I've managed to carry my productivity into the New Year! Happy 2008, all! Let's start off the year in a really good way (read: with a review). Pretty please with a Remy on top?

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Chapter Seven: The Good Drink

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She could hear the rushing blood in her ears, could feel the pulse of it in her head and in her limbs, all of it a little more noticeable with every push of her legs as she moved down the streets in a determined sprint. The effect on her often complicated mine was complete. Everything else but that fierce concentration was gone, lost to the moment, to the screech of her lungs and the ache in her limbs as she moved on and forward and –

Was that Remy on the street

She stopped abruptly; her momentum, denied its onward course, slammed back into her, pushing her back onto her heels; she was, for a moment, breathless. Rogue frowned, pulled the headphones from her ears, and melted as best she could into the brick wall at her side. Her eyes kept a wary gaze on Remy, who was standing on the corner across the intersection, talking to some random person, his face animated and bright.

Aw, crap, she thought. The entire purpose of the daily running ritual was to forget about life. That's why she ran on the streets, instead on one of the mansion's treadmills, or through a pre-programmed Danger Room course. There, she would still be subject to interruption; out here, she was free. Except not, apparently, because everything that she'd forgotten came back, swarming her mind like an insect-alien swarm trying to infest her brain.

And it was succeeding, damn it.

She couldn't make out who the girl was – no one Remy had introduced her to before, although that was hardly a shock. It would probably take years to meet all the people Remy knew. This one was being particularly flirtatious, Rogue realized, when the girl reached across to pet his shoulder and kept her palm there, then moved closer and giggled. Rogue mimicked the giggle out of spite, and then rolled her eyes. "Idiot," she breathed, not sure whether she meant the girl, or Remy, who was responding to the attention with an inviting grin. Or, better yet, herself, who couldn't stop viewing the spectacle.

"Of all the crappy people ta fall in love with, Ah had ta go on an' get stuck with that one." Why hadn't she lost herself in Luc's attentive gaze, his curved his lips, and silky skin? At least he showed some interest. Having kissed him should have made it better – distracted her at least a little – but all it seemed to do was invite comparisons. Would Remy feel so nice? Taste so sweet?

Maybe she wasn't doing it right. Maybe, Rogue considered, maybe if she just tried a little bit harder to get lost in Luc's attentions, then she'd feel differently. As Professor Xavier was so fond of saying, whenever they discussed her ability to control her powers, these things take time and constant effort. She liked Luc – was honestly attracted to him – and surely that was enough of a base to carve out something more. That wasn't enough, wasn't it? Yes, Rogue, she told herself.

It would (have to) be.

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He couldn't be sure, but the figure disappearing down the street in a heavy jog looked a lot like Rogue. He narrowed his eyes and tried to see, but the girl he'd met on the street – ("Call me Gen, okay?") – tugged hard on his arm and said, "Let's go have coffee! I know a great place, lattes like you wouldn't believe. My treat!"

Remy bowed his head and said, "Alas, my Petite, I can't stay." The 'gentlemen' of the X-Men had an extra special training drill to attend, due to an unfortunate incident in the men's locker room that had involved a towel, some toothpaste and a piece of tape. He was 'not to be late', according to Scott, who'd spoken with a warning tone, and would 'pay dearly' if he was, according to Logan, who hadn't needed to. The form of the drill wasn't yet revealed, but it would be something, and Remy couldn't afford to get tied up anymore than he already had been.

"Hmm. Too young to have a wife," Gen remarked, slowly, studying him carefully. "Too jaded to have a mommy. Who's tugging your chain?"

"Work," he said.

"But we haven't even done our introductions." Her bottom lip jutted out in a pout and she clung to him, closer. "I mean, I told you who I am – but you're still just a handsome stranger. At least give me your name so that I know you're real and don't go pining all my life, thinking you might just be a dream I made up one lonely afternoon. Come on, we can start all over again. Hi, I'm Genevieve."

He bit the side of his mouth. "Remy LeBeau. Da Apologetic."

