Connecticut, en route to Boston, Massachusetts
The Past, Five Weeks Ago
"I seem to remember you being a bit more...chatty," Jean pushed aside the silence that hung between them like a heavy curtain. There had been no words spoken for the last two hours as Remy navigated through traffic, finally emerging from the tangle of the city streets to join the Interstate. They had encountered the early morning rush-hour in Connecticut, and Jean could sense Remy's building irritation with the stop-and-go traffic. She waited until they were clear of the traffic before broaching the silence.
"I guess I've run outta things t'say since I seen you last," Remy said, his eyes trained on the road in front of him.
"This is a nice car," Jean said, looking at the posh black and tan interior of the SUV, the buttery texture of the soft leather seats, and the gadgets on the console for satellite radio, hands-free bluetooth, and climate control.
"It's not mine," Remy told her.
"You didn't steal it, did you?" Jean asked, half-jokingly.
"No. I'm...borrowing it. From a friend," Remy told her.
Jean glanced into the backseat. "Your friend won't mind that he left his briefcase in here?" she asked.
"I'm sure it's nothin' important," Remy said. "He works for de government."
Jean watched the side of Remy's face, looking for a hint that he might be speaking in jest. "So...tell me," she began. "What have I missed?"
If she could measure anxiety with a scale, she would say that Remy's had jumped from his usual seven-point-five to an eleven out of ten. Jean wouldn't have guessed it just by looking at his face, which was a passive mask. He even shrugged nonchalantly.
"Mmn," he said, raising a shoulder. "Coupla seasons of Breaking Bad...Gangnam Style... Crocs... Twitter..."
"What?" Jean asked, perplexed. Most of those words made no sense to her whatsoever. "No, not pop culture. I meant...important things."
"Oh," he replied and then paused to consider. "Okay. You missed a bunch of natural disasters. Earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, flooding, drought. Half of them weren't even caused by superhuman folks. Hm, what else? How 'bout world leaders? We got a new Pope. Seems nice. Oh, yeah. President's a Black guy. Name of somethin' strange...Barack Bin Sama or –."
"Remy, how can you not know the name of the President of the United States?" she asked.
"Dunno. Guess I don't pay attention," Remy told her. "I used to. When I was younger. I used to always be lookin' in de paper or watchin' de news to see if there were any stories about other mutants. Before I got to know some of them. Then I got to lose interest."
Jean shifted in her seat to face him. "I feel like you're avoiding telling me something," she said. "How about some news that's a little closer to home? Like what happened to the school?"
Remy seemed to mull this over. "It might've got blown up, or knocked over, or devoured by aliens. But that's par for de course. Seems back to its normal state. Or what passes for normal."
Jean was surprised. "I – I thought it was gone?" she said. "That there was no more Xavier School."
Remy shifted his hands on the steering wheel and sank back into the seat a fraction. He rolled his shoulders in a show of making himself look comfortable for the long haul. "Yeah...well, it got a new name is all. De school is still there."
"A new name?" Jean asked. "What name?"
When he didn't answer for nearly a half-minute, she prodded his arm with her forefinger. His lack of forthcomingness was typical, but that he was unable to answer such a simple and straightforward question was alarming.
"Logan changed it," Remy said, breathing out the answer as if he'd been holding his breath. "He named de new school after you."
Jean's hands fell limply into her lap and she stared at Remy dumbfounded. "He did?" she asked, her voice small. She thought she might have known that, but she was half-hoping it was a dream.
Remy glanced over at her, and then turned his eyes back to the road. He slowly smiled. "What?" he asked. "You're not flattered?"
"I don't –," she began. "I don't know what to think. That's so..."
"Sweet? Thoughtful?" Remy suggested, and now his grin was playful.
Jean rubbed her hands over her face. "It's...a lot to take in."
"There's a statue out front and everything," Remy said happily.
Jean groaned into her hands.
"Some of de boys try t'look up your skirt," he continued. "I looked too, but it wasn't anatomically correct."
"That's so not funny," Jean told him, and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. She slouched back into her seat and stared straight ahead.
"Well, you did ask," he was grinning, though as he glanced over at her, his smile faded. "You know, if I turned this car around, I could take you straight there. If de X-Men even heard a whisper of your name, they'd come running to your side. Welcome you back with open arms, no questions asked."
"You don't know that," she told him and she could tell instantly it was the wrong thing to say. She could feel his thoughts compress down onto themselves just as his mouth closed and his face resumed its impassive mien. When he'd spoken there'd been an undercurrent of jealousy in his thoughts, and perhaps anger too.
"C'est vrai," he said in a blasé tone and shrugged. "What do I know, anyway?"
"I don't mean to say...that is, I just need some time...to gather my thoughts," she told him, folding her arms in front of her. "I haven't been myself in a while. That's all."
They continued on in silence for some time. Jean stared out the passenger-side window not really seeing the scenery. Remy stared out the front window, a bored expression on his face. A few raindrops spattered against the windscreen. Remy turned on the windshield wipers and they squeaked across the glass. The sky above was gray with low clouds.
"What would you do?" Jean asked finally. "If you were in my shoes?"
Remy made a noncommittal noise. "I'm de last person t'ask for advice."
"Well, I want to know," she said.
"So you know what not t'do?" Remy asked, and he smirked a bit.
"Maybe. It might give me some perspective," Jean told him.
He was silent for a moment. Remy pretended to think things through, though she could sense that he knew his answer the moment she asked the question. "I'd love de chance to start from new," he said.
"Could you be a different person?" she asked. "Just like that?"
"No," he admitted. "I'd just be me in a whole new venue. Without all de baggage. Without anyone knowin' who I was."
"You could just leave everyone...and everything you know behind?" Jean asked.
"I've had to do it before," he said. "I'd rather it have been on my own terms. Walked away before gettin' cast aside. If I were smarter, I'd of run away long before."
Jean sat still for a moment, thinking through what she'd experienced during the last few months of her life, before she'd died. "It would have been easier to walk away. Knowing now what hanging on would entail. But I kept thinking that holding on to what little I had left was better than nothing at all."
Remy glanced at her. Of course, Jean was speaking about Scott. She might have expected sympathy from Remy, but his face was still a blank mask. Inside, she could hear him scoff at her; he thought that what she considered to be 'nothing' was a lot more than he ever had. He just as quickly snuffed the thought, shoving his scorn down with his jealousy and anger, to be ignored. He turned back to the road.
"Why aren't you at the school?" she asked, her voice light as she tried to ignore all that she was sensing from him. Though his mind was in turmoil, from the outside he seemed calm and unperturbed.
"Spring break," Remy told her with a wry smile. "I should be in Cancun, and not chauffeuring your derrière across New England."
"You can be honest with me, you know," Jean told him. "It's not like I'm going to tell anyone. You're the only person who knows I'm alive."
That seemed to carry some weight with him. She could feel his consideration. But in the end, he seemed unable to come up with an answer, and that to try to voice his thoughts would leave him too vulnerable. "People come and go all de time. Nobody says boo about it. I just thought I wanted a break. Now I don't know what I was thinkin'."
