The Witness' Stand
Somewhere, Somewhen
Jean had to admit there was something appealing about Remy's tactic of ignoring, suppressing, and avoiding problems and upsetting thoughts. But the longer she delayed, the larger her problem grew. Quite literally. She felt that she had three choices. No, four choices. Not choosing was also a choice. Which was her current tactic, the not choosing. Instead, there were any number of things she could do to distract herself.
For the past few weeks (or however long it had been since time seemed to have no meaning here) she had been employing Choice Four. She and Remy remained in the confines of the small apartment over The Witness' Stand. When it seemed that they'd been closed off long enough, they ventured out. It was always a surprise to discover what was going on in the world outside of the apartment. Sometimes they found themselves in New York or Boston, Savannah or New Orleans, San Diego or Vancouver. There were times they emerged in Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, Cape Town, New Delhi, or Rome.
"Beats de red eye," Remy observed when they found themselves one day in Paris.
Disorienting still was not knowing when they would appear. London in the late 1920s was a pleasant diversion spent exploring Hyde Park. Segregated Charleston in the 1950s was a less enjoyable experience. They discovered they could tell where and when they might be by consulting the newspapers in the newsstand before stepping out of the shop. So in addition to inclement weather, they might also choose to stay inside because there was a "high chance of riots," or it was "partly pandemic."
On those days, Jean would read the newspaper in the kitchen. Though the news was irrelevant to her personally, it was still interesting. Remy knew the answers to The New York Times crosswords. Unfortunately, he couldn't spell them. So Jean would read the clues to him, he would provide the answer, and she would fill in the letters.
There were any number of books and board games inside the hall closet, which seemed to extend into infinity. Their magic hall closet also provided them with a safe full of various currency to spend. Remy called it the 'Room of Requirement,' a reference Jean was only vaguely familiar with. Jean failed to interest Remy in any of the games, especially when a game of Monopoly ended before it could begin when they got into an argument over who got what playing piece. He attempted to teach her a few card games which Jean found boring, but played anyway. Jean had made it a mission to find things to keep Remy occupied, because otherwise he'd descend into spiraling introspection, nervous twitching, and otherwise make himself incredibly annoying. Finding things to do also served to distract her from her own thoughts.
Unfortunately, today it seemed they were snowed in by a freakish blizzard in the late 1970s. Jean was laying on the bed in one of the only two apartment bedrooms. She left Remy in the sitting room where he was lounging on the couch, reading some fantasy novel for the second or third time. Her hands rested on her stomach. She thought she should probably see a doctor, but the thought of seeing an obstetrician filled her with waves of sick horror.
Choice one, she thought. End the pregnancy. She could find a clinic, she thought. Or, could she use her own telekinetic powers? Cause herself to miscarry? Jean closed her eyes.
Choice two, find a family for the baby. Maybe a nice mutant couple who could handle the charge of a dangerously powerful mutant child. That seemed like a tall order.
Choice three, keep the baby. Certainly the most complicated choice. When she was only just now recognizing her own personhood, she would lose it again, take on a new identity: mother. She began to tremble.
She wasn't so far along that she couldn't ignore what was happening to her own body. Most days she could pretend nothing was wrong. She did not get sick, just mild nausea that could be controlled with lots of Saltine crackers. She did feel tired most of the time, but also filled with a nervous energy that sustained her days and sleepless nights. Other symptoms weren't so annoying that they couldn't be pushed out of her thoughts. She craved and drank gallons of lemonade. Weirdly, she found she had somehow acquired Wolverine's amazing sense of smell. The scent of brewing coffee could make her dry heave. Remy's scent, which was all over the apartment, on the towels, on the sheets, had a decidedly different effect on her than the coffee. She chalked her reactions up to hormones.