"Remy LeBeau," she repeated, softly. The alert on his communicator rang out, a little beeping tune that made him all the more anxious to be on his way. Now the clock was officially ticking. He had to go. But Genevieve kept her hand tightly on his arm, while the other hand played with a stray curl of hair. "That's weird. It seems so familiar." He gave a gentle pull on his arm, so that she would have to let it go, and she almost got the hint – until all of a sudden, her fingers clamped down, harder than ever, in a way that recalled an eager child more so than the street-side seductress she'd been trying to play. "Oh, I know! Remy LeBeau! You're Bella's Remy!"

Her words thundered in his ear. The communicator beeped again, but Remy was momentarily frozen. He blinked, swallowed, and said, "Oui." And when Genevieve tried to pull him towards her café one last time, he followed without protest.

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By the time Remy made it to the drill, the drill was over. The scenario, as it turned out, had been a playful one: a bank robbery masterminded by several of the female members of the X-Men team gone rogue; however, the mood when Remy arrived was anything but playful. Only Scott remained at the meet-up point, the steps of a library, and he was kicking at rocks on the ground with the toe of his shoe. "It was a test of response," he said, not bothering to look up when Remy arrived at his side. "Those who got here within the first ten minutes were congratulated immediately; those who were ten to twenty minutes late had to run a couple of miles. Those who were," – Scott paused to glance at the time on his watch – "an hour and a half late are receiving this talk."

"I know it looks bad."

"It feels bad, too. Remy, as the leader of this team, I need to know that I can count on you to respond when a distress call goes out. We all have lives – maybe some more than others – but when we signed on for this, we made a commitment to be there for each other." Finally, he lifted his head. "I wish I could say, hey, do better next time and let this pass, but it isn't the first occasion where you've broken faith. I'm sorry – you're being benched."

"Benched?" Remy frowned. "You're kicking me off da team?"

"Off the team? No. Off active duty, yes. I'd like you to continue training with us and we can try to figure the situation out. I'm not going to pretend I know what's happening with you, but I know something is and I think this compromise will afford you the opportunity to work some of that out. In a couple of weeks or so, we'll look over things again and see if we can re-instate you to full, active duty."

The words were – well, nice – but Remy couldn't pretend to miss the basic point underneath them: he'd messed up, enough that the team was rejecting him. They couldn't trust him. They didn't want him. After all that relief he'd felt in finally finding a place to belong, they were kicking him out. Not all at once, but little by little- alienating him, benching him. Maybe they thought that was kinder, but hell – he could take a hint. Remy sank to the steps just as Scott was standing up from them.

"Can I give you a ride back to the mansion?" Scott asked.

"No." Remy shook his head and then buried it into his hands. What would he tell them, anyway? Sorry I let you down – a girl on da street turned out t' be a friend of my dead fiancé, da one I never told you about, and yes, dat is another secret t' be shocked an' hurt over. "I'll find my way," he said, hoping he could. And anyways – what else was there for him at the mansion?

At least, he still had time to meet up with Luc and Rogue at the carnival. Maybe he could salvage something. There was hope, yet. Luc was turning out to be a friend, and Rogue was… well, Rogue was Rogue. She'd forgive him, if he managed things right. That thought alone was enough to brighten him up some. It was a good idea. A smart idea. He could drink to that.

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A bell chimed as Remy entered La Bonne Boisson, a liquor store with dirty floors and dry air. There were a handful of other customers, but Remy gave them only the briefest glance before heading to his destination – the hard liquor section of the cooler. He was just about there when an elderly woman bumped into him, spilling the contents she'd bundled into her arms – individually wrapped tissue paper, cotton swabs, Red Vine licorice, and a package of plastic forks and knives – all across the isle. She murmured apologies, but Remy was already on his knees, re-gathering the items.

"There was a time when I'd never miss the sight of a handsome, young man, but my eyes are so poor these days, Lord, I just plain didn't see you. Heavens, I don't know what's happening to me. Oh, thank you, dear, thank you." She pet Remy's shoulder while he was still down, and added, "You're a saint, darling."

