Let The Flames Begin
What a shame we all became such fragile, broken things, a memory remains-just a tiny spark. I give it all my oxygen, so Let The Flames Begin, so Let The Flames Begin. Oh glory, oh glory! This is how we'll dance when, when they try to take us down, this is what we'll be oh glory. Somewhere weakness is our strength, and I'll die searching for it, I can't let myself regret such selfishness. ~Let The Flames Begin-Paramore.
New Orleans, Louisiana. 1990.
Some days it doesn't matter how charming he is or how skilled he's become at pick-pocketing. Some days there aren't enough tourists or kind souls about.
Some nights he goes to sleep hungry. The glorious aromas wafting from homes and restaurants make his gut clench and the boy curls into a tiny ball, weeping bitterly. It's stupid, he's stupid. He's been on the streets long enough to know that crying gets you no where. It doesn't make the other homeless people sympathize with you; it doesn't make your Maman and Papa want you back. He should be figuring out some way to scrounge up food. He should figure out a way to keep warm.
Even as he thinks this, his eyelids get heavier and the hunger pains have blended in to one huge ache. The upcoming events that dance across his vision may have been a dream, but he likes to believe they're real: his mère is coming to get him. She's beautiful, with silken dark hair and jewel-like eyes. Her skin is creamy. He wants to touch it more than anything.
"Maman? Is dat y'?" The boy's heart flutters with hope. This is exactly what he needs, warm arms and a loving smile to kiss all his fears away.
"I ain't yo' mama, boy." The old hag spits tobacco on the ground near his head and collapses a few feet from him. Her smell is less than pleasant. "Shoot, wish me mama was here, mais she died long time back, fo' yo' mama was even born, or yo' granmama for dat matta."
He doesn't know why, but he finds comfort in her presence. The boy rests his head on his knees, trying to keep his eyes narrowed slightly. "How'd y' maman die?"
She leans against the brick wall, regarding him expertly for a few moments. "Ain't no use tryin' to hide dem eyes. Dey was de first t'ing me noticed 'bout y'." Her black skin wrinkles in folds as her lids close. "Me pa did it. He was a gambler y' know, an' a drunk. Lost everyt'ing one day, lost 'is mind, too. Strangled her while she was sleepin'. What 'bout y', boy?"
He cowers in shame, and the budding, deeply embedded dislike toward women he'll carry into adulthood begins to form. "Mine ain't dead, she didn't wan' me."
The woman rises, not easy with her large frame, and holds the boy tightly, as if they've been life long friends. "Some femmes shouldn't be havin' babies, dem. Y' gotta love yo' chile, whether dey turn out how y' wan' dem or not." She smiles, and despite the missing teeth, the boy finds it to be the most beautiful smile he's ever seen.
"What's y' name?" he asks suddenly, feeling more at ease with this woman than he's felt in a long time.
She frowns. "I was always taught y' never gave out y' name to folks,"—his face falls—"mais we're une famille now, so I t'ink it'll be jus' fine." She grins again. " Name's Mattie Rose Baptiste. Y' can call m' Tante Mattie. An' what do I call y'?"
Again, he goes mute.
"Well? Speak up, boy. Y' Tante got 'ole ears."
"I-I ain't got one. Mais people, dey call me 'le diable blanc'. I hate dat name."
This seems to shock the older woman. "We can't go 'round callin' y' a devil. Ain't got a name! Well, dat jus' won' do, now will it?" Her arthritis-ridden fingers go to her chin in thought, and she grumbles broken phrases under her breath. "How 'bout…Philippe?"
The young boy makes a face: complete with a scrunched-up nose and tongue. "I wanna good name, Tante! Somethin' catchy, mais tough." He thrusts out his emaciated chest.
She gives her small companion(much too small for his height) an exasperated look. "I once knew a homme," -her face saddens- "he reminds me of y'. Cocky as all get out on de outside, but gentle and as soft as could be on de inside. Jus' like a lollipop with a gooey center."
"What was his name?" The boy silently scoffs at the comparison, but out of respect for the older woman keeps it to himself.
