NEW AND REVISED! Whole story is in this chapter; so don't move on just yet. Review! Merry Christmas!
Ghosts
Or: A Cajun Christmas Carole
By Eileen Blazer
Creative Consultant: Melancholic (check our her stories!)
December 2004
Some part of her is grounded. It's steady. It's still. Some part of her is sensible and sad, because it knows what she's been afraid to admit: her time with him isn't good time. Oh, it feels good enough, when he's working his magic and whispering in a foreign tongue that makes each word sound like pure poetry. Every moment is sweet indulgence. But when she finally makes it home, when she tosses her clothes into the hamper and steps into the shower, she's washing him away, hoping the next boy on the street she meets won't know; she's hoping someone will still give her a chance at what he's never offered: a real life, a real commitment. And that part of her is growing in strength.
Currently, though, it's not nearly strong enough. She lays nestled in his arms, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, hearing the heavy breath he pulls in and out of those full lips she's come to know so well. He isn't sleeping. She's never seen him sleep, not in all the many hours they've spent in the expansive, lavish bed he keeps. He says it's his thief instincts; he has a compulsive need to always be aware, in control, ready for anything. It hurts, a vague, nagging pain, to think he doesn't trust her enough to even nap, but she's accepted that it's part of who he is. He's not the man that brings her flowers and rings and makes her giddy with childish glee. He promises nothing but a good time and a chance to run her hands through all those waves of auburn that decorate his face.
His young face. Oh, she doesn't even know how old he is. Whenever the curiosity builds up enough inside of her so that she actually asks him the age question, he bounces it back like a rubber ball at recess. Old enough, he says, and then pulls her into a kiss so she can't say another word. Sometimes, she wonders.
He moves now, sinking deeper under the covers, and pulls her with him. He knows she isn't sleeping either. His hands roam across her back, tracing little patterns. Her body shivers in response, and he laughs. "Chere," he says, lowering his face to hers, so that the next time he speaks, she can feel the words brush across her lips, "Why don't you an' I toss out our schedule for da mornin', huh? We stay in extra late, an' lose ourselves a little."
Anyone else, and she would've laughed her way to the office. But it's Remy LeBeau, so she sighs and snuggles deeper. Someday soon, her sense is going to take over and she's going to move on with her life. But for the moment, he's still the drug she doesn't want to do without.
"I'll be out of town for the next week," she explained, as she pushed her legs into a pair of sleek black jeans, the kind that belonged on the cover of a Calvin Klein ad. "So, maybe when I come back, we can do something? Dinner and a movie? Moonlight walk?"
"Sounds nice. Where are y' goin'?" Remy inquired, as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. He took in a deep breath and steam filled his lungs. His eyes drifted shut.
"It's Christmas, Remy, I'm going home. I haven't seen my mom in ages."
"Oh."
"Oh," she repeated, almost laughing. "What about you? Aren't you doing something special to celebrate the holidays? No family to visit, no friends to drink eggnog and ski with?"
"Don't do Christmas, Jolene. All commercialized hype an' false affection."
"Really." It wasn't a question.
"But maybe I'll call up Meredith an' see if she can work me in t' her schedule?"
Jolene had been shrugging on her sweater, but she paused suddenly. "Meredith… my roommate?"
"Know a prettier one?"
"You really are an asshole, Remy LeBeau."
He laughed, and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a plush towel around his waist. "Have fun at y' parents house, Jolene. Call me if it gets unbearably boring an' we'll find a way t' entertain you an'-" He peeked his head around the corner and noticed the front door hanging an inch or two open. The room was empty.
Remy was putting on his shoes. He was alone in the apartment, but his latest girlfriend's perfume still lingered on the bed like a ghost. He tried to wave it away. Last time he showed up at Magneto's smelling of vanilla and cherry blossoms, the boys had a day. Something you want to tell us, Allerdyce had teased. Ah, don't mess with him, Pietro had quickly responded; he's going through a phase. He wants to feel pretty. Remy had just rolled his eyes and taken it all in stride. The boys were his age or so, but they acted like five-year olds who'd been left in daycare too long. That's why they have such trouble with the X-Men. They didn't know how shut up and get a job done.
Remy pulled his boots on and secured them with a snap. He was thinking about Magneto and the job he was going to be assigned. Lately, his gigs had been boring, insignificant things. Steal a piece of paper from the mayor's office. Sneak away with the key to a safety deposit box. Little tricks he mastered as a child on the streets of New Orleans, things he could do without even trying. But there was always a chance Magneto had something better to offer. Remy wanted to test out Charles Xavier's mansion and the security system they had in place. He'd read the files and it looked like fun, but the giant magnet was keeping him away from there, as if afraid he'd defect.
Like there was a chance in hell that could ever happen. Remy LeBeau: Hero for the Downtrodden? Not likely. He'd learned the important lesson in life. Don't waste your time helping until there's something you can get out of it. Shakespeare said it best: to thine own self be true. That was his gospel, his truth.
"Tell me," Magneto was saying, at his meeting. "How much do you boys know about local politics?" They didn't answer him. They stared back with blank faces, as if he'd just asked them to jump their way to the moon and bring him back cheese. It was an expected result. After so many years of dealing with teenagers, he'd becoming an expert on the marvel that was adolescence.
"Well, allow me to fill you in." Magneto continued. "You may recall Senator Trent from the Senate hearings on mutants. He was rather vocal in his hatred of our kind. He brags about a great list, a manifest of all known mutants in the New York area that he claims to have gained from a reconnaissance military operation. According to reports, Senator Trent never leaves the papers behind him as he travels. As it were, Senator Trent and the Bayville major, Julie Caster, are quite good friends. He's come to stay with her for the holidays. His papers, I've learned, were placed early this morning in the Bayville City Bank vault. I want you to bring me that manifest."
The boys exchanged a look among themselves. "Today?" John asked.
"No." Gambit answered, before Magneto had a chance, "We do it t'morrow mornin'. Less security guards around."
"But that's Christmas," Pietro complained. He was Magneto's son, but sometimes the resemblance was hard to see. "Me and Wanda got plans to go out for turkey and stuff. Its our first family holiday since you stuck her in the crazy house."
"Some would call it a sacred day," Peter added. He'd been quiet, as usual, so hearing his voice was almost surprising.
"People can always find a reason t' get out o' work." Remy said, rolling his eyes. "Tell y' what. I can do this job m'self. It sounds easy as pie. Just stop whinin' an' let me handle da whole bit."
"I would like for others to gain experience, Mr. LeBeau."
Remy challenged Magneto with a hard, cold stare. "I'd like t' be makin' love wit' a beautiful girl right now. But instead I'm here, non? We don't always get what we want. Its called life."
Christmas. Ha. Remy walks through the snow with his hands buried deep in his trench coat, his hair falling like icicles around his forehead. It was cold, really, really, damn cold. It reminded him that he hated the season, everything about it. The harsh weather, the multi-colored lights hanging from every rooftop in sight, the reindeer sweaters and Santa ties, the carolers who didn't know how to tune their voice, the whiny children… it was a jumble of chaos and greed, and he wished he could skip straight from Halloween to New Years.
