Note: This story is based (rather self-indulgently, I admit) on my
own AU (Insurrection; the stories can be read on my homepage, even though
they're rather incomplete at the mo.) It's kind of the centrepoint of all the
other Threads stories, which will be tied together (hopefully) in the tenth and
final tale. And for all those who've read some of my Insurrection fics, this
takes place about 10 years after "24 Hours", and is a kind of
epilogue to that series - the epic end purpose I'd always intended for our
Southern couple. All you need to know is a) Rogue learned to control her powers
and b) Rogue permanently imprinted Destiny. Yay!
:: VI :: Degrees of Separation
“I never wanted
another; come over to me and discover I want to be near you, and you need to be
far away.” (Forever Live and Die,
OMD)
* * * * *
It was a lonely room, a room of oddities:
a scattering of blood red roses; a pack of tarot cards left half-spread;
mirrors in wry, contorted frames; the crumbling husks of butterflies in dusty
glass cases; a silver wind-chime that would be touched by no breeze.
These were the symbols of her world, her
museum, the confined chaos she kept herself in – all else had been jettisoned,
cast away, left behind.
Along with him.
In the centre of it all, Rogue slept
entwined in snow-white sheets, dreaming.
Sleeping or waking – over time both had come to make little
difference. Everything seemed different
and yet the same; most days she barely knew who she was. Was she dead, or living? Was she a mother, or lover? Friend, or foe? Her dreams were not simply dreams – they were real, bleeding
involuntarily into all her waking hours, driving her almost to the precipice of
madness. The dreams, the room,
refracted images of what might or might not ever have been – these were all she
owned.
In the half-darkness, Rogue stirred,
once, twice, then jerked herself into wakefulness. Green eyes flashed in the darkness, roaming, searching the dim
recesses of the room with momentary confusion.
The sea.
She’d been dreaming of the sea.
And him.
“You like to watch him, don’t you?”
The voice was soft, haunting, yearning as
a siren’s song. Rogue was not startled
by it. She swivelled slightly, eyes
straining. In the corner of the room a
woman was sitting, elegant and feline, cerulean blue eyes glimmering like
finely cut sapphires in the dusky light.
“Yes,” Rogue replied without even the
flicker of an eyelid. “Ah like to watch him.”
The woman rose, cat-like, patterns of
iridescent light sliding up across shapely curves caught under the folds of
translucent mauve, caressing the contours of a face whose beauty none could
match. Porcelain skin, regal, elfin
features, locks dark as the raven’s wing.
Her face was flawless, exquisite; yet the eyes were old, almost too old.
“You only do harm to yourself in this,
friend Rogue,” the woman warned in that same rich, musical tone – the secrets
of ages were hidden in that voice. “It is not right that you see what you see,
that you torture yourself with such knowledge.
Let it be.”
Rogue sat up, the pale sheets slipping
from bare white shoulders as she looked away, eyelids lowered. A curl of hair fell across her cheek,
tickled her breast.
“Ah can’t,” she replied softly. “Not
until he comes back.” She stood, gathering the sheets about her as she walked
to the window and gazed down onto the crystal waters of the Timestream,
pressing a hand against cool glass.
Below her the Timestream shifted, balked; then, as if entirely
indifferent to her plight, continued on its way. “Ah miss him so, Roma,” she
murmured. “Out there… in all those other worlds…he seems so much the same… it’s
as if there’s no difference at all…” Her eyelids fluttered shut. “Please don’t
ask me to stop,” she begged.
Roma, Supreme Guardian of the Omniverse,
Keeper of Time and Goddess of the Northern Skies, said nothing for a moment. Very many years ago, when Rogue had still
been young, she had permanently imprinted the powers of her foster-mother,
Destiny, thus inheriting powers of foresight even Roma herself did not fully
possess. It was an ability that allowed
Rogue to tap into every facet of Time itself, and that manifested itself in
clairvoyant dreams. Thus she was of
vital importance to Roma’s operations, since Roma – as Guardian of the
Omniverse – was the one deity who held all the threads of Fate in her
hands. She was the eternal
puppet-master, the all-encompassing Wheel of Fortune. The destinies of a thousand worlds were subject to all her whims.
And yet Rogue preferred to spend all her
hours spying on the many shadows of the man she loved, the man who had so
cruelly left her. Many times Roma had
warned Rogue against using her powers to fuel such a dangerous obsession, but
to no avail. Roma was, after all, an
immortal, and immortals little understood the human need for attachment, for
bonding or intimacy. Companionship,
commitment and love were all immaterial to her.
“Rogue,” she began softly, knowing all
advice was a hopeless endeavour. “While you may believe otherwise, I did not
come here to lecture you on your choice of pastime. I have news to bring, and of the utmost importance.” She paused,
blue eyes unblinking, watchful. “I’ve found it, Rogue. The timeline without errors.”
Rogue shifted her head in a slight,
almost casual movement. A lock of hair
slipped across her profile, hiding an expression that was suddenly alert.
“The one Destiny mentioned in her
Diaries?” she questioned, her voice flat, betraying nothing.
“So far, it has preserved itself.” She
walked to stand beside Rogue, whose face was now expressionless. “You know what
the Diaries say. You carry them inside you, after all.” She placed a soothing hand
on the Southerner’s shoulder. “There is to be a meeting in my Nexus concerning
the Diaries. It would please me
greatly, if you would attend.” She paused, passed her a wan smile. “It is time,
Rogue.”
The pressure in her fingers increased,
just once, before she left, leaving Rogue under the flickering light of the
Timestream to ponder upon the secret that had just been divulged to her. If it was time, it could only mean one
thing.
He had
returned.
*
Rogue hurried down the corridor towards
Roma’s Nexus, her footsteps slapping on cold rose marble, clap, clap, clap,
clap, racing against the beat of her heart, against every wild hope and dream
she’d ever entertained. A part of her
wanted to be wrong, for him not to be there, so that every prescient vision
she’d ever had of this moment would be proved false, and the dreadful end
diverted.
But as she swung open the doors that led
into the great hall, she was assailed by a flurry of fragrance; that old, familiar
scent, of tobacco and spices, of coffee and leather, of all the shared memories
she’d held onto so tenuously, so helplessly for so long. She gripped the doorframe, her mind reeling,
her heart catching in her throat.
Trapped.
