*Does the happy fic dance*
Fandom: X-Men Evo
Author: Me
Rating: G for goodness gracious
Pairing: Rogue/Remy (of course)
AN: I know I owe people fic! Pardon my slacking off. But! I've been working on the next part of this series, and this came to me in an ethically-questionable flash.
Four Ways Literature Didn’t Bring Rogue and Remy Together
(And One Way It Did)
II. Unfortunate
If you are looking for a winsome tale full of smiles and happy endings, I regretfully inform you, you won’t find it here. There are almost no smiles, albeit for the small, disappointed sort, and very certainly, there is no happy end in sight; the future drags on, a bleak and sorrowful mess from which there is no impending reprieve. This is because the lives of the characters within have been dreadful, dreary, and dramatically discontented. Their names, I shall tell you, with the weariest of hearts, are Rogue Darkholme and Remy LeBeau. I hate to introduce you to such an unhappy pair, but that is how this story begins.
They were orphans, of a type, though they came to reside in the same tall, white, very large manor, with a sign on its door that read: Xavier’s School for the Gifted (‘gifted’, you may know, here means ‘endowed with super human abilities’). They fell under the somber guidance of a man known as Professor Xavier, who was very smart and very bald and always instructed them go out in the world and do their best to be good (a rather subjective command with which they both struggled).
Their efforts took them one morning to Bayville Bakery. Bakeries are, most often, associated with pleasant memories, like the sweet taste of frosted-and-sprinkled cupcakes and the warm, comforting scent of freshly baked pie; yet, I caution you from taking that train of thought, else the next line will no doubt bring you added disappointment and misery.
It had burned to the ground.
Rogue Darkholme was a slender, deathly pale girl who had, of recent, taken to wearing gold-and-purple spandex and keeping her hair in a single, neat ponytail while investigating arson. She had the unfortunate ability to drain the mind and, if present, powers, of anyone she touched. It wouldn’t have been quite so dismal an ability if she knew how to turn it off, but she didn’t. For this reason, among many others, she turned and frowned when her assigned partner took a step too close, as he moved to peer at the ashes over her shoulder.
Remy LeBeau was quite a bit taller, and no doubt, could easily see the ashes without invading the personal space of his companion. But he was also a mischievous, impish former thief with a penchant for irritating all pretty girls in general, and his Southern Belle of a partner in particular. He had a woefully handsome face, and with all his resolve, arranged those features into a look of supposed innocence. Hand against his heart (except not, because he was using his left hand over the right side of his chest, so that a more accurate description might be ‘hand over his lung’) he said, “Pardon my proximity. It was a complete an’ totally honest mistake.”
It was, you see, also his unfortunate habit to lie, shamelessly.
Quieting the not-quite-kind remarks that dangled precariously off the edge of her lips, Rogue knelt down and ran her hand through the blackened bakery remains. “Ah don’t understand it,” she said, sprinkling a sampling of the ash into a small bag she produced from some unseen place in her spandex. “Who’s got a vendetta against a baker?”
Remy gave the scene a quick evaluation and his red eyes flickered in a way that suggested serious contemplation and, he probably formed a quick but useful list of probable suspects and their correspondingly terrible motives. I say ‘probably’ because what actually came out, when he finally translated his erudite thoughts into words was something along the lines of: “A butcher… ‘nother baker? Candlestick maker?”
That familiar frown (for what other expression would you expect to see in a story as unsatisfactory and dismal as this) drew down the center of Rogue’s face once again and she said, “Funny, Cajun,” (funny, sometimes meaning ‘amusing’ or ‘provoking laughter’, but here meaning ‘stupid and mirthless’) and then, “Remind me next time the professor picks up a power signature at the scene of a crime ta make sure you’re nice an’ unconscious before Ah volunteer ta investigate.”
“Oh? You gonna tire me out?”
“With a really big mace,” She agreed, as happily as she could, considering.
“So you like handlin’ big stuff.”
She squinted, suddenly distracted by something in the almost distant-horizon. “Unfortunately for you.” Truthfully, she could have been speaking for both of them, for indeed, there were many (one might employ the phrase ‘a series of’) unfortunate events preparing to unravel around them. Already the dark something in the distance was growing larger, and closer, and began to shape itself into the figure of a tall, broad-shouldered, darkly-clad man.
Almost instinctively, Remy drew himself closer to Rogue, took an almost imperceptible step in front of her and wondered aloud, “Who’s our guest?”
“Ah have no idea.” She said, “But whoever it is, they’re headed right for us.”
“Hmm.” He pulled his hand clear of his trench coat, and almost by magic a thin deck of cards materialized in his palm. He had the urge to light one (as was his gift) and throw it at the figure, but he refrained because though unseen things are almost always dangerous, frightening and terrible, they are sometimes not.
Indeed, as the figure approached even closer, it began to take on more familiar characteristics: there was a glinting of steel where skin ought to be, a gait they both knew well, and a soft, accented voice called out to them, requesting their attention. After a moment longer, the figure removed the dark hood of his sweatshirt, and what was left of their hesitation evaporated into the air, replaced only by a strong sense of curiosity. Piotr Rasputin had not been seen in Bayville since the unofficial disbanding of Magneto’s Acolytes. The grapevine, as reliable in the matter as any small strip of agriculture was likely to be, placed him back in Russia.
“Hey, Petey,” Remy said, though what he thought was ‘Russia is a lot closer than it used to be’.
“Remy. Rogue,” Piotr inclined his head. His manner was polite, but his features were strained with sadness and frustration. He very clearly had something important to say, but for the longest time, seemed to hesitate, as if he was afraid of embarking onto questionable territory.