They were sharing the bed most nights. The other room, with its child-sized bed, remained closed. Jean ignored that too. At night, Jean and Remy lay under the same blankets on the queen-sized mattress. The space between them seemed charged. Neither of them vocally acknowledged the tension. She didn't want to think about what a physical relationship between them would mean. To him, probably nothing. He was a master of compartmentalizing thoughts from actions. Who was to say he was even interested, given her condition? It was Jean's own feelings she was concerned with. Was it just his proximity and availability that made him enticing? Would she just be using him for her own comfort? There wasn't anything between them, right? Just circumstances beyond their control. She didn't like his closed-offedness, that his thoughts and emotions had to be dragged out of him by force. She disliked his backward treatment and views of women. She did like his empathy, generosity, and non-judgemental compassion, however.
Jean sat up from the bed and returned to the sitting room. Remy was on the floor, bare-chested, doing crunches. His hair was pulled back from his face, twisted into a knot at the back of his head. Little sounds of effort emitted from his lips as he counted sets. He paused mid-crunch, looking at her, the muscles in his abdomen taught. Jean drew a deep breath. She could smell him in here too. Jean felt her face flame with heat. She immediately turned from the room to move to the bathroom.
"Y'okay, chѐre?" Remy called after her.
"I need to take a shower," she called back to him, and closed the door to fall back against it.
She was grateful to open the shop door the following day to find Austin, Texas. The weather was beautifully mild. Remy shot through the door as if fired from the barrel of a gun.
Jean paused on the step to close the newsstand door behind her while consulting the day's newspaper. "Seeing as it's the early 1990s, your regular wardrobe should blend naturally into the environment."
"Jean, have I told you how funny you are lately?" he asked. He was wearing faded jeans and an obnoxiously loud tee shirt under his customary coat.
Jean, wearing an oversized shirt over a pair of leggings, felt she'd made something of an effort to fit the times. Remy just looked as he normally did. She told him: "Just add a boombox and some Peter Gabriel, and you've got a whole John Cusack thing going."
"The laughs just keep on comin'!"
"What are we going to do today?" Jean asked.
"Please, let it be college 'ball season!" Remy clapped his hands together in prayer and looked to the sky in supplication.
Several people passing by on the street saluted him with extended forefinger and pinky fingers. "Hook 'em horns!" came a few cheers.
Remy let out a joyful whoop and Jean joined him on the sidewalk. "Jean, will you make me de happiest man alive and tell me it's Saturday?"
She laughed and handed him the newspaper. "Looks like we're incredibly fortunate. Does that mean you want to catch a game?"
"Ain't nothin' like Texas football," Remy said, consulting the sports pages. "Don't tell anyone I'm a Tigers fan 'round here though, I'll be murdered in de street."
"Well, what does it matter who wins?" Jean asked. "I will never understand why anyone cares for a team whose school they never attended."
"I might've sat in on a few classes at LSU," Remy told her, shrugging. "When I was a teen."
Jean was surprised. "Did you? Classes in what?"
"Oh, physical sciences or some such nonsense," Remy informed her glibly. "Theory of relativity, atoms and what have you. Never came in handy. I hardly ever use it. What about you?"
She laughed. "I went to Metro, in New York. Psychology," Jean replied. "Is that too obvious?"
Remy grinned at her. "What a waste of time! Someone like you should do somethin' like modeling. Use your natural talents."
"I will smother you in your sleep," she told him in a deadpan tone. He laughed and took her arm as they walked down the street. She allowed herself to be led; he always seemed to know where he was going.
"Okay," Jean said, unable to resist his enthusiasm. "I guess that's our afternoon planned."
The football game was incredibly loud and incredibly orange. The energized crowd was overwhelming. It served to help Jean drown out her own thoughts and fears. She and Remy cheered and chanted for the home team with the rest of the sports fans. They ate concession food and drank lemonade. When the game ended, they joined the flow of bodies to the exit. By now it was late afternoon. They slowly walked toward Downtown Austin. As they neared Sixth Street, the sound of live music grew louder. They began passing various clubs, music pouring out of open doors. Remy lingered at a doorway, hearing something he liked. Jean pulled him inside. They spent the rest of the evening moving in and out of clubs, dancing to a variety of different music genres. Night had fallen and the crowds in the street grew larger and rowdier. With their ears ringing from the loud music, they found their way to a barbeque restaurant.