"Remy. An' he was de most self-centered, clever, and handsome t'ing me ever set eyes on, an' he knew it, too."
They both laugh.
'Remy' grins slowly and nods eagerly. "I like dat, Tante. I like it a lot! An' how old am I?"
As advanced and charismatic as he is for one so young, he's still too innocent to understand the tragedy of his predicament: he doesn't know his name, doesn't know his age, and that this forged life is being created in a rat-infested alleyway with a women he met only moments ago.
She thinks again, pinching his cheeks, rubbing his belly, mussing his hair. This of course sends Remy into a fit of giggles, and he begs her to stop.
"From what I can see, y' 'bout eight years ole. Much too skinny doe." Her face gets worn all of a sudden. "Y' jus' a pup. Y' shouldn't be out here."
They both remain silent, holding onto each other, and for the first time, they aren't alone.
"See dese?" She holds something in front of him, and he fingers the thin papers curiously. "Dey're cards, an' dey gonna get y' off de streets, y' hear?"
"Whatcha mean? Y' need money to get off de streets, Tante. Not picture cards." Everyone knew this: it was a fact of life.
"Y' jus' get some sleep. When y' wake up, Tante's gonna show y' how to work dese cards an' you'll never lose, p'tite, never. Shoot, when Tante done wit y', even le diable himself won' be able to beat y'."
Remy's stomach growls, tears blot out Tante's form, and he tries to wipe them away.
"Don' y' go actin' all brave, chile. Y' go head an' let dem tears fall, d'accord?"
Burying his face in her sagged breast, Remy sobs harder than he ever has. He's asleep moments later.
One good thing about crying: it's the perfect sleeping pill.
My pain and all the trouble caused, no matter how long, I believe that there's hope buried beneath it all and, hiding beneath it all and growing beneath it all and, this is how we'll dance when, when they try to take us down, this is how we'll sing oh. This is how we'll stand when, when they burn our houses down, this is how we'll be oh glory. ~Let The Flames Begin-Paramore.
Present Day New York.
One good thing about crying: it's the perfect sleeping pill.
She'd been sobbing for an hour, and Remy had gone to Beast, asking him what could possibly be wrong. The Doctor blames her tears on a nightmare and, for the hundredth time, tells Remy he ought to go upstairs and get some sleep. The Cajun doesn't want rest. He wants his chère to wake up. It's been three days of non-stop worrying, and Remy isn't looking his best. He's feeling even worse.
Running his hand across his stubble, he glances over at Jean, who's also not wakened. Every medical test known to man is being performed on the two. Nothing is physically wrong with them. Cerebrally, however, is a completely different story. Both the Professor and Betsy have scanned their minds numerous times, only to find that nothing is there. Their brains are completely void of activity.
The news sent Remy whirling into dangerous state when they broke it to him. The body could only survive for so long without the brain, even he knew this. He only left her bedside for minutes at a time. Just long enough to find a bottle of something strong enough to numb the horrible pain he feels. He should go shower. He doesn't want Rogue to smell the booze on him when she wakes up… If she wakes up—
He squeezes her hand that much harder, willing her gorgeous eyes to open and gaze upon him.
"Beast said y' could hear what I'm sayin'," he begins, chiding himself for his silliness. "I'm not so sure 'bout dat, mais I'm willin' to try anyt'ing, chère." He sighs and lets his head tilt back. So much to say, so much time. He wonders where he should begin. He wonders what he should say. He wonders if he should leave some things out. There are parts of his past he's not yet able to admit, even to himself. How can he admit those horrible acts to the woman he loves?
Rogue's breathing hitches but returns to its normal pace. She's beautiful. He can't understand why she can't see that. Skin that tempts him every second of every day, hair that looks like coffee and crème before it's stirred, and eyes that both break and heal his heart every time he sees them.
"Here it goes, Roguey." And then he speaks. He speaks so long his throat becomes raw and his voice gives out. Regardless, he continues to rasp and lay his burdens one by one on her slim shoulders. He speaks until nothing is left, until no secrets keep them apart.
