Boston, Massachusetts
The Past, Four Weeks Ago
Jean pushed at the metal spatula, moving the blade through the contents of the frying pan. She was making eggs, or at least they were eggs when she started. She thought she wanted fried eggs, sunny-side up, but when she'd cracked the eggshells against the side of the pan, the yolks broke. So Jean decided they were destined to be scrambled eggs. Only they didn't look like scrambled eggs because to her recollection, scrambled eggs were yellow, not brown. The dry brown curds she moved around the pan didn't so much resemble eggs as they did dog vomit. She frowned at the pan. Surely there was something wrong with it, or perhaps the spatula itself was to blame.
The phone rang. Jean startled, not realizing there was a phone in the kitchen. She turned to see it hung on the wall. It was a phone that probably dated from the mid-nineties, a cordless with a retractable antenna. Dropping her spatula onto the countertop, she retrieved the telephone receiver from its cradle.
"Hello?" she said.
There was a brief pause and then: "Who de hell is dis?"
Jean was momentarily taken aback, but well-bred New England upbringing had her reply: "Ah...I'm sorry, can I help you?"
"Put Remy on de phone," said the voice. Jean believed it to be Dickie, or Richard as he preferred to be called, the thief from the doughnut shop. However, the receiver crackled with static and made Richard more unintelligible than he all ready was.
"Remy is not available at the moment," she told him, which was her polite way of saying Remy was in the bathroom.
"Don't give me dat shit, girl," continued Richard.
"I'm sorry," Jean said, firmly taking her position as a civilized human being. "Can I take a message?"
"Yeah, tell 'im to get his ass down here," Richard snapped. "I got a job for him."
"Is it time to make the doughnuts?" Jean asked lightheartedly.
Richard made a dismissive grunting noise and hung up the phone.
"Rude," Jean said, looking at the receiver.
Just then, an alarm began to sound. Jean nearly jumped out of her skin. She spun to see plumes of smoke rising from the frying pan. The fire alarm was blaring.
"Oh, no! Oh, no!" Jean said to no effect. She turned to the window and tried to push it open. When it refused to budge, she used her telekinesis to shove it open. Jean picked up a dish towel and flapped it at the smoke alarm which continued to blare.
"What in sam hill are y'doin'?" Remy asked, suddenly appearing in the kitchen entry. His hair was dripping wet and he was clad in nothing but a towel. One hand firmly gripped the towel at his waist as he strode forward and seized the frying pan. He took it off the burner and dropped it into the sink and then turned on the water.
"Sorry!" Jean shouted over the sound of the alarm. "I thought I was making eggs!"
Remy moved to the stove and clicked off the burner. For a moment he stood, his hand resting on the countertop for balance. Jean could see his eyes were unfocused, his complexion pale. She stopped fanning the towel as the alarm silenced itself.
"Remy, are you all right?" she asked in the ensuing silence as she moved towards him. This was the second time she had detected something not quite right with him.
Remy straightened and shook his head. "I'm fine," he said abruptly. "Lemme dry off. Try not t'burn de place down in de meantime."
He turned and walked out of the kitchen, still holding the towel around his waist and leaving wet footprints behind on the linoleum. Jean caught herself watching Remy's bare back and towel-covered area as he walked. She forced herself to look away. He didn't seem to be too mad at her at the moment. He had been angry with her before for intruding on his dream – a nightmare, really. Jean knew she shouldn't have intervened, but listening to Remy's thoughts was like listening to a raucous party in the next apartment over; loud and yet incoherent, disturbing, and no amount of pounding on the walls was going to make it stop. She also felt he was making some kind of subconscious plea for help. After learning that Xavier had passed away, Jean withdrew her line of questioning not wanting to upset Remy any further. Clearly, his way of dealing with grief was to ignore it; the same method he employed to deal with anger and any other negative feelings. But before he could completely withdraw into himself, she had detected something else within him: fear. Seeing her standing over him while he slept had instantly made him afraid, and he regretted his decision to take her with him. Jean tried not to be hurt by this, wanting instead to earn his trust. She would persist in her quest to help him, because at least him being angry or annoyed with her was better than him being afraid of her.
Jean scraped the remnants of her eggs into the trash. She rinsed the pan out under the flow of water from the tap. She studied the worn interior surface of the cookware. For certain the pan was defective. The stove seemed suspect too. She set the pan back onto the stovetop and clicked the burner back on, determined to find a solution to breakfast. Remy stepped back into the kitchen. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn yesterday, jeans and a black shirt.
"Are you feeling alright?" she asked him, concerned.
"I'm fine," he answered shortly.
"You seemed a little out of sorts for a moment there," Jean commented lightly.
"It's nothin'," Remy answered. He hovered defensively in the doorway.
She turned to face him. "Are you sure? Because you seem worried."
He frowned briefly. "The alarm near scared me out of my wits. Not what you wanna hear first thing in de mornin'."
"I'm sorry that I startled you, then," Jean told him evenly. "Something about the alarm must have triggered that forgotten memory. If you'd like, I could probably set it off again."
He glanced at her sidelong. "Is that what that feelin' was? Not deja vu, but a forgot memory?" She thought he might be angry again, but instead he was experiencing some small sense of relief. "Not a panic attack? Not...depression?"
Jean shook her head from side to side. "The sound of the alarm was some kind of cue. Does this happen often?"
He moved into the kitchen slowly. "Lately, yeah. You think I'm recollectin' something from my past?"
"I think your brain is trying to send you some kind of signal," she told him.
"I hope it's not a warning signal," Remy said. "'Danger, Will Robinson.'"
"I'm not sure," she said. "I can try to find out more, if you like."
Remy shook his head. "Chère, I dunno if you wanna do that."
"Why not? I'd like to help."
"Because de flash I had before dis last one here was of you bein' in that long purple dress and – ," he began, then cut himself off with a shudder. "Which I know can't be one of my memories 'cause it don't make a lick of sense."
"Remy, I could –," Jean began. But then Remy moved into Jean's space and shooed her away from the stovetop.
"Here, let me," he told her. "You make up some toast."
Jean frowned at him. "Don't order me around," she said but moved towards the toaster anyway. "There's something the matter with the stove. It's broken."
Remy shook his head and adjusted the heat. "Works fine if you're lookin' to scorch your breakfast. You got de heat too high for eggs." He went to the refrigerator and found a block of butter which he set on the counter. Using the blade of the spatula, he carved off a huge glob of butter and dropped it into the pan.
"That's too much butter," Jean said, looking over his shoulder and watching critically as the butter foamed in the pan.
"Eggs want butter," he informed her idly. She watched as he cracked an eggshell neatly on the counter and dropped the egg into the pan using only one hand. He performed the same trick with the second egg and asked her: "How do you like your eggs?"
"Not to give me a heart attack," she said and watched as he salted the eggs.
The toast popped out of the toaster a little burned. Jean placed the toast onto a plate. The pair of eggs Remy slid from the pan looked like they might belong in a photograph to demonstrate exactly how eggs should look. Jean scowled at them, annoyed. She picked up the plate and took it to the small kitchen table. "Thank you," she said begrudgingly.
Remy sat beside her at the table.
"Aren't you going to eat?" she asked him.
"I thought I'd sit here and watch you give yourself that heart attack," he told her as she stabbed her toast into her perfectly prepared eggs.
"There's still a doughnut left if you want it," she told him and bit into her toast.
"No, thanks," Remy said.
"Are you on a hunger strike?"
"I'm not hungry."
"I haven't seen you eat anything since the other day, and even then you didn't eat very much," Jean persisted.
"I'm on a diet," he told her.
"Ha ha," she said drolly. "I don't think you have to mind your figure, Remy."
"Not when I can have you mind it for me, chère," he said and winked at her. "You like what you see, enh?"