Fate had trapped her in this moment and
she was doomed to play it out…
He was facing the window, his eyes on the
Timestream, colour and shadow playing across a face as sharp and chiselled as a
Greek statue’s. He didn’t turn; but
they’d long past the time where they needed looks in order to seduce one
another. Rogue swallowed a shallow
breath. He hadn’t changed. All that time and he was still as intoxicating
to her as he always had been.
“Nice t’ see you too, Rogue,” he spoke to
the window.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Behind the suave exterior of Remy LeBeau
lay a man of shrewd intelligence and a keen wit. The walk, the talk, the faces he wore – they were all a
fabrication, a role he played to perfection.
He was a manipulator of masks so skilful that none might know they were
there at all. He was as capable of
being cold, ruthless and analytical as he was of being glib, charming and
passionate, as capable of being a killer as a lover. He was the most dangerous man she’d ever known, sly as a
predator, protean as the chameleon.
He had been known by many names in his time, but in all Destiny’s prophetic visions, he had had only one name – the Witness.
He was a traveller, one whose latent
ability was to tap into the kinetic flow of the universe, one whose Omega class
potential was to transcend the boundaries of time itself. [1] It was the reason why he had left her, and
why she had let him go. He had gone to
search his destiny, little knowing that the person who held the key to it was
the woman he’d been running from, the only woman he’d ever allowed to see the
ugliness behind the mask, to hear the secrets divulged over careless pillow
talk, or coffee in the mornings. Oh
yes. She knew enough to torture him in
ways he could only dream of.
Now he took her silence as reproach. His mouth frowned, then flickered into a
smile, as he lit a cigarette with casual indifference. Inhale.
Exhale. Smoke poured from his
mouth, weaving, curling, fading, insubstantial as all the sweet words he’d ever
spoken to her.
“Been wonderin’ where you were,” he said.
His voice was rich as aged cognac, drawing her in, drowning her… “Was beginnin’
t’ think maybe you din’ want t’ be found no more.”
“Maybe you’d be right,” she answered, her
tone less cold than it was uncertain.
She had been so sure of this moment, of the contempt she would show him;
but seeing him there again, so beautiful, so dangerous, so tangible after all that time… He amplified
the emptiness inside her; he made
her want.
“You should know by now, Rogue,” he began
softly, “dat Fate always has a funny way of bringin’ us back t’gether again.”
Fate – it was the one thing that truly
belonged to her, and that she spent every moment running from.
“Ah wouldn’t know,” she replied at last.
Exhale.
The corner of his mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. His eyes narrowed, glittered.
“Funny.
I woulda thought all dat time apart, de only t’ing you’d be dreamin’
about would be me.”
Her cheeks almost flushed at the truth of
his statement.
“Ah try not t’ dream about our future,”
she replied quietly. “Ah didn’t think we had one no more. Not together. Not anymore.”
He turned, slowly, his dark eyes running
over her face with that greedy intensity, breaking through the veil of time
that had lain so impenetrable between them, making a sudden breath tremble in
her throat. It was a long time since
they’d last laid eyes on one another.
Back then she’d been all soft and yielding, lying naked in his bed, one
smooth, white arm extended towards him.
There was no such tenderness in her now, except for a memory, a trace of
what once might have been – a stirring of her body, curling upward like a warm
tongue of flame from the emptiness deep inside the pit of her stomach.
And suddenly she was alive again; she was
burning.
Their gazes met with mutual longing, and
Rogue grimaced inwardly at the self-betrayal.
She was angry with herself, as well as him. Angry for hating him and then touching herself in the darkness
when it was his hands she couldn’t stop longing for. She knew that if he touched her, she’d be his all over again,
without question, without another second wasted.
And he knew it.
Ah
hate yah, Remy LeBeau, she wanted to say.
She said nothing.
It had been four years. Before he had left her, he had whispered
“one year”. It hadn’t been enough. Not enough for him to purge himself of
her. Not enough to remember why it felt
so good to hold her close. Not enough
for him to lie there in the middle of the night and conjure up that weightless,
formless, wistful thing – her name. The
longer he spent away from her the more he learned to want her. He liked to torture himself with thoughts of
her – he could be rather masochistic in that way. When he spent his nights sleepless and in unfamiliar arms, he
would lie there empty and hollow inside, the way he thought he ought to
be. She made him feel; she made him a
stranger unto himself. She unmasked
every act he had ever performed, every lie he had ever told.
Yet he couldn’t stop wanting her.
The countless women whose arms he’d run
into, and yet every step he took in the opposite direction seemed to lead back
to her.
When he’d left her it had been under the
cover of night. She’d reached out for
him, catching his hand in her own, twisting the gold band on his finger,
reminding him who he was, that he’d find nothing in all those other women just
as he’d found nothing in her. He’d
frowned in the darkness – he already knew it was hopeless; he knew he had to
go, he knew he had to leave her.
Her fingers, slipping from his own,
disappearing into the night, the last impression he’d ever had of her.
His eyes narrowed, flickered; he pulled
on his cigarette, studied her with a look that would’ve neutralised any woman
in sight. Exhale. He ran his tongue over dry lips.
“You haven’t changed,” he noted.
“Neither have you,” she murmured in
return.
“Still stubborn as a mule.”
“Still all talk.”
“Still goddamn beautiful.”
She paused, annoyed that she’d allowed
him to take her off guard.
“That ain’t no compliment,” she finally
muttered. “A pretty face was always all it ever took with you. An’ when it came down to it, Ah was never
more than just a pretty face, was Ah.”
He blinked, grinned. “Still Rogue,” he
concluded. He dropped the cigarette and
stumped it out with the heel of his boot before finally closing the space that
lay between them. She remained stock
still as he stepped in close to her, as cold and unresponsive as she could
muster as the heat and scent of him flooded her senses; her body tingled with
things remembered and she fought the urge to press against him, to feel what he
could do to and for her once more.
“D’you remember dat night at de Soniat?”
he murmured seductively, his fingers idly tickling a stray lock of her hair.
“Champagne… Red silk an’ chocolate… Miles an’ miles of soft, smooth skin, an’
hair the flavour of violets. Been
dreamin’ about it, chere. Been dreamin’ about every inch of you.”
He leaned forward slightly, his lips just
a breath away from her ear. She froze,
both longing for him and rejecting him with ever fibre of her being.