Part of him hopes Beast is wrong and she can't hear him at all because she could stop loving him if she knew his sins. She could figure out he's never deserved her love in the first place. And if that happens, Remy knows he won't survive. If he weren't selfish, he'd tell her and let her move on, let her be loved by someone who could do it right. But he is selfish, and so he'll keep Rogue by his side, for as long as he possibly can.
…
The view from her window is gorgeous. The night is perfect: the moon has never seemed so close before. It's as if she's been living blind all these years, and now her vision is no longer fuzzy. Sighing, the woman lets her arms dance above her head while the items in her room levitate in midair to a beat all their own. The darkness and wind fill her entire being, and she has no choice but to give in. Soon, her hips join the fun and sway slowly from side to side. She laughs loudly, uncaring if they hear her or not. This vessel is new, unexplored. And so powerful, even more than the other. In the other one, she'd been limited to telepathy. But with this beautiful, astonishing capsule, she could harness any gift she could ever want with only one touch. And in return, she'll keep this body young forever; she'll give this body the ultimate power. She opens her mouth to sing, and the note that spills from her lips is a breathtaking melody, liquid and fluid and surrounding the space around her. Tonight is a night of celebration, for she is human again.
…
Betsy Braddock scratches her head. "I simply can't understand it, Hank. It makes sense for Jean's psyche to be missing—that's how the absorption process works—but not Rogue's. This has never happened with any other person she's absorbed."
"True, but Rogue has never absorbed anything like Phoenix."
She nods. "Right you are, love. Right you are." Yawning, she steps inside the lab, Hank close behind her, and releases a startled gasp. "Bloody hell—"
"You can say that again, my friend."
The scene is almost exactly how they'd left it a few hours ago. The beds remained inhabited, only, Remy is where Rogue should have been.
"I'm going to get the others." Betsy runs from the lab, her graceful steps make no noise.
The doctor doesn't answer her. Instead, he goes to the Cajun's side and shakes him firmly. "Remy?"
Gambit groans and regards Beast groggily. "Weren't y' de one who tol' me to get some rest? Now y' botherin' dis poor—"
"Rogue is gone."
Remy sits up swiftly and examines his surroundings. He's in the bed. Rogue should've been in the— "Mon dieu." He hops down and runs a hand through his hair. "Where is she? I thought she was asleep!"
"As did we. I was hoping you'd know something, but apparently that is not the case."
Remy glares at Henry, though he doesn't see it. How could he remain so calm? Where is his chère?
Betsy comes to the door, completely out of breath. "Charles has located her. Suit up and get to the hanger."
"Betsy!" Remy calls after her. "De Professeur can only locate mutants who use deir powers. Rogue used hers, so she must be in trouble—" It's obvious how much the thought frightens him.
Betsy seems conflicted and unsure how to answer him. "He didn't exactly locate Rogue herself."
He frowns. This makes no sense to him. "Den who did he find?"
"Phoenix," she murmurs.
…
They find her in the middle of a mall, sitting on a bench, and watching those around her excitedly. She wears a thick jacket, effectively hiding the hospital gown.
Grinning, Remy moves to retrieve her.
"Hold your horses, lover boy." Wolverine keeps a hold of his trench. "Chuck detected Phoenix, not Rogue. Startin' a confrontation with all these people around can only lead to disaster."
"He's right, love. Be patient."
To their great surprise, Remy puts up no argument and simply nods and hangs behind the group.
They carry on with their discussion. Despite the hundreds of people wandering around the facility, it would still be very easy for Phoenix to pick their minds out from the bunch. In fact they're quite positive the only reason they haven't been found out is due to the child-like wonder on her face as she people-watches.
"We could always just ask he to come back with us," Bobby jests.
Psylocke rolls her eyes at the woeful attempt at humor while wolverine gives no reaction at all.
"This ain't good, Psy. Too many norms runnin' around here. There's no way we can confront it without casualties."
The telepath nods, already aware of the actions she's going to have to take, and the consequences of said actions. She's going to have a headache for days: and it's not an ailment that the usual earl grey tea will alleviate.