He had two comforts. One was the fact that it was December twenty-fourth and there was only a day left to endure before everyone put away their Good Will and Christmas Cheer and dragged out the keg of beer that would carry them into the New Year. The second comfort was named Lucy Sutherland, a doe-eyed girl with all the right curves and stupid boyfriend who wouldn't know if his head was on fire, let alone if a sneaky Cajun was romping naked with his best girl.
He took a step and bumped into a shopper, who shrieked as her bags fall into the snow. Remy stooped down to pick them up, and instead got a good view of her legs, colored black from nylons and perfectly shaped. Her skirt was on the short side, pasted to her thighs like a second skin he would love to peel away. His imagination took over until she cleared her throat in clear impatience. He sighed, gathered up her things, and followed the legs upwards, appreciating the small waist, proportionate breasts, and lovely neck, all the way up her face…it's familiar.
Her green gray eyes were fastened onto him, not blushing nor fuming from his inspection. She was serious, calm. Something about her drew him in, and he couldn't quite place it until she reached over to accept her things back, and somehow brushed up against him. He didn't know she wanted, if she was interested or so completely indifferent that the contact of their bodies didn't even register. He laughed inside. This couldn't be one of the X-girls. There was no way…
"So what," she says after a moment, her voice a slow, thick drawl, like dripping molasses. "Ya always make a point o' mentally jumpin' the bones o' every enemy y' meet on the street o' am Ah just special?"
Ah, this he knew, the banter, the witty repartee. "I don't know, Chere. What y' t'ink?"
"Ah think Ah've wasted enough time on a dirty swamp rat like you."
"Dirty?" He acted hurt. "I'll have y' know dis outfit came straight from da laundry mat."
She shrugged. "Ah was referrin' ta the content o' your mind."
"You a mind reader now, girl?"
"Ah'm everythin'," she answered, stepping around him. "Except your next cheap conquest." And with that thought, she left him alone on the sidewalk to rejoin her friends at the mansion, he guessed.
He could live there, maybe, if he wanted. Despite all of Magneto's best efforts, the X-Men had already found him several times. Once, the weather witch and Freddy Krueger Junior cornered him in an alley with a pamphlet for the school and an earnest desire to help him. Save him. Free him from the Master of Magnetism's evil grip. After he propositioned the witch, though, they left him alone. Next time over, they sent Cyclops and the blue devil. And the time after that… They never learned. He didn't want to change. He had control over his powers. He was satisfied with his life. Why would he need them?
"Merry Christmas!" Someone shouted.
Remy yawned. Bah humbug.
He was on his way up to his hotel room.
The elevator music was quiet and serene, like an open ocean. Though barely noticed, it flowed and ebbed constantly. He rested his back on the wall and shut his eyes. He felt… exhausted, by everything. His body functioned, his brain worked to some degree, but his mind closed up shop early, leaving him feeling empty.
"I know that feeling."
He darted back to wariness, glancing around the elevator to find the source of the voice. Picking up the emergency phone, he found that there was no one on the line. The space of the elevator, maybe six feet wide and across was empty, save himself. But he heard a voice.
"Maybe you're hallucinating."
It was so close to him, a whisper in his ear, breath on his collar. Uncomfortable, he tugged at his coat, pulling it closer to his chest, hardening his stare. He considered the possibility of a mutant, a kid with the power to go invisible. It wouldn't be unheard of. He thought of the news reports of that other famous mutant hero group who call themselves the Fantastic Four. One of them, the attractive female, had a similar power.
"Oh, I'm not a mutant, not anymore anyway." This time, the voice was accompanied by giggles. It hit home, as he realized whom he's hearing. Not just a stranger. Not any random person, but a girl who was once very dear to him.
"Sarah?" He guessed into the air in disbelief.
"Bingo!"
When she was living, most people knew her only as Marrow, but she was always Remy's Sarah. His friend, when times were so poor he tore open chip bags to lick up every last crumb because a second meal might not have come, when times were so bad she had smear salve on his open wounds, lest he develop an infection in the cuts and scrapes he'd gotten while in a knife fight; she was always his friend in good times, too, when money finally came their way and when they thought they were free forever from all their woes… always his friend, right up until her unexpected death.
Now, while he stood frozen and unmoving, she began to materialize before his eyes. First that hair, magenta and longer than she'd kept it in life, then her pretty face, her torso, the bony spikes that betray a mutant heritage, her legs, clad in too tight jeans. She crossed her arms, letting the big silver bracelets around her wrist jingle jangle like Christmas bells. Fully formed, she grinned at him. "Miss me, Babe?"
"Who the hell are you?"
"Sarah, you said it yourself. Or can't you remember."
"You're not Sarah." Remy said, wishing the elevator would stop.
"Are you so sure?"
"Well, since I planned her funeral, I'm gon' go wit' oui."
"I never said I was alive, Remy. In fact, I'm completely open about my lack of life. Although, this whole afterlife thing could've gone a little better for me, if I'd have, you know, been a good person. Eternal damnation really sucks. I've got these chains…" She held up her wrists, and suddenly, long winding chains lead away from her bracelets and twine around her legs. "Way uncomfortable, Remy. But that's why I'm here to talk to you. I've been given a chance to help you, so this doesn't happen when you finally bite the dust. And let me tell you, Mr. LeBeau, with the way you live, death isn't all that far off."
He was still not sure what to make of her. His best guess was that she was a shape-shifter, but there was something about her… some intangible quality, a spark, a look, something, that made her seems so much like the Sarah he knew. The most cunning of shape-shifters could adopt a person's body, mannerisms, voice inflections, and quirks, but… not their soul. "What are y' here t' warn me about," he wondered, trying to bide his time.
"Darling, I personally loved you to pieces, but… you're an ass. The only person that matters to you these days is you, and frankly, that's not enough. We were given gifts in our powers, Remy. We should've used them to help people. But all we did was steal, lie, cheat, and murder when the price was high enough. I died because of it, and now I'm damned because of it, but you… you still have a chance to make things right."
"An' if I don't?"
She held up the chains. "Then these are short compared to what's waiting for you. Please, I know we went through a lot together, but end that tradition here and now."
He sighed, quietly. Sarah stepped up and places two hands on his shoulders. Or tried to. They sunk through him, as if he were made of water. Her mouth bent in a little pout. "I've arranged for guests, three of them. The first will come when the clock strikes one, and the others will follow each hour after that. Listen to them. It's awful where I am, Remy, you don't want this. All the short skirts in the world aren't worth it."
Suddenly, the elevator doors sprung open. He looked to them, and when he looked back, Sarah was gone. Remy ran his hands over his face, deciding that ghost or not, he was going to cancel the date with Lucy. He needed sleep.