“Ah was only ever forbidden sex t’ yah,
Cajun,” she murmured back.
His smile was slow, sensuous. “At first,
yes. But den I just couldn’t stop
wantin’ more. Y’ got me hooked, chere.”
He leaned in a little closer and she let
him. She let him because she knew how
to play his game now – she was going to draw him in the way he had her, and
then she was going to leave him hanging.
“Not enough for me t’ keep y’ hangin’
round,” she replied softly, twisting her head a little so that the words fell
against his neck. A vein pulsed
there. He shifted, his face lowering,
those dark, dark eyes catching hers, liquid temptation…
“I’m here now,” he whispered. “T’ink it’s
too late t’ make up for de past four years, chere?”
He would’ve kissed her and she would’ve
welcomed him, but just as his lips were about to touch hers she pressed a hand
against his chest, held him back lightly, saying, warning: “Roma knows about
the Witness.” Carefully calculated words, a sentence she had rehearsed over and
over in advance. They worked. He paused, an almost imperceptible trace of
doubt twitching through him.
“What’s dat s’pposed t’ mean t’ me,” he
asked, feigning indifference.
“Why d’you think she asked you here? You’re the Witness, Remy. The one that ties all these threads
t’gether. She knows, Remy. She knows…”
He jerked his head back, uncertainty in
his expression as he regarded her. You’re bluffing, he said with his
eyes. She shook her head, smiled, and
closed the gap between them again, nestling her head into his shoulder. She could feel the doubt, the suspicion
emanating from him in waves. An odd
sense of triumph coursed through her, triumph mixed with bitterness. She hadn’t wanted to do this. But it was the only way to make him suffer
the way she had. She tilted her head
slightly, gazed up at him through smoky green eyes, said in that honey accent:
“Y’still wanna make up for the past four years, Cajun?”
His eyes narrowed as he wavered between
distrust and desire. He knew she was
playing him and she knew she’d taken him off guard. It gave her a strange kind of satisfaction to know she’d
pre-empted him, that her seduction had been replaced with his own.
“Ahem.”
Roma was standing behind them, her blue
eyes calm, apologetic. Neither were
certain when she had entered, nor how much she had heard. Rogue pushed herself away from him, a trace
of a smile on her lips as she stepped away, feeling the tension radiating from
him, knowing he was impatient to hold her close, to retrace the marks he’d so
lovingly placed upon her body all those years ago. Now she had him right where she wanted him. Her revenge was almost complete.
“Forgive me,” Roma spoke apologetically,
“I had not wanted to intrude.” She turned to Remy, smiled in a rather matronly
manner. “It has been too long, my friend,” she welcomed him warmly.
“Not long at all, by your standards,” he
remarked wryly, his guileful charm returned.
“True,” she replied with the cryptic
smile only an immortal could possess, “but one does like to play the games you
mortals so often indulge in, at least once in a while.”
“Y’wanted t’ speak t’ us about somet’ing
important,” Remy began casually, too casually.
“I would not have summoned you, if it was
not important,” Roma replied dryly. “As it is, I would have had others attend,
if not for the urgency of the matter.
But it is of no moment – you are the only person whose presence is
required under the circumstances.” She paused, glanced at Rogue. “And Rogue,
who has a peculiar insight into these affairs.”
“Destiny’s prophecies,” Remy said softly,
knowingly.
“Yes,” Roma replied. “The moment Rogue
imprinted her foster-mother she alone inherited visions of a future not even I
can glimpse. As Omniversal Guardian, it
is my duty to bring together the threads that lead to the most beneficial
outcome, and thus to weave them into the tapestry I have created. That of Fate, and of the ultimate purpose.”
“Ultimate purpose, huh?” he retorted
sardonically. “And who exactly would dis future be most beneficial to, Y’Majesty? Baseline humans? Mutants? Yourself?”
Roma regarded him placidly, eyes
unblinking, owl-like.
“The end purpose I strive for is only
that which is most advantageous to the Omniverse as a whole.”
“Right,” Remy nodded sarcastically,
popping a cigarette into his mouth and flicking at an antique gold lighter. “Dat’s one I’ve heard a million times
b’fore from de likes of you. Sorry, but
helpin’ out immortal puppet-masters t’ pull people’s strings ain’t really my
scene.”
“Maybe Fate leaves you little choice in
the matter,” Roma suggested archly.
“Heh.
Dat’s a crock.” The cigarette finally lit. “Fate ain’t a one-way track,
Roma, we all know dat. I make my
decision, Fate rewrites itself around it.”
“Unless, of course, your decision creates
a fatal paradox.”
Remy’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Look, Y’Majesty, I don’t know what I’ve got t’
do wit’ any of dis, but you can’t force me t’ do nothin’ I don’t want t’
do. Besides, I can see why you’d be
needin’ Rogue’s help in all dis, but mine –”
“You, by reason of your powers, are able
to breach the Timestream,” she interrupted him calmly. “And thus you are able
to navigate all timelines of the Omniverse without obstacle or censure.” She
halted, cast a glance toward the crystal chandelier in the centre of the hall,
within which the life force of each world was contained. “Each timeline, Remy,
is a thread in the tapestry called Fate.
What if I told you that you were able to hold all those threads in your
hands?”
He said nothing, his mouth suddenly hard. Ash dropped from the cigarette between his
fingers, fell unheeded to the floor.
“The Diaries, as you all know, predict
the existence of a timeline that is essential and intrinsic to the survival of
all the others,” Roma continued softly, turning back towards them. “It is one
that is purported to contain the end purpose to the entire Omniverse as a
whole. Such a matter, my friends, is
not to be taken lightly. As Guardian of
the Omniverse, it is my duty to protect the interests of the Omniverse – and
thus, it is my duty to preserve and protect this one timeline that has been
singled out so specifically by Destiny herself.”
“And exactly which timeline would dat
be?” Remy spoke up, his eyes still carefully avoiding contact with Rogue’s.
“Ah.” Roma stood, walked the few paces to
her crystal chandelier, and pointed out one of the translucent jewels amongst
the great cluster of many. “It is, I believe, this one.”
“All look de same t’ me,” Gambit muttered
sarcastically, one corner of his mouth cocked upward. Roma turned to him with a pale smile.
“It is the timeline you call 616,” she
informed him dryly.
