La lune trop blême pose un diadème sur tes cheveux roux.
From the first moment he had open his mouth at age six months, Remy LeBeau had been known as a charmer. That reputation had only grown as he had changed from a squirming, flush faced baby into a slim, smart mouthed teenager, and ultimately into a tall, lanky, slick-fingered, smooth talking man. Down in New Orleans young women gossiped about the Diable, partially in warning, and partially in challenge. They flocked to him, intrigued by his burning red eyes, attracted to his handsome face and toned body, and allured by his status as heir to the infamous Thieves' Guild. He didn't mind the attention; how could he? He was a man who enjoyed the softness a woman's skin, the scent of spicy perfume, the higher pitch of a feminine voice. But he did have to admit, and he would only admit this to himself, it had been getting a little tiring being seen as a boy toy. Cruel, how women only wanted him for his . . . . talents.
La lune trop rousse de gloire éclabousse ton jupon plein trous.
He maneuvered his way through the crowd of people in the bar and shouldered open the front door. A blast of cold air whipped in, slapping against his exposed face and sending chills through him. With a little yelp of surprise he jumped back, letting the door slam shut again. The bartender glanced up from the beer mug he had been drying and raised his thick eyebrows at the Cajun.
"What's the problem buddy?"
Remy pushed a hand through his thick hair. "It be cold out 'dere, garcon."
The bartender rolled his eyes and shot him a funny look. "No shit Sherlock. It's nearly winter."
Frowning, Remy tugged his coat closer about him and flipped up his collar. "Not where Remy be from," he muttered to himself. He approached the exit doors again, this time like a man approaching a den of wild rabid dogs. Briefly it entered his mind that he could simply stay there; warm himself up with bourbon and some pretty lady who was willing to share her flat with him. There really wasn't any reason to go venturing out into the cold. Except for Rogue.
La lune trop pâle caresse l'opale de tes yeux blasés. Princesse de la rue soit la bienvenue dans mon coeur bless?
He knew it was typical machismo but the fact that she had not only not swooned over him but had outright rejected his modest advances had . . . well . . . bruised his ego. It might have turned some other guys off but it only made Remy all the most interested in cracking those seemingly formidable defenses. Besides, it had been a while, a number of months in fact, since he'd been with anyone. Skills that were unused were skills that became lax, or so Jean Luc had always said.
Petite mandigotte je sens ta menotte qui cherche ma main. Je sens ta poitrine et ta taille fine.
Sighing to himself, Remy bent his head and pushed his way out the door and onto the streets. The wind greeted him for a moment and then died down. Kind of a shame. A billowing trench coat always made him look so dramatic. He turned his head to the left and then the right but saw no sign of Rogue. A small group of young women stood near the bar's entrance, taking puffs from cigarettes and chattering while they shifted from one leg to another in an attempt to stay warm. Remy put on his suavest smile and stepped up to them.
J'oublie mon chagrin.
"Pardon, belles, but Remy seem to have lost his femme. Any of you see a girl with white streaks go past? She probably look pretty pissed," he supplied with good humor.
Je sens sur tes lèvres une odeur de fièvre de gosse mal nourrie.
One of the girls nodded her head vigorously and jerked her hand to the right. "Yeah, she went that way. And you're right. She did look pissed. I think you're going to have to come up with a pretty damn good gift to win her back," she advised, returning his smile.
Remy scratched at his chin and pretended to think it over. "A gift, oui? Make-up sex be de best gift, non?" he asked slyly, with an exaggerated wink.
Et sous ta caresse je sens une ivresse qui m'anéantit.
Another one of the girls let out a low whistle. "With you I bet it is."
He flashed another grin and gave a short wave. "Merci, belles. Now Remy mus' go win de heart of 'is femme," he said, mockingly holding a hand over his heart as he started in the direction the girl had pointed.
From behind him he heard one of them call out, "Good luck!"