"Hardly," Remy murmured, reaching further to grab the licorice. It was then that he peered between the isles and noticed a pair of immaculate, shiny, black shoes that were at once familiar to him. He brushed aside a miniature box of cereal to better view the scene on the opposite isle. Sure enough, the shoes led up to pants of equal familiarity – there was no mistaking the shiny, strange, wrinkle-free material. There was an accompaniment, white and coal-stained tennis shoes and ragged jeans. He stood up, handed the old woman her belongings, and then turned back and opened his ears the conversation of Luc and Whoever-Else-That-Was.

"I can't do this – I can't! It's wrong, what would my mother say?"

"Your mother." Luc chuckled, darkly. "When have you ever cared what she thought?"

The feet shuffled to and fro, uncomfortably. "I didn't care… at least, not when it was little stuff she'd never find out anyway. This – if this goes wrong, she's going to know, and she's going to look at me with Those Eyes – the ones that look real sad and disappointed and she'll say 'if only your father was alive'. I hate when she says that. It's like she's saying everything is a waste."

"If you ask me," Luc said, the easy calm of his voice contrasting to the other man's anxiousness. "Everything is going to be a waste if you don't do this. What are you going to go home to? Do you even have a home? The last time I checked, I was providing food and shelter because your roommates threw you out once they learned you were stealing from them."

The feet shifted again. "And whose idea was that? Man, I never took from them until you came around, whispering in my ear, twisting my mind. This is your fault and now you want me to fix it by risking everything I have left. And you have the nerve to scoff at me for hesitating? Screw that. Screw you!"

"It's okay – be easy," Luc said, and his voice shifted smoothly from cold to warm and placating. "I'm not asking you to do this alone. Haven't I stood by you? Have I let you down at all? I'm your friend- friends tough it out together, and that's exactly what we're going to do. Do this, and I am right behind you."

The white tennis stilled their movement. "Yeah? Yeah, okay." And then they were off, moving slowly down the isle. Remy watched where they cleared the isles and moved past the front counter. The feet belonged to a young man with red hair. Remy frowned at the sight, though. Ever experienced, he recognized an amateur theft-in-progress. The man's pace was off, unnatural, his head was too low, and –worst of all – there was a slight bulge in his back pocket that he hadn't checked.

"Hey!" The owner of the store called out. "What are you doing?" And the man panicked. He turned back immediately to Luc, as if searching for help, but Luc grinned with the sharpness of a wolf and moved to leave the store. When the redhead tried to follow uncertainly, the owner caught his shirt and dragged him back, and everything he'd stored away exploded onto the liquor store floor. "Son of a – I'm calling the police! – Don't you move!"

Something inside Remy cracked.

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Luc had talked a boy into stealing. And not someone like Remy, with a history and skill, but an amateur… and then he'd he left him out to dry. Luc wasn't his friend. Luc was – he was – a bad guy.

Way to pick 'em.

What did he want with Remy? Nothing good, likely. What did he want with Rogue was the better question. A week ago, Remy thought, he would've called up the X-Men, discussed the discovery and they'd have dealt with it like a team. Now, he was off the team and out of everyone's good graces – who would even believe him if he said that the guest who'd been smiling and charming his way at the mansion (and with Remy) was playing them all? Even Rogue would probably glare at him, accuse him of making up stories to cover his own mistakes, and the whole thing would drive her further towards Luc.

Merde.

What could he do?

He thought, it was because of him that Luc had showed up in the first place. He was the flame Luc was chasing. He was the one Luc wanted. Maybe – maybe – if he couldn't convince everyone that Luc was a villain, then he could at least draw him away by avoiding the X-Men completely. It would better for them and – maybe – better for him, too. He could deal with the false friend on his own terms, play his game, and let him think he was winning. And Rogue and the other X-Men would be safer.

They'd hardly notice Remy's absence, anyway.

Remy sat outside La Bonne Boisson, a bottle of gin in his hands, and took a long swig.

Then, he drank some more.

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So, the story is finished! No – this isn't the end, but the end is written, thank the good Lord. I have only to post it, the last two chapters – roughly once a week. Then, to 1942 I go! This is amazing, truly amazing. Ha, please help me celebrate with feedback! Comments? Questions? Coconuts? I'm eileenblzr at yahoo mail, or yahoo messenger; I'm comeon-eileen at livejournal.