"I'm no Jean Grey or Charles Xavier," it's hard to sound depreciating with her clipped british accent, but the attempt is admirable," but I should be able to shut the place down. I warn you, Logan: I'll be most worthless after."
He nods, having already considered this option. "Ain't got much choice. Scooter's nursing his man-period, red's outta commission, and Storm and the other members are nursing their own wounds." The feral man turns from his prey and captures her gaze steadily. "I have your back. Just get rid of all the extras roamin' around here and I'll take care of the rest."
He seems much too excited, and Bobby grimaces.
"Right." And without hesitation, she begins the process.
The inhabitants of the mall: store clerks, teenage girls gushing over jewelry and perfumes, the boys on skateboards watching those girls, screaming children with mother's chasing after them, couples in the food court, the elderly power-walking in sneakers and sweats around the huge domain—all pause. It's eerie. And suddenly, as if being rebooted, they drop everything they're holding and proceed to exit the mall. All in a line, all unaware of the reasoning behind their actions. All they know is they suddenly feel a sickening premonition that they should not be here.
They get into their cars, get on their skateboards, or, in some cases, begin their walk away from the establishment, and by the time the parking lot is cleared, Betsy is drenched in sweat.
She collapses soon after.
Both of her teammates capture an arm and lower her slowly to the ground.
"Kitty would absolutely go ga-ga to see this place so empty." Even speaking seems to be a strain for the slender woman.
"Rest up, Bets. Remy, Bobby and I—"
"Uh," Bobby begins sheepishly, "Gambit sort of, well…left. I didn't want to break her concentration so—"
Logan gives him a withering look. Neither Gambit nor Rogue are in sight.
…
He told them he was having another bad headache, and that's why he couldn't assist them. It's cowardice, he knows it, and he's pretty sure the rest of his team knows it as well.
Scott had never planned on falling for Rogue. It happened completely by accident. She'd shown up one day five years ago, her jaw hard, her eyes even harder. Torn clothes hung off her thin frame, and from that day on, Scott made a promise to protect that scared little girl, forever and always.
But things weren't that simple. They never were. Protectiveness turned into friendship, which became lust, and lust morphed into something…more. More than he felt for the team, more than he felt for his adoptive family, and it even surpassed what he felt for Jean. And the guilt from that torments him if he thinks about it too long.
Right after their first date, they all gushed how great he and Jean were together, how obvious the greatness of their relationship was. Eventually, Scott himself began to believe it, and he fell in love with Jean because everyone said he should be in love with her. But soon, she began to feel things for him that he didn't reciprocate. He pretended his passion matched hers because he was a gentleman, a man of duty. And he married her.
Staring down at his unconscious wife, Scott shrinks away in shame. Somehow, he'd known only one of them would wake. He'd been praying Rogue would be the one, and God has answered his prayers.
"Oh, Jean." His voice breaks and he cries. "I'm so sorry, so very sorry." Even as he apologizes, he wonders if Rogue is safe.
…
Remy just watches her for a while, marveling at her beauty. She seems to be enthralled with the glass figurines: her lips are parted and her gaze never wavers from the shelf that houses them. She is oblivious to everything around her, and he uses this to his advantage.
"Bonjour." He moves slowly: there's a chance Phoenix is the one in control. "Y' gave me quite de scare." He plays with them, too and keeps a polite distance between himself and Rogue.
She carefully examines the man to her side. The fingers of her mind reach out and touch his thoughts; it's a jumbled, heated mess of spiraling emotions, thoughts, worries, and desires. The man interests her. "I didn't mean to. I had to help Jean."
"Y' coulda been killed." His trained gaze goes over her rapidly. The way she's carrying herself is completely off.
"But I wasn't." Still she does not face him. "It's all okay now." She keeps her face blank. She's enjoying this game of pretend. This human has already ascertained that she is not his lover.
He may be a bit more complex than humans she's come across in the past, but, despite his abecedarian mental blockades and traps, his thoughts are exposed to her without her putting forth any effort. He's alead aware of the raid taking place on this vessels mind and body. Apparently they're star crossed lovers.