"No," Jean said. "I don't think you do."
"Ain?" he said.
"I don't think I've known anyone who is so completely unaware of his own thoughts," Jean told him.
He frowned at this, his brows coming together in confusion. "What do you know about my thoughts?" he asked.
"I wasn't doing it on purpose," she said. "It's just that I haven't been around people in so long..."
"Stay outta my head!" he shouted with his face still turned towards the road, his hands tightening on the wheel.
"I'm sorry," she said, contrite. She turned to face forward, her hands clasped between her knees. "I'm used to feeling...connected. To everything. It's hard to exist in such a confined space."
Remy's jaw clenched and he winced. "Ow!" He put his hand to the side of his face. "Freakin' Daredevil!"
Jean could see he was looking for a target for his anger and frustration, channeling it all at Daredevil. "Take a few breaths. Relax," she said calmly. "Do you want some Advil?"
He made a sort of grunting sound in response.
"It was an honest mistake," Jean told him, speaking both to Daredevil's mistake, and her own infraction. She put her hand on his forearm and squeezed gently. She felt a shift in his thoughts again, the anger tamped down like gunpowder in a musket. She took a steadying breath. "Maybe you were thinking... by doing away with all the things that you want...you could reassess what it is you really need."
After a long pause, he told her: "Let's just not talk. Why don't we listen to de radio?"
He stabbed at one of the buttons on the console. The speakers came to life. " – Can find me...A girl who'll staaaay...And won't play gaaames behind me..."
"Eugh," Remy said and pressed another button. It had no effect. He pushed another and the music continued.
"Then I'll be what I am...A solitary man...Solitary man..."
"De radio's busted," Remy said, pushing each of the station buttons.
"I like Neil Diamond," Jean said. She started to hum along.
"Don't know that I will, but until I can find me..."
"Fancy-pants car that doesn't work," Remy muttered, trying the tuner.
"I think it's coming from your phone," Jean said and pointed to the blue light on the console. "See, the wireless light is on."
"Well, it can't be coming from my phone," Remy said, pulling a face.
"It's okay if you like Neil Diamond, Remy," Jean told him. "It reminds me of my father. Neil was his favorite."
"I don't like Neil Diamond," he said irritably, shifting in his seat to try to pull his phone from his back pocket.
"Rem – ah! Keep your hands on the wheel!" Jean said as the car drifted into the berm.
"Would you calm down? You're messin' with my drivin'," Remy said, his phone now in his hand. He was looking at the face of it instead of watching the road.
"Remy!" Jean shouted. The SUV had started to drift into the high-speed lane. A car horn blared.
"Crazy Connecticut drivers," Remy groused. One of those Connecticut drivers breezed past in the high-speed lane and gave Remy a single-fingered salute. "I don't get these people. Always drivin' in de passing lane. Where've they got t'go in such a hurry? Dis state's de size of a dinner plate."
"If you aren't going to concentrate on the road, maybe I should drive," Jean volunteered.
"I'm concentratin'," he replied, holding the phone up against the steering wheel. "What de –? Enh, zut! Dis ain't my phone."
Jean reached out and pried the phone from his grip. She looked at the phone, which told her it was playing The Essential Neil Diamond. When she swiped her thumb across the screen to unlock it, she found the contact list to be full of names she mostly didn't recognize.
"Your friend Foggy's called you at least a half-dozen times," Jean told him and smiled a bit.
"Who in tarnation is 'Foggy'?" Remy asked.
"My point exactly. Why didn't you answer? You might have figured out a bit sooner that this phone wasn't yours."
"I don't like people callin' me," Remy said. "What makes dem think I want t'talk t'dem just at that very second? It's rude."
"That's how phones work," Jean told him. "So people can get a hold of you when they need to."
"I just use mine t'keep de time," he responded. "And order take-out. I like texting though. No one notices my bad spelling then."
"I wonder if Matt has your phone?" she mused. "Should I call?"
"I don't want t'talk to that jerk," Remy said.
Jean sighed. "Why didn't you tell him your suspicions about the shooter?" she asked. "About the assassin who killed...who killed my friend?"
"'Cause it's none of his business," Remy responded. "Let him chase his tail for a while."
"Shouldn't we be going after the killer?" she pressed.
"As long as I stay dead, things'll sort themselves out. I got precautions about dis kinda thing," Remy said. "I give it about t'ree days."
Jean shook her head with incomprehension.
"You seem to be a lot more upset about your phone than your attempted assassination," Jean said. "I have to wonder about your priorities."
"It don't do me no good t'get upset about de things outside of my control. I might as well curse de sun for setting," Remy replied.
"I think you sublimate your anger," Jean told him. "So when something insignificant comes along, like your uncalled for hatred of Neil Diamond, it becomes the straw that breaks the camel's back."
"Does dis therapy session come with a big bill? I'm about t'run into some money troubles and I don't think my insurance will cover it," Remy said, wearing a smirk of a grin.
"You're good at concealing it," she said. "Your anger. Too bad it's making a mess of your insides."
"My insides are fine. My Tantie used to say I had an iron gut," Remy said.
"It's probably cauterized," Jean said, leaning her head back against the headrest. He was exhausting her. "From all that spicy food."
"I'm surprised you've not got a palate for it," Remy remarked. "Bein' an immortal bird of flame, you should be used to de heat."
Jean adjusted the seatbelt so it lay more comfortably across her shoulder. She raised up out of the seat for a moment to stretch her legs. "I'm just incredibly sensitive to everything right now. I was only just reborn. I'm new."
Remy glanced at her. She could feel questions welling up in his mind. There was a vision of peace and clarity that he was holding in his mind's eye like a precious jewel to be treasured. He coveted the memory, though a part of him felt guilty for holding onto it. "What's it like, bein' dead?" he asked her, and she knew he was thinking of the moment he'd nearly passed on into the next life,* only to be pulled back. Though he posed the question in his usual light manner, she could feel his hopefulness and longing. His desire to be reassured that such a place as what he'd glimpsed was still there.
"I don't think I can describe it in words," Jean said. "It wasn't like anything at all, but at the same time it was everything. It felt like an eternity had passed, or that I'd been there for no time at all. It was so loud, I could hear nothing. So bright and colorful that I couldn't see. I was in a small space that went on and on forever."
Jean could sense Remy's disappointment. He wanted a simpler answer, not more questions. "Maybe it's different for everyone," he said aloud, but mostly to himself. He was certain he'd never see that place again.
"It is different," she told him. "It's not like being alive."
"Were you alone?" he asked.
"I felt...that I was connected to everyone, but at the same time alone. I felt like I was waiting for something," Jean answered. "Or someone."
Jean wished he would just tell her about Scott, and not force her to ask. She felt like he was being cruel by withholding what he knew. She could be cruel too.
"How is Rogue?" she asked.
