Author's note: Sorry, y'all. RL is continuing to have its wicked way with me. WTF? Any weekend in which you have to have the tow truck take your (totally dead) vehicle to the shop isn't a winner in my book. (It could have been much worse, so I am thankful for that at least! Everyone is safe and it didn't die on the road, so there's that!) Just a heads up: It might be more than week before the next update. We'll see how it goes. If it's a simple fix then maybe, but if it's a week with a rental car and other various assorted shenanigans then I might need to skip a week. Onward!
Marie's flow of words ended as abruptly as it began, and then there was only the night humming around them, alive with the lap of brackish water and the skittering flicker of insect wings. Wind moved in the trees and the slow whooshing was underscored by the endless low, wet notes of unseen things slithering into the bayou.
On the hill, Logan and Marie sat in silence as the moon began to rise through the wild tangle of branches.
The weight of what she'd shared rested heavy in his heart. It wasn't hard to imagine what domestic scene was taking place in the house below. Likely LeBeau had been watching the child, ordered out of the small kitchen by the woman who found it easier to cook without a dog, a child, and her man underfoot. There might be a sweet treat afterwards for the child, perhaps a glass of wine for her parents. Bath time, certainly, for a tumbledown little girl who'd spent her day playing in the bayou with her dog. Bedtime. Books read, songs sung and a cup of water on the nightstand. Lovers curling up together after the house was quiet and still.
It was clear from the expression on Marie's face that she was imagining the same. He wondered how many times she'd come here; watching and wishing with her heart slashed to ribbons. It was clear she loved her daughter. After some of their conversations, he wasn't sure if she was mourning the loss of the man she loved as much as the life she'd been so desperate to have that she'd willingly taken the Cure.
Eventually the door opened again, briefly illuminating LeBeau as he exited. He walked the perimeter of the porch, finally settling just at the edge of a wide trunk that was somehow, organically and artfully, also one of the structural supports. It was a good spot. He could see them, but they couldn't see him. All but an eerie red shine from his eyes when the moonlight hit them just right. Logan's hair stood up on his arms. Wolves had eyes like that. Foxes. Big cats. Predators, he thought with a grunt. Other animals did, too, but the man on the porch wasn't a goddamn rabbit, that much was certain.
They'd come in on foot, but a man like that— he'd have eyes on the ridge, no doubt. An empath, she'd said. Sensitive to the ebb and flow of energy. Of course he knew they were here.
On the porch, he saw the flare of a match and the red glow of a cigarette. Cocky son-of-a-bitch, advertising his presence now when he had been so cleverly concealed before — and could easily be again, Logan thought with a frown. The wind brought the scent to him without fail, however. Tobacco. Cloves. Ozone. Something hot and electric, like the buzzing air immediately after a lightning strike.
Without warning, the man on the porch uncoiled, springing lightly over the edge, taking the twenty foot drop effortlessly to land without a sound. The cherry from his cigarette marked his path, straight up the grade and aiming for the tree where they sat.
Logan wondered if this was a part of the ritual. Maybe this is what Marie did? Came here, crying for the child she'd lost and then having some kind of fight — or worse — some kind of desperate sex with a man she couldn't quite let go.
He was on his feet before he knew it, jaw clenched as he saw the glow of the cigarette between the trees coming closer like some deranged firefly intent on violence. The path was too deliberate to be anything else. They had encroached on this man's space, his home, his blood, and he wasn't going to let that pass.
The Wolverine understood that instinct all too well. Agreed with it, even as his hands curled into fists.
He'd do no less in the Cajun's place.
Beside him, Marie seemed stunned into stillness by the steady upwards progress of the light.
"Shit." Her breath shuddered out. "Shitfire!" She pushed herself to her feet, hurriedly wiping at her eyes and nose self-consciously. Pulling off the hat she wore, she raked her fingers through her hair a few times, obviously uneasy that Logan was watching, squared her shoulders and jammed his hat back on. "Shit," she said again, more agitated than he'd ever seen her.
"This ain't how it usually goes down?"
"No." She didn't tuck tail and run. She didn't put her gloves back on either, and that sent alarm bells tripping through his head. "I haven't talked to Remy since I left."
"Shit."
"Yeah," she echoed. "You— you should go."
