fateandfortune | A New Start [For Remy LeBeau]

A New Start [For Remy LeBeau]

It had been an extremely eventful twenty-four hours in Rogue’s life. Possibly the most so since her mutation manifested over a decade earlier. She’d been rescued from the lab by Erik and Bobby, helped to reset the timeline and stop the Sentinel War from ever happening, and she’d been dropped into the middle of... an apartment?

It didn't make sense. She'd shut her eyes against the heat of the Sentinels' blasts, hoping and praying to whatever might be listening that this would work, that they would have this second chance-- And then she'd opened her eyes to this place. The apartment wasn't one she recognized, but there was something about it that was almost familiar. Maybe it was the decor, or the general state of it, but some part of her felt oddly at home there.

Someone else was at home too, though, based on the sound of the shower running in the other room. Carefully climbing off the floor, Rogue looked around the room she was in, taking in the assortment of objects until her gaze settled on the desk. She moved closer, picked up a few of the papers scattered across it, and frowned at the scribbles of students that looked to be half-graded. The sight of them churned up a wave of painful nostalgia and homesickness and she had to set them down before she really began to lose it.

A buzzing from a cellphone caught her attention. After half a second's hesitation, she picked it up, noticing the preview of the message that left her feeling cold. Thanks for listening. From "Rogue". From... herself?

No. No, that didn't make sense. If their plan had worked, she wasn't supposed to remember anything of her old life. They were all supposed to just wake up and be in their new lives, in a hopefully much better world than the one they'd left. And if the plan hadn't worked, then why wasn't she dead? And where the hell was she?

It was without any conscious thought that she moved over to the window, leaning in to peer at the world outside. A world that was whole, with buildings still standing tall and people walking on the streets as they went about their daily lives. It was a normal world that wasn't full of death and destruction. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

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If you'd asked Remy six months ago if he'd be bored with his life, with teaching mutant children how to use their gifts and how to properly construct sentences, he probably would have said no. He wasn't much over 30 at this point, and was starting to feel like an old man with all the violence, horror, bloodshed, and torment they'd all endured. Not only that, but, more and more often recently, Remy had found it more difficult to see himself through the haze of all his responsibilities. Fifteen years ago, he was a thief without a care in the world beyond his next score with nothing to sweat over except his trials. The intervening years between his exile and his acceptance (albeit reluctantly) into the X-Men had been years of adrenaline-fueled adventure and devil-may-care flippancy.

He cared, he had a heart of gold when he really shouldn't if he were honest with himself, but he missed the thrills. Tonight, this heist, would remind him of who he was, wash his mind clear and easily was the steamy streams of water he stood under cleaned the sweat from his afternoon workout from his body. That's all he needed, after all. Just one night to be himself again, then school wouldn't feel so droll and he could get back to grading those papers that had been sitting on his desk for three days, half-finished.

Feeling marginally more human, Remy stepped from the shower, grabbing a towel from atop the toilet seat and drying his body quickly before using the same towel to begin rubbing the excess water from his hair, stepping from the bathroom at the same time. While it'd been offered many times, he chose to live in his own apartment in the city rather than stay at the Jean Grey school. After his bout of becoming Death, he'd felt a little segregated from the rest of the staff, and they seemed just as happy to have him living off campus. As such, he didn't bother to cover himself as he left the seclusion of the bathroom. After all, with how complicated his love life was, he lived alone.

Except, he noticed as he stepped, naked, from the steamy room, he was not, in fact, alone. Not that he was surprised to see she'd let herself in.

"Mon dieu, chere. Call next time, eh?" With everything they'd shared, being naked in front of her was the least of his concerns.

It was that feeling of rightness combined with the knowledge that she was somehow connected to whoever lived there that kept her from running when she heard the show stop. She stayed anchored where she was, watching out the window until she heard that voice.

That voice. One she'd thought she would never hear again. A voice that made her heart ache in a way no sound ever had before. Turning slowly, it took a great deal of effort to keep the tears from pooling in her eyes at the beautiful sight of him standing there, alive and--

Naked. Oh lord, he was naked. Alive and naked with no idea that she wasn't the Rogue who had been texting him. Her heart told her to tell him, right then and there, that they were different people, but her instincts wanted her to fall back on her old ways and run. No matter how much she wanted to rush over and wrap her arms around him, this wasn't her Remy. He didn't know her, had absolutely no idea about all the things she'd been through, the baggage that she carried. And if he was anything like the Remy she'd loved with all her heart, then he didn't deserve to be burdened with that knowledge. It was too much to ask him to shoulder her pain.