Remy failed to rise to the bait. He seemed to be well in control over those emotions, as deeply smothered as they were. "I suppose she's doin' all right," he told her. "Imagine there'd be some uncomfortableness, what with bein' in a new job and all."
"New job?" Jean echoed. "What new job?"
"Up and joined de Avengers," Remy said.
Jean was taken aback. "That's...new. I'm having a hard time imagining it. It doesn't seem like her."
"She'd probably seem a much different person than the one you remember," Remy continued. "I tell you, I don't understand her thinkin' and I don't envy her in dat role one bit."
"I wouldn't picture you as an Avenger either," Jean confessed.
"I agree wholeheartedly, chère," he said. "When you look at them folks...I mean, what's an Avenger do, when he's not avengerin'? Bein' a scientist, or an inventor, or a lawyer, or leader. Businessman or a doctor. They all got their own lives. What's an ex-X-Man t'do when the Avengers are unassembled? Pack their little lunch boxes and send 'em off t'work?"
She pressed her lips together in a rueful smile. "So you're intimidated by them?"
He rolled his eyes over in her direction and gave her a put-upon look. "I know my place."
"What does that mean?" she asked.
He chose not to elaborate. Instead he said: "At de school, even if I don't consider myself a teacher by any means, I at least know what it's like t'be a kid. So I can offer up my perspective. Someone should learn from my mistakes, because Lord knows, I'm not going to."
"You're very hard on yourself," Jean told him.
"Do you think so?" Remy asked. "Because you might be de only one."
"Has anyone else joined the Avengers?" Jean inquired.
"Hm... Sam. Logan. Stormy was. But not anymore," Remy said.
"What happened?" Jean asked.
"She and Black Panther got married –."
"They did?"
"And now they're not," Remy looked at her. "She could probably use a friend. She won't talk t'me, and Kitty's got her hands full."
"With what –?," Jean began.
Remy shook his head and exhaled, turning his attention back to the road. "I don't think I can tell you all – I mean, there's a lot."
"You could just open up your mind to me," Jean suggested. "It'd be faster."
Remy pretended to consider this. "Or I could just leave you in de dark."
"I know you know what I want to know," she told him.
"Enh?"
"Remy! Why are you being mean?" she asked.
"I'm not bein' mean," he said, affronted.
"Then why won't you tell me about Scott?" she pressed. There, she'd said it out loud.
He was uncomfortable. "Maybe I thought it was better if you didn't know."
"Why?" she asked and nervousness made her heart flutter. "Did something happen to him? I thought – I mean, I know – I sensed something happen to him. Something changed. For a moment, I was with him and it was like we were linked again. And then he was gone. He let go."
"He's not dead," Remy told her. "If that's what you're asking."
"I'd know if he was dead," Jean said. "He needed me."
Remy shook his head. "He doesn't need anybody."
"I was called back," Jean insisted.
"I don't know what t'tell you, Jean. He went off on his own," Remy went on.
Jean hesitated. "What about the other X-Men?" she asked.
"He took it on himself."
"What about...what about Emma?" Jean asked slowly.
"Let's just say dat possessed or not, attackin' your girlfriend kind of puts a strain on your relationship," Remy said. "Speakin' from past experience."
Jean watched the side of his face. He made an effort not to look at her again.
"Possessed...by the Phoenix. Right?" she prompted.
Remy nodded.
"Where is he now?" Jean asked.
"In jail," Remy said.
"Why?" she asked.
He hesitated. "For wreakin' havoc," he said. There was more he wasn't telling her, but he was actively pushing back at her now.
"Do you think we could pull over at the next rest stop?" she asked. "So we can have a proper conversation?"
"It's not too much further," Remy said. "'Til we get there."
"Where are we going, anyway?" she asked.
"Boston," he answered.
"Why are we going to Boston?" Jean asked.
"I got family there. I was gonna ask for sanctuary," Remy told her.
"I had no idea there were Cajuns in Boston," Jean said, attempting to sound lighthearted.
"There's Acadians all up and down de east coast," Remy said. "When de British kicked us out of Acadia, they shipped some down to Boston. A few stayed on. I don't know why. Mebbe they liked bein' cold. In any case, they're a bunch of weirdos. My daddy used t'threaten to send me up to live wit' dem when I was misbehavin'."
"Really?" Jean asked. "Can I meet them?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"You're gonna stay in de car," Remy told her. "While I talk t'dem."
"Oh, I don't think so."
"Don't argue wit' me," Remy said. "You'll get me in trouble."
"Why?" she asked.
"For one, you're not a thief. For two, you're too English."
"I'm American," she said.
"Well, you look English. Your last name is de same as a kind of tea. They hate tea. They hate de English."
"Are you serious?" Jean asked. "It's been what? About two-hundred and fifty years? That's a long time to hold a grudge."
"We have long memories."
Jean blew out a breath through her lips. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Completely change the subject? Steer the conversation away from what's important?"
"Stormy hates when I do that, too."
"It would be easier if you just filled me in," Jean said.
Remy shook his head. "This puts me in a bad situation, chère. They wouldn't say 'don't shoot de messenger' if a bunch of messengers hadn't already got shot."
"You could tell me one good thing, and then one bad thing," Jean instructed.
"Okay...," Remy began. He was silent.
"I'm waiting."
"I'm thinking," Remy answered.
"There's got to be one good thing you can come up with."
"I got nothin'," Remy said, defeated.
Jean felt frustrated. She swallowed hard and had to close her eyes. Her eyes burned.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I just don't want t'be de one to make you sad."
"All right," she said, keeping her eyes closed as she leaned her head back. "We don't have to talk right now." She lifted an eyelid and glanced down. Jean covertly slid her finger over the face of the telephone, then pressed the play button.
"Sweeet Caroline...Good times never seemed so good..."
"Gah!" Remy said, and the SUV abruptly swerved across a lane.
"Tell me what's going on!" Jean demanded.
"I've been inclined...to believe they never wooould..."
"Turn it off!" Remy shouted.
"You don't want to talk? Fine, we'll sing. Warm...! Touchin' warm...Reachin' out! Touchin' meee...touchin' yoooou..!" Jean sang.
Remy pressed the volume knob to turn the radio off.
"I know all the words," Jean said in the silence. "I can keep going."
Remy inhaled and exhaled through his lips. "It's only a half-hour, maybe forty-five minutes 'til we get there," he said, mostly to himself.
"Sweeeet Caroline...dunh dunh dunnnn...Good times never seemed so good! So good, so good, so good!"
Remy squinted through the windshield at the traffic up ahead. "What de heck is dis?" he muttered and applied the brake.
"Looks like more traffic," Jean said. "Do you know Forever in Blue Jeans?"
"No."
"Well, you can join in on the chorus," Jean told him.
~ oOo ~
"Shilo...when I was young. I used to call your name...when no one else would come...Shilo you always came..."
"How do you know all these songs?" Remy asked. It was now night and they were well within Massachusetts, trolling through the outskirts of Boston. Remy was navigating the city streets.
"I told you, Neil was my dad's favorite," Jean said.