"Oh, shut up," she said keeping her gaze focused at her plate.
He laughed. "I gave all de good stuff for Lent," he told her in a moment of honesty.
"I didn't think you were a practicing Catholic," Jean commented.
"I'm not."
"Then why?" she asked.
He shrugged. "I wondered that myself. Mebbe I'm one of those desperate folks who once they reach de end of their rope, go lookin' for answers in de divine. Fill in de blanks in their life with God."
"Do you think that's what you're doing?" Jean asked.
"I dunno. Sometimes I think people only look to God when they want something, or want someone to blame," he told her. "It's a way to cope rather than admitting that life's just unfair."
Jean finished her breakfast and moved to the sink to wash her plate. "Are you so cynical as that, Remy? I don't think so. I don't think you believe your own words."
Remy sighed and stretched. He laced his fingers together and set his hands on top of his head. "Lucky I ran into you to figure out what it is that goes on in my head. You wanna tell me what it is I'm thinkin' right now?"
"I'm not falling for that," she told him dryly, and purposefully tuned his thoughts out. She knew whatever he was thinking now was probably either very rude or obscene. She told him: "Your cousin called."
"Enh," Remy grunted.
"He wants you to go see him at the doughnut shop," Jean told him and turned, plate in hand. She dried the plate with a towel and put it back into the cupboard. "Why does he dislike you so much?"
"Do you think the very fact of my existence isn't reason enough?" Remy asked her conversationally.
She glanced over her shoulder at him as she put the eggs and butter back into the refrigerator. "He seems to resent you. He might be jealous. He thinks you're conceited."
"I don't give a – I don't care what he thinks," Remy said and placed his hands upon the table. He pushed himself into standing position. "Or any of them for that matter."
"Do you think that might be part of the problem?" she asked him. "Your attitude towards them, the other thieves?"
"You didn't have to spend every moment of your growin' up bein' held to impossibly high standards you couldn't hope to live up to," Remy told her. "Get scrutinized for every flaw."
"You think so, do you?" Jean asked a little coolly.
Remy turned and left the kitchen. "Maybe you got tested, Jeannie," his voice echoed down the hall. "But no one put you to task in de hopes of watchin' you fail."
She pursued him as far as the bathroom door as he continued on into the living room. Jean watched him kneel on the couch and take the ugly painting off the wall. There was a safe behind the painting.
"Isn't it a little obvious to hide a safe behind a painting?" Jean asked.
"You didn't think t'look, did you?" Remy asked.
Jean shook her head impatiently and entered the bathroom. She picked up a toothbrush from the plastic cup and found the toothpaste tube on top of the toilet tank. "Why is there a safe here?" she asked.
"It's called a 'safe house,' ain't it?" Remy questioned back.
"Ha. Ha," Jean responded as she applied the toothpaste to the toothbrush.
"It's for emergencies," Remy supplied. "Like for when you're out of funds, like us two."
"Do you know the combination?" Jean asked.
"What does that have t'do wit' anything?" Remy said offhandedly.
Jean wandered out of the bathroom, scrubbing her teeth. "Den 'ow –," she said around the toothbrush. She saw that Remy had opened the safe. "Oh. Nebbermund."
Remy removed a stack of bills from the safe and tossed it onto the couch cushions. He stood from where he was kneeling on the couch, closing the safe as he did so, but not before Jean could see the stacks of folded bills and the firearms inside the safe.
Remy turned around to look at her and froze. His expression was a picture of growing outrage. Jean looked at Remy quizzically.
"Enh! What d'you think you're doin'?" he shouted.
Jean startled. "Whuh –?"
"That's my toothbrush!" he yelled. "You're using my toothbrush!"
Jean looked down at the toothbrush handle, her eyes crossing. She saw the toothbrush was pink. "Oh," she said as realization slowly dawned on her. "Sobby."
~ oOo ~
Remy and Jean had negotiated a truce and as part of the peace pact, Jean had agreed to not go along with Remy to see his cousin. Instead, she would go shopping and obtain some clothing for herself. When Remy deposited her at a shopping center, further peace-talks were needed. At first, one hour of time had been allotted but Jean countered with three. Remy seemed affronted but then proposed a two-hour shopping-time limit. Jean begrudgingly agreed. It at least gave her a chance to go to the salon and have something done with her hair, which had been burned when she fled Sinister's lair. And who had heard of shopping for just one hour? Remy was being unreasonable. Two hours turned into two and a half, which wasn't Jean's intention. She cursed ("Oh! Shoot!") when she checked her newly purchased watch and realized she was late. With her shopping bags in one hand, her purse under her arm, and a giant soft pretzel in her other hand, she walked as quickly as possible to the food court. She found Remy there sitting in a chair with his elbows on the table. His coat had been tossed over the back of his chair. He was wearing sunglasses and covertly watching the mall shoppers go by.
"Sorry I'm late," she said as she sat across from Remy at the little table.
Remy seemed surprised at first, as if he didn't recognize her. "Wha –? Jean?" He regarded her more closely.
"Yes?" she said and smiled. She turned her head from side to side, feeling the ends of her hair brush her shoulders. It was a light feeling; she'd had over twelve inches chopped off the length.
Remy opened and then slowly closed his mouth. She couldn't see his eyes, so it seemed his face was expressionless.
"Notice anything different?" she prompted.
"Very...different," he said at last. Then he said nothing.
"Does that mean you don't like it?" she continued teasingly.
"It's purple," Remy told her. "You dyed your hair purple."
Jean sniffed. "It's not purple. It's called 'Autumn Sunset.'"
"I'd have called it 'Bruised Fruit,'" Remy said.
Jean opened her mouth, appalled. "I don't say anything about how you wear your hair," she said.
"What's wrong wit' my hair?" Remy asked.
"Nothing, as long as you don't mind looking like you've spent the last few weeks in an isolated cabin. How is that thousand-page manifesto addressed to the government coming along?" Jean asked him.
Remy's jaw jutted out. "It's a disguise. I'm notorious, don't you know."
"Are you disguising yourself as a vagrant?"
"I'm goin' with 'disaffected hipster,'" Remy told her. "Ironic facial hair is in."
"Well, I hate it," Jean said.
"Who asked you?" Remy said.
"You did!"
"Did not."
"You asked me – ugh, never mind!" Jean stuck her tongue out at him and blew a raspberry.
"What took you so long?" Remy asked.
Jean decided on a diversionary tactic. "I bought you some new clothes." She pushed a bag across the floor towards him with her foot.
"I have clothes," Remy told her.
"You can't wear the same shirt and jeans everyday," Jean said.
"Says who?"
"Remy, why are you being so difficult?" she asked with exasperation. "You're going to have to wash that shirt at some point. You can't go around naked."
"Again, I ask: says who?"
Jean decided to give up and eat the rest of her pretzel. She pulled into pieces. "Do you want some?" she offered.
"You know I'm gonna say 'no' so why do you ask?" he said and he sat back in his chair, arms crossed.
"It's called: being polite," Jean said.
"Fake polite. You don't really want to share," he said.
"You're driving me crazy!" Jean announced.
"I got somethin' for you too," Remy said and reached back behind his chair. He fished in his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. He set it in front of her.
Jean looked down at the envelope. "What's this?" she asked dubiously.
"Open it," Remy said, and even though his face and body posture appeared placid, she could sense he was a little excited.
Jean placed her pretzel down onto a paper napkin and brushed salt from her slacks. She took up the envelope and opened it. She found two credit cards inside, a social security card, and a driver's license. Each document bore the same name.
"Who is Jillian?" she asked.
"She's whoever you want her to be," Remy said and his face split in a slow grin. "I got you a new ID. Only a few traffic violations, good credit score. You don't even have t'change your monogram."
Jean didn't know what to say. "I don't know what to say," she said, a little flummoxed.