Funny. Luck was just the lady he dealt with most often.
Another blast of cold wind came barreling down the street to chill his bones.
Fuck he hated winter. Give him the hot muggy nights on the Delta anytime.
"And here's Jaime with the latest in entertainment news. Jaime, what's going on in the world of glitz and glamour?"
A few blocks down Remy stopped in front of a store window filled with different sized televisions just as the screen switched from two news journalists sitting behind an oval shaped desk to a bleached blonde woman standing with a backdrop of the city behind her.
"Well, Steve, it looks like the music industry has yet another tragedy to add to its history. This afternoon Jack and Meghan White, the founding members of the recently popular musical duo, the White Stripes, were killed when the scooter they were riding double on collided with a delivery truck. The driver of the truck, a Mr. Black Line, was in the middle of delivering a shipment of Crest Whitening Strips to a local Wal-mart when Mr. White, who was operating the scooter, crossed over the double yellow stripe and crashed head on into said truck. It is not known at this time whether or not the Whites were indeed consumers of the Crest Whitening Strips or if they did actually prefer the Colgate Whitening Paste. Irony is so cruel. Back to you Steve and Amy."
Remy tilted his head and idly wondered if Rogue listened to the White Stripes. It didn't seem likely that she would be into that kind of nonsensical garbage. She seemed a much more heavy metal, rock 'n roll kind of girl. He blinked and then laughed at himself. What the hell did he care what kind of music she listened to? It wasn't like he was planning on going Christmas shopping for her.
Mais voil?qu'il flotte la lune qu'il flotte. La princesse aussi la la la la la la la la la la mon rêve évanoui.
The high pitched scream startled him and broke him free of his reverie. Something he had never felt before clutched at his chest and he took off running with only one thought racing through his brain.
She was in trouble.
***
Her vision was stained with red and the man's cries fell on deaf ears as she began to slowly twist his wrist in a clockwise direction. He fell to his knees and grabbed hold of her arm but couldn't manage to pry it away.
God money I'll do anything for you. God money just tell me what you want me to.
"Help me," he gasped to his friends standing just a few feet away. Rogue watched with cold detachment as the three other men turned away from the girl they had cornered and started towards her. She continued to turn his arm as they approached, feeling the muscles and tendons under his skin bunch and tear. The three men moved cautiously, their eyes pinned on her. They fanned out and surrounded her, and then began to close in. Meanwhile the man in her clutches breathing heavily, sweat beads gathering on veins that bulged on his forehead.
God money nail me up against the wall. God money don't want everything he wants it all.
"Bitch," he breathed, feeling white hot pain shoot down his arm and throughout his entire body. He didn't like the sensation at all. "Bitch, I'll kill you. I'll ki-"
She wrenched his arm and snapped bone as easily as a wishbone on a turkey.
No you can't take it, no you can't take it. No you can't take that away from me.
He barked out in agony and fell forward like a boulder onto the hard cement. At the same time his three friends all leapt for her, all thinking the same thing. One girl against three grown men was easy prey. She may have held her own against one man she had taken by surprise but chances were she'd scream and run or be paralyzed with fear, just like the one before, when faced with them at the same time. The savage beat of hunters pounded through their heads as they lashed out at what they thought was their next meal.
No you can't take it, no you can't take it! You can't take that away from me!
But Rogue wasn't willing to play that role. With a nearly inhuman snarl she took one step to her left and reached out with both her gloved hands. They curled around a shirt front and, using the man's own momentum, she swung him around and into one of his friends. Bodies collided in mid-air with a sickening thud and fell to the ground.
Head like a hole, black as your soul, I'd rather die, than give you control. Head like a hole, black as your soul, I'd rather die, than give you control.
The third man caught her around the shoulders with one arm and quickly wrapped the other around her neck. For a moment, as she felt his forearm cut off her air supply and yellow dots danced before her eyes Rogue felt the panic of being physically overwhelmed pour into her. She struggled ineffectually as hysterics threatened. And then training snapped ruthlessly back into place.