"Does this mean Lent is over?" Jean asked, only vaguely aware of the dietary restrictions Remy had self-imposed.
"Ah, it's nearly Sunday anyway," he said, sliding a tray of brisket in front of Jean. "And I've completely lost track of time." He sat across from her at the communal table, which was crowded with other people enjoying barbeque.
Jean was famished, as usual. She was bone-tired, but the food helped revive her. Since it was loud and crowded, and her ears were buzzing from the clubs, they ate for the most part without speaking. Jean finally had to admit she'd reached her limit of smoked meat, potato salad, beans and coleslaw. Then Remy magicked a portion of blackberry cobbler before her, and she found she had a second wind.
"I think you got your wish," Jean told him, dropping her plastic spoon into the empty styrofoam bowl.
"Ain?" Remy asked.
"Your wishful thinking," Jean said. "That number you put on my fake ID, for weight? Well, I think I may have met and surpassed it."
Remy smiled into her eyes, his gaze steady and bright in the dim of the restaurant. "It suits you," he said, making his approval known.
Jean felt heat creep up her neck. She broke his gaze and drained her cup of lemonade.
"Feelin' flushed, chѐre?" he suggested.
"It's warm in here," she responded.
"We can head out then," he said. "Unless you want to lick your plate?"
She sent a balled up napkin in his direction as he left to bus their trays, his warm laugh following after him.
Back on the sidewalk, they continued their ambling path down city streets. The city was alive with music, light and people. The raucousness of the crowd grew as the night went on. Remy put a hand on Jean's hip and deftly steered her from the path of a stumbling drunk at the last moment. The heat of his grip on her felt like a brand, and she found herself pressed close to his side.
"Y'tired, Jeannie?" he asked.
"I think I've seen enough vomiting and public urination for the evening," Jean said, looking up at him.
"Here I was about t'say this scene is makin' me homesick for N'Awlins," he said, his face angled toward hers, his voice low. "But I won't keep a lovely lady on her feet all night. Let's get you t'bed."
It was a curse of her fair skin; there was no hiding the blush that spread across her cheeks, that made her ears burn. Enough, she thought. I have to end this.
She took one of his lapels in her hand and pulled him closer, kissing his mouth. He responded, his hand coming to rest on the side of her neck, returning her kiss. Slowly, reluctantly, they parted, standing on the street corner under a streetlamp. She took his hand and together they walked back to the newsstand, up the steps to the apartment.
In the bedroom, their bedroom, they kissed again. First in the doorway, then with her pressed against the dresser. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror. Jean put a hand on Remy's shoulder, stopping him for a moment.
"Why didn't you tell me I had barbeque sauce on my face?" she asked with annoyance, wiping at the offending spot.
He laughed. "I thought it was a freckle," he told her, kissing the corner of her mouth.
"A red, mesquite-flavored freckle," she said, disbelievingly.
He took her face in his hands. "I thought I'd leave it," he told her. "Because sometimes I think you're just too perfect."
"That's some line," she whispered, turning her mouth into his palm.
"It wasn't a line," he said into her hair. She felt the truth in his words.
When he lifted her onto the dresser top, pressing tightly against her, she felt relief. To give up control, to let herself relax into his touch. He pulled his shirt over his head. Then raised the hem of her top. Her hair fell around her face when he pulled her shirt over her head. He pulled her against him again, kissing her just beneath her ear. Holding her tightly against himself, he carried her to the edge of the bed, depositing her there, his body weight against her for a moment. Remy pulled away, taking her leggings down her legs, her shoes from her feet. He looked up at her from where he knelt before her on the floor. He placed a kiss on the inside of her knee. His eyes stared into her own as he slowly made his way up the inside of her thigh. He paused, as if waiting for something. Jean realized he was asking her a question, wondering it in his own mind.