Fuck that. He made a rough dismissive noise in his throat.
She seemed to accept his response easily enough, no doubt aware it was pointless to argue with him in this mood.
"Fine, then. Stay. But you should know what you're getting into."
"Mmph." She could tell him whatever the hell she wanted. He wasn't leaving.
"You remember what I told you about his mutation?"
"Besides the emo bullshit?"
"Would you be serious! Just answer the dadgum question!"
"Energy based. Charges shit he touches and makes it go boom. Message received."
Marie nodded. "At full power, he doesn't need to touch the object to make it explode as long as it's in his line of sight."
"Handy," he muttered, but what he thought was: Well, fuck.
A wolf in sheep's clothing, she'd said. He got it, now. Dangerous hadn't been an exaggeration, then. As much as he liked a good fight, he didn't think Marie would appreciate him poking Gumbo full of holes.
The urge to push Marie behind him was strong, but he'd had a lot of practice over the years ignoring it. He stood with her, shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed over his chest because letting them hang loose was too easy, too tempting to let the blades out a little. The night was different now, crackling with electricity.
Shit.
Logan smelled him before he saw him, spice and power, and then he was suddenly, silently, there before them, radiating hostility and carrying a staff that looked like it could do some damage. Pack of something in his pocket, too; cigarettes or cards. Armed, either way. The assessment was almost automatic. He could take the Cajun if he had to, but it would be a goddamn bloodbath if he could really do what Marie said he could.
A vision of his eyeball exploding inside an adamantium-laced skull made the bile burn in the back of his throat. His brain. Heart and lungs. His fucking teeth. Jesus. He'd heal, but it would be ugly. He only needed to get close to the fucker once, though. Once is all it would take.
LeBeau was taller. Leaner. More agile too, probably. Long hair that was auburn in the dark but likely redder in full sun. Square jaw that hadn't been shaved in several days. Chiseled features, but not so striking he couldn't play them down and disappear in a crowd if he had to.
Well, if it wasn't for those fucking weird eyes. Up close they were even more disconcerting. How had Marie made love to him with those black pits staring back at her? Like fucking the devil. Girl always did have shit taste in men.
LeBeau was wearing black jeans and boots and a crimson silk shirt the color of old blood. No sign of sweat from the brisk exertion, indicating that he could probably do more with energy than just make things explode. The body was basically one big electrical system. Brain waves. Chakras. Healing was a metabolic process. All of it was based on protons and neutrons and electrons. Fucking perfect.
"Chère." The word was quiet, but not soft.
"Don't call me that." Marie's chin lifted defiantly. The Cajun's eyes glowed brighter as they travelled down her body and stopped at her bare hands. His face suddenly shifted; elation and dread and the musk of a different type of excitement altogether. Logan felt a growl build in his chest.
"Merde," the Cajun muttered. "Can you—"
"No!" Control still eluded her. "No," she said more softly. With regret, Logan thought, hating the look of dying hope in those terrible, red eyes.
The Cajun was nodding, unconsciously twisting the simple gold band he wore on his left hand with his thumb.
"Désolé." He nodded in acknowledgement. "Hmm… no control and yet you come here to Remy with naked hands?" He tsked softly. "That what we are to each other now, ma petite? Enemies?" he scoffed. "After everything?" He sounded hurt.
"You brought your staff," she pointed out.
"Oui, you not be alone." They all heard what Remy didn't say. His daughter was safely asleep below, and he intended that she stay that way. No matter what. Logan didn't like the feel of the Cajun's eyes on him, taking his measure. "You be the Wolverine, eh?"
Logan just grunted.
Neither man put out a hand.
LeBeau finally nodded. "I be Remy to her, always, but Gambit to you, homme."
Logan still said nothing.
Gambit's lips thinned. Stalemate. They both knew better than to fight over her. But neither one was going to give an inch, either.
Gambit turned back to Marie, his face softening. "She is the light," he said without preamble. None of them had shred of doubt who he meant. "Joy to this old thief, like he never knew. Temper to rival her hair, chou. Fierce girl! Wild as the bayou itself. Stubborn as her maman."
Marie made a sound that seemed to come up from her soles.
