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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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."

His touch almost unraveled her carefully held together facade of having a semblance of control. There was no way she was going to brush him off, though, not when all she really wanted to do was wrap her arms around him.

Even if he wasn't hers...

"Not even an hour ago, I had a Sentinel breathing down my neck about to kill all of us," she told him, her expression straining at the edges. "I've been a prisoner for the last three years, sugar. It's kinda hard to avoid talking about it." As much as she wanted to, there really wasn't any way she would be able to keep from mentioning it, so she might as well tell him at least the bare bones of the story.

She wasn't his Rogue, no, but she was a human being in pain, and that meant more than any walls that might have seemed to exist between them. If he were honest with himself, which he rarely was, he'd admit there hadn't been much of a barrier between them since she'd appeared in his apartment, but that wasn't important at the moment. He moved an arm around her shoulders, offering the comfort of another person if nothing else.

"Yo' safe now, least as safe as ya can be here."

Her body had a mind of its own as she instinctively turned into him and slid her arms around his middle, gloved hands clutching at the folds of his coat. She couldn't begin to stop herself as she leaned into him, closing her eyes and breathing in deep to capture the scent of him that she'd longed for. Leather, cigarettes, and a spice that was unique to him.

It lasted only a few seconds before she pulled away again, stepping back to put physical distance between them in the small space of the elevator. "I'm sorry," she let out in a rush, fighting the urge to go right back where she belonged in the shelter of those strong arms. "My husband died four years ago and I-- I've missed him."

Husband, she'd said, and it would take a fool not to connect the dots. She'd been married to him, her...him, and...he'd died, in the war apparently. Suddenly, he felt like an ass for offering her comfort. He was probably only making everything worse. Still, the humanitarian in him knew that wasn't the case, and knew that she had to business apologizing.

"De world can be a cold place, Marie." He called her by the name she'd declared. "Ain' no harm takin' comfort where ya can."

He'd died to save her and that was something she'd never been able to move past. Some part of Rogue would always feel responsible for Remy's death, even after years of listening to his psyche firmly explain that wasn't what had happened. He felt guilty as well, wishing he'd been there to get her out of that lab, and it was a vicious circle of self-blame that would never stop -- because he was gone.

Shaking her head firmly, she kept her gaze on the elevator doors as she informed him, "That doesn't make it fair to you." There was a quiet ding as the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened; she didn't hesitate to step forward, leaving the moment behind.

He immediately regretted his first though, and found himself thankful Rogue wasn't a telepath. Since when did fairness matter to you? Now that wasn't fair of him. This wasn't the Anna he knew. This Rogue had weathered some pretty disastrous circumstances and still spoke in coherent sentences. She was also still fragmented to the point of not being able to control her powers, so he'd cut her a break.

And she wasn't his. He'd repeat that to himself until it became a mantra. He fell into step beside her, hands shoved deeply in the pockets of his coat, clenching a pack of cards in the right as though it were a security blanket. He supposed, in a lot of ways, that's exactly what they were.

"An' lockin' it all away ain' fair ta you."

Of all the powers she'd ever borrowed, she'd hated telepathy the most. Having someone else's voice in her head was nothing new, but telepathy was so... flat. There was no depth to it, no understanding of what the person had been through to lead to that moment. And it was so damn invasive; there was nothing to stop a telepath from just barging in wherever they wanted. At least with her power, she wasn't actively invading minds, and she couldn't freely wander through her collection of psyches.

And telepathy had failed her. He had failed her...

"I don't deserve fairness," she told him quietly, the words tinged with resignation, before she stood a little straighter and looked over at him expectantly. "So where are you taking me, sugar? For that matter, where the hell are we?"

He headed to the outdoors, opening the door leading to the sidewalk for her before stepping out himself, shaking his head and chuckling.

"Ya know, chere, I learned a lotta things over de years, but dere ain' one lesson more important dan dis one: ain' nobody worse and knowin' what dey deserve dan demselves." He didn't comment further on that point, but motioned down the street.

"Nothin' fancy, but dere's a nice cafe down de way here. Mighty fine coffee."

He had a point, one that was echoed by many of the people in her head. It was one of the hardest for her to really internalize, though, as was anything to do with taking care of herself. That had always been her shortcoming, and something that her Remy had taken rather seriously -- the way she had always worried for him far more than he'd ever worried for himself.

Eyes widening at the mention of coffee, she tried not to look too hopeful and eager when she glanced over him. (She failed miserably, of course.) "Coffee?" she repeated, her tone making it seem like she was talking about some prized gem instead of something people had with their breakfast everyday. "I haven't had any in years, good or otherwise."

It was a motion of intimacy, moving to her side as he stepped onto the side walk, moving his hand to the small of her back to guide her, and one he didn't really notice himself making it, either. It just happened, really. Physical contact had always been a part of his demeanor, even if it required a barrier of cloth.

"Best coffee in the borough, mon chere. I promise."

It felt so natural to have him so close, her instincts telling her it was safe and this was how it was supposed to be, even though it had been years since she'd last experienced it. Perhaps it was because he was so casual about it, the gesture coming without hesitation, that she didn't hesitate to accept it. She craved being touched by others, even so little as a hand at her back, and it had been such a long time since anyone had really touched her without malignant intentions...

"The Remy I knew always did show off when he took me out," she commented with fondness in her tone. "It was only ever the best when he picked the place. I should have guessed you'd be like him in that way."

That brought a throaty chuckle from his lips as he smiled proudly, rolling a shoulder in a slight shrug as they continued on. He moved his free hand to his chest, smiling over to her.

"Dere may be many of us, mon cherie, but we all de same, non? Ain' no other Remy leBeau."

She'd know that laugh anywhere, recognize that smile a mile away. "No, there's really not," she agreed.

Crossing her arms over her stomach as they walked, she was quiet for a moment before asking, "Are we the same? Me, and the Rogue you know?"

He didn't respond right away, looking thoughtful as he mulled over his answer. There were differences, certainly. No one could deny that, but there were, most likely, differences between himself and the Remy she'd known as well. Still, at the core, he believed all their alternates were the same, and in all the time he'd met any of them, he'd yet to be proven wrong.

His smile turned reassuring as he looked over to her again.

"Oui, mon chere. We all, each one of us, shaped by de things we do, de things we see, non? So in dat, yo' different, sho' nuff. But at de heart, oui. I see her in you."

Different, but the same. Rogue didn't know if that was a good thing or not. If they were the same at heart, then what did he think of his world's Rogue? They weren't together, though they clearly had been at one point, so... she was ashamed at the way her thoughts wandered, wondering whether, had the circumstances allowed, they might have had a chance at something, It was silly, and not at all fair to him. She was so much less than his Rogue after what she'd been through, let alone the things she'd done.

There were no second chances at happiness for murderers.

"Thanks, sugar," she murmured, not knowing what else to say. Changing the subject, she inquired, "So, what were your big plans for the night before I barged in all uninvited?"

The idea of telling Rogue, any Rogue, the truth about his plans for the evening never even crossed his mind. She was a discerning woman, and never really approved of his previous profession (at least to his knowledge), and she probably wouldn't understand the itch he'd been unable to scratch for the past several months. She wouldn't understand needing to scratch it now, and he was certain she wouldn't understand scratching it at a charity event he was representing the school at.

And so, he went with the safe option: explanation by way of careful diversion.

"I was goin' ta represent de school at a charity event. Nothin' special."

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