So, she'd just have to find a way out of this. "Sorry, sugar," she replied in her smooth drawl, letting it out a bit thicker than usual and flashing him a smile that she hoped didn't waver. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in." Maybe he wouldn't notice the exhaustion that clung to her, or the strange grey suit she was wearing. Perhaps in this iteration of her life it wouldn't be strange to go around without her gloves. If she was lucky, he wouldn't notice how pale she'd become from the shock of her current situation.

He would probably notice, however, the way she didn't let her eyes fall below his chest. She may have seen everything before, but it had been a very long time and right now she did not need the distraction.

Several things caught the Acadian's attention all at once. For one, Rogue was wearing a weird costume (and there he went calling it a costume again). Her favorite color was green. Emerald green. Hell, she even loved emeralds. And why shouldn't she? They were exactly the same color as her eyes. For as long as he'd known her, she'd found some way to include the color in her wardrobe. Her bare hands were shaking, and she looked like she'd just seen a ghost.

Now, he and Anna had had their ups and downs, but "little Remy" never got that reaction before. That, and she hadn't taken the time to notice it just yet. Casually, with every ounce of cool collection he could muster (which was quite a lot of he did say so himself), he moved the towel from his head to his waist, affording himself a degree of modesty and the situation a bit more formality.

Now that he watched her more closely, it wasn't so much shock as, well, he couldn't quite put his finger on it, and that concerned him enough to wash away any annoyance he might have felt at her sudden appearance in his apartment.

"Anna, why don' you have a seat, eh? I'll go put on some pants an' you can tell me what's wrong."

...you can tell me what's wrong. He'd noticed something was wrong then. Of course he had. Why had she thought that she could fool this Remy when she'd never been able to hide anything from her own? The man could see through any facade she threw up, even with his eyes closed, and she felt like an idiot for having thought it might work this time. She should save her hope for other things.

Things like hoping she could make it out of the apartment without him finding out the truth. If she could get somewhere she could be alone, if she could just have time to think and figure things out--

"Sure, sugar, whatever you say." Her steps were slow as she made her way over to a chair, keeping her eyes firmly away from the door that she fully intended to make a break for when he was out of the room. She wouldn't have long, but she couldn't stay there. She couldn't let him find out what had happened to her, she couldn't let this Remy be hurt too. This Remy who was alive and called her Anna and knew her other self so well.

It wasn't precisely out of character for Anna to agree with his suggestions so readily, but it was when she looked like the world was crumbling down around her, like she could burst into tears at any moment, like all she wanted to do was run away. Normally, that's exactly what she did, even if they desperately needed to talk. He frowned, not buying her agreement for a second, and shook his head.

"Tres bien, by you get any thoughts a' runnin' out dat door out yo' head right now, 'less ya think you can run in 20 seconds. You best get movin'."

Well, she should have seen that coming. It had been too long since she'd dealt with his perceptive ways and had to worry about his calling her out on her actions. Sure, she had a rather vocal copy of his psyche within her own, but that copy couldn't physically chase her down, which she had no doubt he would do if she did try to run now.

Damn it.

Closing her eyes, she just shook her head slightly and sat there in the chair, feeling the adrenaline of the last few hours finally fading. It left her with the sensation of being sick and weakened, which was not a good combination with the feeling of helplessness that was settling in. She leaned forward, setting her elbows on her legs as she covered her face for a moment before sliding her hands over her limp, tangled hair.

What was she going to do now?

Crimson eyes moved over her dejected form for a moment before he was satisfied she wasn't going anywhere. It was never easy to tell with Rogue, but as he made his way to his bedroom, the bottom began to fall out of his stomach. He'd caught sight of his cellphone as he's passed by his desk on the way to the back room. They'd just had a lengthy conversation on Eric. Via text because she was heading out of town.

Things were a lot more complicated than they appeared. It didn't look like he was going to be making that heist come charity dinner tonight, after all. Once in his room, he quickly slipped into a pair of faded and torn jeans, glanced forlornly at his freshly pressed suit that would have no use tonight, and headed back to the main room, and to Anna, who was exhausted, drained, and nothing like she had been twenty minutes ago.

He stepped toward the kitchen area, opening the fridge before saying anything else.

"Whatcha drinkin' tonight, mon chere?"

Listening to him move around the room, Rogue realized that he was the reason she'd felt so comfortable in the strange apartment. There was something about the impression he made on a space; it was almost tangible, some essence that permeated the atmosphere around him. They'd lived together for years, both in apartments like this and on the run, and she'd grown accustomed to having that essence in her life. There had been an aching hole inside her since his death four years earlier, and now she could see just where he'd fit in her heart.