“616?” His eyebrows twitched but he did
not seem surprised. “Out of all dese threads o’ yours, de all-important strand
is one so backward an’ insignificant?”
Roma raised an elegantly shaped ebony
eyebrow.
“Does it surprise you so?”
Remy sniffed, half smiled. “I meant no
disrespect, Y’ Majesty. S’jus’ dat 616
bein’ de golden thread s’like a donkey all dressed up like a horse. Here we’ve all reached de full extent of our
powers, but our counterparts in 616… they’ve barely reached even a fraction of
their potential.”
“And does that make them unworthy of our
attention?” she asked him directly. He
pouted, shrugged. Roma gave a small
smile, continued: “Consider this, my friend.
A few years ago this timeline was almost destroyed by the actions of one
David Haller, the son of that world’s Charles Xavier. Xavier’s death caused a massive rupture in the fabric of Time and
Space, shunting the 616 timeline off course and creating a new timeline, a
so-called Age of Apocalypse. By rights,
616 should have ended there and then.
Yet the Bishop of that universe was able to save it, and – through the
aid of the M’Krann crystal – restore
it to its former existence.” She paused, letting the words linger in the air
between them a moment. “This is but one example of the instinct for
self-preservation this timeline and its inhabitants display,” she concluded. “I
have come to believe very strongly that this is the timeline Irene Adler spoke
of.”
There was a deep quiet. Remy dropped the cigarette, stamped it out.
“So what d’you want me t’ do ‘bout it?”
he asked bluntly. “Recon? Y’ want me t’
spy on dis 616, bring back information?”
Roma glanced momentarily at Rogue, who so
far had remained silent. There was a
watchful look on her face, a tremulous expectancy. Roma frowned, looked back to Remy.
“There is one passage that refers to the
616 timeline – one that has interested and perplexed me greatly.” She turned
aside and began to recite the words gently, almost reverently:
‘…And
in Time,
The
key in lock is turned;
The
Witness shall beget,
An
error to end all errors.’
She swivelled, casting him an imperious
glance from clear blue eyes. “There is one word that intrigues me here – ‘witness’.”
Rogue stirred, almost involuntarily. For the first time since Roma had entered,
Remy cast her a quick glance as though waiting for her to say something – but
she remained silent.
“Witness,” he finally echoed, his tone
mirthless. “Y’mean me.” It was a statement, not a question. Roma nodded.
“Let us be frank,” she began gravely. “I
have already told you, Remy LeBeau, that should you so wish, you alone have the
power to infiltrate all the timelines that comprise the Omniverse. As you rightly surmise, 616 is the golden thread. But there are also a countless number of different threads, alternate timelines
that are connected to 616 and that are critical to its survival. And I need somebody to be in all these
worlds at the same time.”
For a moment Remy looked rattled; then he
laughed.
“Sorry, y’Majesty, but I t’ink you have
de wrong Witness.” He sobered quickly, his voice dropping a notch. “Sure, I can
manipulate time enough to slip me through into one timeline at a time, but more
den one at once –”
“Remy,” Roma cut in gently, “there is no
need for this. I know the truth.”
All at once the mask slipped from his
face; he exhaled a sharp breath through his teeth, sending a searing glance in
Rogue’s direction. She said nothing,
did not even meet his gaze, but her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.
“What truth?” he finally asked quietly,
his face haggard as his eyes shifted back to Roma.
“That you alone have the power to break
the bonds of the Timestream, to be everywhere
all at once.” She paused, seeing the tautness of his jaw, the fire in his
eyes. He knew the truth all along, she thought, and yet he kept it from me… “In the Diaries, Destiny spoke of an
error in Time,” she continued softly,
“one to end all errors – that is, one to end all the errors within other timelines. Already you possess the ability to breach
the Timestream by tapping into the kinetic flow of time and space, allowing
access into any universe you so choose.
But you’ve always had the potential to further break that limit, a limit
even Destiny herself couldn’t break – not physically anyhow. It’s the ability to remake Time, to remake
yourself inside it…by controlling the
kinetic energy from the centrepoint of both Time and Space.” She paused,
lowered her voice. “There have been many versions of you that have sought to
break that boundary – some have succeeded, but not without terrible cost. Only you
are destined to succeed where others have not, to extricate yourself from Fate
itself.” She half smiled at him. “The Witness – an error inside Time – an error because he can exist at all points within Time itself. A temporal anomaly. A true time traveller.”
At the words Remy clenched his mouth shut
and looked over at Rogue, his glance piercing, haunted. Still she refused to meet his gaze. Her expression was placid, almost vacant,
but her breast was heaving, the pulse of her heart thudding against the wall of
her chest.
“Gambit,” Roma began gently, sensing both
his hurt and confusion. “If you knew the truth for all this time, why did you
keep a thing of such importance from me?”
“Why?” There was a faintly sardonic smile
of self-mockery on his lips. “Y’ ever t’ink, Roma, dat dis Cajun don’t want t’
be a part of de Diaries’ crazy games no more?” He looked over at her, the
flames in his crimson eyes burning. “What you an’ Destiny are proposin’ is dat
I become Time. Well, jus’ maybe a mere mortal like me wants
t’ keep his sorry excuse for a life, b’cause he likes it just de way it is.”
Roma pursed her lips. His reply surprised her little. Often she had found it extraordinary that
humans should want to keep holding onto a life comprised of so many tawdry,
fleeting pleasures, and such fragile, trivial memories. But that was the way of mortals, and Roma
could not begrudge them that.
“You are right,” she finally admitted in
a low voice. “I cannot force you to make a choice you do not wish to commit
to. Fate is malleable, and with or
without you, the threads continue, whether bound together or not. But I ask this of you because…I truly
believe that it is for the best.” She reached out a hand, touched his shoulder
comfortingly. “It is your choice to make, my friend.” she spoke softly. “I ask
nothing of you that you do not wish to do.”
She stepped past him and moved towards
the door, then stopped and half-turned.
“There are other things I must attend to
now, but in the meantime, I ask only that you think on this matter. When you have made your decision,” and she
paused, looking briefly towards Rogue, “please let me know.”
She slipped out, silent as
quicksilver. Rogue brushed past him to
follow her, but before she could leave he gripped onto her wrist, jerking her
back violently to face him.
“You
told her…!” he seethed under his breath, his eyes glinting.
