:: IX :: A Stitch In Time

A seagull called, as if in warning.

Remy stopped, glanced over his shoulder at the haphazard trail of footprints that led across the shore and up towards the beach house. Despite everything he was calm, confident – there was not an ounce of hesitation inside him, at the thing he knew he must do. The only reason he stopped was to savor this moment, a return, a homecoming of sorts. He had not been here in years. He hadn’t wanted to return to this place. But for the first time since he’d been ripped out of his time and had left his world, he was ready. He was ready.

He stepped up onto the veranda.

It was dusk, the sun radiating effervescent rays of rich, autumnal colour. The breeze was cooler now, skirting around the corner of the building and lifting up the hems of his battered trenchcoat, swirling around his legs, making him shiver. The wind chimes which hang beside the front door began to sway gently in the wind, tinkling softly, familiarly. It was a long, long while since he’d heard its song. He’d almost forgotten it. He reached out a hand, his fingers disrupting the swinging of the thin, silver cylinders, tears inexplicably smarting his eyes. The tune stopped.

It was easier then to gather his wits somewhat. There must be no tenderness in him, no regrets. He dropped his hand, pushed open the front door, and stepped inside.

Behind him the chimes began to sing again, but he closed his ears, he blocked it out.

Fifteen minutes before he’d been dropped unceremoniously into this universe, another jump, another world – it was something he’d become used to quickly, being after all as adaptable as a shadow slinking into shadows, always hiding from the sun. But he’d been surprised to land on this beach, a place he recognised intimately, a place so personal he couldn’t imagine why the Timebroker would bring him here.

A tract of beach in a Californian town called Valle Soleada, a place he’d called home for a few short months of his life.

He’d been disconcerted, flustered, wondering if he’d been returned home. But it couldn’t haven been possible. His homeworld had been destroyed, destroyed by… And suddenly, it had become clear.

He’d looked down at the Tallus in trepidation, half knowing already what it wanted him to do. His teammates had seen the look on his face, however much he’d wanted to hide it. He’d said: “De Dark Phoenix is goin’ to destroy dis world. We have to destroy her before she gets de chance.”

For some reason he’d been lumbered with a team of psychopaths, and they’d got bored during their recent missions and were itching for a good fight. Yet somehow he’d managed to put them off, insisting that since the Phoenix was all-powerful, the best way to kill her was to sneak up on her and stab her in the back. And he was going to be the one to do it.

Besides, he’d thought, me an’ her got some unfinished business.

The Tallus had told him the Phoenix was hiding out in this place, but as soon as he’d landed on that beach he’d known anyway. He trod the floorboards of the first floor quietly, smelling nothing but the musty remnants of inhabitation, the sour dankness of abandonment. The crumbling skeletons of furniture still remained, here and there; a broken mirror, the withered husks of roses in a vase. He swallowed hard, painfully. The knife was already beginning to weigh heavily, ominously inside the pocket of his duster; he surreptitiously closed a hand over the hilt, his eyes burning. Dis be a mistake, y’know it’s a mistake… You got vested in’trest in killin’ de Phoenix, but you also got vested in’trest in talkin’ to her, in askin’ her why… And she won’t wait for you to spit it out, she’ll kill you ‘fore you de chance…

Because it was so much more complicated than simple revenge. It was so much more complicated than the fact that she had murdered those he loved, his family, his wife, his entire world. It was more than just the fact that he’d wake up every night sobbing into his pillow, slickened with sweat and wondering why, why he’d been chosen to live when he’d wanted to die. It was so much more complicated than the word ‘why’ could contain.