She smiles. This mortal shall be entertaining.
He nods, seeming to accept everything she tells him so easily. He's confident that the woman before him isn't really his woman, just an unwanted inhabitant. He's also confident that if he can figure this out that he can figure out everything else as well.
It's this very arrogance that will be his undoing in the end.
He caresses the small of her back. She keeps her gaze downcast. "Why won' y' look at me, p'tite?"
Now he's trying to gauge how far she's willing to take this and if there's any sign of his lover. The Cajun(who learned at a young age that the more ignorant a person you assumed you were—the higher advantage you had)does not want to reveal his hand too soon. If he can play along and get her to put down her guard, he can wait for the rest of the team to arrive…
She throws her head back, causing her curls to cascade down her back, and the patronizing chortle that comes from his woman's rotund lips is not her own: it's like icicles breaking.
The laughter ceases as suddenly as it began, and as the smile slides from her mouth a spectral golden glow begins forming around her pupils, and, quite promptly trounces the emerald.
She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him tightly. "Do Ah play the part of a simpering, buxom southern magnolia well?"
The Cajun smirks bitterly and shoves her away. "Nice try, mais I know ma chère. She don' like touchin', an' she'd certainly never—"
And like a clap of thunder, thee's a sudden explosion of sound; onl it's inside of his head.
Pitiful little thing. There are no defenses from me. I know your plan.
"Mon Dieu!" He clutches both sides of his head, unable to do anything as the comlink he'd been trying to use to reach the team is lifted by sheer will of her mind, and crushed right before his eyes.
It's as if there's a spike being drilled into his very skull. He feels the need to vomit.
"Je suis vraiment désolé!" The raggedy haired woman kisses him once more before placing him in the basket. "My baby—"And then she's gone.
He feels himself wail and thrusts his tiny, chubby fists toward the sky. All he hears is church bells.
I know your past.
"My papa said I ain't 'sposed t' hang out with no LeBeau boy." She tosses her yellow braids snootily.
"S' no skin of my nose y' spoiled little—"
The girl turns to him, pausing in her examination of the alligator carcass they've discovered. "'Scuse me?"
Her companion smiles disarmingly: a charmer to bet, even at his age.
"Said technically, I'm not a LeBeau. You're not disobeyin' y' père den, n'est-ce pas?"
The girl giggles.
Remy falls to his knees as the flashes continue. "Stop…"
I have seen your fears.
Jagged teeth and freezing cold hands.
"You, Gambit, are the epitome of genetic mutation. You ae the future!" A jagged smile to match those jagged teeth. "you are my prized possession. I'll let you run around on your proverbial long leash, but never forget m pet: you're still on that leash."
I know your present.
Another bottle of whiskey in another woman's bed.
"I'm sorry, chérie." Another swig. The guilt is eased.
Your desires—
His lover stretches sleepily in is embrace. His hold does not budge, for this: this repeated meeting of their flesh(they can touch!) the banter(they can kiss!) the comfort of knowing she's his and only his for the rest of their lives…
"Je t'aime, my little Rogue."
Your deepest, darkest secrets, the ones that cause your insomnia and alcohol dependence, the ones you've spent our entire life trying to bury so deep—that even you don't remember them…
"Hungry, ain't ya boy?" The man drops his belt.
Remy's head is pushed down.
"Won't take long. I got twenty dollars for ya. Such a pretty little mouth—"
The stench of the sewer causes him to gag epeatedly. He has to run…has to get out…he'll go to church(you'll go up in flames as soon as you entered)I'll repent—(nothing can atone for this one)I'll do good de rest of m' life!(you're ruined)
He trips and falls. The sewage soaks him through and he'll never feel clean again. He glances down to see the nuisance and immediately vomits.
It's the hand of a small child, only, there's no chubby little arm attached to it. No pudgy, miniature body. (you're going to hell)
"STOP! You fuckin' bitch, you sick cunt—"
Remy has been on the ground for some time now. He looks down to his hands to see the clumps of hair he's torn from his own skull.