"Aren't you tired?" he asked.
"I'm hungry," Jean answered.
"Look in de back. Maybe there's some food in de briefcase." He was hoping some food might stop the singing.
Jean strained to reach into the backseat. She retrieved the briefcase, sat it into her lap, and opened the case. "Some airline pretzels," she said, finding a foil package. Jean shuffled through several files within the case. "There's a file with your name on it," she said and opened it. She balanced the folder open inside the briefcase while prying the foil bag open with her teeth.
"You're nosy," Remy informed her.
"Why would a government agent have a file on you?" she asked, and picked a piece of torn foil off her bottom lip.
"He was helping me with something," Remy told her.
"Why did you steal a mail truck?" she asked, perusing the file while putting a pretzel into her mouth.
"I don't know," Remy said. "For de life of me, I can't remember."
"Really?"
"I don't remember a bunch from my childhood," Remy said. "Maybe I blocked it out."
Jean glanced at him, then returned her attention to the briefcase. She opened another folder. "Do you know who Honoré DesJarlais is?" she asked.
"No," Remy said. "Should I?"
"He's your state senator," She showed him a paper from the file. "He looks just like you."
Remy glanced over. "Nah," Remy said.
Jean rolled her eyes and shook her head, returning her attention to the files and her bag of pretzels. Remy turned off the city street into a well-lit parking lot. Jean glanced up to see they were in front of a doughnut shop. The glow from the shop interior fell across the hood of the car. Remy parked and unfastened his seatbelt.
"Stay here," he told her and opened the car door.
"Hey," she said as he slammed the door shut. She growled, tossed the empty pretzel bag into the briefcase, then shut the briefcase. Jean opened the passenger side door and climbed out of the vehicle.
Remy glanced over his shoulder at her. "Get back in de car," he said.
"No," she said. "I'm hungry. I want a doughnut."
Remy crossed in front of the car to stand in her path. "I'm serious. Get in de car. I'll get you a doughnut. Just wait here."
"It's just a doughnut shop," she said and gestured at the building.
Remy took her by the upper arm and guided her back towards the passenger-side of the vehicle. In the shadow of the SUV he leaned down and told her: "It's not just a doughnut shop. It's a front. All right?"
Jean looked at him skeptically. "So Guild thieves manage a doughnut franchise," she asked, her tone flatly sarcastic.
"I need t'go in there and make some inquiries," he told her. "I can't be seen with an outsider. People will ask questions."
"You could have just told me that," Jean informed him. "Instead of leaving me in the dark. I'm in on this too, you know."
"Fine," he said. "You want to play along? Good. You can be my cover."
"How am I going to do that?" she asked.
Remy reached into his jacket pocket and removed a velvet pouch. "Here, put this on."
Jean took the pouch from him and felt the weight of something inside. "A ring?" she asked and fished into the bag with her fingertips to recover the ring. She held it between her forefinger and thumb. "Where did you get this?"
"Never mind that, just put it on. No, not that finger, de other one."
Jean looked up at him as she slid the ring onto her left hand. She held her hand out to admire it. "Pretty."
"There, now you and me are just a coupla dummies in love," he told her. "Us against de world. Instead of me bein' a man hunted by an assassin and you, a runaway dead girl."
She regarded him him archly through her eyebrows. "Watch it, buddy."
"Is de honeymoon over all ready?" he asked.
When he turned she joined his side and looped her arm through his. "What's our story?"
"That you left your husband to be with me, your true love," he joked. "Our families would never allow us t'be together."
"Scandalous," Jean said.
"Yeah, it goes over real well with de clansfolk," Remy told her. "Try to look contrite, because clearly I've corrupted you."
"It's been known to happen," Jean said airily. "From time to time."
He smiled at her as he held open the doughnut shop door. "Après-vous, mon amour."
Jean entered the soft yellow warmth of the doughnut shop and filled her lungs with the sweet sugary air of fried dough. "My god, I'm starving," she said and made a beeline for the counter.
The interior was on the shabby side, the linoleum underfoot worn by the tread of many feet bound for the same destination as Jean. The overhead florescent tube lighting cast a yellowish pallor over the chipped brown countertop. A teenage girl was standing behind the counter, her jaw busy as she moved something around in her mouth. She looked at Jean with a bored expression, tearing her kohl-rimmed eyes away from the television hanging above the two small dining tables. She was wearing a brown and pink collared shirt and a brown visor.
"What can I get you?" she asked, her tone dull.
Jean pressed against the counter to survey the remaining doughnuts in the baskets behind the girl. There wasn't much to choose from, and what was left looked a little dry. It was evening now, and past the usual doughnut consumption time. Jean paused to consider. Remy came to stand behind her.
"I need t'speak t'Marcus," Remy told the girl.
The girl's eyes moved up and down Remy's figure. She became a little more interested. "Marcus don't work here no more," she said.
Remy paused. "What happened?" he asked.
"He got shot," she said and her light colored eyes flicked back to Jean, then returned to Remy. "We were held up a few months ago."
Remy looked concerned. "And they left you here alone at night?" he asked.
"Nah. Dickie's in the back. He's in charge now."
"Who's Dickie?" Remy asked warily.
The girl opened her mouth to reveal a tongue ring, which she clacked against the back of her teeth. It coordinated with the pair of rings through her eyebrow. "The night manager," the girl said, crossing her arms over her narrow chest. "You wanna talk t'him?"
"I suppose," Remy said. "What family's he from?"
She shrugged. "He got sent up here from down south," she told him and leaned forward. "And between you and me, he's a jerk. I can see why they wanted t'get rid of him."
"What –?" Remy began.
"Hey! Dickie!" shouted the girl over her shoulder. "Someone here to see you!"
The girl's eyes turned back to Remy and Jean. "How much trouble you in?" she asked, her lips smirking.
They were interrupted when the back door swung open. A man pushed through to stand behind the counter.
"Oh, c'est fantastique," Remy muttered upon seeing the man.
"Remy LeBeau," said the man, who was lean, tall, and bald.
"'Allo, Richard," Remy replied dully. "You're a long ways from home."
The man turned his sights on the girl. "If you call me 'Dickie' one more time –."
She rolled her eyes at him. "Whatevs," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
Richard clenched his jaw tightly and then looked at Remy. "What de hell do you want?" he asked.
"Duh," the girl said. "What everyone wants when they come here."
"Doughnuts?" Jean asked.
The girl snorted. "This here's the last resort. A pit stop before miles and miles of nothing. Welcome to Last Chanceville."
"A word, Richard," Remy told the man. "Someplace private, mebbe?"
"Why should I help you, devil-eyes?" Richard asked.
"You're honor-bound t'offer sanctuary to another thief in your territory," Remy told him.
"Heh, honor don't mean shit up here. And you're just barely holdin' on to bein' a legitimate thief as it is," Richard said.
Legitimate thief. Jean thought. Oxymoron.
"Mebbe we could work something out, to make it worth your while," Remy suggested.