It was insane and stupid and beyond all reason, but he couldn't sleep. He was sitting on a chair, his eyes shut tight, and all that really registered was the tick tock, tick tock of the clock positioned on the wall. He thought about breaking the clock. Stomping it into tiny little silent pieces. Baking it in the oven until it melted into a harmless oozing mass of plastic and metal. Ripping it from its comfortable perch and tossing it out the window. Anything, whatever it took to stop. The. Sound.
Tick tock.
Tick…
Tock.
And then…
It was one.
Finally.
He looked down upon the watch and waited for something to happen. Waited for loud thunder and flashes of angry lightening, or the ominous sound of an organ, or terrified screams. But nothing. No one. Craning his neck, Remy turned and looked behind the chair, thinking perhaps the ghost had entered on the opposite side of the room. Again, he was disappointed. No, he corrected, not disappointed. Annoyed at himself, for believing that the figure who appeared before him might've actually been Sarah and not just a trickster mutant with a twisted sense of humor.
With a roll of his eyes, he tossed the watch. Six hours, he'd been feeding his imagination, against his own better judgment. What a colossal mistake. It was lucky, that Magneto's bank job was such a walk in the park. Just as he moved to stand up, something landed in his lap.
His watch. "I think you dropped it." An amused voice explained.
"Merde."
"Watch that mouth." As it spoke, its figure began to fill out.
And…
She was white.
Pure, powdery white, like a Greek statue come to life. She gave off a glowing aura, though, that softened her image, making her look real and human despite her monochromatic appearance. "Hello," The strange girl said, as she took a seat on top of his bed, tucking her white gown beneath her legs. Hair falls around her face neatly, giving him the impression that, were she to be given any kind of color at all, she'd be pretty.
"Who are you?" He demanded, in the strongest, clearest, firmest voice he could manage given the fact that a girl just materialized before his eyes for the second time in a single night.
"I am the Ghost of Christmas Past," She stated, bowing at the waist, politely. "I've come to explore your life with you, Remy LeBeau. There has to be some reason why you hate this season so."
"Yeah," he said, ever the doubting Thomas, "But who are y' really?"
"I understand your reluctance to believe. But really, if I wasn't a ghost, could I do this?" She smiled and placed two hands around her neck, gently pushing upwards. Her head broke away and wobbled a bit. Then, she set it back down. "But listen, I'm not here to make you believe in me. My job is simple: I've got to remind you of your past. Specifically, you're Christmas Past. My name wasn't chosen at random, you know. Here, take my hand and we can get started on our little journey."
She offered him an open palm and wiggled her fingers when he hesitated to take it.
"Where are we goin'?"
"Nowhere you haven't already been."
He sighed. So improbable, and he wanted to tell her to take a hike, hit the road, make like a banana and split…but he couldn't get over the sight of Sarah in long, winding, binding chains. No one in Bayville knew about Sarah. He hadn't mentioned her name to another soul in ages. And then there was the fact that the ghost girl of Christmas Past just decapitated herself.
Taking a breath, he reached out and clasped the white hand. Next thing he knew, he was watching…
Two boys huddled in the backseat of a broken down Buick. Though they were both young children with, perhaps, four years between them, the slightly older boy was fussing over the other like a parent might have. He scrubbed a smudge away from the toddler's cheek, adjusted the zipper of his puffy black coat, and tried smother some semblance of order into the unruly auburn curls. "Try an' keep together, Remy. Stop squirmin' so damn much, okay?"
Four-year-old Remy pouted. "I want Mama. Yo' mean, Henri."
"Well, Mama ain't here an' dat means I'm da boss, neh? An' I say shut up an' don't move."
"But-"
Henri sighed. "No buts, Remy."
"But-"
"What da hell did I say, boy?"
Remy sucked in a deep, frustrated breath, and turned his little hands into fisted balls. His face went the color of bright pink as he waited in obvious discomfort while his brother finished making him presentable. Finally, Henri sat back in satisfaction and gave him a little smile. "Good. Now when people see y', nobody's gon' fall over dead from fright."
The toddler didn't answer at first. His mind was filled with lots of thoughts that Henri had warned him against. So, he looked out the window, down at his shoes, away towards the front seat and the steering wheel. Then he remembered his mother's hands wrapped around it, her pretty bracelets winking at him in the sunlight. He didn't want to anger Henri, especially since the boy was already eight and three quarters and could kill him, just by sitting on him, but the words tore through his mouth anyway, a flurry he couldn't stop. "But it's Christmas!" He cried out, kicking his feet and sending his hair back into disarray.
Henri glowered. "Yeah, an' so what."
"If… if Mama ain't here, shouldn't we look f' her? Maybe she's out hidin' our presents."
"She's not, idiot."
"Y' don't know!" Remy cried.
"I do."
"How?"
"Ugh, I hate you sometimes, Remy." Henri spat back. He curled his legs up and pulled himself as far away from his brother as he could, like he was disgusted to be breathing the same air. "Y' never want t' shut up. Always talk, talk, talk, cry an' whine an' peer at me wit' dose stupid red eyes dat got us here in da first place. I'm sick of it!"
The corners of Remy's eyes welled up. "I'm gon' tell Mama dat y' yelled at me, Henri."
"How, Remy? She's gone an' she ain't comin' back. She done have her fill o' stupid little boys. We're alone, you an' me, from here on out. So y' better learn t' listen when I speak an' forget all about Christmas an' presents. We'll be lucky t' not starve." His tone was harsh, angry, and passionate. It fell upon the younger boy like a wave of heavy bricks and the tears began cascading down his soft, round face.
"No. Mama's out hidin' presents. She tol' me!" He cried.
"She lied."
"No!" Remy screeched again. "No!" His voice dissolved into high-pitched cries as he doubled over and hid his face. Henri watched for a moment, until his own anger gave way to pity. He sighed and closed the gap between them, pulling the resisting Remy onto his lap.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry I was mean. I didn't mean it. I just uh, I um, I didn't want y' findin' out about dat Christmas present I got y'." At this, Remy lifted a tear-streaked face to Henri's.
"Present?"
"Yeah… It's um…" The eight-year old reached into his pockets with a frown. He pulled out a ball of lint, half a stick of gum, and an old, scuffed up quarter. That wasn't much, but he took the quarter and presented it like it was made of pure gold. "It's dis."
"Money?" Remy asked, sniffling, his chest still heaving a bit as his tears subsided. "W…what I can buy wit' it?"
"Buy?" Henri asked. "Well, nothin'. But see, dis here's a magic quarter. Whenever y' want somet'in' real bad, y' just rub on da quarter an' close y' eyes an' you'll be able t' see right in front o' you. Don't go losin' it now. It's awful hard t' find another one."
Remy accepted it with a slow nod. "I won't ever," He promised.
Remy LeBeau looked to the ghost of Christmas Past. "I never realized how little Henri was when we went started off on our own. He was a baby himself, but he took care o' me."
"You were such sweet children. It's hard to believe your mother left two beautiful boys like that."
"One." Remy corrected with a sigh. "I didn't know da truth, 'til I ran int' an uncle few years back. Turns out, Mama was just abandonin' me. She wanted t' drop off her mutant son an' start a new life wit' Henri, but he wouldn't leave me alone like dat, so he stayed on while she got da hell out o' town. Still can't hardly believe it."