"Kill me," he begs and weeps, this pain being too much for any further anger or show of his manhood. She broke him.
But the flashes don't stop; he sees life, death, birth, the creation of the cosmos, God…
Your future is not hidden from me.
The young boy tugs on his pant leg. "Pa, I'm bored! Can't we go home and wait? I wanna play with m' toys!"
He chuckles. "Shame on y', mon fils! Y' not excited to meet y' little brother?"
The boy wrinkles his nose, and his father laughs again.
"You'll see. Y' oncle an' I didn't get along so great at first, but y' pa, he don' know what he would do without him."
"But pa—"
"Mr. LeBeau?"
He jumps from his seat, grabbing the boy up with him.
She laughs good naturedly and removes her latex gloves. "No need to go pale, sir. It went very smoothly. Mom and baby would be very happy to see you now."
He rushes in to see his wife…
And then the onslaught ceases and it's a blessing he feels he does not deserve. Sweet, thick blackness comes next.
Though the attack has seemingly stopped, Wolverine does not removes his claws from her throat. "You're in yet another friend of mine." He steps closer until his stomach is against her backside. "You like getting in people's heads, right?" The sharp edge of an adamantium claw draws a line of blood. "Then read my thoughts. Friend or no I won't hesitate to kill you. And even you wouldn't be able to heal this body fast enough to stay in it, am I right?"
Her acidic smile matches his own. "My mind is still connected with his, mortal. If you do not remove your filthy paws from me, I will turn his brain to mush."
Wolverine snarls, but backs down. If a fight breaks out…his sight goes over the shallow-breathing, Gambit, the weakened Psylocke…and sweat begins to form. He can heal, they cannot, and there's no way only he and Bobby can take on Phoenix by themselves with no telepathic aid.
"You're no fun." She goes back to examining the enchanting little figures. "Adorable, aren't they?" Grabbing a fistful, Phoenix crushes them using only her bare hand, and he rushes forward.
"Don'—"
But the wounds have already healed, and she wipes the remaining blood on her coat. "I'm immortal, remember? A wound such as this is nothing to me."
Gambit struggles to sit up. He's drenched in sweat. "Dat's enough, you've had y' fun. Now give Rogue control."
She giggles, returning her gaze back to him. New emotions, new sensations… She's thrilled beyond reason. She envies mankind for their ability to feel.
"Recovered already?" Approval shines in her face. "How very, very interesting."
There's something intoxicating about her voice, yet, at the same time, it reminds him of the lifetime he just endured in the span of seconds, and once again he feels nauseas.
He raises his hands as a show of good faith and steps closer to her. "Dat was rude of me." He thinks of anything but what he's truly intending. "I'm scared. Dats de body of someone I care about very much, and if anyt'ing happened to her—"
Iceman, Wolverine, and Psylocke: having been in many a perilous situation with each other, instantly recognize their teammate's intentions and move at once. Psylocke sends a telepathic hit, Iceman sends a wall of ice, Wolverine sends a heavy kick to her face.
"How dare—"Too late, she feels the hot buzzing in her back pocket. Her teeth bare. "You—"
The impact from Remy's card sends her through three walls. Gambit follows, bo stick and an endless amount of cards in hand. He'll feel guilt for the rest of his life at the satisfaction hurting her brings.
Summer 2009.
She tells him her name. It's his goal to sweep them off their feet so quickly, they won't have time for introductions. But this one has managed to slip it in despite his precautions. Even though he'll forget it by the end of the night, he still wishes she hadn't mentioned it. The situation is easier and less problematic when names aren't involved. It allowed his imagination to take over his senses and create his own little world. Imagination is key. Without imagination, he can't pretend night after night that the numerous women beneath him are Rogue.
He pounds into her—harder and harder(he refuses to make love to these women—it's the least bit of loyalty he can give his belle). She gasps, she moans, just like every other one. He forces his ears to hear her differently. His mind makes her voice a bit smokier, slightly more husky. He focuses on the headboard instead of her, and like magic, her hair transforms and becomes longer, curlier.