“Ah couldn’t conceal it from her much
longer,” she replied coolly.
“Bullshit!”
he raged at her, finally losing his temper. “If I know anyt’ing about you,
Rogue, you did it t’ hurt me!”
She stood straighter, met his gaze with
calm determination. “Maybe Ah did it b’cause this time Ah want you outta mah
life for good.”
That got his attention. His hands snapped round her upper arms like
talons and he shook her violently, his face livid with rage, crimson flames
leaping from his eyes.
“I don’t believe you!” he spat. “Dis is
one o’ your crazy schemes at revenge, your fucked up way o’ payin’ me back!”
“Yah think?” she hissed back, her own
temper flaring. “Now why on earth would Ah be wantin’ payback, Remy LeBeau?”
He blinked, his grip loosening.
“Goddammit, Rogue, d’you hate me so much?” he questioned her, despair edging
into his voice.
“Ah don’t know,” she replied honestly. His fingers were sharp through her sleeves,
digging into her flesh, the warmth of each digit seeping into her body. It was almost more than she could bear.
“Have you ever loved me enough t’ stay?”
“Y’know
I love you,” he growled.
At the words tears glazed her eyes and
she blinked them away fiercely, desperate to hold them back. “It ain’t enough
anymore!” she rejoined in sudden anguish. “Those four years you were away, Ah
finally figured it out, Remy. Y’all
want t’ be free, t’ go where you wanna go, t’ do what you wanna do with whoever
you wanna do it with. Ah was never
anythin’ t’ you except a quick fix!”
“Dat ain’t true!” he roared.
“Ain’t it? Why, Remy? Give me a
reason why you want meh back, tell me it ain’t because Ah’m just another whore
to yah! C’mon Remy! Fight for me with every last inch of the
body an’ heart an’ soul that you have, tell me why Ah should believe that this
is for real!”
For a wild moment she thought he would strike her, and half of her wanted it, half of her wanted to feel the physicality of the rage and the passion they felt for one another. But then the fury fell from his face; his fingers slackened and he let go of her. She stumbled away from him, trembling, clutching her arms about her, feeling the imprint of his hands soak into her skin. She knew he wouldn’t fight for her. It was too much for him. It always had been. Almost instinctively he reached for her again, wanting to hold her in his arms, to comfort her. But she flinched away from him and he stopped, his arms hanging loose by his sides.
The silence hung over them, thick,
impenetrable. She turned away from him,
eyes swimming.
“I did
look for you,” his voice broke into the quiet. “But you weren’t where you was
s’pposed t’ be. Jus’ an empty, dusty
house, all cold and hollow-like… seemed you hadn’t been there in years. Thought it was our latest run o’ hide an’
seek.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh, ran a hand through his hair. “I don’
blame you. You’re right – I used
you. I never meant to, but you were
just always there and I…” He sucked in a breath, exhaled. “What you told Roma…
It was our secret, Rogue.”
She closed her eyes, shook her head. “There
can’t be any secrets anymore.”
He caught the gravity of her tone, the
meaning behind her veiled words. His
dark eyes narrowed. “What have you seen?” he asked in a low voice.
She was tired. So tired. She wanted to
sleep, to dream, to pretend that she was the only woman he’d ever want, that he
wouldn’t be afraid to want her and just her.
“Nothin’,” she said at last, her voice
small. “Just the same as Ah always saw for us…nothin’.”
She moved to leave the room, but as she
brushed past him he caught her left hand and pulled her back, mimicking the way
she’d reached for him when he’d left her that night four years ago. He found it – the old, scuffed gold band on
her ring finger, battered and worn from all the nights she’d spent slipping it
on and off, wondering if she shouldn’t just throw it away forever.
“Don’t go,” he begged softly.
Too late.
She snatched her hand back roughly.
Turning, she left him the way he’d left
her four years before.
* * * * *
He’d proposed to her on a rainy day ten
years earlier, back in her hometown of Caldecott County, having chased her
halfway across the world and back, only to find her closer to home than he’d
ever imagined.
For two weeks he’d encroached upon her
hospitality, giving no reason for his continued presence in her makeshift home
other than bursts of tongue-tied bemusement which led her to suspect that this
time, maybe – just maybe – he really would be staying for good.
One morning she’d taken him out for a
walk by the Mississippi, winding their way up its muddy banks to watch the
trawlers steaming by lazily under a fevered red sun. Over the horizon, beyond the wooded hills that were gathered on
the furthest banks of the river, thunder had begun to roll down over the
plains, as if that ponderous sun had somehow buckled under the weight of its
own heat. In a matter of seconds the
storm had swept down the bluffs towards them – they were soaked before they’d
even decided they were going to make for the woods. He’d taken her hand and raced her towards shelter, cursing under
his breath as the rain sheeted down on them in thick slats, drenching their
clothes, running off their hair and down their backs, making them shiver as the
damp found their pores and seeped into their bones.
They’d stood under the canopy of some
great and ancient oak tree. Ever since
he’d arrived back in her life they’d barely touched one another, too frightened
to know where their feelings would take them.
She’d stood with her back to him, fingers on rough bark, shivering. Like a candle, flickering. He’d reached out a hand, touched her waist,
feeling warm skin through the dampness of her blouse; she’d started,
melted. Touch was their only source of
shelter. He’d pulled her into his
embrace, and she hadn’t resisted.
Hearts beating, louder than words.
She’d stared up at him, trying to say something, trying to break the
awkwardness of the moment – what she did say, in the end, he’d never
remember. He’d only remember the way
she looked when she spoke – pallid cheeks, the blush of wet lips, damp and
bedraggled cinnamon curls; droplets clinging to the lashes of sea green
eyes. Mermaid skin. The taste of her mouth, velvet roses…
He’d remember never wanting anything so
badly.
He’d remember wanting to be the one to
pin this butterfly down.
And suddenly the words had come tumbling
out of his mouth, one by one, in every which way he’d posed them in all his
wildest dreams, in all his most terrifying nightmares.
Temporary, blinding insanity. They both knew it.
She’d shuddered from something more than
just cold, and said ‘yes’.
They’d signed the contract a few weeks
later in a small, spontaneous ceremony with neither friends nor witnesses; the
deal made, the bond sealed, no blueprint drawn, no turning back. No madness, no compulsion of his had ever
lasted this long; yet they’d both known instinctively that, as with all his
whims, it would not last.