Remy frowned a bit, looking put-out. "You don't like it?"
Jean realized Remy thought he was doing her a favor, and that he had expected her to be pleased and excited with a new stolen identity. She tried to smile. "It's – I realize you're trying to help me..."
"Yeah, now you can be free t'do what you like. Do as you please without anyone knowing," Remy told her. "What's dat face? Why you look that way?"
Jean exhaled a little breath. "I'm not trying to be ungrateful," she began. "It's that I'm only just now remembering who it is I am."
"It's not like I'm tellin' you t'be someone else," Remy said, his tone defensive. "It's just a new name. It's just a tool."
"You act like it's not a big deal, to change your name," Jean answered calmly. "But you won't even change your clothes."
"Would it make you happy if I changed my shirt, then?" Remy asked, snatching up the bag from the floor. He peered into the bag and shuffled around the tissue paper in an impatient sort of way.
"Yes," Jean said simply and popped the last of her pretzel into her mouth.
Remy retrieved a shirt from inside the bag. It was striped in two shades of pink. Only a man who was very confident in his sexuality or called himself 'Gambit' would be comfortable wearing such a shirt, and as it happened, Remy fulfilled both qualifiers. He studied the shirt, his face blank.
"Do you like it?" Jean asked.
"Yes," he reluctantly admitted. He unbuttoned it and put it on over his black tee shirt. He looked at the end of the sleeve searching for a tag. Jean had ripped it off. It had been kind of expensive, and she doubted Remy would have put it on if he knew how much she had paid for it.
She told him quickly: "It looks nice on you."
"Thanks," he said. "Y'know I don't think anyone's bought me clothes b'fore."
"That has to be an exaggeration," Jean said. "What about your parents? Did they just let you run around nude?"
"No, I had clothes. But not anything new. I just took whatever hand-me-downs were left over. I don't usually like people pickin' things out for me anyway." So as not to seem ungrateful, he gestured at the shirt and added: "But this is okay."
Jean smiled and picked up the envelope with her fake identification. She flicked through the cards to the photo ID. She read: "Hair: red –."
"Too late t'change it t'purple," Remy said.
"It's mahogany! Eyes: green. Height...well, you're close. Weight...! Hey!"
"Ain?"
"I do not weigh that much," Jean said, pointing the card at him.
"I know," he informed her. "It was wishful thinkin' on my part. You're too skinny."
Jean frowned at him. "Nice save," she replied.
"I'm serious. You should eat more. How 'bout I get you one of dem shakes from de Chick-fil-A?"
Jean tucked the envelope into her purse. "All right, sure," she said. "Then you can fill me in on what it is your cousin wants us to steal."
Remy had made to stand and retrieve Jean a milkshake, but then paused and glanced at her sidelong. "What's 'us'? There's no 'us.'"
Jean folded her hands on the table. "As long as you and I are guests of the Guild, we should both do our fair share of earning our keep."
Remy sat. "No. No, I don't think so."
"You're not leaving me behind in that apartment," Jean told him. "It's depressing. And I want to help."
"I don't need help," Remy said.
"That's beside the point," she told him. "I know you don't need help. But I want to feel useful."
Remy didn't answer, but seemed to mull over his options. Jean thought it unlikely that Remy had the ability to tell a woman 'no.' However, she didn't want to make him feel as though he'd been bullied.
"You could give me something very simple to do," she said and smiled. "No task is too menial. Can I clean your lock picks? Lay out your grappling hooks and whatnot? Lint-roller your black catsuit?"
Remy tsked and shook his head. He smiled. She could tell she was winning him over.
"I could be the lookout," Jean offered and pointed at her head. "Psy powers. Could come in handy."
Remy seemed to take this into consideration.
"Pleeeeease...!" Jean begged.
"You did not just beg," Remy said.
"Nothing is beneath me," Jean said.
"Wait 'til you hear dis job," Remy responded dully.
"So you're going to let me help?" Jean asked, pleased. "What is it? Are we going to rob a bank? A museum?"
"Do you really think I'd let you rob a bank?" Remy asked her.
"Then tell me," Jean said. "I'd like to know the backstory to my criminal origin."
"You're pretty funny, you know," Remy said.
"I get that way when I'm not possessed," Jean told him.
Remy rifled in his jacket and produced a manila folder that had been folded over and then wrapped in a rubber band. He pulled off the band and set the folder onto the table. He opened it and the documents inside curled over. Remy smoothed them flat.
"What's all that?" Jean asked.
"It's de case file," he said. "Or at least a fraction of one."
"What do you mean?" Jean asked and leaned forward to look at the documents.
"Dickie only gave me a portion of de file," Remy answered. "Most of it's missing."
"Where is it?"
"Likely, he's got it."
"Why wouldn't he have given it to you?"
"Probably he wants to watch me spin my wheels for a while and make me look like a daggone fool."
"You should have asked for the rest of it," Jean told him practically.
"I can figure this out on my own," Remy responded, pointing at the file.
"'I'll show him,'" Jean said in a growly sort of voice and shook her fist with mock indignation.
"Are you makin' fun of me?"
"I'm just saying you could save yourself a lot of time and unnecessary stress if you weren't so prideful."
"Prideful? If you only knew...," Remy responded. "It'd be nice to have even an ounce of dignity left."
"What do you mean?"
Remy turned his attention back to the documents. "This here should be kid stuff," Remy told her. "Recovery job."
"What's that?"
"Someone stole somethin' from someone else and that person wants me t'steal it back," Remy replied.
"What is this something?"
Remy scratched his forehead with his finger and said: "I'm not entirely sure."
"We don't even know what we're stealing?"
"Well, I know that it's called Bijou Doré," Remy said. "Which is a stupid name for a piece of jewelry as I've ever heard." He turned an image to face Jean. She looked down at it. It was a black and white photocopy of a family portrait. Pictured was a family of four; husband, wife, and two children, a boy and a girl. They were posed around a pedestal in the shape of a Greek column upon which sat a small dog. The background was a mottled gray backdrop from a photo studio. Everyone in the family seemed to be looking off to something on the left that was very far away. Remy indicated the woman in the photo. "Here's de client," he said. He pointed to her hand which lay upon her son's shoulder. The woman was wearing a large bracelet.
"Doesn't look like anything t'me," Remy continued. "And a named piece should'a turned up somewhere, been reported stolen. That it wasn't makes me wonder that maybe dis bracelet wasn't acquired on de up and up in de first place. These folks look like they're well enough off, but not like they're in de one percent."
"I'm sorry, the 'one percent'?" Jean repeated, not understanding.
"Ah, sorry. Somethin' Denti tole me about upper class and Wall Street 'r whatever," Remy stumbled. "Anyway. So it seems like de theft was just your simple snatch and dash." He pointed at the woman. "Someone comes up to her while she was walkin' in de park and snatches de bijou and makes a run for it."
"Do we know who that someone is?" Jean asked.
Remy turned over another photo. "Mizz Pierce. Dis one," he said, indicating a mug shot of a heavyset woman of late middle age. "Though how much running she does, I don't know. Been taken in before for petty theft, shoplifting. She's got de bijou now, or at least knows who she sold it to. De client seems t'think Pierce sold her bijou on de internet. Saw it in an ad and recognized her bauble. Only I checked all de auction sites, and I couldn't turn up anything."
"But can't she just get it back? Doesn't she have proof of ownership?" Jean asked.
"That's what makes me think that de client doesn't have any records of provenance –."
"Did you say: 'pro-ven-ahnce'?"
"Are you gonna keep interrupting me?" he paused, testing her. When she remained silent he continued. "And haven't you heard that possession is nine-tenths of lawful ownership?"
"So let's go possess this bijou, tout suite," Jean said.
"Now you're speakin' my language," Remy told her.
Jean stood with an air of confidence. "First we get a milkshake," she said.