Bow down before the one you serve. You're going to get what you deserve.
Rogue let her shoulders go lax then reached up and grabbed hold of her attacker's hair. She let her legs go limp underneath her, putting him off balance with the sudden addition of her full weight. He tumbled forward with her and his hold on her loosened momentarily. One moment was long enough for her to jab her elbow into his stomach. His breath came out in a great whoosh and as he doubled over, she used the hand that was still tangled in his hair to snap his head down onto her shoulder bone. There was a loud crack as his jaw broke. He slid off of her back and to the ground without another sound.
God money's not looking for the cure. God money not concerned about the sick amongst the pure.
She wasn't done. Unaware that she was dragging in air like a woman drowning, Rogue stepped toward the leader, toward the man who was trying his best to crawl away from her, cradling his broken wrist and fighting to see through the tears in his eyes.
God money let's go dancing on the backs of the bruised, god money's not one to choose.
"Wha—Wha—do you want?" he blubbered as he watched her stalk him, green eyes burning in the darkness. He bumped against the alley wall and she came to a stop inches away, towering over him like an Amazon queen. Narrowing those eyes dangerously, she set one booted foot against an empty crate near his shoulder and leaned down so she stared into his face.
No you can't take it. No you can't take it. No you can't take that away from me!
"What do Ah want? Ah think the question is, what did you want, sugah?" she asked with falsely sugary voice. His bloodshot gaze slid over to the young woman still cowering in the shadows at the back of the alley.
No you can't take it. No YOU CAN'T take it. No you can't TAKE that away from me!
"I jus—just wanted to ha—have some fun."
Rogue leaned forward until he could see the blackness of her pupils. One of her snow white locks brushed against the skin of his forehead and she chuckled quietly.
"Fun, huh? Ah'll show ya some fun." She lifted one hand up toward his face and he jerked back involuntarily. But she made no move to strike him. She simply held up one hand, fingers outstretched, in front of his face. He stared at her over them, feeling his heart racing so quickly in his chest that he wouldn't have been surprised if it had burst straight out of his chest. Slowly her lips twisted into a smile and she wiggled her fingers harmlessly. He felt his own lips twitch in response.
Head like a hole, black as your soul. I'd rather DIE than give you control! Head like a hole, BLACK AS YOUR SOUL! I'D RATHER DIE, THAN GIVE YOU CONTROL!
Like a cobra, the fingers snapped together into a fist and shot forward, crunching bone and sending blood running. He cried out in pain and tried to lift his good hand to his nose but the fist was already flying forward again. His head snapped back against the brick wall. She hit him again and this time he didn't make a sound. But she didn't stop. The red in front of her eyes had grown so thick she couldn't see past it and an incessant buzz sounded in her ears. Like a jackhammer her arm drew back over her head and then slammed down into his face until it was covered to the elbow in blood and snot. And still she didn't stop. The demon inside of her drove her to stamp out the memory lurking inside of her.
"Cherie? Rogue, Jésus, Rogue! Stop! Vous le tuerez!" (You'll kill him)
Remy caught her fist as she pulled it back and she turned on him. He caught the frenzied look in her eyes and the fist she sent streaming toward him. Trying to keep himself from joining the bloodied mess at her feet, he wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and tried to think quickly. He wasn't stupid enough to believe he could overpower her; even when she wasn't enraged she was a one-man army. Nor was he foolish enough to hope that the berserker rage she was in would keep her from being conscious enough to access her arsenal of weapons. But he didn't want to hurt her, not when she was already obviously in pain from something else. There was no way, not with the way she was struggling against him and snarling like a caged wolf, that she was going to settle down on her own. So he did the only thing he could think of.
He took her head in his hands and snapped her neck.
****
La Complainte De La Butte by Rufus Wainwright
Head Like A Hole by Nine Inch Nails