The ghost of Christmas Past glanced down at the two boys again. "Whatever happened to your quarter?"
Remy paused to think it over, and then reached for the thin chain around his neck. He pulled it over his head and presented it to the feminine entity before him. A quarter weighed the chain down.
She sighed. "Come on, Remy. It's time to go visit another Christmas."
"But I just started wit dis one." He complained. He had no pictures, no home videos with which to recall his younger years. Just his memory. He wanted to stay on a few minutes longer, until he felt confident he could remember it all. But the ghost tugged at his sleeve.
"Come on. We've got a schedule, you know." She turned him and…
The first thing he saw is a brass doorknob, shaped like a dagger. That was enough. He put up his hands in protest. "No."
Past wasn't giving up. "Remy, you have to see this. You have to remember who you were."
"I don't have t' do nothin'. I know who I was: a stupid, useless fool."
"Why don't you set the scene for me. Ease yourself into watching it."
He bit his lip. "We were adopted when I was ten by a man named Jean Luc LeBeau. He picked us off da streets an' carried us away t' a big, giant mansion. But, since dis was real life an' not some Hallmark movie special, there was a catch. He was a professional thief an' expected us t' join da business. We did, 'cause no better offer could've ever come around an' besides, he was nice. He became our father an' we became LeBeau's. Good deal huh? Five years later, life was goin' good. I was fifteen, happy, respected, and da younger brother o' da heir t' da T'ieves Guild. On top o' dat, I was madly in love wit' a girl named Belladonna. Dat Christmas, she invited us t' stay at her own mansion. It was chocked full o' assassins, since dat was her trade, but I wasn't scared. I had m' girl t' protect me." He gestured to the pool. "I was such an idiot."
He never, ever went to bed early, except on that day. His head had been throbbing steadily for hours, and Bella offered a pill and a drink that could take it all away. There was no way Bella could do anything that wasn't good or helpful, so he'd tossed them both down his throat and crawled into bed. The reaction had been fast and powerful, knocking him unconscious before he could really hit the pillow, but… like a piece of burning paper, it was only so good for so long. He woke up in the middle of the night, wide-awake in the Assassin's mansion.
And, of course, alone. He wasn't exactly a virgin, and Bella wasn't either, but under her roof they kept their distance when the lights were off. Her father didn't seem to care much either way, but Julian had little to no control over the intemperate rage that boiled beneath his skin and would not see his sister's body disgraced by the touch of a thief, or so he liked to say, in a very longwinded, verbose manner. So she stayed in her room, and he stayed in his. Except he was alone and bored, and in desperate need of entertainment.
Remy poked his head out of the door, vowing to claim thirst if anyone caught him. He wondered how Henri was doing, and if it would be better to disrupt a brother's sleep instead of a girlfriend's. The choice, as it turned out, was easy.
He heard laughter.
Laughter that changed the world.
Laughter that changed him.
He scampered out into the hall and followed the sound of his love's voice, wondering what could've drawn her out of bed at such a late –or early, depending on the perspective- hour. Along the way, he passed Henri's room and found the door wide open. Naturally, there was no one inside. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who hadn't been sleeping.
Laughter again. A chill ran through his spine, and he attributed it to the cold. The Assassins were rich enough; they could've afforded better heating. Finally, he made it so that there was only a door between Bella and himself. Remy was all set to barge in on the late night party when he heard a… moan? Henri's voice.
Henri's moan.
Bella's laughter.
Suddenly, the sounds took on an entirely different light. Caution held his hand on the door.
"Henri," She said, as if to confirm things. "Yo' lookin' pale. Don't tell me y' want t' stop."
"Like y' would," came the gasping reply.
"I don't know, y' always been handsome t' me. Not a sex god, not like Remy, but charmin' in a much more mundane fashion. I could be persuaded."
"Liar." It was almost a choke. Followed by another moan, one that made Remy feel slimy and awkward.
"Shh. Not so loud, darlin'. Y' want t' wake da whole house?"
"Maybe just Remy? Let him know what's goin' on. He's gon' find out, Bella." Remy all but snorted from his place.
"He's never gon' know," Came the harsh reply. Too harsh? This time, Henri screamed, and… it was a bad scream. Like someone was ripping his lungs out of his chest and nailing them to the wall while he watched. Remy winced and wondered what he ought to do. Funny, they didn't cover this in any of his classes. Finally, he decided, and pushed the door wide open.
And…
His knees gave out.
His eyes blurred.
His head exploded in a burst of shock and pain and horror.
Henri and Bella weren't having sex, not like his imagination had allowed him to believe. They were… Henri was bound and gagged, chained to a wall while Bella held a light grip on a spear, the same spear that was jutting straight through Henri's stomach. And there was blood spilling onto the floor. His brother's blood. So much blood it ran throughout the entire floor. Both of them turned in his direction, Bella stepping back and looking at the mess with worried eyes. As if she were wondering if she could convince him the whole thing had been some kind of accident, or somebody else's betrayal.
"Remy, I-"
"Henri?" He whispered.
"Hey, Remy. Can I say I tol' y' so?" His brother had been adamant about the assassins being trouble. No good, secret motive, and all. He hadn't listened, not to a word. How could Bella be anything but wonderful?
"Oh, God, Henri." In all the world, he only had his brother. The only real friend, the only real relative, the only other soul who really understood. The boy who took care of him when their mother left, who convinced Jean Luc to take them in, who came along on his visit to the assassin's house just in case something bad happened.
Another choke. "It's okay, Rem. Don't worry so much. Just, just get out of here, okay?"
From his place beside the spirit, older Remy took a step forward, his eyes welling up with tears. "I didn't know." He whispered. "If I had realized sooner… I didn't know!"
Past patted his shoulder. "There was nothing you could've done."
"There's always somethin' dat can be done!" He cried out. Silence hit them, and he realized maybe that was the point. It didn't make the memory sting any less. It did help that Past linked their hands, and made the whole picture vanish.
"Tell me about after, Remy."
"I woke up in an alley wit' Sarah. She'd been workin' for da assassin's, but never liked bein' a maid much. She said she didn't know exactly what transpired, but dat da family had come callin' on Bella t' make her allegiance known. She was supposed ta kill Henri wit'out me knownin'. Apparently, when I found out, I hurt her. Don't know how bad, 'cause Sarah refused t' tell me, an' I couldn't bring m'self t' look her up. Never went back home. Just stayed wit' Sarah."
"But something good came of it. You and Sarah were…"
"Friends. Maybe we fooled around a little but only for fun."
"You started a business."
"Sort of."
"Still, you called it a business."
"Well," Remy sighed as the vision started to form around him. "We made money."