~oOo~
Jean had an extra large milkshake to keep herself occupied and blessedly silent for the next forty minutes. Remy was driving through a neglected portion of Boston suburbs, scoping out the jewel thief's home and the lay of the land. He parked the car curbside, a half-block away from the targeted house. There was a laptop in Denti's briefcase. Remy had it open in front of him, accessed an unprotected wireless connection, and found the neighborhood on Google Maps. Using satellite view, he was able to get a bird's-eye-view of Ms. Pierce's house and yard. From where the car was parked, he could see a gravel drive on one side of the house leading up to a carport. The opposite side was an overgrown mass of bushes; perfect cover for sneaking up alongside the house. He could see from the map that the backyard was composed of a cracked cement pad and the terrain sloped away from the home, which meant there was a possible entryway through a walk-out basement. The entire property was framed by a chain-link fence.
Jean drained the rest of her beverage with a rattling slurp. Remy glanced over at her, eyebrow raised.
"It's a little scary to me that you're using Google to plot out how to break into a house," Jean told him.
"Make use of de tools that are readily available," Remy said and grinned. "Anything becomes a weapon in de right hands."
"Don't you mean 'wrong hands'?" Jean asked.
"Allow me t'give you a demonstration, and I can show you there's nothin' at all wrong with my hands," he told her suggestively and squeezed her thigh just above the knee. Jean let out a yelp and swatted his hand away.
"Fresh!" she said scoldingly, but she was smiling. For a moment, Remy could remember how it was when he'd first met and worked alongside Jean. She could always take a joke, an off-color remark, or playful flirtation. He had never known Scott to be the slightest bit threatened by Remy's blatant flirting, probably because he knew Jean never would have taken Remy seriously.
"It's been awhile since I been out parking wit' a girl," Remy told her.
"Shouldn't you be concentrating on this job?" Jean asked him pointedly.
Remy closed the laptop and stowed it back inside the briefcase. He slouched back into the driver's seat. "There won't be nothin' t'do but wait here for awhile. And I don't like de looks of that fence."
Jean looked over to where Remy had fixed his gaze. "It can't be more than four feet tall," she observed. "I'm sure you could scale it. Unless you'd like me to give you a boost?"
"I know you'd love de opportunity to lay hands on my derrière, Jeannie. But it's not de gettin' over de fence that concerns me. It's what that fence is keeping in," Remy told her. "Fences mean dogs. And dogs are no friend to de thief."
Jean considered this. "I see. So we'll have to find out what kind of dog we're dealing with here."
Since Jean's extended shopping excursion, the afternoon had waned into dusk. Lights began to turn on inside the homes along the street. From their vantage point, they had a view into the large picture window of the targeted house. Inside, they could spy the glow of a television set.
"How many folks inside de house?" Remy asked Jean. "Can you tell?"
Jean concentrated for a moment. "Just one," she said.
"Any dogs?" Remy asked.
"I'm not sure," Jean said and looked over at him.
"You can't pick out their little doggie minds?" Remy asked.
"An animal's mind is different from a human's," Jean told him. "I can't get a definite fix on them."
"Xavier could use birds and such," Remy said offhandedly, his eyes trained on the house.
"Xavier was the most powerful telepath on the planet," Jean replied, and he could feel her eyes searching the side of his face for expression. "There wasn't anyone who could rival his skill."
"I suppose that makes you number one now, enh?"
Jean thought for a moment. "Maybe," she answered finally. "But I'm certainly no replacement."
Remy nodded once, his eyes still far away. "Oui... Sorry for your loss."
"Our loss," Jean corrected.
"He was like a father to you...your mentor and all," Remy said. "I don't hold such claim t'his memory."
"Why don't you tell me what he meant to you," Jean asked. Her kind sympathy made Remy feel uncomfortable and anxious. He should be the one consoling her and not the other way around.
"I wonder how long dis woman is gonna sit in front of that tee-vee," Remy remarked, changing the subject.
Jean let out a little sigh. After a moment she said: "I think I have an idea."
Remy glanced at her, half afraid she was talking about Xavier. Jean pointed at the house. "Look there. A satellite dish."
Remy turned and saw the dish she indicated mounted on the side of the house. As he watched, he saw the dish reposition itself. He looked back at Jean. She was moving it with her telekinesis. Back inside the house, Remy could spy the large woman sit up from her recliner and point the remote at the television set. Her arm jiggled as she forcefully pressed on the buttons, hoping to get the TV to respond. The woman hefted herself from the chair and proceeded to the set. She jabbed at the console and then smacked the set with the flat of her hand. Remy smiled and turned his grin onto Jean.
"Hey, that's pretty good," he told her.
It wasn't long before the woman was on her cellphone, likely calling in a complaint to her satellite provider. From where they sat in the parked car, Jean and Remy watched the woman march out the side door and into the carport. She stalked down the driveway to the gate in the fence. She passed through it, her cellphone to her ear the entire time. The woman passed by where they were parked, failing to see the two spies as she continued on to her neighbor's house. Up on the front porch, the woman banged on the door and in a moment was greeted by the neighbor. The two of them conferred and the woman was permitted entry.
"Apparently there was somethin' too good t'miss on," Remy observed. "Probably Duck Dynasty or some other reality show that makes every southerner look like a dimwitted redneck." He started the engine and put the car into drive.
"Where are we going?" Jean asked.
"'Round to de next block," Remy told her. "We'll come up to de back of de house from there."
When Remy had taken them around the block, he parked in the drive of a house that appeared vacant. A For Sale sign was posted in the front yard of the weedy lot. Remy turned to Jean. "Go up to de basement door," he told her. "I'll go in through de side."
Jean drew a breath and looked excited. "Are we really going to break in?" she asked.
He smiled at her, sensing her growing anticipation. Remy knew he should feel offended that his cousin had dumped this job into his lap; he knew Richard's intention had been to insult him by giving Remy a job so far beneath his skill level. But Jean looked like a little girl playing prank calls. It was funny to watch her face come alive with mischief. "And let me know if you see any dogs," Remy told her.
Jean sobered and nodded. "I will."
Remy stepped from the vehicle and closed the driver's side door as quietly as possible. He looked at Jean from over the roof of the car. He nodded at her and she followed suit. The pair walked towards the vacant house, skirting alongside it and into the backyard. The vacant house's backyard abutted the fenced yard belonging to their target. Remy approached the fence, took a few quick steps and lightly vaulted the fence to land on the opposite side. He immediately moved to the side of the house concealed by bushes, trusting that Jean had followed his directions. Remy ducked under the cover of overgrown abvorvitae, finding a window just beside an air conditioning unit. He hopped onto the unit, tested the double-hung window, and found it locked. With his forefinger, he drew a semicircle on the lower sash just below the lock, leaving a small sparkling trail of charged particles as he did. He flicked the window and the small charge he'd left behind disintegrated along the line he'd traced. A small piece of glass the shape of a half circle dropped from the window, leaving an opening just wide enough for him to reach his hand and wrist through to unlock the window. Remy slid the window open and slipped into a bedroom. It was dark and close, the bed unmade and the floor untidy with dirty clothing. There was a small oak laminate desk with an old computer sitting on top of it. The computer was ringed with dirty dishes, glasses and coffee mugs, and a glass ashtray overflowing with spent cigarette filters. The room smelled rank, both of cigarettes and a funky animal-smell. Remy's nose wrinkled at the odor. He proceeded to the computer and turned it on. Perhaps he could find the online site where the woman had posted the Bijou Doré for sale. While the computer was booting up, he went to the dresser and riffled through the jewelry box on top of it. The box contained nothing but cheap costume jewelry and a brass pocket watch with a dented lid. Remy picked the watch up for a moment then hastily dropped it back into the box. There was a tremor in his hand as he wiped his fingers on his jeans. The strange sensation of deja vu began to creep up on him.