Sitting up again, she folded her bare hands in her lap, knuckles whitening because of how tightly she held them together. "Whatever you've got is just fine," she called over to him, trusting the choice he would make for her. She trusted everything to do with him, she realized. It didn't matter that he wasn't the Remy she knew, he was still Remy.

So, beer it was, as it usually was when she showed up looking the way she looked now. He had a sneaking suspicion he was going to learn something a lot more dire than he was anticipating, though, so he stopped himself from actually trying to predict the story Rogue was going to tell him. He popped the tops from two heinekens from his refrigerator, taking a swig from his bottle on the way to the sofa across from the chair Anna had occupied, offering the other bottle to her before having a seat across from her.

"D'accord, chere. Talk ta me. What's got you so long in de tooth, eh?"

Taking the bottle of beer from him, she was struck by how odd it felt to hold a cold beverage again. It had been years since she'd had the luxury of alcohol, and longer still since any of it had been cold. Even with Bobby around to make it easy, it had just never seemed important enough to be worth the effort -- that wasted energy might be needed to save them from the next attack, after all.

She took a sip from the bottle and savored the taste of it while she thought over what to say. How much could she tell him without it being too much? What could she get away with hiding from the man who usually knew all her secrets?

"Who am I?" she asked suddenly, meeting those beautiful, demonic eyes that had captured her heart all those years ago. "Here, in this place, who am I?"

He'd been doggedly sure not to wonder what she might say when they sat down to have whatever talk it was she was here to have, but that wasn't what he'd expected. He'd met a few Rogues, from one reality or another, but none of them had known where to find him, which apartments he owned. None but his.

Of course, that was assuming she'd come here at all. His cosmic luck, which everyone seemed to think was amazingly good, may well have seen to it this other Rogue had just appeared on his doorstep, or in his living room. Wouldn't that be the damnedest thing?

He didn't respond to her question right away, but not for lack of words. It was more a concern of whether or not he could do her justice.

"Anna Marie's a lot 'a things, chere. She's an X-Man, a teacher, an Avenger. She's got one a' de biggest hearts I ever met, an' can be one 'a de most infuriatin' women I ever had de great fortune 'a crossin'. He's sweet an' spicy, don' know what quittin' means, 'less she does, den dere ain' no changin' dat mind 'a hers."

Funny, he could detail everything about Anna Marie, but he still couldn't tell someone off the street exactly who he was.

The question had meant to give him a clue of what she might be about to tell him, and she listened closely to the answer he gave her, committing each word to memory. Her vision started to swim when he started to really describe her, and by the end of it she had to look down at her lap, striped hair falling forward to help try to hide the tears that slipped down her cheeks.

"I'm not your Anna," she told him in a tight voice that cracked around the edges from the strain of trying to hold herself together. "And you're not my swamp rat, but lord I wish you were. I'm just Marie, and I'm not sure how I got here. I'm not supposed to be here, I'm meant to be..." Home? In another universe where she might not even exist? Or worse, where he might not exist?

The very thought made her tense, the memory of holding his lifeless body still so fresh in her mind, and she took a long drink. The beer would hit her extremely empty stomach and either make things easier or much more dangerous. Hard to say which, really.

He smiled then, offering her a bit of comfort, but not breaking the borders of touch, not yet. She, this other Rogue, was vulnerable, exhausted, and at her wits end, he could tell that much just by noting the wrinkle in her brow, the same one his Anna got when she pushed herself beyond her limits.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, comforting. "Anna's still Anna, chere, don' matter where you come from. I learned that. Met 'a few 'a myselves, personally. From de future dat ain' happened, from de past dat happened a different way. It ain' hurtin' nothin', yo' bein' here. We figure out a way ta get you home, non? But firs', you look like you could use some sleep, 'bout a year, I figure."

All she wanted to do in that moment was hold his hand. It was such a simple thing, but it meant the world to someone whose touch so many feared, even with the protective layers of clothing she always wore. If only she hadn't lost her gloves back in that mountain temple, she might have managed to work up the courage to reach out to him. Without them, though, the only hand she would be holding was her own.

"That sounds about right," she agreed with the ghost of amusement in her voice, sniffling at the end. "It's been a really long day, and not in a good way." She looked up at him then, loosening her fingers and lifting a hand to wipe at the tears on her cheeks. There was something in his expression, a softness blended with concern, that tugged enough at her heart that she couldn't stop the words before they slipped out.