Richard looked at Jean appraisingly. "Who's this?" he asked.
"Not part of de bargain," Remy replied, stepping in front of Jean. Jean took the moment to telepathically alter her appearance just slightly.
"Let's not take anything off de table just yet," Richard said, stepping up to the counter so that he could look more closely at Jean.
She looked up at him with crossed eyes and grinned, revealing oversized and uneven teeth. Richard took a step back and he looked back at Remy with an incredulous look on his face.
"You got somethin' t'say to my beautiful bride?" Remy prompted dangerously.
"Your standards have slipped," Richard said to Remy.
"De heck you talkin' 'bout?" Remy asked and glanced back at Jean. She gazed up at him demurely, lips pressed together; the perfect picture of angelic beauty. Remy looked back at Richard, confused. "There's somethin' de matter with your eyes, cousin."
Jean made sure only Richard saw her investigate her nose with her finger. He stared at her in transfixed horror, then shook his head as if to dispel the image. When he opened his eyes, he looked past her into the parking lot. "All right, let's negotiate," Richard said suddenly. "C'mon back."
"Wait here," Remy told Jean as he turned to leave.
"I'm not going –," Jean began.
"Give her as many doughnuts as she wants," Remy told the girl behind the counter.
Jean frowned at Remy as he lifted a section of the counter and passed through the opening. He followed Richard through the swinging door. Jean stayed for the doughnuts.
"Can I have one of those jelly-filled?" Jean asked and pointed.
"You don't want those," the girl replied and turned to face the wall of baskets. "They're stale. Have these instead."
She picked up a few cream-filled doughnuts with a piece of wax paper and dropped them into a white paper bag. "Here," she said, handing the bag to Jean. "On the house. I got to throw them out at the end of the night anyway."
"Thank you," Jean said, looking at the young girl. "Do you always work nights?"
"Yup," the girl responded. "Can't wait to be done running the counter though. It sucks."
"Do you suppose you'll be getting a promotion?" Jean asked, pulling one of her doughnuts from the bag.
The girl grinned at her, revealing her tongue ring again. "Heh. What, you mean Dickie's job? Watching over the Island of Misfit Thieves? No. I'm just here 'til the baby's born. Then back to my real job and hopefully a transfer back to warmer weather."
"Baby?" Jean asked.
The girl tightened her work shirt over her stomach. "Yeah, see," she told her, turning sideways so Jean could see the protuberance of her belly. "Five months."
"Oh," Jean said, feeling awkward. The girl didn't look any older that fifteen. At a loss, she asked: "Is it a boy or girl?"
"Boy," the teen said and dragged a wooden stool out from behind the counter. She sat. "Your guy is hot."
"Uhm. Thanks," Jean said.
"How far along are you? You're not like, showing at all."
"I'm not pregnant," Jean told the girl.
"Oh. Sorry. But...then what's with the whole running away thing?" the girl asked and mimed running with her fingers.
"It's a long story," Jean told her. "Remy took me with him...when I left home."
"You're lucky. He could've ditched you like this one's dad did me," the girl said and pointed at her stomach. "What a dick."
"I'm really sorry to hear that," Jean said, feeling bad for the girl. She should be home doing homework or studying, not sitting in a den of doughnut-making thieves.
The girl shrugged a shoulder. "I'm thinking I'm giving it up for adoption," she said. "But I dunno."
"That's a very hard decision to make," Jean told her. "You're very brave."
The girl became shy and played with her tongue ring some more. She looked away from Jean to gaze up at the television. "Oh, snap. Checkit," she said and pointed at the screen with her pinky finger.
Jean turned her attention to the television screen. Her heart nearly stopped and her bag of doughnuts dropped to the ground. There was a news report on the screen showing grainy footage of an escaped prisoner...a mutant. The message across the bottom of the screen read: Mutant Vigilante Cyclops At Large. Jean was breathless as she watched her (estranged? ex-?) husband (widow?) dash across the screen, his arms raised to form an X as he turned to the camera.
Scott? A vigilante? Showboating for a television camera? Jean's thoughts spiraled inward and she stared sightlessly at the floor.
"Woot!" the girl said and punched her fist into the air. "Yeah! He got out! Sweet!"
Jean looked up at the girl who was watching the television rapturously.
"You're – you're happy he escaped?" she asked.
The girl glanced away from the screen. "Well, like, yeah. Yeah, I'm glad. You know, some people say different, but the way it looked to me is that things were rainbows and lollipops and us all singing kumbaya for a while there. Then the next thing you know, blam! Fire from the sky. It was all going fine until the Avengers showed up."
"Really?" Jean asked, her eyebrows coming together in confusion.
"You know what I think?" the girl said and leaned forward over the counter, her face still trained to the television. "I think it was Magneto's fault. I mean, what does that guy care about humans anyway? And him and mutants and us all living together? And the Avengers saw the Phoenix was all like, fixing shit and shit, and getting credit, and that Magneto was there with the Phoenix and the Avengers were all like: No. No way. Nuh uhn. We gotta take 'em down. 'Cause you know, it's Magneto, man."
"I'm having trouble following you," Jean said, blinking rapidly.
"Well, that's how I saw it anyway," the girl finished.
Jean was spared from having to respond when the swinging door reopened and Remy stepped out. He glanced at Jean, then the teenage girl, then up at the television screen. He frowned. The news report had changed. The screen now showed the front of a New York bank building. FBI agents were leading men in business suits from the building and into waiting cars. The newscaster in the foreground was speaking soundlessly into the camera. The screen turned blue and a photograph appeared. The photo looked very much like Remy LeBeau, though the screen read: Robert Lord. Robert Lord was wanted for questioning in connection to an attempted coverup and theft at NABC.
"Dude, that guy looks like you. Like a super-dorky version of you," the girl said and pointed.
"C'mon, let's go," Remy said to Jean as he walked out from behind the counter.
"Man, you really are in major trouble," the teen continued.
"Your use of de English language is worse than mine," Remy said to the girl over his shoulder. "Which is saying something. Go home, take that thing out of your tongue, and wash your face."
The girl stuck her tongue out at him.
"Remy –," Jean began. He stopped before her and stooped to pick up her bag of doughnuts. Remy placed the bag in her hand.
"We can talk in de car," he said, and lead her to the exit.
Remy walked past their SUV, his hand still on her arm. "Where are we going?" she asked.
"We gotta ditch de Caddy," Remy said. "Too conspicuous. Stay here while I grab some t'ings from de back." He left her standing next to a late model Cutlass Oldsmobile that had seen better days.
Remy rummaged in the backseat of the SUV and returned with the briefcase. He handed it to Jean. He opened the passenger-side door and gestured for her to enter. Jean reluctantly entered and sat on the worn vinyl seat, the briefcase in her lap. The car's interior smelled of stale cigarette smoke. The cloth lining draped down from the ceiling, nearly touching the top of her head. Remy climbed in through the driver-side door. He put the key in the ignition. The car started with a cough.
Jean sat in numb shock as Remy steered the car out onto the street. "Remy," she began. "I saw, on the television..."