He keeps his thumb over her mouth, attempting to prevent her from making anymore noise. "I love y', chère," his confession is uttered into her ear. He wants so badly to see her when she hits the top, but this woman isn't really her and looking down would ruin everything.
The night wears on. The darkness seeps from the room and light takes its place.
"Oh God!" She's reached orgasm, and her exclamation shatters the delicate spell. This woman doesn't sound like Rogue at all. He'll not be relieved tonight. The knot in his abdomen will continue to coil and coil. He'll see the belle tomorrow, and the need to loosen it inside of her will kill him.
He rolls off of her and leaves the apartment unsatisfied. His chère has ruined him for any other woman. You'd think after all this time, he'd come to terms with that.
…
Kicking the debris aside, Remy gathers her limp form in his arms, bridal style. Carefully, he brushes the rubble from her face and chestnut curls, and reminds himself, for another time, that Rogue is not the one who just raped his mind.
"Let's get y' home, chère. Remy'll take care of y'." He hasn't made it far from the destruction when he hears a muffled groan.
"Remy?" Her lids crack open. She attempts to scan her surroundings, not so easy when everything is twirling and spinning around you.
Green eyes meet his, and his shoulders slump. Relief washes over him in torrents. "It's me." His grin wavers. You're going to hell.
"Y' had dis Cajun worried."
"Where am Ah?" She tries breaking free, but his grip is like iron. "Ah can stand—"
"Non. Y' stayin' right here. Ain't lettin' y' go again."
Rogue begins to argue but decides against it. She's exhausted and Remy's embrace feels…safe. Like nothing can harm her so long as he's with her.
"Gambit," Wolverine is the first to make it through the crushed foundation. His eyes pierce through him and Remy can't stand that someone has seen him so vulnerable. "You ok?"
So much loaded into two words.
"M' fine," he snaps, unable to accept what has just happened. The façade in which he leaves his life is crumbling. She took his blinders away.
Iceman is the second to arrive, though Psylocke isn't far behind. "Rogue? Is that you?" He maintains his ice-form, just in case.
"Of course, it's me. Who else would it be?" She looks up to Remy in confusion.
Remy and Bobby exchange a glance. "Uh— never mind. I say we get our asses home, eh?"
"Couldn't agree wit y' more, ice balls."
"Hey!"
Rogue laughs in Remy's shoulder. He rejoices the sound; because it's really and truly her laugh
February 1993.
He kneels and peeks beneath the dining room table (her hiding spot.)
"There ya are, sweetie. Daddy's been searchin' everywhere for ya!"
The girl accepts his hand, bracing herself for what she knows is about to happen next.
"Such a pretty girl. My sweet, pretty girl." He throws her up in the air and catches her easily. Most children her age would've laughed and begged for more.
She does not. Instead, she goes limp and he's forced to set her back on the ground.
"Shame on ya! Gettin' all that dust on your new dress!" He fingers the lace trim. Beads of sweat form on his upper lip. "We'll have to get in you in the tub, won't we, Marie?"
Her mouth falls open. She's old enough to give herself a bath. She can get herself dressed. She doesn't want Daddy to lay behind her at naptime or to massage her back when she goes to sleep. These thoughts float around in her five-year-old brain, but the only thing that comes out is a small croak, and Daddy pulls her along to the bathroom.
He sits on the lip of the basin, watching his paling daughter and rubbing his thighs slowly. "Come here, honey."
She hesitates but does as he says. He is her Daddy. Good little girls always listen to their Daddies…no matter how bad it will hurt later on.
Her articles of clothing are removed one by one. He pauses. The sight of her white, cotton panties and ruffled socks makes Daddy shiver all over. Eventually, he's able to get over his initial reaction and she stands naked before him.
"The water is nice an' warm, Marie." Daddy's voice always gets extra quiet when they get to this part. "Ah put the bubbles in. Ya love bubbles." Her limbs become stiff, but she forces herself into the water.