He decided he didn’t even care if he died. Death would be welcome. But if he could just speak to her first, if he could just get through to her for once…

Good luck wit’ dat, boy. De Phoenix is immortal, she don’t talk like us reg’lar folk, you know dat…

Nevertheless he found himself climbing the stairs, quiet as a ghost, expertly evading every creak in the floorboards – he knew where they were, he never forgot anything. Having reached the landing he stood silent, still gripping the blade in his pocket, more out of caution than reluctance now. His heart was pounding with anticipation, thrumming in his temples, knowing that once again he was teetering on the edge of life and death but there was more to gain here, there was more to lose…

Where are y’, chere… he thought to himself, eyes raking every closed door of the passageway. Why was she so silent, why was she in this place of all places, this lonely little memento of the past…? She’s waitin’ for me. She’s rememberin’ too…

Perhaps he did have a chance after all… …

He knew where she was now. He trod lightly towards the main bedroom, no hesitation, no fear of holding back, no fear of making his presence known. He rested his hand on the doorknob, faltering for just a moment on the doorway to the forbidden sanctuary, the place that had long gone cold. Then, gently, reverently, he twisted it, letting the door jar open.

She was where he’d known she would be, standing by the window, hands pressed lightly on the sill, looking out with verdant eyes, just the way he remembered her. Perhaps she had been watching him all along, coming up the beach like a memory reproduced, replayed, held close to both their hearts and given life once more. Where the rest of the house had been cold and dusty, she emanated warmth and light as if clothed in fire, filling the room with a radiance so great that it felt like one of those summer days again in the youth of his life, in the youth of everything…

He leaned against the frame of the door for a moment, his heart racing so fast he could barely breathe. She was beautiful, so beautiful it hurt him to look at her.

“Hello, Remy,” she said. Her voice was intangible, ethereal, like the sound of stars pulsing and planets forming. He caught his breath, released it slowly, measured. Her tone had been light, not the imperious roar he had come to expect. He’d been right – for whatever reason she’d come here, it was not with intentions of violence. She had been remembering.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she added in that timeless voice when he made no reply. “I know why you’ve come, and what you’ve come here to do. But I can’t let you do it… Not yet.”

He pushed himself away from the doorframe with an effort, his knees weak. “Not yet?” he echoed hoarsely. “Wha’s dat s’pposed t’ me–”

“That I have no intention of hurting you, Remy LeBeau,” she spoke to the window, “and that you shall remain safe for the duration of your stay here.”

The bare skin of her arm shimmered, rippled with light as water rippling on the surface of a clear pool. He blinked, momentarily dazzled. He didn’t understand.

“Why should I believe you?” he questioned on a breath.

“Because the Phoenix doesn’t lie,” she responded calmly. His eyes flashed at the words, but he remained still, his mind only flittering on the weight of the knife at his side. His gaze was hostile, suspicious, confused… This was the Dark Phoenix, wasn’t it? The selfsame destroyer of his world, the murderer of the X-Men, killer of his beloved Storm, his wife…

She turned to him then, glorious and radiant as the sun and he squinted as she smiled a pale smile at him, a smile that showed him she understood. Wordlessly she powered down, the flames dying around her, withering in around her at the command of a single thought until there was nothing left standing there but a normal, pale woman, half-bathed in the shadow, lit only by the glowing embers of a dying sun. She was barefoot, dressed only in a sea green night-gown, tousled cinnamon curls cascading over her shoulders in a waterfall of coppery colour, a milky torrent of white streaking down over one cheek…

Rogue.

She smiled again as if having heard his thought, as if she knew she took his breath away. He hadn’t seen her like this for so long, so beautiful and uncomplicated…

“Ah’m usin’ up all mah strength t’ push her back,” she explained, and this time he heard Rogue’s voice, her magnolias accent with just a hint of…what was it? Regret? Sadness? “The combined powers of all the telepaths Ah’ve ever absorbed are keepin’ her in check, makin’ sure Ah get t’ be me for this one last, final moment, Remy LeBeau.”

One last, final…?

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“You’ve been sent t’ kill me,” she rejoined quietly. “It’s your mission. You have t’ set what was wrong right and save this world. If Ah’m allowed t’ live, Ah will destroy this world, isn’t that right?”