Not this again, he thought to himself, trying to push away whatever memory flash he was about to have. Not now...
Remy quickly stepped back from the dresser and moved to the closet and opened the doors. He pushed aside oversized and outdated clothing, searching for any valuables. As his hand brushed aside a coat, he felt the weight of something in the pocket strike his hand. He dug into the pocket, turned it out, and uncovered a small pink band trimmed with plastic rhinestones. It was a dog collar. The tags clinked in his hand. Remy blew out an impatient snort and turned to look over at the computer. He saw the monitor crackle to life and the Windows start up screen appear. Before he could move towards the machine, he heard the sound of nails clicking across the wood floorboards. Remy quickly turned towards the open door. There was a dog in the entryway. It was a small, foxy-faced dog with pointy ears. It's long fur was an orangey-brown color, it's face and chest a paler color, and it had bright black eyes. Upon seeing him, the dog let out a high-pitched yap and began twirling excitedly. Remy stood, frozenly staring at the little dog.
He had a brief and instant flash of memory of another small dog, yapping incessantly and fervently around his ankles. He imagined his foot impatiently striking the animal aside. Remy heard it yelp in pain and it let out a soft whimper as it scurried away. All at once, he felt horrible for kicking the small dog, who was only doing what a dog should do: protecting its master. Remy looked down then at the dog's master laying on the ground before him. In his memory, Remy could see the man was clutching his gut and moaning as blood pumped from between his fingers. Remy looked down at his own hand and saw he was holding a gun, which looked cartoonishly large in his small hand. Remy saw he was covered in a fine spray of red.
Remy jerked backwards, as if to pull himself away from the memory. He felt a convulsion shudder though him and he had to put his hand out to the wall to steady himself. He remembered that particular moment now, recalled shooting that man in front of the man's own house, in front of the little dog. Then he recalled the woman's scream, the man's wife, and the petrified faces of the man's two children, one of whom was the same age as Remy had been at the time – seven. He could remember the incident now, and as it came rushing back to him he could recall the sight of the the young woman that man had brutalized before returning home to his family. But that wasn't the worst part of remembering the moment. Remy experienced a sick feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. He recalled the reason he shot the man was not to avenge the girl, but to defend the only decent fence he'd had at the time. That whore had been the only one who didn't cheat him half so bad as the others.
The little foxy-faced dog was still twirling like a small furry dervish. Remy heard the soft jangle of bells, or what he now realized were the metal tags attached to the collar he clenched in his shaking fist. He looked at the little pink collar, holding it in his open palm. The heart-shaped tag turned over in his hand revealing the name etched in the metal: Bijou Doré.
"Fudge," Remy said dully. "Fudge me sideways."
The dog yapped again in response. Remy strode forward and snatched up the little dog which squirmed in his grip. He felt a little nauseated and muddle-headed. On top of that, he was furious with his cousin Richard, for sending him on this idiotic job that wasn't a job at all, but a prank at Remy's expense. Remy clutched the dog so tightly it let out a little yelp.
Suddenly, Jean appeared in the doorway. Her expression was alive with excitement. "Remy!" she said a little breathlessly. "Remy, look!" She held out a laundry basket, inviting him to examine the contents.
Remy peered down into the basket. Inside were three smaller versions of the already small dog Remy held under his arm. They were tumbling about in the bottom of the basket which was lined with an old blue towel. "Very nice," Remy told her. "Now let's go."
Jean's face fell and she lowered the basket. "Remy, what's wrong? You're white as a sheet."
"Nothing," Remy snapped. "Put down de basket, we're going."
"But –," Jean began, her arms now hanging low, the basket of puppies resting against her thighs. "Did you find the bijou?"
"Yes," he said and thrust the dog collar at her.
Jean looked at the collar, then the dog under Remy's arm. "It's the dog! The dog in the photo!" Jean grinned happily. She cooed at the dog: "Ah! Her name is Bijou! Sweet little Bijou!"
Remy grunted in response and turned towards the open window.
"But Remy, we can't take Bijou and leave her puppies!" Jean said, hurrying after him.
"I didn't see nothin' in de file about any puppies," Remy said. "Put 'em down. We got to get."
"No!" Jean said. "We can't go! Remy, come see!"
"I saw them all ready," he said over his shoulder.
"No, I meant the others! There's more, Remy! Downstairs in the basement." With that Jean had turned and hurried from the bedroom.
"Dagnabbit!" Remy growled and turned to follow after Jean. He stuffed the dog collar into his coat pocket.
Jean had trotted down the basement stairs. As Remy approached the basement door, the smell of animal grew stronger. As he began down the wooden steps, he could see why. There were a number of crates stacked one on top of the other along one of the cinderblock walls. Small dogs were held in each crate. There was much barking and whining. The smell was appalling. Jean had left the basement door leading into the backyard open. She set the basket of puppies onto the damp cement floor and began opening the crates.
"Jean! What'chu doin'?" Remy hissed. "Don't let them dogs out!"
"We have to save them," Jean was saying as she lifted dogs from their containers. She turned and pushed a small white dog at him. It looked more like a stuffed toy than a live animal. Remy had no choice but to take it. Its feet were wet and he hated to think about the reason why that would be.
"No we don't!" Remy told her. "Quit it! Put that thing back!"
Jean pulled a clothesline down from where it was hung. "Help me put leads on them," she told him, ignoring everything Remy had just said. She was using her telekinesis to sever the clothesline into shorter pieces. Remy stood and watched her, flabbergasted. Finally, she glanced up at him. "Remy! We can't just leave them here! This woman is a dognapper. Look at these poor animals. These conditions are deplorable!"
Remy shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the last remaining cobwebs of sticky nightmarish memory. "I've seen people livin' in worse," he told her. "We don't got time for dis foolishness."
Jean looked up at him from where she crouched on the basement floor as she affixed a bit of string around one of the small dogs. "Here, take these," she said and passed him the ends of several makeshift leashes. Jean scooped up a pair of small reddish-brown wiener dogs, put the basket of puppies under her other arm and started out the door. Dogs trailed after her, yapping and causing a general racket.
"Bon Dieu," Remy breathed. "Let dis be a nightmare too."
Remy jogged out into the lawn after Jean. With a loud clanging of tearing metal, Jean created a gaping hole in the fence and was leading the dogs through it. Lights had come on in the adjacent home and Remy was certain people were now looking out into the yard to see what all the commotion was about. This was probably the second most disastrous getaway he had ever been party to. Remy tripped over one of the dogs as he passed through the gap Jean had left in the fence. She was lifting dogs into the backseat of their vehicle. Now that one of his legs was wrapped in the makeshift dog lead, Remy hopped one-legged down the driveway. The dogs attempted to scatter in all directions. Remy distinctly heard someone shouting after him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the dognapper, Ms. Pierce, climbing down from her neighbor's porch. Remy turned. Jean was running in his direction. She hurriedly grabbed the leashes she'd stuffed into Remy's hand and lead the dogs to the car. As she was lifting them into the backseat, one of the dogs dashed off down the driveway, its lead trailing behind it.
"Oh, no!" Jean whispered and started after the runaway pooch.
"Jean, don't!" Remy shouted at her, but she was all ready running.
Remy tossed the white dog into the open rear window of the car and pulled the driver's side door open. He slid into the driver's seat, Bijou perched on his lap. As he turned to close the car door, he spotted the hefty dognapper marching across her lawn to the open hole in her fence. The woman's face was red and her arms pumped furiously as she moved.
"Stop! You – Stop, thief!" she shouted at Remy as she passed through the fence.
"Ah, shhh-sugar," Remy said and cranked the key in the ignition. He looked back over his shoulder and threw the car into reverse, peeling out of the driveway and into the street. The car bounced over the curb and dogs went tumbling everywhere.