Do you want me?
"Yes," Jean said out loud. "Oh, yes."
He continued upwards. She gasped. She gripped the bedclothes. She called out, then sank her fingers into his hair. She drew him upwards, feeling his weight on her again. They joined together and she moaned against his mouth.
"Is this okay?" he asked, moving slowly.
It's better than okay, she answered him, inviting him into her thoughts, to feel what she was feeling. She heard his breath catch in his throat, surprised. Jean encouraged him to continue, pressing her heels into the back of his thighs.
"Ah, Dieu," he said quietly. She felt him slowly lower his defenses, to reciprocate her invitation. Letting her experience his own enjoyment. Jean clutched at him, the sensations flowing in a constant feedback loop too intense to sustain for very long. They echoed each other's cries.
They came to a gasping, shuddering stop. His forehead pressed into the mattress beside her head, his breathing warm against her neck. She turned her face into his hair, breathing in his scent. After gathering himself for several moments, Remy lifted away. He stood, pulled Jean's legs onto the bed, then climbed over her to lay beside her on the mattress. Jean released a long sigh and closed her eyes. Remy's arm draped across her midsection.
"Here I thought being with a telepath would be creepy. But that was pretty great. Didn't know you could use it for sex stuff," he told her groggily. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him.
Jean's mouth curved into a smile. "Remy, haven't you heard that the mind is the largest sexual organ?"
She watched a slow grin spread over his face. He gestured downward. "You sure about that?"
Jean closed her eyes. Turning away, she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Remy. You. Are….You know what? I'm not even going to say it. That was my own fault. I completely blame myself for that one."
"Can't help myself," he told her.
Jean released another sigh, this one a satisfied release of air. "I admit, I do have an appreciation for how unreservedly you went for that opening."
There was a pregnant pause, then Remy propped himself up on an elbow to look down at Jean's face.
"Did you just-double entendre me?" he asked.
"Maybe."
"I've never found you more attractive than I do at dis moment," he told her.
She laughed softly. The fingers of his left hand traced a line from her jawline down her neck, then between her breasts, down her midriff. Jean shivered. His hand stopped, hovered over the slight protuberance of her belly. His warm palm rested there. Jean felt her smile fade.
"D'you feel anything?" he asked quietly.
She shook her head slightly. "Just a series of embarrassing body functions," she said, her tone flat.
"D'you know what you're gonna do?" he asked. About the baby? he thought. She knew with his upbringing and beliefs, in his mind, it was already a baby. From the moment of conception. In this one, and only one instance, to him there were no shades of gray.
Jean frowned, not looking at him though she could feel his gaze against the side of her face. "Do you know what you're going to do...with the contents of that briefcase?" she responded, her voice cold.
Remy drew away, retreating to lay on his back to stare at the ceiling. Jean instantly regretted her words. You ruined it, she thought to herself. You ruined everything. Cruel. Selfish. She felt her eyes sting with tears. Jean sat up, turned to look down at Remy. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm sorry, that was mean. I felt defensive, so I attacked you."
His eyes glanced at her, then away. He didn't respond, his thoughts closed off to her.
"I am so caught up in my own...problems. That I forgot that you've got troubles of your own. I am sorry that I struck out at you when you were just trying to be kind to me."
She could tell he didn't know how to respond to an apology. He finally met her eyes again. "D'accord," he said quietly, gave a small close-mouthed smile.
"Does that translate to: 'I forgive you with all my heart'?" Jean asked, laying back down, her body curved towards his.
Remy moved to face her. He ran his knuckles over the curve of her cheek. "I will," he answered.
Next: A card game and decisions made.