Sarah leaned against the post and waited for the men to pass. Her dress was too short, her make-up too thick, her heels too high, her lipstick too red, but that's what made it all work. The men, the creeps who would go home to their wives later, their picket fences and football games, all stopped and gawked at the pretty, young –and she was pretty young- girl who hung against the light post with a playful smile on her lips. She only took one at a time, she'd tell them in a singsong voice that had the men chattering to themselves with eagerness. And one by one, they'd be led into a room, a plain, bare, inconspicuous room, and the men would undress and wait for Sarah…. They'd get Remy instead, and not in a good way.
The pictures were great for extortion, blackmail, and bribes. The tactics were good to lure away men with prices over their heads, too, and sometimes those jobs would be the best paying of all. Afterwards, Remy and Sarah would move on, spending their money like they were disgustingly rich, and truth of it was, they might've been. Neither bothered to count it up, but the pile seemed endless.
Anyway, that night, she was pressed up against the post, waiting, smiling, and winking at Remy from a distance.
Her hands were constantly moving, he noticed, probably from the cold. He wondered if a new outfit might be in order. Something less revealing, that lent more to the imagination –if the lugs and idiots they attracted had an imagination at all.
Remy stiffened as he watched a tall, blonde man approach. He lifted his chin.
"Something tells me we've stumbled upon another bad Christmas memory, Sir." Past said, in a very quiet voice. "I'm sorry about that, but… this are the Christmas events that changed you."
"Yeah," he snorted.
"I guess we're starting to understand why you hate the season."
"Really?"
"I'm glad it's not my job to show change your mind."
"Who's is it?"
"The others. This is who you are and were, Remy. They're gonna teach you who you can be."
"Lucky me." He shifted uncomfortably again, as the blonde haired man said his first words to Sarah. "I know what happens here. Can we go now?"
"I'm sorry." And she sounded sincere. He wondered if she knew what was about to conspire, too. It didn't matter, though. It was already happening again. The blonde man laughed too loud and lifted Sarah off the ground, bringing their lips to a crushing meeting. She resisted. He did it again. A word tore from her mouth.
"Remy!"
In a flash, his younger self was there, holding a gun and threatening to rip the man's head off. But the man was… strong. He threw Sarah into the wall and faced Remy with a cocky grin. The two of them faced off, but older Remy's eyes were drawn to the girl's limp body. "She's dead." He whispered quietly. "Two years after Henri, I lost her too. My last friend."
"Sarah's the one who came to you, right?"
"Yes."
"Don't you think you owe it to her to change, Remy?"
"Thought it wasn't y' job t' make me change."
"I'm just saying."
Younger Remy cried out over Sarah.
"Not every Christmas has to be like this."
"Doesn't it?"
He was speaking to a sheet.
Second chime, second ghost.
He took a deep breath.
Remy lifted his head and peeked over the bedpost to see the ghost, and found someone puttering around in front of his refrigerator door, which was slung open, and extending from it, there was a very long, very puffy train of crimson and gold material. A sigh. "God, I'm starving. I haven't eaten all day. You wouldn't think so, since I'm not exactly counted among the living and all, but there's no escaping the lure of chocolate cake, not even in death." The voice was light, cheery.
Remy reached into his top drawer and pulled out a Snickers bar. "Here," he offered. "How 'bout dis?"
Two brown eyes peeked over the top of the door. "Is that the original kind?"
"Oui."
"Toss it here." She –it, whatever- came out from hiding. Her dress was all extravagance and finery. Long, creamy lines of fabric, red and bright gold, started at her waist and went on halfway across the room, while two strands crisscrossed over her chest and tied behind her neck, meshing with the heavy brown curls and the ribbons she'd threaded through her hair. Remy didn't know ghosts could look like that. And yet there was something vaguely familiar about her, something he couldn't quite place… maybe if there wasn't a veil, covering half her face…
"Oh, by the way, I am the Ghost of Christmas Present," she said, and then giggled, like she still hadn't gotten used to the words.
"Da ghost o' Christmas Present." He repeated. Less intimidating that the previous spirit, naturally.
"Sure. Are you ready? Might want to put on a pair of shoes or something, its like, way cold out there."
"Shoes." Remy glanced around the room. "I'm not sure where I left 'em. Maybe-"
But Present was suddenly no more than a foot away, tugging at his hands. "Forget it, I was just trying to be considerate. Of course you won't be cold. It's not that kind of journey, sailor."
"But-"
She laughed again, and this time it was a deep, throaty laugh. "Come on. You aren't afraid of what you'll see, are you? Surely you're not scared of taking a deeper look into the lives of the people around you?"
"What?" He hadn't been thinking that at all. Who was this Christmas Present, and why was she so presumptuous?
"I'm going to count to three. Ready, set… one, two, three!" Remy made the mistake of blinking at a poor time. When he reopened his eyes, his whole setting had changed.
He was in… Wanda's room? She was sitting on the floor, legs folded, wrapping a present with nimble fingers. Remy glanced at the ghost, and then at Wanda, and finally stepped nearer to the latter, bending down to see what exactly she was wrapping. Nestled between layers of paper sat a pair of shoes. "Shoes," Remy whispered, amusement clear in his voice.
Present shrugged.
A knock sounded at the door. Everyone turned, and Wanda finished up the wrapping and cleared her throat. "Come in."
"Well, if you insist." Pietro slinked through the door, a bundle in his hands. His eyes sparkled in a way that they never did at the meetings with Magneto. Like he actually might've cared about something. "Gotcha a present, Sis." Sis? What the hell was this, Full House? Where they going to break out the hugs and apple cider?
"You didn't have to do that. I'm just going to throw whatever it is out, anyway."
"Yeah, well, the presents actually for me. Seeing as how Toad sifts through the garbage and pulls out anything you've touched, I figure I'll let him take it out and then steal it while he isn't looking."
"Smooth plan."
"Did you expect anything less?"
"Than greed? From you, never."
"Here." He tossed her the bundle. "Hurry up and see what I got for myself."
She fumbled with the paper, tearing through it until at last she uncovered a small box. Jewelry would've been Remy guess, and he wasn't disappointed. She gasped quietly at the little silver locket inside. "Wow. You're really spoiling yourself this Christmas, aren't you?"
"Open it up."
"It really opens? It's not two-dimensional, like you?"
"Wanda." An exaggerated sigh. A brotherly sigh.
"Oh, fine." She flicked the latch and, gaped. "It's Mom! I haven't seen her face in so long. Where… oh, Mom!"
"Now what's this big, clunky thing in front of you?" His hands reached out and snatched away the gift she'd so recently prepared. He held it under his nose, examining the wrapping, the Santa face, the weight, the smell, and the color. Careful hands ripped at the corner… and then he lost control and tore through it in less time than it took to blink. Afterwards, he sat staring at the shoes. "Wanda…"
"I didn't know you were going to give me a picture of Mom," the girl explained. "Otherwise, I would've been more… well, your gift would've been…"
"These aren't just any shoes."
"Aren't they?" She sounded almost surprised.
"They're the shoes I've wanted for like, all year, but Dad said they're unpractical and the allowance won't cover stupid stuff and they're like, a million dollars otherwise."
"They're not unpractical. Studies say they're more durable. They last longer, something you need, since well… you go through shoes awfully fast, Pietro. That's why Dad's buying you a lifetime supply."