Once out on the street, Remy put the car into drive. He stepped on the gas and sent the car squealing down the street. Up ahead, he could spy Jean's lithe shape running down the darkened street after the runaway dog, which appeared to be a miniaturized version of a Doberman Pinscher (a breed that Remy was unfortunately very familiar with). Remy could spy the angry Ms. Pierce running after him in his rear-view mirror. Dogs were bounding around the backseat and in the back window, barking and howling and yelping.
"Shut up! Shut up, you dogs!" Remy shouted, but the dogs only barked louder.
He drove up alongside Jean, who had managed to catch the dog she was chasing by using her powers. Remy leaned over the passenger seat and flung open the door. Jean slid into the seat, breathing hard, the dog clutched in her arms. Remy had barely stopped the car to allow her entry before they were off again. Jean yanked the door shut as they sped away. She turned in her seat to look through the rear window at the receding form of Ms. Pierce. Remy took a sharp corner and suddenly the dognapper was out of sight.
"Are you out of your pea-pickin' mind?" Remy yelled at Jean.
Jean grimaced, her expression contrite. "I'm sorry! But we couldn't just leave them!" she said.
"That's exactly what we could've done," he told her impatiently. "Why you took such a stupid risk for –." Remy took a steadying breath and gripped the wheel. He exhaled slowly. The dogs had continued their cacophony; Bijou's steady yaps punctuated the din. Remy put his hand over the dog's tiny muzzle and the dog began to vigorously lick his palm. Remy let out a sort of fatalistic laugh.
"Are you very mad?" Jean asked shyly.
Remy leaned his head back against the headrest for a moment. He swallowed, forcing his frustration down his throat like a dryly swallowed pill. "No, I'm not mad," he replied finally. He wasn't going to be mad at Jean for taking such a silly risk over a bunch of dogs when he himself had taken much bigger and stupider risks for less. He wasn't going to get mad at his cousin Richard for sending him on a wild goose chase. Remy wasn't going to give Dickie the satisfaction of seeing him riled. So Remy sank back into his indifferent persona, returned his face to its usual mask.
Jean considered Remy for a moment before turning to look into the backseat. She set the little Doberman onto the floor behind her and shushed the other dogs. If Remy had been more himself, he might have taken the moment to admire Jean's bottom, which pressed against his upper arm. Instead, he stared forward, driving aimlessly. When she was finished wrangling the dogs, Jean returned to her seat and fastened her safety belt. After several long moments occasionally broken by a high-pitched bark, Jean finally spoke.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
Remy blinked, coming out of his daze. His head hurt very badly. "I'm thinkin'," he said, turning down a random street. Something in the beam of the car's headlights caught his attention.
"Do you – ?" Jean began when Remy suddenly steered the vehicle to the curb. He parked the car and cut the ignition.
"What are we –?" Jean started again.
Remy climbed out of the vehicle. He still held the little fluffy dog under his arm. It seemed content to be carried around. Remy passed before the front of the car as Jean climbed out from the passenger seat. He chose not to meet her gaze. As he stepped up onto the curb, he made directly for the nearby post which had been papered over with flyers. The majority of the flyers read: Lost Dog. Remy moved to the post and began pulling down flyers.
"Remy?" Jean called.
Remy approached the car and slipped into the passenger seat. Jean joined him inside the vehicle, assuming the position as driver. He passed her the handful of papers, each bearing the image of a small dog. "Let's find a poor dog a home."
Jean and Remy spent the rest of the evening driving around suburbia, dropping dogs off on front porches and in fenced-in yards. The dogs that they couldn't find homes for were taken to the doughnut shop, much to the delight of the young pregnant thief who squealed and exclaimed over the small dogs, her surly teenage attitude momentarily forgotten. Richard had been smirking when he first saw Jean and Remy pull up in front of the shop. The pair hurriedly departed, leaving a half-dozen or so small dogs as proof of their successful heist. They smiled and waved at Richard's livid face through the shop window as they drove away. There was one dog left: Bijou. Remy had affixed the collar around the little dog's neck and placed her in the basket with her puppies.
Jean drove into a middle-class neighborhood and parked before a neat Cape Cod style house. The lights were on inside the home, glowing warmly from behind the curtains.
"Come on, let's bring Bijou home," Jean told Remy as she stepped out of the vehicle. Remy remained seated.
When Jean opened the rear passenger side door, Remy told her: "Go on ahead and set 'em on de front step. I'll wait here."
Jean stared at the back of Remy's head. "No, let's both go up," she told him. She picked up the last flyer from the center console, the one that bore the black and white image of the family and their missing dog. She rattled the paper at him. "Don't you want to collect your reward?"
Remy glanced back at her, eyebrows raised. Jean smiled at him. "Come on, Remy. It will be fun."
Remy sighed and reluctantly stepped from the car. Jean passed him the little dog, which Remy had learned was a Pomeranian.
"She likes you," Jean told Remy, who held the dog awkwardly in one hand. Jean then picked up the basket of puppies and cradled it in her arms.
Remy shook his head tiredly and proceeded to the gate in the picket fence. Remy started up the walk and stepped up onto the small front porch. He glanced over his shoulder at Jean who smiled encouragingly. Remy knocked on the front door. After a few moments, a shadow passed before the window in the front door. Recalling his paralyzing memory flash from earlier, Remy felt fear clutch his gut. The door opened revealing a woman. Remy felt himself relax. The woman behind the door looked wary of her unexpected guest, that is until she spotted the dog in his arms. Her expression turned into one of surprise and delight.
"Bijou!" she said. "Oh my goodness, you found her!"
Remy thrust the dog at the woman, who continued to exclaim as the dog was passed into her arms. The dog went into paroxysms of joy, squirming and licking and whining as the woman held the dog to her chest. The woman turned and called into the house: "Kids, come see! Come quick!"
Remy heard the flurry of stockinged footsteps from the hallway as two children trotted into the living room clad in their pajamas. Both kids spotted the dog immediately and ran towards their mother, who lowered the dog to the ground. Jean joined Remy on the step, smiling broadly at the two children as they cooed over their little dog. The dog began to twirl around on its tiny legs. The mother cupped her hands over her mouth and nose, concealing her wide smile but not the obvious happiness in her eyes. She turned back to where Jean and Remy stood.
"Thank you, thank you!" she said and stepped back from the door. She beckoned them into her living room. "Please, come in!"
Remy hesitated on the step, but Jean pushed into the home. "We have a surprise," Jean said and held out the basket.
Remy thought he hadn't seen anyone so happy than when he first presented Bijou to her owners, but that was nothing compared to their excitement over the three tiny puppies. The mother clutched Remy's forearm. "Thank you so much! We thought we'd never see her again!"
Remy smiled at her wanly. "You're welcome," he told her. "Glad to help. We should really get going."
Jean was crouched beside the two children with the dogs. She was grinning and petting the puppies along with the children.
"I can't thank you enough," the woman continued. "I have a reward for you. Just wait here, let me get my checkbook."
"No –," Remy began but the woman had hurried away. Remy looked down at Jean. "Jillian, let's go. C'mon."
Jean was talking and laughing with the two children. Each of them was holding a puppy. "Jill!" Remy barked. Jean looked up at him, failing to realize he was speaking to her. Remy pointed at the door, indicating that they needed to leave. She gave him a look that relayed that she had no intention of leaving just yet. A door closed somewhere in the house. The two children bounded to their feet.
"Dad! Daddy!" they began to shout. "Bijou's home! We have puppies!" Remy felt himself break out into a cold sweat.
A tall man dressed in a button-down shirt and tan slacks appeared in the living room where they had gathered. The man set down his laptop case, apparently having just come home from work. He took in the sight of his two children, the dogs, and lastly Jean and Remy. The wife reentered the room, clutching her checkbook. The children were showing off their dogs and the triumphant return of their pampered pooch.