"Hm," Remy said.
"Scott is – he escaped from prison. He's a fugitive."
"So he is," Remy said.
"We have to do something," Jean said.
"We don't have to do nothing," Remy told her.
"We need to talk to him," Jean insisted.
Remy shook his head. "There's no talkin' t'him," he said. "Way I see it, you've got two options when it comes to Cyke. You can go to war with him, or you can war against him. There's no in-between."
"That's not – no," Jean stammered. "I can reach him."
Remy abruptly pulled the car over to the side of the road, parked the car with a screech of tires, reached over her lap and shoved open the passenger-side door. "Have at it, chère. If anyone's got a shot, I suppose it'd be you. He's all ready made it plenty clear that he don't want anything t'do with me. And de feeling is mutual."
Jean sat in the seat, looking from the open door to Remy. He sat in his seat, staring forward. A cool breeze blew in off the damp pavement.
"What aren't you telling me?" Jean asked quietly.
Remy shook his head. "The X-Men got split up. Ideology. Scott's side and Logan's side."
"I take it you're on Logan's side?" Jean asked.
Remy let out an impatient breath. "I had no interest in taking sides," Remy told her. "But I also didn't want to be sittin' out on dat rock they called Utopia and trainin' kids to be soldiers."
"And that's what Scott wanted?" she asked.
"I'm sure it's more complicated than that," Remy admitted.
"What else?" she asked.
"Are you gonna get out, or stay? 'Cause I'm getting cold," Remy said. "Either way, close de door."
She sighed and pulled the door closed, sealing them inside.
"Do you want to join him?" Remy asked. "Become a vigilante? Or fight him?"
"Neither," she replied.
"Then we'll just stay out of it 'til everybody comes to their senses," Remy said and put the car into drive.
"Where are we going now?" she asked.
"A safe house," Remy replied.
"Did you trade the SUV for sanctuary?" Jean asked.
"That, and some other things," Remy said.
"Won't your friend be upset about his car?"
"Probably," Remy said.
"What other things did you trade?" Jean continued.
"Nothin'," Remy answered. "Just odd jobs is all. Nothin' you have to worry about."
"I don't like the sound of that, Remy," Jean told him.
"Speaking of unpleasant sounds, why don't you sing that one song about Rosie," Remy told her. "That one wasn't so bad."
"Were you just going to leave me out in the cold?" she asked. "With nothing but a bag of doughnuts?"
"At least you had de doughnuts."
Jean sighed: "Cracklin' Rosie you're a store-bought woman...You make me sing like a guitar hummin'..."
The safe house was an apartment just outside of South Boston, in a three-level apartment complex painted an acidic shade of green. Remy parked the car out on the street, where it blended in well with the other vehicles. There was a short cement staircase leading up to a chain link fence that framed a minuscule lot of overgrown weeds. Remy lifted the U-shaped latch holding the gate closed and waited as Jean walked through it. There was a porch alongside the length of the house. The two levels above each had decks above it. It was dinnertime, and Jean could see the second-level lights were on. People were in the kitchen eating. Remy unlocked the side door and gestured for Jean to enter. She stepped into the narrow vestibule. There was gray industrial carpeting beneath her feet. A staircase stood before her, painted with shiny brown paint with rubber treads on each step.
"Top floor," Remy said.
Jean began up the stairs. She came to the landing and turned, then started up the next flight. They passed two doorways, each with a tarnished brass door plaque. Names had been written on index cards and shoved into the plaques. Both last names were French: LeMoi and St. Pierre. The third door had no index card. Remy unlocked the door and pushed it open. It moved ponderously across dark brown shag carpeting. He entered and Jean followed.
They were in a small sitting room with a tweedy looking brown couch, a laminate-covered coffee table, and faux-wood paneled walls. Streetlights filtered through the pair of dusty windows to their left. There was a hideous paint-by-numbers landscape hung over the couch.
Remy pushed the door closed and had to lean against it to get it to shut properly. He surveyed their surroundings. "Well, I've definitely stayed in worse places. Also on de upside, there's no dead clone in de living room."
Jean swung the briefcase and it connected with Remy's ribcage. He folded over with a gasp, clutching his side where she had struck him. The briefcase hit the floor and Jean raised a fist, bringing it down onto Remy's shoulder.
"Ow! Jean!" Remy shouted, jerking away from her as she swung her opposite fist. He caught at her arms as she tried to pummel his chest.
"You're an ass!" Jean said, choking on her anger. "You didn't even know him! He was a person! You don't even care that he was murdered!" Her anger had turned into tears. She slapped ineffectively at him. Remy had raised his arms to block her blows.
"He was shot right in front of me! I felt him die!" she continued, and turned away and put her hands over her face.
After a long pause, Remy said: "I'm sorry, chère. I didn't think. Why don't we just have a seat? We can talk."
"You don't want to talk," she said, and her words sounded sulky to her own ears. She wiped a hand across her face and walked to the window. She looked through the glass and the damaged screen. Across the street was an old factory building. It appeared vacant, many of its grayed-out windows were broken. Jean took a few shaking breaths until she had regained her composure.
Remy walked over to stand at the other window. They both looked out at the factory. There was still a little light on the horizon; a promise that the days to come would be growing longer. From the factory came a flicker of light. On the rooftop, a larger-than-life size plastic Santa Claus came alight. The plastic figure's suit had been bleached by the sun to a shade of orangey-red. Its hand was raised in a greeting. The apartment grew marginally lighter in the glow from the seasonal figure. Jean and Remy turned to look at one another.
"Is it Christmastime?" Jean asked.
"Only two-hundred and eighty-some shopping days left," Remy said as his eyes focused on her. His eyes seemed brighter for the darkness, glowing eerily in the dim room. "About what you said earlier. I was thinkin'."
"What did I say?" she prompted softly.
"About holding on to something – someone," he continued. "I know what you went through. Wit' Scott bein' changed and all. That when he came back after bein' in synch with Apocalypse, he was a different person. Colder. More distant...maybe mean. Ever' once in awhile, you might get a glimpse of who he was before...so you keep waiting and hoping that person will come back and be de same – and feel de same about you again. But people don't change back to what they were. You just have to accept that they're gone so you can mourn their loss and then move on wit' your life. Or you can hang around like a ghost in hoping that person maybe spot you out de corner of dey eye and remember who you were."
She didn't speak, thinking that if she interrupted, he may not continue.
"If that's de case," Remy said. "You may as well be dead. 'Cause it's no way to go on living."
~ oOo ~
Jean was crying. That was just what Remy was hoping to avoid. He had to think awhile about how far back he had to go to bring Jean up to date. It turned out she all ready knew about the deaths in her family. That she'd seen them go on to the next life. What she didn't know was everything that had happened after the Phoenix had left her.
"Why d'you suppose it left?" Remy asked. They were seated on the couch which sagged so much in the middle, they were sitting hip to hip.
"I don't know," Jean said. "Something happened on Earth."
