Note: Merry Christmas, my friends in Romy! Enjoy some smut! No returns, exchanges, or re-gifting. š xxx
Chapter 3
Memories.
Funny things, aren't they?
There's power in memories, Wisdom said earlier this evening.
Do you know who first told me that?
Yeah.
Essex.
It's ironic, huh? Memories have the power to shape us in the moment and forever more, yet they're so fragile. So easily forgotten.
I don't forget. I have hundreds of peoples' memories rattling round in my head. They won't ever die.
And there's another irony. Until very recently, I had no memory of the first 12 years of my life. It led to an obsessive need to record everything worth remembering, to horde every mundane step I took in my life, document it, archive itā¦ just in case. Just in case someone stole whatever I had left.
Irony #3:
I was the one who killed my own goddamn memories.
I don't record memories now. I'm not scared of losing them anymore, not the way I used to be. The only way I could ever have lost them was if I'd stolen them away myself, and I don't want that anymore. I don't. Listless days of self-loathing and cold rage are gone. I love and am loved. There is no reason to horde anymore except what I can touch and hold between my own damn fingers.
But I do get the itch sometimes, the itch to 'face. I'd be lyin' if I said it wasn't still there, at the back of my mind, at the base of my skull. Sometimes, when I was back in Caldecott and trying to figure my life out, the itch would get unbearable. Sometimes I'd lie in bed the whole night tossing and turning, trying to get it out of my system, trying not to let it consume me.
I sit out on the veranda, eyes closed, and feel the Mississippi sunrise slide slowly over me, its warmth immersing me inch by inch, seeping into my aching bones, my restless sinews. The mem-addiction is gone, but there are other things that remain. Things I still can't quite cure.
"You're up early."
I open an eye and turn a head. Irene is stepping out onto the decking, the threadbare boards creaking with her weight.
"I couldn't sleep. And you should be resting," I chastise her affectionately.
"Oh, come now, dear," Irene grins, hobbling on over and standing for a moment to let the sun bathe her too. "Surely you won't deny this old lady the warmth of lovely summer sunrise too?"
I smile helplessly, forgetting briefly that she can't see it.
"Of course not," I assure her.
She sits down next to me with a pained wheeze and the cracking of old, worn bones.
"You okay?" I ask her, and, "Yes," she says, and for a moment we sit beside one another and breathe in the moment.
How different would my life had been, had the state simply said she had been fit to adopt me, if I had spent the rest of my childhood under her care? How much simpler, how much less complicated? Would I have still felt the same depths of pain, the same heights of joy? I don't know, and I don't think it matters, not anymore.
"What's on your mind?" she asks, after a long moment.
"What makes you think there's something on my mind?"
"You couldn't sleep. You spend a lot of nights awake. I know. I hear you, walking around the house. Going out here, alone."
I scrunch my mouth up disapprovingly. I had always thought Irene's complex cocktail of medications kept her knocked out at night, but I guess I'm wrong. It's still a challenge to be honest about my feelings sometimes, and try as I might, I'm not exactly sure how to explain things to her.
"Is it the urge again?" she asks when I say nothing.
I've told her everything, of course, about what had happened to me after I'd left Caldecott and the state had taken me in. I hadn't planned to, but somehow I'd ended up doing it anyway. Irene was blind, impartialāshe didn't have a skin in the game, never had. Somehow, spilling to a near stranger had been the most therapeutic thing. She hadn't said a word, hadn't judged. She'd believed every single word I'd said. And most important of all, when I was done, when I'd let myself cry over the life I'd never ask for, that had been imposed on me in the cruellest wayā¦ she'd held me. Like the child she'd never had, that I should've always been.
And so now, when she asks me about the urge, I know she knows what it means. The urge to 'face.
"Iā¦ Yes. It is. In a way." I look down, massage the fingers of my left hand with my right, add, "but there's nothin' to 'face with. Mem'ries I never recorded. Important ones. Ones I wish I'd kept, taken with me."
There's frustration in my voice. She hears it.
"Memoriesā¦ of someone?" she asks.
I glance over at her quickly. She looks innocent and mild as anything, but I think she knows. I think she knows how I lie there at night and think of him, how I regret leaving him behind without so much as a proper goodbye, how he must resent me for it. How I wish, so damn bad, that I'd recorded some memories of us, just to give me something of him to hold on to. That's the itch I want to scratch so bad, and she's sensed it. Sometimes I really don't know how she's so darn astute.