"I've missed you."

He saw the hesitation in her eyes as readily as he noted the clench of her hands. She couldn't touch him, not like his Anna could. He looked toward the desk nearby, then a side table where his eyes found what he was looking for. He leaned forward, reaching past Marie's shoulder, and grabbed the pair of Rogue's gloves she'd left behind the last time she'd stopped by, offering them to this new Rogue.

"I got a feelin' those'll yo' size." He smirked at his joke, not making a comment on her missing him. It was painful, that much was obvious, and the last he'd heard, the other versions of him out there were starting to drop off. If that's what she was suggesting, he wasn't sure he wanted to know just yet.

"Ain' got but de one room in dis apartment, chere, but I got a couple others yo' welcome to, 'til ya get yo' bearings. How 'bout I finish gettin' dressed, an' we head out?"

She was halfway to mortified when she realized what she'd let slip. It probably wouldn't be hard for him to guess just why she'd said those words while looking like her world had just ended, and his other self's death hadn't been something she'd wanted to bring up, not yet at least.

It was that pure trust she felt toward him that kept her from shying away when he reached past her, as she would have with anyone else. The gloves were a welcome sight, and she slipped into them without hesitation. They fit perfectly. His Rogue must not need to wear gloves all the time, then, if she just left spare pairs lying around like that. What a wonderful thing it must be, to have control of their powers...

"Thank you, Remy," she murmured, looking up at him with sad eyes. "You don't have to help me, but it means so much that you are." It was typical Remy, really. He cared so much about people, even when he tried not to, and she couldn't imagine a universe where that wouldn't be true of him. That's just who he was.

Her reaction got another laugh. She was in pain, he could tell, but moping wasn't something Remy was ever very good at, and it was never something he'd allowed Anna to do for very long, either. Times may be terrible. Terrorists may be bombing buses filled with mutant children, hatred may have been at an all-time high. She may have been displaced, left alone, lost people she loved, but...well, the world, or worlds, didn't stop spinning, so neither could you.

"Somebody out dere thought different, chere, droppin' you on my doorstep like dis." He shrugged, reaching out to take her newly gloved hand. "An' I don' think Anna's gonna miss 'em. She left 'em a month ago." It was strange, touching so familiar a hand through that layer of cloth again. It was like it was five years ago again. "Now, how 'bout we stop off fo' a bit ta eat, first, eh?"

Why had she ended up in his apartment, of all the places in the world? She'd been in China when the timeline had begun to reset, and the mansion in New York before that. Was the cosmos trying to right its wrong by letting her see him one last time before she was forced to forget her life?

Then he took her hand and that was the only thing she could think about. The warm of his hand radiated through the cloth between them, and the strength of those agile fingers wrapped around her soul. Remy.

She was so lost in the sudden realization that this truly wasn't a dream that she almost missed his suggestion of food. For a second, her eyes widened and she looked very much like a deer in headlights. The idea of being around people again was thrilling after living in isolation for so long, but it was also terrifying. What if she... But no. She would be with Remy and he would help ensure that nothing happened, she knew that. So her expression shifted into its former weariness and she nodded.

"Okay," was all the answer she could muster, but the tiny smile helped to convey her sincerity.

He wasn't sure if it was reflex, muscle memory, or a genuine desire that lead him to bringing Rogue's gloved fingers to his lips, to brushing them against the fabric gently before smiling up at her and letting her hand drop. It was probably best he didn't spend too much time thinking about it, either. Instead, after he'd released her hand, he stood, forcing her to stare at his chest accidentally, and moved off toward his bedroom once more to finish dressing.

"Give me five minutes, mon chere." And, with one last comforting smile in her direction, he moved into the room and slid the door shut. Once the wall was between them, his expression fell and he released the tension in his shoulders in a rush of breath. Rogue, from another reality, but Rogue nonetheless, and tarnished by whatever'd happened there. Emotions so deeply ingrained they seemed more like instincts told him to take care of her, and he wasn't going to deny them. This poor girl didn't have another soul in the world here looking out for her. It may have been against his better judgement, but it was usually what he did: make everything more complicated.

He pulled a t-shirt over his head and socks on his feet quickly before running a hand back through his drying hair that was just beginning to curl at the ends. Tonight was going to be special, alright, he thought, just not in the way he'd expected.

Once he was presentable enough to leave his apartment, he returned to the living room, looking over to Rogue as he stepped toward his coat rack and slipped into a very recognizable trench coat.