"Okay. You're welcome. Goodbye now," Remy said hurriedly, raising his hand in a hasty farewell as he began to back out the front door. Jean stood and Remy took her by the arm. "We're leaving. Have a nice night. Nice meeting you." He dragged at Jean's arm. She smiled at the family in a way that said she was sorry for how Remy was behaving.
"But –," the wife began helplessly. "The reward...? We had it on the flyers...?"
"No – no thanks," Remy said, halfway out the front door.
"Seeing you so happy is our reward," Jean told the family.
Remy abandoned Jean at the door and turned to start down the front walk. Jean was still on the front step, waving at the family. The father of the household joined her outside.
"Wait," he called out to Remy.
Remy flinched as if expecting a blow. He considered making a run for it. Instead, he slowly turned around. The man started towards him. He could feel the man assessing him. Remy was vaguely aware of how he looked: a rumpled man in a trench coat, his hair in disarray. Remy had to concede to Jean's appraisal of his facial hair; his usual stubble had gone far into beard territory. Remy was uncomfortable standing before this man who couldn't have been any older than Remy himself. The man, a father and husband with a nice home, his tiny dog yapping in the doorway, looked like Remy's exact opposite. It was like looking into a twisted funhouse mirror, except that Remy himself was the distorted image. The man extended his hand to Remy.
"Please, I insist," the man said, holding out a few hundred dollar bills to Remy.
Remy could feel his expression freeze hard on his face. "I don't want your money," he said stiffly, his jaw clenched.
Jean stepped forward and put her hand to the man's arm. She took the folded bills. "Really, it's not necessary," she told him with kindness. "But thank you."
Jean strode forward and took Remy by the arm, guiding him towards the front gate. She looked at him pointedly, which indicated to Remy that she would be pressuring him for an explanation as soon as they were outside of polite company. Remy reflected that Jean didn't need to be a telepath to convey her thoughts as they were so very obvious on her face. Remy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a splitting headache.
"Why don't I –," Jean began, but Remy was all ready moving past her to the driver's side door. Jean grabbed his arm. "Remy, stop." He pulled free and in an eye blink had picked the car keys from the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt. He continued on to the car, Jean trailing behind.
Remy climbed into the car and started it as Jean joined him. "What's wrong?" Jean asked.
"I wish you would stop asking me so many questions," he told her.
"I'm just worried for you," Jean said.
"Don't trouble yourself," Remy responded.
"I have to worry, it's the only thing you let me do for you," Jean told him.
He cast a glance her way, wondering what she meant by the comment.
"You're upset about something. You can let yourself be angry, you know," she told him. "Or sad or whatever you need to feel. It's okay."
"No, it's really not," Remy said. "De only thing I got any control over is myself, and I barely got a handle on that as it is."
Her expression was sympathetic.
"I don't want your pity," he said as he drove away from the neat little house and the happy little family.
"I don't pity you," she replied softly. "I empathize with you. I know what it's like not to feel in control. I thought the two of us could relate to one another."
Remy felt cowed by this. It wasn't so long ago he was telling Cyclops the same thing, except then it was Scott who was failing to see their similarities. It was a struggle for him to draw any kind of correlation between Jean and himself. They were both from different planets, and they didn't even orbit the same sun.
"I know what it's like to struggle to try to find your own way...when it seems like everything else in your life has all ready been decided for you. You want to be in charge of your own destiny. But it feels like someone else has all ready made plans," Jean said to him.
"Dieu, de one talent I got is messin' up everyone else's plans," Remy said. "My poppa's, Sinister's...heck, I'm best at botchin' up my own schemes. I think de only plan I got now is to avoid any more plans."
"Just be glad you don't have any omnipotent beings pursuing you with designs on your future," Jean told him.
"You haven't met my father, have you?" Remy asked dryly. "What's de saying...? 'Man plans and God laughs.' Well, I'm sick of bein' de butt of de joke."
Jean smiled at him. "You seemed so upset back there. They were so happy to have their pet back. Doesn't that make you glad?"
Remy shrugged by way of response.
"You had one of your flashes, didn't you? You remembered something else? Something you had forgotten?" Jean persisted.
"Yup," Remy said but did not elaborate.
"I wonder if there's something I can do for you, to help control these flashes you're having," Jean offered. "If we can figure out what's triggering them..."
"D'you think you can stop it from happening again?" Remy asked her.
"I don't think that would be a good idea," Jean told him.
"I thought you said you wanted t'help me."
"I do. But stopping the memories from coming back isn't going to help," Jean said.
"Well, I'm done bein' sabotaged by my own brain. I don't want t'remember any more of what I forgot," Remy insisted.
"Don't you want to get to the root of your problem?" Jean asked.
"I want it all erased, that's what I want," Remy said. "I don't want to think these thoughts any more."
"What thoughts are those?" Jean asked evenly, though there was a hint of concern that told him she was more worried than she was letting on.
"I was thinkin' about Cecelia," Remy said suddenly, and to his shock he realized it was true. The panic he felt when he recalled shooting that man had more to do with the fear that he would be found out. And that if Cece ever learned of what he'd done, she's never, ever forgive him. She'd seen her own father gunned down in the street. Remy had apparently shot a man in cold blood and he couldn't even feel remorse for it, only fear that he would be discovered.
Jean seemed to consider this. "Am I wrong in thinking that I detected some attraction there, between the two of you?"
"I wouldn't say you were exactly right," Remy hedged.
"She definitely had genuine compassion and concern for you," Jean told him.
"Cece's a doctor. It's her job t'be concerned."
"So the two of you aren't... involved?" Jean asked.
"She's far too practical t'get involved wit' me," Remy said.
"But you like her," Jean said.
"I like her just fine."
"In more than a friendly way," Jean added.
"I've liked plenty of girls in various ways," he said obliquely.
"And you care what she thinks about you," Jean said, ignoring his blasé tone. "It's important to you that she likes you back."
"I flirt wit' her some is all. She doesn't take a word seriously."
"And you don't want anything serious," Jean asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.
"Maybe I got so used t'having a girlfriend I couldn't touch, I went out and found de next best thing...a girl wit' an impregnable force field," Remy said glibly. "I got a type, y'see."
"Yes," Jean said. "As long as you can keep your distance – and know nothing can happen between the two of you, you won't have to worry about getting hurt again."
"How many clones a'you did you say there were?" Remy asked. "Can I trade you in for a less annoying model?"
Jean reached out and pinched the underside of his arm. When he squirmed and complained with the appropriate amount of pain, Jean said: "You shouldn't be so picky when women are hand-delivered to your front door."
"I think you got dropped off at de wrong place," Remy told her.
"I don't think so," Jean replied. "I think Popp – ah... I think your – your clone...knew of only one other person he could trust. Himself. He knew what he was doing."
Remy didn't know what to make of the idea of having a clone of himself. He felt the new incarnation of Sinister must truly be barmy, because who in their right mind would create replicas of a man who repeatedly betrayed everyone around him?
"And you trusted him?" Remy asked with some confusion. "That clone?"
"Yes," Jean said quietly. "He was... a dear person. He didn't like remembering things either. I thought I was protecting him, just letting him...be oblivious. I never did anything to help him. I only got him hurt and killed."
"Don't blame yourself. I'da done about anything to get away from Sinister," Remy said. "And I did."
"I did something unconscionable," Jean told him. She suddenly sounded miserable; whatever she was going to tell him next would be terrible.
Remy steeled himself to prepare for whatever she was going to say. He knew his job would be to come up with something comforting to tell her, to assuage her fears. He remained quiet, waiting for her to speak. Waiting for her to shift the burden of her guilt onto him. But Jean had seemingly lapsed into silence. She turned away from him to look out the windshield.