“But how did you know…?” he began.

“The Phoenix is the living embodiment of all life in all universes,” she interrupted him softly. “Not just past life, not just present life, but future life as well. All is contained within her, the beginning, the middle and the end of all that is. Ah’ve seen the lives Ah will destroy, Remy LeBeau. Ah’ve seen the lives Ah have destroyed.”

Her gaze was intent, meaningful as she said the words. He inhaled sharply, breathed: “My world… den you know…?”

“In your home timeline Ah did the very thing you’ve been sent here to prevent,” she answered, turning her head slightly, facing the window once more. “Ah killed the X-Men. Ah would’ve killed you, had Fate not written you another destiny. Ah set your world ablaze, fed upon the souls of the living.” She turned back to him, green eyes shimmering in the dying sunlight. “You must save this world from the same fate.”

He regarded her, his stance straighter now, his dark eyes narrowed.

“You want me to kill you…” he half-whispered.

“Ah want peace,” she replied simply, “for the both of us.”

He remained silent as the sun faded behind thick clouds, as the room fell into dimness. The atmosphere began to thrum, thunderclouds coming in over the horizon, rushing inward thick and sooty towards the beach, dark and sullen. The breeze, once dressed so lightly, strengthened into a gale, howling about the little house, sending the wind chimes clamouring on their doorstep. Suddenly there was a lump in his throat, a memory he’d neglected for so long for fear of stumbling and choking upon it. Dere was a time, he thinks, dere was a time dat meant somet’ing…

“Remy,” she began in a low, thick voice, “Ah killed this world’s version of you. Ah killed the only man Ah ever really loved because of her. But Ah had hope; hope because Ah’d seen this moment, a moment where perhaps we could forgive one another…”

“So dat’s what dis is all about,” he murmured, half with disdain. “Y’ be wantin’ t’ say your last goodbyes, when you never extended me de same courtesy…”

“Ah know y’ hate me.” Her voice was huskier now, wrought with tears. “Ah took away everythin’ that meant anythin’ to yah. But we had somethin’, once. It may not mean anythin’ to yah anymore, but believe it or not, it still does t’ me.”

“Ancient history, chere,” he replied bitterly. He didn’t want to talk about it but as the wind picked up outside, as the rain thickened and pattered heavily upon the glass, the wind chime on the porch struck up its tune again and suddenly there was a lump in his throat, a memory he would stumble and choke upon, but it was there and he couldn’t bite it back. Dere was a time, he thought, dere was a time dat meant somet’ing…

It welled up, newly born from the years of self-denial and hate that had shaped him for so long, rushing in an onslaught of taste and texture and song, the song of the wind chime on their doorstep, and he closed his eyes, wanting to push the tsunami back, wanting to hold it all back, wanting to embrace it…

He closed his eyes, he remembered.

*

It was the sleepy tinkle of the wind chimes on their doorstep that had wakened him, the sound that already grown so familiar, that was their lullaby most nights when they’d lie there entangled together, closer than they’d ever been before, closer than they’d ever dreamed they could be. He’d awoken to the pale glow of starlight, to the gentle cadence of the waves lapping on the seashore, to the smooth velvet of her skin against his and he’d looked down to find her naked in his arms, her body shimmering pallid and translucent in the moonlight. They’d picnicked out on the beach that evening, drank some wine, watched the sunset together and somehow ended up making love in the sand, because it was wild, because it was romantic, because it was dangerous and because they could.

They could.

It’d been six months, six months acquainting himself with all that succulent flesh of hers and still every time it was like the first moment he’d touched her bare skin, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get enough of it. He didn’t think the novelty would ever wear off…

She’d awoken soon after he had, pale eyes flickering, bleached grey in the darkness; she’d propped herself up on her elbows to gaze at him, wan, colourless, so that she had looked like an omen, a premonition… He didn’t know that then. He’d stared back up at her from under his eyelashes, feeling that now they were able to touch nothing would ever stand in their way again, that the two of them were indestructible.