"Ready, chere?"

That kiss to the backs of her fingers left Rogue's heart in her throat, words completely beyond her reach as she watched him disappear behind that closed door. It was such a Remy thing to do, smooth and romantic without real conscious thought toward being so, and the whole display made her pulse race at a speed only he had ever managed to bring out in her.

Lord, how was she going to survive this? He might not be her Remy, but he was still Remy, and he was here, alive and safe and just as she remembered. There was another Rogue here, though. Were they together? He didn't wear a ring, so if they were a couple, then they hadn't taken that step in their relationship. His reaction to her in those first few minutes made her think that they weren't together here, though -- they likely had been, but perhaps they were taking a break now, for whatever reason...

The whole thing made her head ache, the world spinning from all the tumultuous twists and turns her life had taken in the past twenty-four hours. She needed to figure things out, but she just kept looping in circles, coming back to those same burning questions. It was a welcome distraction when he returned from the bedroom, but she almost started crying all over again at the sight of that coat.

"Yeah, swamp rat," she murmured with a degree of affection that wasn't appropriate for this man who wasn't even a copy of the love of her life, "I'm ready." Standing from her chair, she crossed the room toward him, trying very hard not to feel awkward in the uniform she'd never chosen and hated with every fiber of her being.

What was he doing? It wasn't the first time the question had flitted through his mind since this other Rogue had shown up in his living room. He still couldn't think that was anything other than a cruel joke being played by fate, but that lady'd dealt him more bad hands than he could count and he was still kicking. He figured this one wasn't going to ruin everything. She wasn't even the first Rogue from another dimension he'd met, and she probably wouldn't be the last.

She was, he had to admit, the most like, well, his Rogue that he'd met, but he'd only met a few recently. Maybe he was just reflecting demeanor on a familiar face. Sure, Remy, you keep telling yourself that. One day you might even believe it.

With a practiced smile, he opened the door of his apartment, holding it open for her to step through, crimson gaze moving over the sway of her hips in that strange costume as he closed the door behind them. He moved toward the elevator at the end of the hall, pressing the call button before looking over to her.

"So, de X-Men went grey in yo' world, eh? Ain' a choice I'd go with."

The way he held the door for her was familiar, bringing forth memories of dozens of dinners followed by dancing the night away. She could almost hear the notes of jazz music drifting through the streets of New Orleans, smell the fresh baked bread that they picked up in the morning on their way home in Paris. Those warm memories buoyed her emotions and she was actually beginning to really smile when he made that comment.

Everything in her went still as that warmth was shredded by fear and pain too recent to be just memories. She couldn't look at him as her hands went to her opposite wrists, making sure the sleeves were fully zipped and no skin exposed; those zippers were part of an intricate system covering the uniform, allowing the scientists easy access to whatever part of her skin they pleased without risking exposure to too much of it.

"We wore black," she corrected quietly, her tone sad and full of defeat and hopelessness. "Sometimes it helped hide us from the soldiers so we could get away before the Sentinels arrived."

The bottomless pit that was his stomach made way for a cold chill as she corrected him. Soldiers. He remembered, a few years ago, being kept to quarters by a watchful government because they, the X-Men, refused to register as part of the Mutant Registration Act. Sentinels had been used then, too, requisitioned to keep them chained under house arrest.

His mind buzzed with more and more questions as the implications of "Sentinels" milled around his mind, but he wasn't going to ask, not yet. He looked over to her again. noting the uniform more fully. No, this wasn't a uniform. It was clothing similar to the garb Rachel showed up with...from the future...where mutants were slaves and he'd supposedly betrayed them all.

"...l'enfer..." He took a breath and licked his lips. "I'm sorry, chere."

And the elevator chimed it's arrival, the doors sliding open and bathing them in it's warm, welcoming light.

She took her own deep breath, steeling herself against the onslaught of emotions before stepping forward into the elevator, turning around to face the doors with a blank expression. Giving in to all of this now was not an option.

"It's been seven years since the war started," she explained simply, her tone betraying nothing of the turmoil within her. Which, of course, would tell him everything. "It's hard to remember what life was like before." A lie. She remembered it perfectly, it just hurt too damn much.

He stepped into the elevator next to her, brow knitted with concern. He remembered how Rachel had been when she'd arrived here, that she'd stayed because here, her family was alive, and because here she could have a chance at happiness. He took a breath, letting it out slowly, before he reached over, placing a warm and strong hand on her shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle, caring, and sympathetic.

"You don' have ta talk 'bout dis, chere."

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