He’d moved into her makeshift house; and
then, inevitably, her house became a little less makeshift. Clutter accumulated, tactile, nostalgic
things – photographs, records, books, letters, nick-nacks, bills – the relics
of married life settled like so much dust.
Two years passed and they became mired in each other, in their own
closeness, in all the idle minutes spent together. Almost unconsciously he began to drift away again, for days on
end, just like he always had done back in the day. She’d stayed at home, pottering round a forlorn and empty house
as if the sound of her footsteps could make up for his absence, for the scuff
of his boots on the doormat, for the sound of his laugh, for the song he would
hum while cooking breakfast. Waiting,
wondering, dreading. Afraid. Afraid of the same thing he was afraid
of. That if they stayed together
forever, that if they became the thing they’d sought so long to be, they’d lose
that special something they had, the thing that kept them needing, wanting,
loving, the thing that stopped their passion from withering in on them and
dying.
One morning she’d woken up to the
pinkish-hued light that came with his energy signature, a sight she hadn’t seen
for many years, not since their days with the X-Men. He was sitting at the end of the bed, his back to her,
scrutinising a charged playing card in his right hand.
“Remy?” she’d said, sitting up and rubbing
her bleary eyes. He didn’t turn to her,
didn’t move at all.
“I can do it,” was all he said. “I know
exactly how t’ do it. I can become
everythin’ Destiny prophesied I would be.”
She’d known then. From that very moment she’d known how it
would end. Out of fear of losing him
she’d nurtured her own powers as he nurtured his, thinking that she would be
able to watch him, steer him towards a path where he would remain always by her
side. But the proliferation of possible
futures was too great, too jumbled, too confused – all she could see was the
thing he could – would – become, the
thing she was powerless to stop. With
every step he took towards reaching the ultimate potential of his powers; with
every step that took him further away from her, she learned to overcome the
obstacles that had prevented her from developing her own powers of foresight,
the thing she had stolen unwillingly from her foster-mother, Destiny. Her proficiency grew to such a point that she
outstripped her mother, that she was able to look into all points in time,
past, present, future – a million possibilities became the instruments of all
her whims. The door to Fate finally
opened up to her on a vast and incomprehensible sea of change that she alone
could shape if she so wished.
But by the time she had unlocked that
door, and passed through onto the other side… By the time she had turned around
to beckon him through to follow her… By that time all that stood where he had
been was an empty space.
By that time, she’d lost him, and he’d
already gone, never to return the same again.
She knew what he did while he was away.
She bore it because infidelity was the
only way he could consciously remind himself why he loved her, because it made
him long for the taste of her, for the comfort she gave him. Whenever he had come back from one of his
time-jaunts, she had welcomed him back to their home as she always had, ever
the faithful, patient wife – though in truth, while she feared he might not
come back, his eventual return would always be a gnawing source of
consternation to her. What she feared
was that he would come to despise her for being the only constant in his
ever-changing and eventful life.
But every time he had come back, it had
been like meeting again for the first time; for a month, or two, or three – or
maybe even four or five or six if she was lucky – they’d live together in
perfect bliss, their passion revived by their separation; they’d feel as giddy
as the moment they’d first laid eyes upon one another, the moment when they had
collided in that incandescent starburst and first fallen in love.
And then that hush would begin to grow
between them, that nagging doubt neither could bring themselves to voice. Their fear settled between them like an
invisible barrier; the space in their bed grew wider. The monotony of their everyday lives and the routine of their
lovemaking both frightened and bewildered them. That was when he would tell her he was leaving, that he still
loved her, and that he’d be back soon.
Only this time he’d been gone four
years. And this time she’d waited too
long – stale, unloved, untouched, alone.
An empty shell, a husk.
She hated him.
She loved him more madly than she’d ever
done before.
* * * * *
Rogue stood in her room, viewing herself in
front of one of her many mirrors, absently twisting her wedding ring back and
forth round her finger. She knew she
had a choice to make as much as Remy had.
If she chose, she could hold him back, she could keep him with her – she
was the only person that had that power.
It would be utter selfishness.
But he would remain hers – until the next time he went away again.
But he would be hers…
She stood, waiting, waiting for the
inevitable. Much as she loathed using
her powers, from the very beginning they had been intrinsically tied to him,
and she always sought him out more from habit than comfort. She knew he was coming. It was the only way they could possibly end
this.
She did not move when he finally stepped
inside. She merely gazed at his reflection. She’d spent the past four years viewing him
from behind smoke and mirrors. It
seemed somehow easier to see him that way.
“Ah’m sorry,” she broke softly into the
silence.
“Me too,” he answered quietly, shutting
the door behind him.
She made no reply. He was being honest with her, and that was
more than she could have asked for. His
reflection moved a step closer to her, the sinuous, cajoling movements of his
body sending signals stronger than words out to her. He stopped, regarding her from behind those soft, beguiling
eyes. Everything about him was still
unwitting, unconscious seduction.
“So,” he continued conversationally,
looking around. “Y’ left our home…set up here?”
“Ah left mah home,” she corrected him blandly, watching her face form the
words, disembodied, in the mirror. “You seemed to come and go when
y’pleased. Roma invited me to stay
here, but Ah waited the year anyhow.
When you didn’t show up… Ah decided to take her up on her offer.”
He nodded briefly, glanced at the
carefully ordered chaos of her room, the specimens in her museum. “You left all
our things behind,” he noted somewhat reproachfully.
“Ah wanted to forget you,” she replied
bluntly. Her bottom lip trembled
slightly in the mirror as she said it.
She knew it was a lie. After
all, all these things around her – the roses, the cards, the mirrors, the wind
chime… even though he’d never touched a single one of them, she’d hoarded them
because they reminded her of him. Or of
what he was not. She wasn’t certain
anymore.
He, however, made no reply to her
statement, casually strolling around the room, inquisitive as a stranger in a
quaint old town. She watched his
reflection, saw him step under the wind chime and regard it with grave
appraisal. Then: “I recognise dis,” he
said. He touched one of the silver
cylinders delicately, sending it spiralling.
Its song tinkled into life, that familiar old melody, bringing sudden
tears to her eyes. He knew. He knew her guilty secret. The way she watched him, the way she watched
them together in all her dreams,
trying desperately to work out why, when every thread of the future bound them
so tightly together, they could never get it right. He knew because he’d
been watching them too, because all these things she had gathered around her,
keepsakes of their alternate lives – they belonged to him too. They were his symbols as much as her own.