"ā¦ Yeah," I finally admit it.
"And is this someone you left back in New York?"
I don't know how to answer, if I even want to. I feel like a child again. I look away, back to the burgeoning orange sun, stretch out my legs and take in a deep breath.
"Yeah," I finally reply. "But he's probably in London right now."
"And why aren't you in London, dear?"
This I know the answer to, easily.
"I'm needed here," I say.
"Oh, dear." She laughs softly. "Don't let a silly old lady like me hold you back."
I shake my head.
"Oh, Irene. I'm here for you, that's true. But I came here for me first."
"Yes," she nods, "to find yourself, to figure out who you really are." She grins. "Did you find yourself here, Anna Marie?"
I chew on my lip, not liking the answer. I came here expecting the farm, the town, the fields, my sunflowers. The detritus of my parent's lives, of our lives together. All of it, gone. Most of the kids I'd run with had moved to the city. The rest barely remembered me, if at all. The farm had been torn down, every scrap of my childhood auctioned off. Nothing was left.
"I think the only thing I found here was you," I answer honestly, sadly. I reach out and touch her withered hand. She squeezes it with her free one.
"You mustn't let me hold you back, dear," she says quietly, seriously.
I struggle with the idea of leaving now. I can't.
"I'm needed here," I repeat stubbornly.
The sun has reached our faces now. For a moment Irene closes her eyes and she doesn't seem so old anymore.
"Do you love him?" she asks at last.
I'm taken aback by the question. In the privacy of my own thoughts, I think I've acknowledged it, yes, but only in amongst the tumult of a thousand other hurts, anxieties, worries. I've never externalised it, not to myself, not to Irene, not to anyone else.
"Iā¦ Yeah. I think I do. I do."
The words fluster me. It's out in the open now. I can't hide it, not anymore. That means I need to face it. Ugh.
"And you didn't bring him here? With you?"
I shake my head fiercely.
"No. Thisā¦ Hereā¦" I fight to articulate things that have never come easy to me ā emotions. "This is home. This is my past. These are things I amāwasāscared to face. Scared of others seeing. Things that made me vulnerable and exposed. And heā¦ ā¦"
I trail off. There is a clamour of feelings inside me, rising and crashing with the tide. It takes me several moments to ride it out, to compose myself.
"Things between us were complicated," I try to reason out slowly, calmly. "We weren't serious, weren't never really together. There were a whole lotta feelin's, but no promises made, no expectations, not even nearly. We barely knew one another, and honestly, Irene, I wasn't brave enough to bring him here. To let him see all the things that made me me, that I'd only just rediscovered. I wasn't ready for him to see me so vulnerable, to see me cry."
I don't tell her the other half of the story though. That I'd given him the chance to see the real me, the me that was vulnerable, that cried. The me he'd helped uncover. I'd owed him that at least. I'd left, knowing he loved me even if he'd never said it aloud. I'd left him a gift that would let him choose what to do with that love. A mem-chip, with all my newly uncovered memories inside it. Either he'd be disgusted by what he saw, and be thankful for his lucky escape. Or he'd listen to my parting words, hold on, and simply wait.
"Wherever he is right now," I continue morosely, "New York or London, he doesn't owe me a thing. It's been almost a year now. He has to have moved on."
Irene's hand grips mine, so wasted, so fragile, yet still, with such a strength of feeling that I could weep for all the years it was denied me.
"Yet still, you hold onā¦"
I swallow, nod.
"He's the one who gave me this. Gave me back my memories. My childhood. You. Caldecott. My life." I link her fingers with mine, hold on tight, feeling unfamiliar tears welling. "He stuck around when anyone else would've run. Knowing he risked losing me completely. But he still did it. He still gave me what I wanted."
I flush, with the memory of the sacrifice, of the love he never confessed yet made clear. Since I left him, there are so many more memories I've recovered and I've changed still more than I had when I walked out of his life, but this has remained the same, where I was scared it wouldn't. I still have feelings for him. I still want him in ways that aren't just abstract memories. I still want to hold him and kiss him and tell him the things I never got to say, do the things I never got to do, the things that keep me up at night.