"Oui," he said in the same tone that she'd used earlier when staring at Logan's gleaming claws. "Her first word was dog. Not papa. Dog! She likes oranges and begs for sips of espresso. Shameless." His face was animated now rather than aloof. "She— she sings on the toilette. Never two notes the same and always at the top of her lungs until Remy is beautifully undone by the madness."
He took a breath and charged on, caught up in sharing the details with the only other person on Earth who would understand the way he did.
"Nimble little fingers. Learnin' the art so smooth and fast it bring a tear to a proud papa's eye," he exclaimed. "She loves to paint even more than cards. Nothing in the house without a dab on it, now." He extended an arm and on the cuff was a smudge of green. "Carries the doudou you bought her to this day. Feeds her broccoli to Red when she thinks nobody sees. Mon Dieu, the stink, after!"
The ghost of a smile tugged at Marie's full lips.
"That damn dog! She loves her, though. So much there is never the one without the other." Marie was nodding, now. "She loves rain. And papa-bugs…" he flushed, adding, "fireflies," at their twin looks of confusion. The tips of his fingers glowed in illustration. He fluttered them, leaving little trails of light in the darkness. "Her favorite color is yellow. Soleil. Rises with it most days and fights sleep with her last breath."
"Thank you." Marie's eyes were wet.
His face clouded. "But, she— she dreams. Bad things. Pain and despair." His eyes flicked to Logan and back to Marie. "Cries that break this man, chère."
"What?"
"You— you can't keep coming to this place. Remy always feel you. Sharp, in here," He thumped his chest. "She feel you now, too. Feel this," his hand hovered over her heart. "Every time, stronger than the last."
"Oh, god." The color drained from Marie's face and a tremor ran through her. She was shaking her head slowly, in horrified denial. Logan checked the urge to steady her, aware the situation was too volatile all around, even if she'd have welcomed the touch.
"Oui. So much pain, you." His voice dropped. "Too much for her. For me." His eyes flicked to the Wolverine. "Maybe for him, too."
Logan grunted at that.
"Now she cries for days when you go. Waking in the night, sobbing until she has no breath, comprends? Nothing consoles her. Nothing. Not the rain. Not papa-bugs. Not even the charming work on her then. Nothing."
Marie stumbled back on shaking legs, falling into the grass, hard, on her backside.
"Remy knows what it is to have no maman. No papa. You know, too. But Elaine, she has me. She has…" he stopped then, cursing in French. "There's someone. A woman."
"I know." Marie stood, slowly, one hand resting against the thick trunk of the tree for support. "Our rings were platinum. That one's gold."
"Merde."
Of course a woman would notice a detail like that. Logan could see her pulling the Rogue's armor close, trying to rebuild the walls that had come crashing down.
"It's been four years, swamp rat. I didn't expect that you'd—"
LeBeau held up his hand. "Don't." He obviously knew her well enough to know what she was doing. And what it cost her to do it.
"Nothing lasts forever," she breathed.
"Remy miss your face, chère." There were tears in his eyes now. "But no more, eh?" He waved his hand at the ridge overlooking the small house below. "No more. For her, s'il te plaît. No more of this."
The desperation in the Cajun's voice was clear. He was asking this time. Next time, he wouldn't.
He could see Marie shiver with the knowledge that it was truly over. He wouldn't have to ask again. There would be no more stolen moments like the ones they'd shared today.
"No. No more," she intoned flatly.
"Bon."
"Kid—" Logan stepped closer, but she waved him away. A long look passed between them and he nodded, falling back.
Gambit watched the silent exchange with interest. The tang of jealousy rose sharply on the wind.
Marie didn't speak. He didn't think she could. The animal read the ocean of silence without effort. The subtle shift in her body language, the salty reek of despair and the resignation in her wet glittering eyes. He knew her. They didn't need the words. She wouldn't linger even a moment if she knew it was causing her child pain.
A curt nod to them both and then he was staring at her retreating form as it was swallowed by the verdant night.
Logan was confident of her ability to navigate the bayou, even in the dark, and of his ability to track her through it. Both men watched her go. She said nothing else. The Rogue didn't do goodbyes.
Up next: Cremate. Now, y'all know that Remy isn't going to go gently into that good bayou night. I think it's safe to say the old standby is applicable here:
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.