Rogue’s fingers clung tightly to the edge
of the dressing table. She watched him
turn towards her reflection, his lips say the words:
“You’ve been watchin’ dem too.”
She swallowed, looked away. Her throat was dry. All this time apart… believing it impossible
to be together… and all the while they had been playing voyeur to one another,
in the same places and the same times, just so far apart…
“Why?” she asked. He took another tentative step towards her,
stopped.
“Wanted t’ find out find about you, chere,” he answered after a moment.
“About me. About us. Whether there’s
somethin’ more, or somethin’ less, or nothin’ at all. And whether it really matters anyway.” She said nothing. He continued. “S’like replayin’ imperfect
recollections of you,” he mused, a corner of his lip curling, faintly
nostalgic. “At first, I’d study dem.
Dere walk. Dere smile. De flicker of an eyelid, de twitch of a
finger… De way their lips would wrap round de rim of a cafe au lait…” His voice
was low, thick with desire and she ached to hear it. “Sometimes I used t’ watch
dem ‘til I thought I was goin’ crazy,” he half-whispered. “Had t’ remind myself
dey wasn’t you. Dat you got somethin’
dey don’t. Somet’ing dat makes you
unique. A part of myself. A part of my history.”
Their
history. All the pain and the
hurting, the trials that were never finished, that they could never overcome
wherever or whenever they happened to
be. All the knowledge accumulated
throughout those long years, the secrets they were afraid to unravel for fear
that it would kill their love. She
finally broke free of the mirror, turning towards the window with a small,
rueful laugh.
“Funny.
Ah thought our history was what made me least desirable t’ you.”
She peeled back the curtain with one
hand, looked out. Down below the
Timestream danced, sending whirling iridescent rainbow colours upward and
outward, bathing her face in its dappled light. This was a sight she had spent so many long, lonely hours
torturing herself with ever since she had arrived here in Roma’s secret place,
knowing he was somewhere near yet agonisingly far away.
“That is what you’ll become, Remy,” she
told him with a note of finality, the limpid glow of the Timestream replaying
itself twice in her clouded eyes. He
moved to stand beside her, his gaze following her own. The warmth, the proximity of his body filled
the emptiness inside her, made her ache for the comfort of his arms once more.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, but his eyes
were on her.
“It’s lonely and cold and indifferent,”
she corrected him softly. “Is that how you want t’ be?”
Her voice wavered and she hated herself
for it. She desperately wanted to communicate
the terrible truth to him, the truth that she could not escape from and that
she wanted to negate to the very core of her being. That although the future was comprised of so many paths and so
many possibilities, at the centre of its web lay only one purpose and one
conclusion, the conclusion that would end them both forever. He was
the Witness. Yet how could she
confess to him that that was the real reason why, whenever she had searched for
a future them, all she had seen was a
blackness, a nothingness, a void?
The warmth of his breath touched her
neck, tearing her reverie to pieces.
Had he really stepped so close?
“You know what I want,” he answered huskily.
Her eyelids fluttered, closed.
“No.” The word came as light as a
feather. “You want to be free. And the
Witness is freedom.”
Closer.
“Is dat it? You afraid dat one day I’ll stop wantin’ you enough t’ come
back?”
Yes – that was what she feared. Familiarity
breeds contempt; that’s what she wanted to say. She was tired of this, of the pull they had on each other, like
satellites in orbit… Collide, clash,
repel; collide, clash, repel… Even
now they were tugging at one another, reeling one another in without looks – it
was always the way, subtle as the tap-tap-tapping of morse-code, as a velvet
hand climbing up her spine, knot by knot, settling at the base of her neck,
tingling, electric… No words, such promise…
No – his hand was there, really there, on
her back, in a touch so agonisingly familiar she burned. Clash. His breath on her ear, his fingers caressing
the nape of her neck, sliding through soft hair, gentle, so gentle… cradling
her head, his eyes on her lips, willing her to look at him, to kiss him…
Only three centimetres and one night
between them, and she wanted it so bad…
She turned with sudden greed, finding his mouth without even having to look anymore, her arms coming up to wind about his shoulders, to hold him close. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her as his tongue touched hers. Despite all the pain he had caused her, all the rage she felt for him, she pressed against him, her hands twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. And he was responding, his arms wrapping round her, desperate, fierce, crushing her hips against his, devouring her mouth, matching her violence with his own.
She wanted to kill him. She wanted to end this game of torture they
played; she wanted to stab him in the place where he’d so often stabbed her,
she wanted to slide her fingers over his skin and feel the warmth of his blood
on her hands, to taste it in her mouth – it was the only way she could own him,
make him hers. She wanted to end it,
for it all to be over. She wanted to
hate him with just as much passion as she loved him.
She couldn’t.
She knew they were both too weak to stop
playing this game, that they needed one another too much. And yet her foresight had told her that in
all the futures she’d ever seen, this game had to end tonight. Tonight, after four years of loneliness,
alone and without him, she would have to let him go for good.
They shouldn’t have started this.
It shouldn’t even have begun all those
years ago, in the rain, under that old oak tree.
She tore away from his kiss, breathless,
angry, tasting blood in her mouth yet too weak to push him away. It was beginning, she could feel it
beginning, history repeating itself, and she didn’t want it anymore, she couldn’t want it anymore… But she needed him…
He reached for her again, his lips
blazing a trail over her throat, hungry hands plucking the hem of her shirt and
finding bare skin. “I want you…” he murmured, pleaded.
“We mustn’t do this,” she insisted, her
voice no more than a notch above a whisper.
He ignored her, his hands moving over her body, drawing a whimper from
her mouth and giving her away; he lowered his head, grazed his breath against
her ear, whispered knowingly; “…You want me too.”
She did and she didn’t, but he was
already unclothing her, with such savage impatience that she clung to him,
unable to fight, frightened at the gravity of this moment, their
synthesis. Fate and time, two sides of
the same coin, two ends of the same equation, the finest balance, something meant to be. Yes. This was exactly how they were supposed to end.
“Ah’m just afraid,” she spoke brokenly,
hoarsely, her face buried in his shoulder, her fingers in his hair, “that if we
don’t stop now, Ah’ll never be able to let you go again.”