"What studies showed this?"
A grin graced her lips for the first time. "The ones I made up."
"You lied to Dad?" Incredulous.
"Don't be such a baby, Pietro." She folded the necklace around her fingers. "Now tell me why we won't be having a real Christmas tomorrow."
"What?" He seemed taken aback. As in, how did she know?
"The opening of presents right now? The almost forced niceyness? Come on, I'm not an idiot."
"I have to help Gambit rob a bank tomorrow."
"What? Pietro…"
"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I really am."
"Pietro." Her eyes darkened. "Get out."
"But-"
"Out! I'm sick of this. Just because he's our father doesn't mean he controls our lives. At least, not mine. Get the hell out, Pietro. You want to be his little puppy, go do it somewhere else." The door shut in Pietro's face and Wanda retreated to her private bathroom.
Remy sighed, leaning back. "An' dis is wit'out da bad memories, non?" He whistled quietly.
"All children rebel against their parents." Present reminded.
"Didn't know he an' Wanda were tryin' t' actually be a family. Thought it just made a good excuse." And that was true; he never would've considered Quicksilver the consider brother type, not until he'd actually seen it with his own eyes. When he coupled that notion with the memory of little Henri, he felt almost…
Bad?
"Maybe you jump to conclusions too often." Present pointed out. And then, "Come on, the night is young!"
"Ghosts rush an' awful lot, y' know?"
"I know." She nodded. "But, what can you do? Come on. We're going." She turned, her dress rustling, her hair bobbing. It was all Remy could do to follow, and follow he did.
Followed her right into the X-Men's living room, that is. He blinked at the sudden change, and leaned close to whisper, "Ever hear 'bout transitions? Make life a lot easier."
"Well, Gambit, some things have been too easy for you. Learn to deal with change like the rest of us."
The fire was burning, cracking, snapping, and decorations were still being hung up. Cereal garland was draped across the walls. People laughed. Teased. Ran. Joked. Played. Lived. Remy found himself sinking into a quiet corner, and that was something new. He was supposed to be the life of every party. The go-to guy. But, seeing as he was unable to touch or communicate, that was a fairly difficult task, one he wasn't particularly interested in taking up. He wasn't the only one. Sitting on a small chair, Rogue was sitting, her hair falling around her face in gentle curls. A notebook was situated between her hands.
An open notebook. Remy wondered what it said. He leaned forward, glancing back at Present to catch sight of disapproval, but her attention had been diverted. She was watching the teens decorating the walls with streamers, and whispering something about how it was 'all wrong, totally wrong'.
Kneeling closer, Gambit realized what it was Rogue had in her hands: his file. What was she doing with that?
Scott Summers was watching her too, and he asked the same question aloud.
She looked up blushed. "Just, thinkin'."
"Of him?" Remy thought there'd be sarcasm in Scott's voice, something snide, cynical, a little mean, or at least a little edged. But his words were straightforward and earnest. He leaned over Rogue's shoulder. "There's always next year."
"Yeah, maybe. It's funny, though, Ah've never been so convinced that someone belongs with us."
"I feel like I should be telling you you're crazy," Scott said, laughing a little. "But I think I agree. If he wasn't such an arrogant jackass, then…" And even that bit of name-calling sounded friendly.
"They're talkin' about me?" Remy asked Present, incredulously. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would anyone care 'bout me? I really was a jackass."
"Some people are like that. They care."
"I'm not." Remy said, suddenly. "I'm not like dat."
But her hand was on his shoulder, and he could feel her smile. "It's not something that's born in you. It's an everyday choice, and you can be whoever and whatever you want to be."
"Hey, Rogue, come on. I got to put Santa on the roof. I need a hand."
"Yippy." She said, with the roll of her eyes. Remy watched them go. Some people care. Some people care?
"Come on, there are others in this lovely little house to watch." She took him by the hand and all but dragged him into the next room, where…
Professor Xavier was reclined in his chair, a glass of champagne in his hand, speaking on the phone.
Remy frowned. "What's so excitin' about dis?"
"Shhh. Just wait."
"I'm afraid you're wrong, Eric. We were only ten minutes late to dinner and my wife was very forgiving. Yours, on the other hand, threw the chicken chowder across the room. But then, I can understand how she might have been impatient already, seeing as how she'd lived the past three years married to you." Soft laughter.
"Eric?" Remy repeated. "He's not talkin' to…"
Present nodded. "Every year, they call a Christmas Truce and share a conversation and a glass of wine."
"Tomorrow they'll be enemies again?"
"Yup."
"I did not tell her you were out that time." Xavier insisted. "I was with you. That would be sabotaging myself."
"So it's true, they used t' be friends?"
"Absolutely."
"Why do dis?"
Present sighed. "Does there always have to be a why? It makes them happier."
Remy pushed away. He wasn't used to any of this. Kindness and compassion without motive, friendship without reason, how did anyone live this way? And yet… they all looked so much better off that the Acolytes did.
Does there always have to be a why, she said. Before the visits, Remy would've given a resounding yes. But, the things he'd seen, maybe…
He was…
Wrong?
There was a loud bang, and Remy cringed turning around to see what Present was doing now. But he was back in his own room, standing just in front of the large bed. He frowned, pushed a hand through his hair. Remy allowed himself to collapse on the bed, his mind trying furiously hard to make sense and certain of all the things he'd seen and done. He'd almost arrived at an answer when…
The clock chimed.
Third hour.
Last ghost.
Remy eyes were closed, but he knew the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come had entered the room. Knew it by the appearance of thousand tiny prickles along the length of his arm, the strange hitch in his breath, and unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. Of all the ghosts, this was the one to fear. The Ghost of the Unknown. The Ghost of the Uncertain. Of the Unavoidable.
He waited to be addressed, but no words called out to him. Remy wondered: if he didn't move, would the both of them maintain their positions into the morning light? But there was something bad about the idea of this specter touching daylight, and Remy opened his eyes instead. Tall, practically the length of two men, and covered completely in a very long black robe, it was watching him. He knew this, even though he couldn't see its eyes.
"I don't need dis," He heard himself say. "I've already seen so much, I couldn't ever go back t' bein' da person I was dis afternoon. I'm changed."
No answer. Sort of expected.
"Dere's no real tellin' 'bout da future, anyway, right? Nothin' set in stone." When they said it on TV, those words had sounded much less desperate.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come simply reached into the folds of its robe and removed a long, silver staff. It took a step forward and extended the staff, blade first, to Remy.
Unavoidable.
Remy sighed and…
Touched the blade.
Winced like he had a bad hangover when the world shifted.
"You're going to be just fine." Pietro was saying while he rubbed his sister's shoulder. "I'll come and visit, all right? We'll play chess and watch those stupid movies you love and talk about what a loser Toad is for chasing after you, as if he had a chance with a Maximoff." His voice was soft, gentle, and careful.