"What's his name?" Irene asks me; and I smile because I can't help it ā through all the sadness and the pain, this is what his name does to me.
"Remy LeBeau."
Remy LeBeau.
I don't need to resort to memories of him anymore.
Tears and fears and doubt seem a million miles away when we're like this, back home in his apartment after nearly 8 weeks apart, having sex up against his bedroom door.
We haven't even bothered taking each other's clothes off.
Caldecott is a world away now. All those fears and trepidations I'd harboured then have melted away, now that I've crashed unceremoniously back into his orbit again. Passion has been the simplest of problem-solvers. Everything is uncomplicated when you're in-love.
He brings out parts of me I never knew existed. Sometimes I hardly know myself when I'm with him ā after years of being this ghost called the Rogue, every day with him is like getting to know the person I am ā Anna Marie.
"Anna," Remy moans hotly into my ear. "You. Feel. So. Fucking. Good."
He thrusts up into me with each word, sending tingles of pleasure shooting right up behind my navel. I grab at his hair with one hand, claw at his backside with the other. I'm so close, dammit. I'm so close.
"Harder, harder!" I somehow manage to gasp. "I'm nearly there, darlin'ā¦"
He makes an inarticulate sound in the back of his throat, like maybe this is a problem or a challenge or a turn-on. I don't know what. He grabs a fistful of my hair and jerks my head back, baring my neck, his teeth raking right under my jaw and latching on under my ear with a ferocity that I just know will leave a tell-tale mark later.
"Fuck, chere," he whispers in my ear a moment later, "I dunno how much longer I can lastā¦ ā¦"
His fingers hike the hem of my cocktail dress up over my hips and to my waist; his hands cup my butt and he hoists me up higher, bringing our bodies into closer contact. He thrusts in as deep and hard as he can go and then slowly rocks against me.
I throw my head back with a soft moan as he grinds against me, promptly hitting it hard on the bedroom door with a resounding thunk.
He chuckles breathlessly, apparently amused by this, keeping up the slow, deep, grinding rhythm till I'm practically clawing at him with desperation. We're both so starved of each other he gets me off within a few minutes; and he follows quickly after.
Afterwards all we can do is hold each other, literally trembling in one another's arms.
I put my face in his hair and rub his shoulder blades absently.
I'm satisfied, I'm overwhelmed, I'm perplexed.
I don't think either of us appreciated until this moment just how desperate we'd been for each other. The last time it'd been like this for us was back in New York ā that first meeting after 14 long months apart. Finding each other again, after all that time, had been so amazingly, mind-blowingly cathartic. These two months apart have allowed me to analyse this strange thing we have together ā this partnership that neither of us is still quite willing to put a label to.
We've never sat down and set boundaries. Never clarified what we want from each other. If he'd asked me then if we could have had an open relationship, I would've said yes to him. Not because I don't care for him, but because of his past. My past. The pain we've both been through. The fear of flying too close to the sun and having our hearts broken again.
I don't know if I'd say yes to an open relationship now ā and somehow, that bothers me. There are words pushing at me, but I can't formulate them. Feelings that have no name. I don't know where to begin to tell him anything, except that I have this empty, grasping feeling that says I want more.
He's laughing softly, his breath warm on my skin.
"What?" I murmur.
He shifts slightly, says: "My legs. They're shakin'."
I make a humorous sound in my throat.
"Mine too."
He pulls back a little and looks into my eyes. I wonder what he thinks when he looks at me, when he's with me. I wonder what the taste of his memories would be like. The thought is disturbing because it's a part of that grasping feeling that has no name.
I expect him to say something, but he doesn't. He kisses me on the lips and smiles; and that's when he speaks.
"You are fuckin' amazin'," he declares, like it's a simple thing that should be pronounced loudly and often.
He pulls back and gently lowers me to the ground.
Am I here? Is this all just a dream? I can hardly believe I'm Anna Marie Raven, a person with a life and a man who wants to share it. There's an irony in the fact that all the many years spent stealing other people's identities feels more real, more substantial to me than this ā than the fact that I have something good and precious and undeniably my own. I still can't get my head round it.