His hand touched her face, tilting her
chin, those beautiful eyes finding hers, imparting an answer so simple, so
terrifying that she shuddered to hear it.
“Then don’t,” he murmured, his mouth
folding over hers once more, binding all questions, all protestations. This time there was no hesitation. The tempest had begun, the beginning of his
homecoming ritual, the rites for which they could find no other substitute, the
penance for all the terrible hunger they had inflicted upon one another.
*
Later.
The storm ended, leaving only an aching
aftermath – silence; the air thick, raw with the memory of touch, of need, of
taste, of flesh. They’d made love every
which way either of them could possibly imagine, desperate, graceless, so much
to make up for, so little time. And now
there was nothing left. Nothing, except
for the reason they were here – their choice.
Don’t
make me stop, Rogue…I want t’ be here inside of you…a part of you, for as long
as I can…
Over and over. Then over; finished.
She’d felt like a dulled blade. No more edge.
It was what he always did to her.
From the darkness, light slid across a
silver sliver of the motionless wind chime, a thin pillar of liquid moonlight
casting mottled spots of prismatic colour across the room. Rogue lay on her back, watching the light of
the Timestream play on the ceiling, on the formless walls swathed in dark
shadow. She knew what she had to do;
she didn’t want to do it. But the
threads of so many futures clung so tenuously to this moment, and she knew… she
knew…
Honest
goodbyes only work once or twice…They work once or twice then the rest must be
lies…
The words licked at the edge of her consciousness, the emptiness he’d eaten up and replaced with himself. In and out, in and out, constant as the tide.
Beside her, Remy lay on his side watching
her, toying with a curl of her auburn hair, studying the way the pearly light
played upon the coppery strands, waiting for her to say something. What to say? Rogue closed her eyes, rubbing slow, soft circles over her belly,
feeling his warmth still inside her, the seed now planted, a skein, a thread of
the future now set in motion. There it
was – finished. She had to set him
free.
The
rest must be lies…
She opened her eyes, drew in a quivering
breath. “Ah think Ah can let you go now,” she announced quietly.
“Can you?” he asked, bringing the lock of
hair to his face, flicking it thoughtfully against the tip of his nose. She dropped her hand to her side,
hesitating, wishing he had not asked her.
“Yes,” she answered at last, rolling over
into the familiar warmth of his body, reaching out for him with arms and legs.
“If it’s what you want t’ do.”
He cradled her, tender this time, their
bodies fitting together with artless perfection. She closed her eyes, listened to his heartbeat. She understood now. He was afraid that someday he would grow to
love her so much that he couldn’t bear to love her any longer. That was why he always ran away from her,
why he could never stay.
But this time there would be no turning
back. And she was tired of hating
him. She was tired of wanting him and
loathing him. He was right – she had intended to hurt him by telling the
Roma the truth about his powers. But
she had also known that it was the only way they could stop playing with one
another’s hearts. And deep down, he
knew it too. He knew he should stop
hurting her, disappointing her, and leave her once and for all.
But she knew he could only do it for
their sake, for the chance to make a better them.
She nuzzled against his chest, waiting
for his answer, for his choice.
“Rogue?” he began pensively, his fingers
gliding through her hair. “Dis timeline Roma was talkin’ about…”
“616?”
“Yah.” He paused as her fingers spread
against his chest, rubbing him lightly, fondly. He took in a breath and closed his eyes, relishing her touch, the
pleasure he had so long foregone. “You seen it?” he asked.
She was silent a long moment, her fingers
tracing the contours of his torso, lower, dragging through the fine track of
dark hairs over his abdomen, making him shudder. “Yes – Ah’ve seen it,” she
finally replied, her tone a slumberous murmur. “A little.”
He gave a low, appreciative rumble, both
at her tender ministrations and in acknowledgement of her words.
“An’ will we stay t’gether in dis 616 or
not?” he continued huskily.
“Sometimes,” she murmured in return.
“Like here?”
“Like here,” she agreed.
She rolled off him, settling onto her
back beside him. She knew the decision
he’d make now. Taking his hand she
pressed it against her naked flesh, letting him explore the soft tract of skin
with his fingers to the place where she guided him. Her belly. He opened his
eyes, swivelling his head round to face her, his dark red eyes inquisitive, but
she made no answer to whatever question he would have asked, a question he
could not articulate – he didn’t know the thing he felt when he touched her
there.
“Are you goin’ t’ leave then?” she asked
him instead.
He was silent, evaluating her glance, her
face, the pressure of her fingers against his palm, the softness of her beneath
his touch. She saw him thinking,
hesitating, hurting. He didn’t want to
give the answer they both knew to be inevitable.
“I don’t know dat I want t’ leave you
yet,” he answered at last, carefully, as if he might say the wrong thing.
“But you will,” she rejoined softly,
firmly. “You always do.” She half-smiled, raising his hand and pressing his
palm against hers. “Time present and time
past, are both perhaps present in time future, and time future contained in
time past.” She paused in her recital, knotting their fingers together,
holding on tight. “Isn’t that what you always told me, whenever you were goin’
t’ leave me again?” A slight, watery curve of the lips. “You’ll still be there,
Remy. Wherever or whenever you go,
Ah’ll be watchin’.”
She kissed his mouth one last time,
rolled away.
“Ah’m goin’ t’ sleep now,” she mumbled,
her voice suddenly thick. A pause; a
soft, wavering sigh. “Remy?”
“Hmm?”
“When you’ve made your decision… wake me
up, won’t you?”
“All right,” he said. She let out a breath, a long, fluttering
exhalation, bird-like, as if she had laid down a burden, as if no more weight
rested upon her, nor ever would again.
Resignation. He shifted up to
spoon against her, folding his arms about her waist, planting the lightest of
kisses against her shoulder blade.
“Anna Marie?” he whispered. She stirred. “Je t’aime.”
Rogue squeezed his hand once, before she
closed her eyes and began to dream once more.
* * * * *
[1] No, I’m not just making this up. In Gambit #24 (1999 series), an alternate version of Gambit, New Sun, was able to travel in time and into different timelines by using his biokinetic powers. And for more about the weird trans-temporal powers of the Witness, see Gambit & Bishop: Sons of the Atom #2-3.
Next: The Threads continue… I just don’t know
how yet. :p