Wanda sat beside him; silent, unmoving… she didn't even blink. Her blank stare went on and on into forever. That was nothing like the headstrong, angry Wanda Remy knew. The Scarlet Witch was like a supernova, all brilliance and dark danger, not… Remy leaned closer, peering through the car window to get a better glimpse at the siblings. "What's wrong wit' her?"
By the time the sentence left his lips, though, the answer was clear: a small, thin tiara adorned her head, black, shiny, and with tiny needles that pressed into her scalp. Remy wasn't familiar with that exact design, but he'd seen enough to recognize it for what it was –a controlling device. Why was she wearing that?
The Spirit stepped up and laid a hand on his shoulder. In a low, raspy voice, it said, "Pietro learned quickly that he had to follow your example if he wanted to impress his father. He spent less and less time with his sister and more time training. Then, one day Wanda learned that Magneto had implanted false memories in her mind to gain her cooperation. Having lost the father she thought she'd had in him, and without the support of a loving brother, Wanda went crazy again, this time worse than before. She went on a rampage that tore up half of New York. Ninety-eight people died and the ties between mutants and humans were strained to a degree never before reached. When they finally caught her, the courts ordered that she either receive the death penalty or be placed under permanent house arrest and sedated for the rest of her natural life. Pietro argued for the latter and won. A small victory."
"Oh." Two men in white, tidy coats move past him and rapped on the window.
"Mr. Maximoff? We've got to bring her inside now."
"I understand."
They pulled the door open, and carefully remove the limp girl from her seat. She followed without protest, or even realization. Her black hair fell into her eyes, and no one brushed it away. The two men were cautious, considerate, as they maneuvered her into a wheelchair. One of them muttered something about it not being possible, that the New York Devil, who killed so many, was really such a very small girl.
Pietro stepped out of the car and watched, an expression on his face so solemn; Remy might've mistaken him for Magneto, if he hadn't known better: same firm chin, forced calm, silver hair, watchful eyes. Eyes that widened as something slipped out of Wanda's pocket. A picture, Remy noticed, a portrait of the Brotherhood of Mutants. Standing center were the two Maximoffs.
Pietro rushed up and slid it back inside the folds of her jacket. And all of a sudden, tears welled up in the corner of his eyes. He ran a hand through her back hair and then pulls her in for a strong hug. The men tried to break them apart. "Come on, Mr. Maximoff. You know that isn't allowed," one said.
"I know, I know." He sighed, relinquishing his hold on her. "Make sure her room is warm. And that she's fed when she's supposed to be. I'm really counting on this place to…" He ran out of words and just stood there, blinking away moisture in his eyes.
"We understand, Mr. Maximoff."
"I don't." Remy said sourly, crossing his arms, as if he was suddenly cold himself. "Dis can't be my fault. What about Magneto? He's da one dat put da fake memories in his daughter's head, non? An' Pietro, he didn't have t' try an' be like Daddy." Something twisted inside his gut.
"But it's not about blame, is it. Its about compassion." He nodded to himself. "Its about wonderin' if I could've made a difference in dese people's lives, if only I'd have tried a lil' harder."
The Ghost… well, his face was covered, so Remy couldn't be sure, but… the ghost seemed to be smiling. "Bright boy. Keep it up and you'll go far."
"I didn't t'ink you were gon' talk." Remy pointed out. "Had y' pegged as da gruff, silent type."
"The future can surprise you, can't it?"
"Yeah… guess so." Remy smiled and the ghost pointed to something over Remy's shoulder. He turned, even though he was pretty sure there had been nothing there but mist. Of course, that had changed.
Two of the X-girls were seated on the edge of a fountain, tossing in pennies and little pebbles. One of the girls was Rogue, her pretty face turn down in a frown. Something about her was darker, sadder than usual. "Ah know it's stupid, but Ah can't help wishin' that Ah'd a' tried harder. Folks have been less willin', an' we've managed ta persuade them." Remy had no idea what she was talking about.
"I know, but… you can't save everyone. Sometimes, people won't be helped. And there isn't a thing you can do about it, except remember that you gave it your best shot." The other girl, Jean Grey, lifted a pebble in the air without touching it, and watched it dance a little before coming to a halt directly over the center of the fountain, when it landed with a small splash.
"Awful way ta die, though. Shot in the heart an' found three days later by the hotel manager looking for rent? An' shipped off ta N'Awlins an' boxed away in some unmarked grave." Rogue sighed. "This shouldn't a' happened. Not like this."
As he watched, Remy's throat constricted a bit. He wasn't sure why. He turned to the spirit. "Who are dey talkin' about?" When no answer came, he rolled his crimson eyes. "Oh, now we're back t' silence."
"Hey, at least we got Peter, right?" Hopeful.
"Yeah. At least."
"The two of you thinking about going out again?"
"Well," Rogue twisted her bottom lip between glistening white teeth. "Eventually. Our first date was nice, but this whole thing with him has made it kind o' tough. Ah know Ah should be over it, but somethin' about him was… shockin', ya know? Fun. Ah'd hoped we could a'… anyway, once Ah clear my mind, me an' Petey will be great. He's a good guy."
"Oh. Hey, I told Scott to bring out the chocolate, so it should be ready when we get back. Maybe now's a good time to start heading that way. Before the guys drink it all."
"Yeah," Rogue breathed. She stood up and dusted her hands off. "Ah'm done here."
She and the redhead walked right by him. Rogue passed him on the left, and to his right. He turned to Rogue, studying her face. In a different light, she was a different person. Beautiful in a way he hadn't noticed before. Oh, sure, she'd looked great all the other times he'd seen her: really, really f-
"Watch your mouth, please. And your mind." The spirit whispered, a stern, contained rush of words.
Remy frowned. "Wasn't y' voice different earlier?"
Coughed. "The future has many voices, many possibilities." But his particular voice was back to normal.
"Right." Remy turned back to Rogue, who was somehow in the same place he'd left her, and considered her in the new light. She was better like this, prettier, softer, more pure. Funny thing, Remy never thought he wanted that in a girl. But she made it so appealing. He reached out to touch her…
And she was gone. Or rather, he was gone, moved to a new place, this one thick with trees and mossy ground.
"Y' could've given me a minute. First time I actually decide I might like a girl f' somethin' other n' sex, an' y' pull me away like she's contagious?" He was met with silence.
"Let me guess, dat's da point. Good intentions pave da road t' hell. Words an' wishes are worthless if y' don't get da chance, o' make da effort t' turn 'em into action. So why dis place?"
The spirit just gestured ahead, into the fog and the mist and the… unknown, uncertain, and unavoidable. Remy recalled Rogue's conversation and took a step back. "I don't… dis isn't…. I'm not…"
He was all but pushed forward. He frowned, glancing offended-like at the ghost, but the future was standing a good ten feet away. He would've made some accusation anyway, but he realized his feet were placed squarely on a grave. A nameless grave. He took a breath, and bent down.