He kisses me again briefly, and grabs the bottle of champagne from the side table he'd dumped it on when we'd crashed in here with our hands all over each otherā¦ the champagne he'd not so subtly swiped on the way out from the Ritz Club.
"I'm gonna get us some drinks," he says.
I let him open up the door and he backs away towards the kitchen, shedding clothes as he goes. Remy LeBeau, I've learned, has absolutely no problem with nudity in all sorts of situations and environments, and once he'd spent the entire weekend walking around the apartment completely butt naked. I mean, I'm not complaining or anything. Just watching the man swanning about showing off all that perfectly tanned, toned, tight flesh is like watching Michaelangelo's David brought to lifeā¦ only better. He has a bigger dick for one thing. And to be fair, nothing we'd done on that particular weekend had required the wearing of clothes, soā¦ ā¦
"Anna?" he calls from the kitchen.
"Yeah?"
"Make sure you're outta that dress by the time I get back, willya?"
I smirk to myself and undress quickly, listening to the sound of glasses clinking in the kitchen, of the cork popping, of the champagne being poured. I'm down to my stockings as he gets back, and for a good long moment he just leans against the doorframe and stares at me with this smug little grin on his face. I pull a face at him as I grab at my favourite kimono and slip it on. Some of us aren't 100% comfortable with 100% nudity out of the bathroom or the bed. Just saying.
"What?" I shoot at him.
"Nothin'," he answers cheekily. "Just enjoyin' the view."
He comes on over and hands me my drink. We toast silently. To another job well done. To being together again. To the glorious headrush of whatever this thing is that we share.
"You been awful quiet 'bout that chip we just hustled, chere," he oh-so-innocuously brings up the subject I've been hoping he'd leave alone. "Tell me 'facing with that bullshit thing didn't hurt ya."
One thing about this man I've learned ā he never misses a trick. I try not to frown and take a quick sip of my drink.
"Why would it hurt me?" I ask him.
"I dunno." He eyes me intently, and I can't quite tell whether it's because he's concerned or lustfulā¦ or both. "I just figured, since we both agreed you were gonna go ahead and 'face wit' the goods, that you'd wanna share what was actually on it. But you ain't even brought it up yet."
"Oh." There's a horrible, churning feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I hide it just like I've hidden so many things in my life, and I wave my hand dismissively. "Sure. But let's just say, I didn't get much time to digest everything, since we got called out to that meeting with Wisdom," I say evasively.
"Hm." He considers me over the rim of his glass. "True."
He's quiet a moment. Does he think something is up? Sometimes it's hard to tell with the poker face he's so good at wearing. 'Facing is still a sensitive issue, despite the fact that I no longer suffer from the mem-addiction I once did. When I'd suggested 'facing with Wisdom's mem-chip on the job, he'd side-eyed me with this look that had clearly said, y'think you're ready for this? Like I was still on the verge of a neural stutter, like I was still suffering from the bleed effect. It makes sense and you know it, I'd said to him. Knowing what's on that chip gives us leverage against Wisdom and MI13 if we ever need it. But he'd still looked concerned. Like I wouldn't be able to handle it. Like I might lose myself in that shit again.
I don't regret the decision now. Wisdom is good-looking, smart, charmingā¦ But it'd be foolish to trust someone like him, someone who plays the game so well. It's always best to have some sort of a safety net when dealing with the likes of him, and having the knowledge of what's on that chip makes me feel a little safer. And yetā¦
"So who was on that chip?" he finally asks. Such a simple question, one I've been expecting all eveningā¦ And I still don't know whether I'm going to tell him the truth or some lie until I go ahead and do so.
"Oh, just some guy," I answer casually. "He works for MI13."
It's not a lie. It's just not the entire truth.
"Hm." A slight smile creases his lips. "Someone who knows too much, neh? No wonder Wisdom didn't want that shit gettin' out. State secrets, bein' sold t'the highest bidder. Makes sense why they'd be desperate enough t'call in a bunch o' hustlers to steal the goods back." He laughs softly to himself as he lifts the glass to his lips. "So what was on that chip that they didn't want gettin' out?"
"Oh, the usual," I reply breezily. "Murder. Espionage. Torture. Lies."
I say the last with a little too much emphasis ā at least, it feels that way. I'm hyper aware of his eyes on me. Suspicion or desire? If it's the latter, it feels like the former.