“What’re you thinkin’?” she’d asked him in a whisper, her finger gliding lazily over his chest; figure eights, over and over, over and over…

“Dat I love you,” he’d replied huskily. Dat I love you an’ dat now dat I have you I ain’t ever gon’ let go of you again…

She'd smiled, brazen, triumphant. “Ah love you too,” she’d said. The breeze had suddenly lifted, making them shudder, making them draw closer together for the warmth. The shadows of the palm leaves had danced above them, framing the indigo night sky, a canopy glittering with stars so clear, so big and bright they could’ve deceived you into touching them.

“Ah don’t want this t’ end,” she’d whispered. He’d twisted his neck towards her, burying his face in her hair, breathing the scent of her in.

“Dis time, no more endin’s. I promise.”

She’d said nothing. But her finger was still on his chest, circling torpidly over his skin, scoring a trail, like a secret symbol, like a silent prayer.

He still feels it now, sometimes, in the dark.

Disembodied figure eights on his flesh, where she’d marked him so long ago, and made him hers.

*

Several months later – their house was dusty, lonely, silent. He’d waited outside the door of their bedroom, waiting for her to answer him, a mug of coffee in his hand. She hadn’t answered. She’d holed herself up in their room ever since the incident with Jean Grey and the Phoenix. Sometimes he’d hear her sob in the night, because she’d killed her friend, because she’d taken something inside of her that she hadn’t the strength to contain. He’d comforted her, putting his arms round her, stroking her hair, rocking her in the hope that soon she would sleep. It hadn’t been her fault. It’d just been a tragic accident. He’d wanted her to know that. But whenever he put his arms round her, her body had been cold, unresponsive. She hadn’t even told him to back off. She’d simply said nothing, making him feel even more impotent and alienated.

The night before, he’d slept downstairs, on the couch. He just couldn’t bear those plaintive sobs anymore, fears and terrors he couldn’t quell however much he tried and whatever he said.

So he’d stood out the door, waiting to make peace with her, but still she’d refused to acknowledge him.

He’d pushed open the door gingerly, afraid, afraid of her. She’d been sitting in darkness, the blinds drawn, the sunlight penetrating through the slats and casting her in strips of black and white. She’d said nothing even when he came in, didn’t even turn round to face him. He’d come in quietly, set the mug on the bedside table, gone over to her. She was dressed in her nightgown, pale green like the sea, her knees hunched to her chest. He’d placed a hand on her shoulder. Her skin had been cool as marble. Those green eyes, so bright, so vibrant, so full of passion were now dull, haunted. He’d squeezed her shoulder, said: “Talk t’ me, Rogue.”

Her eyes blinked, once, flashed orange, red, tongues of fire in the semi-darkness.

“Ah can see it…” she’d whispered.

“See what?”

“Everythin’.” She’d touched her temples with both hands, her brow furrowed deeply. “Dontcha understand, Remy? Ah didn’t only absorb Jean… Ah absorbed the Phoenix… She won’t let me go, Remy… Ah know it all, Ah know everythin’, but it’s too much, it’s like there’s so much it wants to suck me in and spit me out… mah body, mah mind, mah soul, everythin’…”

She’d broken down, dropped her head between her knees and wept.

“Rogue…”

“This is the price Ah'm payin', Remy, for Jean’s death,” she’d cut in, muffled. “This livin’ hell, this neverendin’ torture… So many pasts, so many presents, so many futures… They’re watchin’ us, Remy, we’re watchin’ us… We’ve been here a thousand times over, just never like this…”

He hadn’t understood her, not back then. He could never have understood her, not the way he did now. He’d sat, silent, his hand on her shoulder, feeling it, feeling what was between them splinter and break and be replaced by something new. Something he couldn’t penetrate.