"What...?" Remy finally said. "Jean?"
"Never mind, Remy," she said tiredly.
"Do you want something t'eat?" he asked her. "Before we head back t'de apartment?"
"Sure," she said, her tone distant.
"What d'you want?" he asked.
"I don't care. You pick."
Now Remy was concerned. Jean had always had a definite opinion about what she wanted up until now.
"I guess your hair doesn't look so bad," he finally told her in the gaping silence. "It just got some getting used to, is all."
She fared him with a sardonic smile. "Gee, thanks," she said flatly. "I think I'll keep it like this. I think it's how Jillian would wear her hair."
"I think Jillian would also wear lower cut tops," Remy added, hoping to tease her out of her unhappiness.
"Jillian would like to get you reacquainted with a razor."
"I'm thinkin' I'm keepin' it," Remy told her and ran his hand over his whiskered chin. "Brad Pitt has a beard and I don't hear Angelina Jolie complaining."
"Well, you don't look anything like Brad Pitt. In fact, you're starting to look like Jesus," Jean said. "And I mean the Biblical figure, not your ex-gangster friend."
Remy smiled at her. "Let's go wrangle ourselves up some loaves and fishes, then enh?"
"Lenten fish fry?" Jean finally suggested. Remy could at least agree to that.
They found themselves something to eat for dinner at a Catholic church hall, packed in along long tables with other Bostonians. The hall was too loud to talk to one another, so they ate fried fish and chips without exchanging words. Afterwards, they returned to the drab little apartment. Jean was uncharacteristically quiet. Remy tried to think back on their conversation for a clue as to what he had said to make her go silent. He supposed everyone had their limit when it came to having their fill of him, and they'd reached Jean's in record time. Remy thought some more about Cecelia and wondered if he should call her like she had wanted him to. He still had Daredevil's phone, though the charge was running low. Remy figured he could at least call his voice mail. He left Jean in the apartment and went out onto the little covered balcony just off the kitchen. He dialed the number to the school to access his voicemail and punched in his passcode.
"You have thirty-two unheard messages," said the voice mail operator.
"Whuh-oh," Remy said.
He started with the first unheard message. It was a long-winded tirade from Tony Stark. He mentioned something about an alias: Moreux, but Remy cut him off mid-rant after getting the gist of his litany of complaints. He deleted the message, and moved on to the next. The second was from his housekeeper, Aspen, who told him she would be in to water his plants. She told him to have a blessed day. Kitty Pryde had called to remind him where he could go to take his GED exam. Remy ignored that message; Remy wasn't about to be tested. There were a few messages from Carl Denti; the first was Denti wanting to know where Remy had gone. The second message wondered where he could expect to pick up his SUV. Remy wasn't ready to break the news about the vehicle (which had probably been chopped up and distributed down the East Coast by now) to Denti just yet. As the next message began to play, Remy recognized the New Orleans area code. Before he could skip the message he'd heard Jean-Luc's voice with its usual disappointed tone, the one that he used specifically for speaking to his son. Jean-Luc wanted Remy to return his calls. Jean-Luc threatened to get Tante Mattie involved. Remy cringed at that and moved on to the next message. He discovered that Cecelia had called.
"I realized that you weren't going to call me," Cece said with an authoritative air. "Maybe because you all ready know what it is I am going to say. Or that you choose to ignore things you'd rather not hear..."
This gal is fast on the draw, Remy thought.
"I would have liked to have finished our conversation from before – before you went and got yourself into another screwed up situation," she continued.
What conversation? Remy wondered. I can't hardly remember what day it is, let alone –
"I know you like being needed," Cece said.
Oh, right. That one. The drunken one, Remy recalled. Mardi Gras. I can't not get into trouble that day.
"But let me tell you Remy, it works both ways. And as much as you like feeling needed, you sure do seem to hate needing someone back. You don't want to depend on anyone," Cece continued then said matter-of-factly: "I get that, I completely relate to that. So you're right when you said I don't need you. I don't."
Okay, ouch, Remy thought. Well, she's straight to the point.
"You seem to think this is a problem... I wish I could have said all this to you before you walked out the door into another disaster...," she added hurriedly. "But maybe instead of looking for someone who needs you so bad, why don't you try looking for someone who just wants to be with you? Who chooses to be with you?"
Remy wasn't sure what to think about that. Was she inferring that she wanted to be with him? He probably shouldn't read into it. Cecelia was pretty blunt. If she wanted to tell him something, she'd say it straight up.
"Anyway, I want to urge you to take Jean back to the X-Men. I know you can – can be very convincing, Remy. So just try to talk her into it. But I know how much you love to be the hero, and you're probably not going to listen to me." Cecelia hung up without saying goodbye. She was probably mad.
Latinas sure do talk fast. Must be a cultural thing, Remy thought, his mind veering away from any particularly pointed arguments Cecelia had just stabbed at him.
There were still more messages, but he disconnected the call, feeling worn out. His head still throbbed dully. He wandered back into the kitchen where Jean was seated at the small kitchenette. Her hair was wet from the shower and she was wearing pink pajamas.
"I won't ask if you feel all right," Jean told him. "Because it's obvious that you don't."
"I look that bad, enh?"
"Why don't you go to bed?" she asked.
"De couch suits me fine," he replied and tiredly scraped his hair back from his face with his hand as he moved doggedly towards the parlor.
"I'm not arguing with you," Jean said and stood, blocking his way to the hall. She left the kitchen. Remy followed her and watched as she sat on the couch. She fluffed the sad little pillow and then lay down on her side, her hands under her cheek like a parody of small child sleeping.
"Get up off de couch," Remy told her and waved his hand as if to shoo her away. "Go to bed."
"We agreed I'd take the bed the first night, and you would take it the next," Jean told him.
"I didn't agree to nothin'," Remy told her. "Move."
"Make me," Jean retorted, now looking and sounding exactly like a small child.
Remy huffed impatiently and strode purposefully towards Jean. She cringed back a bit when he stood over her, his hands on his hips. He surveilled her for a moment, but she failed to move. Remy reached down and picked her up off the couch while she complained loudly. Jean grabbed onto the couch cushions and as Remy lifted her, she took the pillows with her. Remy tried shaking her to knock the pillows free. Jean instead began hitting him with one of the cushions and kicking her legs.
"Put me down!" she shouted.
Remy wrangled Jean into the bedroom while she abused him with the couch cushions. He dumped her onto the mattress.
"Give me that!" he said, and tried to pull the couch cushion from her grip. She hugged it in a bear hug to her chest.
"No, get off!" she said and kicked out a foot at him.
Remy grabbed her ankle and flipped her over to the opposite side of the bed. "Fine, have it your way," Remy told her as she struggled up into sitting position. Remy lay down on the bed beside her and crossed his arms over his chest. He stared at the ceiling.
Jean glared at him before flinging herself to her side to stare at the wall opposite with her back to Remy. Remy glanced over at Jean, saw her adjust her pillow in an angry sort of way. She resumed her side-sleeping position, knees bent, one foot resting on of of the other, hands beneath her cheek. Remy shook his head and sighed. He wasn't going to be able to talk Jean into anything, she was as stubborn as a mule. Remy thought sleep was unlikely, but he closed his eyes anyway. He usually slept fitfully, if he slept at all. The times he did fall asleep usually came with postcoital oblivion. He thought he probably shouldn't entertain any of those thoughts, not with Jean laying less than a foot away. The bed was better than the couch, as far as comfort went. Jean's body was practically a furnace, blasting off heat. Remy hadn't been comfortable and he hadn't been warm for awhile. Listening to Jean's breathing lulled him and he eventually drifted off. And even though the dreams came as they always did, they weren't as bad as they normally were.
~oOo~
Next time: A whole lot happens and then abruptly ends with a cliffhanger.