Remy thought for a moment. "Maybe Wanda's spell?" he speculated.
"What spell?" Jean asked.
"The 'no more mutants' spell," Remy said. "Wanda and Hope undid it. Stopped de Phoenix with a new spell."
"Who is Hope?" Jean asked.
Remy rubbed his hands over his face and pushed his hair back from his forehead. "Ugh..."
"I'm sorry," Jean said.
"No, it's okay," Remy said, raising his hand. "I'll explain." Which meant going back further. He gave her a version events that heavily edited his own experiences since the Scarlet Witch had cast her spell. In truth, Remy's unwillingness to talk was not so much about trying to protect Jean from the truth. It was more about Remy not wanting to remember the things he would much rather not think about. He noticed that Jean never did ask what his role was. She was concerned about her friends and loved ones; Scott, Ororo, Logan, Warren, Bobby, Hank, Kitty, and Cable and Rachel. Remy was usually on the periphery of this group, like a hanger-on. His recantation of their lives was abbreviated because he simply didn't know.
"I don't know why Cable would take Hope t'de future. If it were me, I'd have taken her t'de past...where you all ready know what happened," Remy told her. "But I guess I don't really know what became of either of them."
Explaining Hope to Jean meant also telling her about Kurt Wagner and his death. Which is why she was crying now.
"Do you –," Remy began, feeling awkward, "do you want t'be alone?"
Jean had her face buried in her hands as she wept. She shook her head back and forth, then came forward to lean against his shoulder. Remy slowly put his arm around her. He wondered how he seemed to always end up in the role of comforter, and why he was drawn to it. Was he really that empathetic of a person? Most likely, it just felt nice to be the least miserable person in the room. Jean's tears meant that the questions had stopped. He was relieved in that aspect. Answering questions was not his strong suit.
"We can talk in de morning," Remy said. "You should get some rest."
To his relief, she agreed. He had to argue with her about the bed. There was only one bedroom in the apartment, adjacent to the living room. A short hall led to a small bathroom and ill-equipped kitchen. Off the kitchen was a small narrow room just big enough for two armchairs and a television set. Remy insisted Jean take the bedroom, that he wasn't going to let a lady sleep on a couch. In the end he agreed that they would trade off, she would take the bedroom tonight and Remy the next. He had no intention of following through on this compromise. He lingered at the bedroom door.
"I saw a market a few blocks down," he said to Jean as she sat on the bed. She looked a little shell-shocked. "I'm going to go get a few essentials. Do you want me t'get you anything?"
"Uhm..." she said and put a hand to her face, then dragged her hand through her hair. "Maybe a hairbrush."
"Okay," he told her. "I'll be back in a few."
Remy left the apartment and started down the street on foot. The night air was cold, but not as frigid as it had been in recent weeks. The street was lit in intervals by yellow streetlights. Remy passed several apartment buildings, all looking very much the same. Up a few blocks on the corner were the bright lights of neon beer signs glowing from a 24-hour market. He walked towards it. As he approached the market and the possibility of encountering people, he began to worry that he would be recognized from the news. Remy felt a flash of irritation. This was all Daredevil's fault. Remy had been given a chance to be a hero in the best way he possibly could. He was going to be a thief and one of the good guys at the same time. Instead, he'd been caught up and then chased down. He had a handle on the situation, he should have been able to wrap it all up with a neat little bow and hand it off to Denti like a gift. Then he could have gone home after a job well done, feeling good about himself for a change.
And then it would have been him on the floor with his brains splattered across the couch, dead with a bullet through his skull.
He experienced the strange sort of thrill that he'd had before. There were times when he came so close to dying he could feel Death's breath on his face like the air wafting from an open crypt. Not cold like the open graves up in the north, but sweltering like the above-ground burial chambers he knew from back home. Hot like Hell. Except in Remy's mind, Hell would be cold...like Antarctica. Remy shrugged into his jacket, his hands rooting in the pockets for warmth. He wondered: if he were the one who had died last night, how long would it be before anyone found his body? Would his corpse start to putrefy before anyone discovered him? It wasn't as though anyone was looking for him. Would anyone be sad? Or had he affected so few people in a positive way, would his death be like a footnote? He supposed that he should have made sure no one put his body in the ground. At the very least, they should cremate him. If anyone really knew him, they should know that was what he would have wanted. But he doubted that anyone really knew him, not that that was anyone's fault but his own.
Remy thought maybe he should call someone to let them know that he was still alive. Then he thought maybe it would mean more if he called to let someone know that Jean was alive. He argued with himself for a bit, then reminded himself that he'd lost his phone and besides, it wasn't his decision to make. He couldn't make up Jean's mind for her, and if she really wanted to go back it was within her power to do so. He tried not let his own feelings, his own misgivings, get in the way of others living their lives. He didn't stop Laura, X-23, from going to the Avengers. Even as he watched her leave, he wanted to tell her she was making a mistake. But that was his own selfishness talking.
There was a reprisal of that particular scene when Rogue decided to take the same path. Remy could offer up his perspective, but only if asked and only if people were willing to listen. Rogue didn't do either. Instead she had come to Remy to tell him what he all ready knew, what she'd already told him in so many ways at least twenty times before; that she wasn't ready for a relationship or a commitment. Remy wished she had left it at that, instead of bringing him up to speed with her relationship status to Magneto; amicably dissolved as far as those things went. Remy supposed he was glad they ended things on a positive note, otherwise Magneto would have left Rogue a crushed corpse buried under a pile of wreckage. It was hard to keep the smile on his face when that thought occurred to him, when what he wanted to do was shake her and make her recognize what kind of man Magneto really was. But he was attempting to look sympathetic while Rogue spoke, be the friend she wanted him to be. So he nodded and smiled and hugged her goodbye. And though he spent years perfecting his mask with its trademarked grin, his smile became so brittle it nearly cracked his face in two.
Remy flicked his coat collar up as he entered the store. His arrival was announced with the ringing of a bell over the swinging door. The shopkeeper behind the counter glanced up from the magazine he was reading. Remy nodded at the man before moving down one of the aisles with a hand basket. He picked up a hairbrush for Jean and also toothbrushes and toothpaste. He reasoned that everyone would feel a lot more human after brushing their teeth. Remy also placed eggs, bread, milk, and peanut butter into the basket. As the shopkeeper rang him up, Remy spotted the daily newspaper on the lower shelf in front of the register. There was only one left, so he picked it up and folded it inward to hide Robert Lord's photograph on the front page.
The shopkeeper handed Remy his change. "Heeyawah," the man said. "Have a good night."
Remy paused, unable to decipher what the man had said. "Thanks?" he responded and accepted the change.
All the way down the street, Remy kept thinking: heeyawah. What did that mean? And people thought Remy's accent made him hard to understand. The people in Boston had him beat, hands down. Heeyawah. Heeyawah? Remy glanced down at the change in his hand.
"Oh," he said aloud as comprehension dawned on him. "Here you are!" Then he laughed to himself as if he'd just discovered the answer to a very tricky puzzle.