"There we go," he murmurs, mesmerized by the water sliding down his daughter's stomach. "Daddy's gonna get all that dirt offa his baby girl, yes, he is."
They are getting further along in their ritual. He's scrubbed her slightly-freckled face, her squat back, her tiny feet, all at a painfully slow pace. He is a thorough man. He never misses a spot. It's on to her undeveloped chest. He lathers each delicate nipple with soap and gently rinses them. The sweat is now forming on his brow because they're getting closer to his favorite part. Her bellybutton is next. She hears Daddy's heart go 'thump, thump' when he reaches her chubby thighs.
"Stand up, Marie. Daddy's gotta clean everythin'."
She doesn't move, she can't move, so daddy does it for her and lifts her by the arms. "Don't ya wanna be clean? Good little Christian girls are clean, Marie. God won't let ya into Heaven if there's dirt down there, will he?"
She doesn't answer. He isn't expecting her to.
Daddy places the sponge on the floor. She wonders why he never uses it at this point.
Her legs wobble. She's terrified. Daddy kisses the dimples on her knees.
"Such a pretty girl," he breathes. "My sweet, pretty girl." And then his fingers slip inside to touch her secret place, the part of her that is hidden away, meant to be safe.
Daddy says he's cleaning it. But why does it feel so filthy when he finishes?
Present Day.
Her legs swing back and forth beneath the bed. She tries to pretend Jean isn't in the corner bed, unconscious, hooked up to machine after machine. Jean is in that bed because of her… She's taken so much from that woman already—
"—and that's why I believe it would be wise for her to remain here."
"Listen, Hank," Rogue interrupts. She can't stand it when people discuss her situation like she isn't in the room. "Ah'm perfectly capable of makin' decisions for myself, and Ah am not stayin' in this damn lab another night!"
"But Rogue—"
"But nothin'." The belle crosses her arms and glares stubbornly.
Henry turns to Remy, as if to say 'Do something!' but he only shrugs. "If she don' wanna stay here, den she don' stay here."
She turns a probing squint in the direction of her lover. Since she came to that day in the mall, covered in glass and dust and plaster wall, he hasn't been the same. It's as if the light has left his red eyes. He's there for her, but he isn't really there. Like in the span of her blackout something happened, something that made him give up hope completely.
"Rogue." The Doctor straightens his glasses, he won't be getting any help from the Cajun. "You must understand that I'm only suggesting this for your safety. There are many more tests that must be run—"
"Tell me what time, an' Ah'll be here." She slides from the examining table and makes to leave.
"Au revoir, Beastie." Remy follows her from the lab.
Hank watches them go. After hearing bits and pieces from the ever-guarded Logan, in his opinion they should both be spending the night here. Logan didn't reveal much out of respect for Remy, but even the grumbled 'Phoenix did somethin' to his head. Might wanna keep an eye out' puts the doctor on high alert. Logan isn't one to insert himself in someone else's business unless it is of the utmost importance. In his opinion, they should both be taking an extended stay in the med lab.
Rolling his eyes; reverie interrupted—he prepares himself. "Trying to trick me while I was preoccupied, hm?" He whips around and growls at the man sneaking through his cupboard. "Robert Drake, you drop those Twinkies right this instant!"
…
She hides just beneath the surface.
Watching, waiting.
It's all so simple, she's impressed with her own abilities. She is gaining strength with every second that ticks by.
Keeping the telepath unconscious is imperative, for the telepath would know. The telepath would sense her instantly, for she's been inside the telepath once.
Her presence is a silent killer. She moves quietly, quickly, attaching herself to every molecule that floats by.
She'll have infected so much of the brain, her vessel will have no option but to lay down and accept her fate.
She has a form once more. She no longer wanders the universe, empty. She'll never let her vessel go.
She hides just below the surface.
Watching, waiting.
Reaching as I sink down into life. Reaching as I sink down into life. This is, how we dance when, when they try to take us down, This is how we'll sing out. This is, how we'll stand when, when they burn our houses down, This is what we'll be Oh Glory! ~Let The Flames Begin-Paramore