He’d known then that he was losing her, that they were ending, that they would never begin again.

*

A Monday morning, Ororo’s room shot through with watery sunshine, and it had been another night of unrest, another night spent there in her chair, wondering what had gone wrong, feeling guilty for giving up so easily, but he’d been tired, so tired…

Rogue had disappeared. The Phoenix Force had steadily grown within her until there was barely any Rogue left, until he’d wake up in the mornings to see her staring down at him with unfamiliar eyes, cold, clinical, penetrating eyes that had made his skin crawl. He’d been forced to face the fact that the woman he’d loved had vanished. It had made it easier to walk away and when he’d come back to collect his stuff she’d gone. He’d found refuge in the mansion, and for the past month or so he’d found himself returning again and again to Storm’s room, confiding in her without needing to censure himself, and she’d said nothing, listening patiently, always impartial, always understanding. The past week he hadn’t gone back to his room at night. It was too cold, too lonely and he wasn’t used to it.

So he’d spent them at Ororo’s, in her chair.

He’d spent most mornings missing her warmth, but recently he hadn’t even been wondering where she was anymore. Today he was looking out the window, feeling for the first time strangely at peace with himself, Ororo sitting on the sill beside him, bringing a light shower of rain down, diamond drops that twinkled, jewel-like, in the lemony sunshine.

“Perhaps you should try and find her,” she’d been saying. “Perhaps you should try and talk to her, Remy.”

“No.” There was an odd kind of resolution to his voice, as if the crystal clearness of the beautiful morning had infected him. She’d looked down at him, her brow creased.

“But you and Rogue love one another…”

“Not anymore,” he’d murmured, his fingers absently toying with the lace hem of her nightgown. “I don’t know who dat person was, de one I spent de past few months in Valle Soleada wit’… but it wasn’t Rogue. Rogue’s gone.”

His voice had been hard and Storm had stared at him, wordless. Better t’ t’ink she’s dead… Because ever since she imprinted de Phoenix, Rogue’s been dead t’ me…

“Remy…” Storm’s hand had touched his shoulder lightly, “I’m sorry.”

He’d looked up at her, cornflower blue eyes warm and comforting and compassionate unconditionally, always unconditionally and he’d thought, if there was one person in this world who could teach me t’ forget her, Stormy, it would be you…

* * * * *

Rogue blinked. Her eyes were calm, serene almost. The blade lay silent, unmoving in her hands, cradled gently in her lap.

“You deserved happiness,” she spoke softly, reflectively. “Storm gave you that happiness. Ah only took it away from you.”

He lowered his head, saying nothing. Outside a drum-roll of thunder surged over the skies – rain began to smatter on the windowpane of the ramshackle house. His lips tightened. Every thunderstorm reminded him of her now, of the wife he had loved and lost. The wife he had lost because of the woman that now sat across from him, so placid, so tranquil. For so long now he’d thought of this moment, a moment when vengeance could have been his, when he could show her the rage and bitterness he felt, the hole in his heart and his soul, what she had wrenched from him the day she’d stolen away those he had loved. She had destroyed his world. He’d wanted to die along with it, for the pain and the anguish to end. In this world, the world he now found himself in, talking to her, she’d killed him as was his rightful destiny. But in his time, in his original world, the Timebroker had rescued him, taken him out and kept him alive, kept him hurting. Kept him hating.

But now, as he looked at her and tried so hard to keep that strange, cold fire blazing within him, he couldn’t do it.

The last few months of his time with her, all he’d seen was an alien face on her features, alien words he could not understand. But now the flame in her eyes was gone. The violent intensity of the Phoenix was hidden, locked away deep inside her.

She was Rogue.

She was the woman he’d once loved.

“We were happy, once,” he returned quietly, not knowing why he should say so, not knowing why he wished to comfort her.

“Once.” She smiled that old smile. “Living here with you… Those were the happiest moments of my life.”