Back at the apartment, Remy tapped on the door to the bedroom. There was no answer. He opened the door a fraction to peer in. Jean was asleep. Remy closed the door and turned towards the kitchen. He put the groceries away, then took a plastic cup down from the cabinet. Remy went into the bathroom. He flicked on the bathroom light and set the cup onto the sink. He put one of the toothbrushes into the cup, then brushed his teeth with the other. He went to put his toothbrush (the pink one) into the cup, but thought it was weird that his toothbrush should be touching Jean's (the green one). He opened up the medicine cabinet to put his toothbrush into the cabinet, only to find the shelves inside to have weird brownish stains and random stray hairs. He closed the cabinet and returned the toothbrush to the cup.
Oh well, he thought and turned off the bathroom light.
Remy sat down on the couch and pulled one boot off, then the other. He lay back onto the couch, one arm above his head, bracing the thin pillow there. He stared at the water-stained ceiling for a moment, which was colored pink from the wash of light coming from the Santa Claus across the street. Then he closed his eyes.
He knew he was dreaming because the world was in black and white, but then reversed like a negative of a photograph. Remy was looking up at a white sky. Black snowflakes were falling from the sky like goose down. He watched them as they fell to land upon his jacket sleeve. His jacket was white, and as the black snowflakes melted, they stained his coat in shades of gray. When Remy brushed at the flakes with his hand, he saw that his skin was black. He found that disturbing.
As Remy looked around, he saw that he was halfway down a staircase. The staircase led downwards to a subway tunnel. To either side were black tile walls plastered over with signage. One of the signs pointed downwards. Try as he might, he could not read the text on the sign to know where he was going. Remy saw that the black snow was filling the corners of the stairwell and that footing was treacherous. He also saw that there was a man below him, walking ever downwards. Remy knew he was following this man, who was wearing a black coat and hat. Remy knew if he didn't hurry, he would be left behind.
The man slipped a little on the wet staircase and Remy rushed forward. Remy put his hand beneath the man's elbow to steady him. The man turned and looked up at Remy, a grateful smile on his face. It was Charles Xavier.
"Thank you," he told Remy. "But you don't have to follow me any longer. I'll be fine from here."
"I'll see you de rest of de way," Remy responded.
Xavier shook his head once from side to side and closed his eyes. His mouth still smiled, though he seemed sad. "You won't be able to go much further."
Remy followed him down the steps until they came to the turnstiles. Xavier walked forward, leaving Remy at the base of the steps. Remy felt his coat pockets as Xavier put his ticket into one of the turnstiles and then passed through it.
"I can't find my ticket," Remy told him.
Xavier glanced over his shoulder. "This isn't your train," he said. "You'll have to wait."
Remy walked to the turnstiles and stood while Xavier continued onward. "I'm coming with you," Remy called.
Remy glanced over at the ticket booth operator. All he could see was a white shadow behind a pane of black glass. Remy took a chance. He hopped up and slid over the turnstile, landing lightly on his feet on the opposite side. He dashed after Xavier who had all ready turned the corner. Remy could hear the rumble of the subway train approaching. Even as he ran, it seemed that the tunnel grew longer. He was going to miss the train.
Finally, he made it to the subway platform. There were people on the platform, huddling together to prepare to board the train. Remy saw a man he recognized. It was John Greycrow, also known as the Marauder named Scalphunter, but Remy had a difficult time thinking of him this way. Remy walked over to Greycrow. The man looked up from the ticket he held in his hands and turned as Remy spotted him.
"Are you going, too?" Remy asked him, confused.
"This is it," Greycrow answered. He seemed pleased.
"I knew it was you. De assassin who shot me...or the other me. De clone," Remy told him. "I recognized your work. A steady hand. You can put someone down without makin' them suffer. When you want to."
"I have seen mercy, but never known it," Greycrow told him. "I did my best to imitate it."
"Me too," Remy said.
Greycrow moved off as the train came to a stop. Remy saw another he recognized amidst those gathered to board.
"Kurt," Remy said and raised a hand.
Kurt Wagner's hair and fur-covered skin were white. When he saw Remy, his lips parted in a toothy grin. "Remy," he answered warmly.
"I was just talkin' about you," Remy said.
"My ears were burning," Kurt replied, and touched one of his pointy ears with a finger.
"Is this your train?" Remy asked. "Do you have an extra ticket?"
"I'm afraid not," Kurt replied and looked rueful.
"I lost mine," Remy said. He felt frightened and was certain it showed on his face. He tried to joke: "Maybe I should steal yours."
Kurt put a hand on Remy's shoulder. "There will be another train along...in time. Maybe you'll have your ticket then."
Then Kurt was gone too, walking towards the open train doors. He joined Greycrow in the train car. They sat beside one another. Remy tried to see over the heads of the other passengers. He saw that Xavier had all ready boarded while he was speaking to Kurt.
"Professor!" Remy called.
Xavier looked at Remy through the train window. His hand reached up and took hold of the overhead hand rail. His other hand raised in farewell. Remy saw that there was another man on Xavier's train car. He was seated and facing away, but as he saw Xavier wave, the man turned. Remy saw it was himself. His twin was on board the train. Remy saw himself wave merrily from the seat. His clone looked happier than he had ever seen himself.
"Hey!" Remy shouted and pointed at his clone. "That guy stole my ticket!"
Remy ran for the train doors as they slid shut. He banged on them with the heel of his palm.
"Give me back my ticket!" he shouted.
The train began to move. Remy jogged, then ran alongside the train until it passed into the tunnel and was gone. Remy peered down the tunnel. It was bright white and he couldn't see for more than a few feet. He had to look away. Remy turned and walked towards the line of seats along the wall. He sat on the plastic bench seat with his hands on his knees. He looked up at the digital clock that would tell him when the next train would arrive. The clock face was stark white. There were no numbers. Remy was certain there was not going to be another train coming for him. He'd had a ticket, but that ticket was gone. He sat and waited for eternity.
Remy heard the sound of an approaching train. He glanced up, but there was no train coming down the tunnel. Instead the train was coming from the opposite direction. He didn't think trains ran on that line. He continued to sit and wait. The train appeared on the opposite side of the platform. There didn't seem to be anyone on board. The train slowed and came to a stop. The doors opened, but from where Remy sat, he couldn't see that anyone had disembarked. After a few moments, the train began to move again. Remy thought he caught a flash of red flicker through the moving train windows. Then he saw it again, and again, and again, flashing through the windows until the train hove out of sight and the platform was clear. There was a single passenger standing on the opposite side of the train tracks. She raised her hand and pointed upward at the ceiling. Her hair was bright red.
See you up there, he could hear her say into his mind.
Remy jolted awake and sat up with a gasp. Jean was standing at the end of the couch facing him, her face darkened by shadows, backlit by the soft pink glow from the windows.
"Why didn't you tell me Professor Xavier was gone?" she asked.
~ oOo ~
Next time: Little Remy goes to school.