It was so rusted and unkempt that he had scrub away the muck before he can even see the bronze base. And… it's not nameless after all, but it might as well be. His hands uncovered a single letter, and then another, and another after that until it was plainly clear that the word printed read Gambit. His real name wasn't mentioned at all, and that's what cut the deepest. He was going to be buried in a grave that nobody cared to or could visit, and his own name wasn't going to be mentioned. No one would ever know, or care, what happened to Remy LeBeau. And nothing was worse than dead, except forgotten.
The closest to showing sympathy was Rogue, but even she was… dating Pete. Getting over him. Forgetting about him. Moving on, like people always did.
"No!" Remy cried. He pushed back, right into Future's embrace, and he fought hard to escape the hold. He batted and pulled at the black robes, got lost in the darkness and had to find his way out. Searched for his freedom, for the second chance that he had to have. Frantically, he struggled on until at last a glimmer of light appeared. Moving, swimming towards it, Remy was aware of the significance of his situation. Alone, trapped in darkness, he was fighting to be born again, a newer, better person.
As he realized this, suddenly his hands slipped free of the heavy dark robe and his body followed eagerly. His eyes protested the sudden change in lighting, but his heart was filled with gasping relief. He thanked the spirits and oriented himself to his new position… one he knew well, for he found himself sitting upright on a bed. His bed. Remy rubbed his hands over his face, tugged at his hair, patted his arms and legs, making sure that he was whole and real and indeed, safely back in the hotel room he called home, and all the while a kind of giddy shiver that ran through him, because he got that second chance after all.
And damn it, he was going to use it.
He slipped out of bed, tossed on a robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers that he had for months and never wore. Carefully, he poked his head out into the hallway, spying a maid at one end of the long corridor, a broom between her hands. "Hey!" Remy calls out to her, "You dere, what day is it?"
She looked at him in mild surprise. He'd always maintained a distant persona: don't talk to him, and he won't talk to you. But quickly, her shock fell away and she exclaimed, "It's the twenty-fifth, Mr. LeBeau. Christmas Day."
Christmas! He laughed. The maid looked frightened once more. He wondered if maybe he was out of practice when it came to laughing out of pleasure; he did sound a tiny bit maniacal. Remy quickly retreated back inside the room. It was Christmas! Christmas Day! He felt the sudden urge to do something, to help someone, to show the world that Remy Etienne LeBeau was not the same man they thought they knew. He was just bursting with holiday spirit and good will and all of the things that those wonderful carolers sang about.
Carolers! He needed Carolers!
Remy fumbled until he found the phone and quickly dialed a number. There was a pause, and then a voice came on the line. "Hello?"
"Remy."
"Hey, buddy, how are ya?"
He laughed. "Listen, Mark. I need y' t' do me a favor."
"Aw man, Remy. Christmas Day? We're all set ta go out caroling… ya know it's a tradition here."
"Yeah, dat's why I called, see? I've got a girl in yo' area who's visitin' wit' her family. I was wonderin' if y' could stop by, sing her a few tunes, an' tell dat I like her a lot, but she should find someone else. A good man. Why don't y' take her out f' dinner, Mark. Two o' you are like peas in a pod. Girl's name is Jolene."
Another pause. "Are you high?"
"Just high on da holiday spirit – an' I'm talkin' about da feelin', not da drinks. Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays!" He hung up the phone before his friend could offer a protest and plopped on the edge of his bed. His hands itched. That wasn't enough. Not by a long shot.
Seven minutes later, he was standing outside the house that housed the Brotherhood of Mutants, carrying a pie, of all things. A pie. A pumpkin pie. A deep-dish pumpkin pie. And grinning like an idiot, a look he hoped worked for him, because he had a feeling he was going to be wearing it for a while.
Pie.
Ha!
Lance opened the door, frowning in obvious confusion at the sight of a Cajun thief standing on the porch with…
"What do you want? And since when do you knock?"
"Pietro here?"
Lance crossed his arms. "Yeah, so what? He's already getting ready to –hey!" The boy tried to stop Remy from walking past him, but Remy was agile and swift, and easily avoided getting caught. He made a dart for the stairs and went right up to Quicksilver's room.
The silver-haired boy was leaned against the closet, zipping up a black jacket. He barely raised his eyes to Remy. "I'm already going with you, if that's why you're here."
"I'm not goin'." Remy announced proudly.
"What?" This time, Pietro did look up, and did a double take. "Is that pie?"
"F' you," Remy said, holding it up. Did giving always feel this good? God, he'd been getting it backwards all this time. If only he had known!
"You're giving me pie?"
"You an' Wanda."
"And you're not doing the job Dad gave you?"
"Nope."
The boy leaned forward. "Are you high?"
Remy laughed. "Just on holiday spirits. An' I'm talkin' 'bout da feelin', not da drinks."
"My dad is going to kill you. And me, if we don't get this job done."
Remy shrugged. "Here. Have a pie. An' start wonderin' if maybe it's time you an' y' sister started standin' up t' dat man y' call a father. Remember, at least you two have each other, non?"
"Yeah," Pietro said, and apparently the cheer was contagious because a smile graced his lips. "Is this pumpkin?"
Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters was like the center of all things merry. As if Santa Claus had needed to temporarily relocate and the mansion had been available. White snow blanketed the ground, the mailbox, and the building itself, but atop that sat multi-colored lights, snowmen statues, Santa Claus cutouts, fake reindeer, a moving train, and lots of sprinkled confetti.
Remy stood on the lawn and just… marveled. He had no idea that the X-Men were so festive and seasonally oriented. Maybe he did belong with them, after all. He hoped so.
"Can Ah help ya?" A voice called out. He turned and spied Rogue coming from behind him. He hadn't heard her approach at all. Strange times were afoot!
"I was t'inkin', it gets borin' only playin' one side o' da field. Maybe, I could try dis side o' da law?"
Rogue raised an eyebrow. "Well, membership here is tough."
"How so?"
"We get up early an' go ta bed late."
"I don't sleep anyway."
"In general, we try ta not break the law."
"I'm always up for a challenge."
"We take orders from Scott Summers."
"I'm good at quiet insolence."
Rogue shifted. "An' we sing an' celebrate Christmas until it feels like our heads are gonna explode an' we want ta strange Ol' Saint Nick with a stockin', shove him up the fireplace, toss in a few logs, an' call it an accident."
"Sounds perfect."
Rogue narrowed her eyes. "Are you high?"
"Yes, but just on holiday spirits."
"An' ya mean the feelin', right? Now the drinks."
Remy laughed, low and real. "Cheri, you an' me are gon' be better friends n' we ever were enemies." And somehow, he managed an arm around her. She stiffened a little, but didn't shrug him off.
"Whatever ya say, Gumbo."
They made their way to the door, but Remy stopped before they were actually inside. He pointed up. "Mistletoe?"
"Ah don't-"
He shushed her with a hand.
He kissed her, briefly.
It was a beautiful kind of unconscious that followed.
FIN!!
Happy Holidays! I'd say more, but it's Christmas Eve and my hands are seriously starting to cramp. Look for an update of WMB within the next two days! Ta ta! Oh, yeah, and click the next button for an epilogue. (Review!)