Saloon still stood, as did the tiny white chapel at the edge of town. Down that coiling road to the left, about a half-a-mile, was where his heart had been all these years. The House of the Rising Sun.

But it was Sunday. The Sun didn't open until Monday. With his mother now deceased (rest her soul, Sweet Mary), Remy had to find other means of lodging. He slung his bag over his shoulder and marched to the Stillwater Hotel he vaguely recalled.

The inside was lavish and bathed in a brilliant golden glow from the dim oil lamps. Tourists and others bustled about inside, dressed in their best, chatting excitably with one another and fanning themselves of the heat.

Remy rang the counter bell for service. A small man with round spectacles greeted him. "What can I do for you, son?"

"I need a room."

"Well," he huffed, "you've definitely come to the right place." He chuckled as if he'd said something particularly witty and Remy smiled politely. "Let's see, what do we got here?" As the man searched his big gray book for an available room and key, Remy's eyes flicked over the lobby as if he expected her to jump out at any moment.

"Ah yes, here we go. Room 17, my boy." He handed Remy a key and the Cajun took it, smiling his thanks and trotting up the stairs.

His room was small, but pleasant with a desk and large, open window. Not bothering to strip, he plopped onto the decent-sized bed and kicked off his shoes, rubbing his eyes in the process. Could he face her tomorrow? Why was he even *doing* this? One memory of her, the dawn's glow crowning her head and her hair in tumbling strands down her back, and he knew all the answers.

That night, Remy dreamed a dream he often had...



****FLASH*****

Rogue settled into her large bed, her open window sending the unseasonably warm autumn breeze against her face. Her thoughts ran away with her in bed, and they were the only things she had left that belonged to her and no one else. It was for this reason that she spent the majority of her earnings on her bed outfit: large mattress, silk sheets, velveteen comforters and big, downy pillows. The girls teased her at first, insisting she did it to boost customers and such, but Rogue killed that rumor immediately.

A rustle at her window made her heart leap for only an instant until she decided almost immediately that it had to be Remy. Chastising her foolishness, she rose from bed and saw him hanging on her ledge.

"Oh Lawd," she smiled down at him.

"Just shut your pretty mout' and gimme a hand, will ya'?"

Her grin widened and she reached down to hoist him up.

"There ya' go. Bettah or what?" Her smile faded when she saw the ink-black of his eyes turn a stormy midnight. "Remy? What's wrong?" She asked, inching closer. He held her steady gaze, his face expressionless and numb. It wasn't until then that she noticed the red tint of his long, beautiful hands. "Oh my Gawd," she gasped. "What...? What the hell happened?"

His shoulders deflated and he hung his head. "I killed him," he croaked. "My fat'er; I killed my fat'er." His head shot up and his wild eyes pinned hers. "But it was an accident, chere. You gotta believe me. It was an accident! He was hurting my mot'er. He wouldn't let her alone, and I had to do it! I had to do somet'ing!"

Rogue stepped into him and wrapped her arms around his body. "Shhh, it's alraght, Remy," she soothed, stroking his hair. "It'll be okay. It'll be okay."

They held each other for a long time, rocking to each other's pace. That's when Remy decided beyond a doubt that he would die in her arms.

He pulled her away to stare her deep in the eyes. His pools of ebony and garnet bore into her. "Rogue," he whispered. "Rogue I have to run. I can't stay. He knew de sheriff, Rogue, my fat'er knew him." She shook her head and tears collected in her eyes but she remained silent. "Run wit' me, Rogue. We'll leave toget'er. Come wit' me."

Rogue only kissed his mouth. "Oh Remy," she cried quietly, stroking his cheeks and kissing him breathlessly. "Remy, Remy," was all she said. She coaxed him down into her bed and made love to him, slow and sweet, branding herself into Remy's heart for life.


The next morning, Remy LeBeau tasted bitter heartbreak for the first time in his young life.

He woke to the sound of joyful birds and the busy city streets. He shifted in the bed and draped an arm across Rogue. Instead of her warm, soft body his arm rested on the cool, expensive sheets. His eyes flew open.

She was gone. Remy shot from the bed and frantically tugged on his trousers, stumbling toward the door while his eyes continued to search the room. It was useless. She was gone. On her vanity, he saw a primly folded note with his name scrawled fluidly on the front. He snatched it and ripped it open.

Dearest Remy,
I belong here. Run and don't ever look back.
Love,
~Rogue

Remy stuffed it in his pocket as he bound down the stairs three at a time. In the distance, his train screamed for him to hurry. "The City of New Orleans" parted in two minutes.

Remy skidded to the floor and nearly collided with a stunned, infuriated Emma. "What the he-!" She screeched. "You! The sheriff is looking for you, boy! Get outta my bar." He moved past her and found Jean at the piano. There were tears in her eyes, but Remy had no time to coddle the young girl.

"Red! Red, have you seen Rogue? Where is she?!" He panted.

Jean sputtered dumbly. "Wha-? I... I don't know, Remy. I haven't seen her but wait I'll go fin- Wait! Where are you going?"

He had already disappeared through the doors by the time she'd finished. A tall, lanky man Remy knew to be Sheriff Cole awaited him outside. "Remy! There you are, son. Come here, I want to have a word with you." Remy noticed the older man's fingers rest nonchalantly on his holster. Remy flew past him, his heart feeling as though it would burst while his legs pumped hard and his breath puffed in haggard gasps. "Now wait a minute, boy, get back here! Hey you, I said get back here. You're foolin' with the law now, ya' hear?"

"Last call for 'The City of New Orleans!'" Rang the conductor's voice. Remy was torn. He looked longingly in the direction of The Sun, but his train was seconds from pulling away. He had to catch that train or surely die. With one last desperate look, he boarded and fell into a seat, his shirt half-buttoned and his pants crinkled and bunched.

He didn't care. Glum and hopeless and his head pounding, his forehead met the window and he watched New Orleans pass him by in a blur that slowly raced faster and faster. In the midst of the blue of the sky and the red of the brick, he thought he saw her waving him off in the departing walkway, or at least a flash of unimaginable green.

Remy settled back into his seat and closed his eyes.

"You leaving too, stranger?" Came an all too familiar voice in front of him. Remy peeked open his eyes to see Scott Summers sitting in the seat opposite him.

"Scott!" Remy cried and then could not help but laugh bitterly. Soon, Scott joined in.

"So where you headed?"

Remy was silent for a second and said. "Anywhere away from The Rising Sun."

Scott nodded. "Amen."











AUTHOR'S INPUT
For those of you who didn't figure out that a FLASH was going back in time or shooting forward to the present, you have my pity.

In addition to The Animals song "House of the Rising Sun," I also credit the song "City of New Orleans," originally done by Arlo Guthrie for this particular chapter. If you've ever heard the song and then read this chapter, you'll know why;) Good morning, America How Are You? Don't you know me, I'm your native son? I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans, and I'll be gone 500 miles when the day is done. (I'm becoming quite the classic rock addict. It's getting almost pathetic but I can't help it. For all you Remy fans, give classic rock a try. Every other song is "New Orleans" this and "New Orleans" that. I Luv It!)

Last and foremost, drop a line with your opinion. Why the jack not?