"Enough to make things difficult for Wisdom if he decides to make things difficult for us?" he asks.
"I'm sure we could pull a few skeletons out of his closet if the circumstances require it."
He smiles slightly and reaches out, running his thumb under the neckline of my kimono.
"Guess you were right," he muses. "'Facin' with the chip was a good idea. Especially with the bad juju Wisdom seems to be givin' off right now."
"You think he's onto us?" I ask.
"Mebbe. I think he suspects somethin', leastways. How much he knowsā¦ Well, that's up for debate."
He pauses before he lifts his free hand and tenderly pushes the hair back from my face.
"How's your head?" he asks softly.
It feelsā¦ strange. To have someone who isn't Raven care about my welfare. I'm so used to pushing away the concern of others that it's almost a conscious effort not to do the same to him.
"Great," I return sarcastically. "How's yours?"
He smirks.
"Well, ya knowā¦ I wasn't the one who had t' 'face with a mem-chip under duressā¦"
"Not to mention with a whole mansion-full of security alarms screamin' in your earsā¦"
He laughs.
"Yeah. They was givin' me a headache. That's why I'm worried 'bout you."
"Then don't be," I say. "'Cos I'm good."
And it's not a lie. For the first time in a long time my mind is clear; my brain can handle everything I throw at it. I'm comfortable. I'm comfortable with my own body in a way I don't think I've ever been. He doesn't see it that way. To him, it's like I'm always on the verge of another relapse.
And for me? For me it's like the world is right there in front of me. Anna Marie Raven can do and be anything she wants.
And I'm not sure he believes that.
Thankfully, any more conversation is interrupted by the sound of his cellphone going off.
"Aw, shit," he grumbles, pulling away from me. "Not now."
"That Jake?" I ask. "I'm pretty sure he figured out not to disturb us under pain of death."
"Hmph," is his non-committal answer. I hope he isn't going to answer it, because I'm not done with him yet. So much of my life now has revolved around casual, meaningless flings, that it feels strange to admit that I've missed him. The past two whole months without him have been harder than I'd anticipated.
I watch on as he picks up his jacket from the floor and says, "I'm gon' switch this damn thing off. Make sure we don't get interrupted again."
I sit on the bed and sip my drink as he retrieves his cell. It's still ringing when he switches it off and throws it onto the nightstand. He fixes his gaze on me, sets aside his glass, and approaches me like some predator. I hold his gaze because it's what I do, not even blinking when he's finally standing right there in front of me. At first I think he's angling for me to suck him off; but instead he gets to his knees and looks at me with this half-smile that tells me something else is on his mind.
"Y'know, chere?" he tells me silkily. "Much as I appreciate the 'wearing-nothin'-but-stockings' look, I think we need t'get rid of these."
He slides his palms up over both knees, his thumbs slipping in under the tops of my stockings. Slowly, leisurely even, and without breaking eye contact, he teases the garments down my legs and tosses them aside. Again, that wolfish grin lights his face as he turns his head and presses a kiss inside my right knee, followed by a slow flick of the tongue. All I can do is hold my breath with anticipation, spreading my legs wider as his mouth blazes a hot wet trail up the inside of my leg. When he reaches the junction of my thigh I gasp and literally jolt at the ticklish sensation ā promptly spilling half the contents of my drink all over myself.
He chuckles, backing away slightly only to remove the glass from my grasp and set it down next to the bed. I half suspect he'd planned the whole little accident when he proceeds to enthusiastically lick off every last drop of champagne from my body, but I'm so gone at this point, I think I can give him a pass.
I lay back on the bed and let him have his way, no longer inclined to turn this into a battle royale. Once in a while it's nice not to put up a fight, not to play games. This is one of those times. His mouth teases and worries at my breasts and down my body and over my navel and lowerā¦ And at this point I'm so damn wet and impatient I can't stand it anymore.
I grip his hair roughly.
"God damn, Cajun, just put your fucking tongue on me right now," I rasp.
He does as he's told ā but I can literally feel the shit-eating grin on his lips as he finally just licks and sucks on me like I want him to. I grip his hair tighter and rub against his face, and I'm so fucking horny I come within a few seconds flat.
The delicious climax shudders through me like every glorious thing, and when it's over, he doesn't leave me a minute to climb down again.
He throws my legs back up on the bed and positions himself between my feet. He's hard and impatient and so damn ready that I can't help myself. Just as he's about to move in I lift my right leg and shove it up against his abdomen.
"Oof!" is the only sound he makes.
"Nuh-uh," I coo at him playfully, breathlessly, letting the Southern lilt edge back into my voice. "You need to learn t' practice some self-restraint, Cajun. I ain't ready yet. You done gone and wiped me all out, sugar."
The growl he answers with tells me he isn't in a mood for play. He grabs at my foot as if to thrust it aside, but I retaliate by digging my toes in.
"Boy, you make a point of this and I'm gonna haveta punish you."
And he's not in the mood for flirtatious banter either. He literally shoves my legs wide open and simply plunges right on in, forcing an explosive expletive from my lips. All he does is lay this wickedly wolfish smile at me.
"Tell me how you're gonna punish me, Anna Marie Raven," he grinds out from between gritted teeth as he pounds away at me, effortlessly hitting my G-spot. I can barely find the breath to reply.
"Oh, I'm thinkin' I'm definitely gonna haveta put you in cuffs for starters, you dick," I slur, and he laughs. His thumb moves to circle my clit and I hiss and slap him away ā I'm still too fucking sensitive right now.
"Don't!" I snap at him.
This doesn't deter him in the slightest. He simply lifts my knees and hooks them up over his shoulders, thrusting in so hard and so deep I'm literally a quivering, discombobulated mass of jello again within a few short seconds.
At this point I just let him have his way with me. I could've strung out the resistance a little longer, but neither of us is really in the mood. And besides, he knows that if I seriously wasn't in the mood, I could kick his ass into submission. Within the first couple of weeks together, back when we were experimenting some and hadn't quite figured out boundaries yet, I'd come real close to doing him some actual damage.
Sometimes the Weapon X in me just comes out ā I can't quite help it. Luckily, he'd laughed it off and taken the blame on himself for pushing me too hard. Which had been entirely the correct response.
So. I'd thought I was completely spent when we'd got started, but now he proves me wrong by wringing another climax out of me in a few minutes flat. He orgasms hard and noisily only a few moments later.
Lemme tell you ā there is nothing sexier in this world than hearing Remy Etienne LeBeau come. I swear to God ā pleasing this guy is pleasure itself.
It's over all too soon. In the afterglow he sinks against me and I sink back against him, sated, content. We're both exhausted. It's been a long day, and between the warmth of his body and the rhythm of his heartbeat, I can barely keep my eyes open.
He plants a gentle kiss on my cheek, whispers: "Cuffs are so damn vanilla, catin."
I run my hands up and down his back slowly. I'm so tired, I can barely make the effort.
"They'll do for starters, Cajun," I murmur back lazily. "I gotta keep ya pinned down somehow."
I finish up with a yawn, which brings that gorgeous laugh to his throat again. He kisses my cheek again, before easing away from me and onto his back. I immediately curl into him as if curling into a favourite blanket.
He's like a hurricane, whipping me up and tossing me this way and that, wakening me to feelings, sensations, emotions I never knew existed. The moment we'd met that was exactly how it'd felt to me ā a storm coming in, as wild and beautiful and exhilarating as it's chaotic and frenzied and destructive. And in the silence, in the calm that's left in his wakeā¦ he's still there. He's the only thing that's remained. He still is.
I listen to the thud of his heartbeat, let myself be cradled by his warmth.
It grounds me. He grounds me. Takes me away from the lies and the subterfuge. This is what is important. Not the truths that hurt, the ones I try so hard to hide.
"Remy LeBeau." Irene had repeated the name with a thoughtful smile on her face. "It sounds like he took a lot of risks for you. Are there things you'd risk for him?"
I hadn't understood what she'd meant, not really, not back then.
"I'd risk rejection just to see him again," I'd said, because it had been the scariest thing I could contemplate at the time. But there are other things now. Scarier things. Because there was no rejection. I won everything. And now I have everything to lose.
Is this a risk? Lying? Hiding truths?
I don't like to think of the answer. Instead I close my eyes, I shut out the memories of strangers; and it's only then, with his arms around me, that I slowly fall asleep.
-oOo-