“So, about this arson…” Rogue began, and then abandoned the sentence altogether.
“Is it hot out here,” Remy asked her, absently, “O’ is dat just you?”
She raised a fist to threaten him, but just then Piotr finally found the disheartening words he needed and managed to extricate them from his throat. “This time yesterday, I was mentoring a group of children in Russia who had developed… special abilities, like ours.” His features darkened. “But there was an attack. The children were stolen. It’s much worse,” Piotr continued quickly, before they had occasion to assume that was the entirety of the misfortune. Linking his hands behind his back, he said, “I came here to beg the assistance of your Charles Xavier, but by the barren destruction I found in place of your mansion, I can only assume he and your friends have been taken, as well.”
“Wait, what?” Rogue bit her lip, as was her habit when things seemed to be confusingly bad (she would, of course, be biting her lip quite frequently after this moment) and her hands moved to the communication device fastened to her ear. It beeped twice, and crackled with static. She pulled it off and stared in confusion. “It’s dead. The comm line never goes dead.”
Opting for a more conventional means of contact, Remy reached into his trench coat and dragged out his phone. He dialed, waited, and then took a deep, shaky breath. “No answer,” He said, looking to Piotr again. He pictured the mansion in his head, as Piotr described it, crumbled, crashed and crunched into nothingness. Where the rest of their team might be, he couldn’t begin to imagine.
Presently, Piotr straightened his considerably strong back. “I sought you out because I hoped we might work together to solve our mutual problem.”
“How did you know we were here?”
The Russian said, “I heard rumors on your American radio station that this arson might have been the work of a disaffected mutant youth.”
Remy said, “An’ you knew we’d be investigatin’.”
“Nyet. I thought you, my old friend, might be the arsonist.”
Rogue turned her face in the general direction of the school. Her arms moved up to wrap around her chest and she found herself dreading what must come next: a visit to the desecrated site. “Come on. We have to confirm it, ourselves.” She said, willing herself to move forward. Remy stepped up to her side, and for a moment, they locked gazes and both contemplated the fact that they might very well be orphans, of a type, again: alone, in a dangerous, dastardly world.
I wish I could say they quickly found that Piotr had been mistaken, looking instead two manors to the right of Xavier’s place; or, that the task ahead of them, though great, was not too great for their fractured hearts to handle, and that at the very least, they would always have each other. That would be quite uplifting, indeed.
But it would be a lie.
Author: Me
Rating: G for goodness gracious
Pairing: Rogue/Remy (of course)
AN: I know I owe people fic! Pardon my slacking off. But! I've been working on the next part of this series, and this came to me in an ethically-questionable flash.
Four Ways Literature Didn’t Bring Rogue and Remy Together
(And One Way It Did)
II. Unfortunate
If you are looking for a winsome tale full of smiles and happy endings, I regretfully inform you, you won’t find it here. There are almost no smiles, albeit for the small, disappointed sort, and very certainly, there is no happy end in sight; the future drags on, a bleak and sorrowful mess from which there is no impending reprieve. This is because the lives of the characters within have been dreadful, dreary, and dramatically discontented. Their names, I shall tell you, with the weariest of hearts, are Rogue Darkholme and Remy LeBeau. I hate to introduce you to such an unhappy pair, but that is how this story begins.
They were orphans, of a type, though they came to reside in the same tall, white, very large manor, with a sign on its door that read: Xavier’s School for the Gifted (‘gifted’, you may know, here means ‘endowed with super human abilities’). They fell under the somber guidance of a man known as Professor Xavier, who was very smart and very bald and always instructed them go out in the world and do their best to be good (a rather subjective command with which they both struggled).
Their efforts took them one morning to Bayville Bakery. Bakeries are, most often, associated with pleasant memories, like the sweet taste of frosted-and-sprinkled cupcakes and the warm, comforting scent of freshly baked pie; yet, I caution you from taking that train of thought, else the next line will no doubt bring you added disappointment and misery.
It had burned to the ground.
Rogue Darkholme was a slender, deathly pale girl who had, of recent, taken to wearing gold-and-purple spandex and keeping her hair in a single, neat ponytail while investigating arson. She had the unfortunate ability to drain the mind and, if present, powers, of anyone she touched. It wouldn’t have been quite so dismal an ability if she knew how to turn it off, but she didn’t. For this reason, among many others, she turned and frowned when her assigned partner took a step too close, as he moved to peer at the ashes over her shoulder.
Remy LeBeau was quite a bit taller, and no doubt, could easily see the ashes without invading the personal space of his companion. But he was also a mischievous, impish former thief with a penchant for irritating all pretty girls in general, and his Southern Belle of a partner in particular. He had a woefully handsome face, and with all his resolve, arranged those features into a look of supposed innocence. Hand against his heart (except not, because he was using his left hand over the right side of his chest, so that a more accurate description might be ‘hand over his lung’) he said, “Pardon my proximity. It was a complete an’ totally honest mistake.”
It was, you see, also his unfortunate habit to lie, shamelessly.
Quieting the not-quite-kind remarks that dangled precariously off the edge of her lips, Rogue knelt down and ran her hand through the blackened bakery remains. “Ah don’t understand it,” she said, sprinkling a sampling of the ash into a small bag she produced from some unseen place in her spandex. “Who’s got a vendetta against a baker?”
Remy gave the scene a quick evaluation and his red eyes flickered in a way that suggested serious contemplation and, he probably formed a quick but useful list of probable suspects and their correspondingly terrible motives. I say ‘probably’ because what actually came out, when he finally translated his erudite thoughts into words was something along the lines of: “A butcher… ‘nother baker? Candlestick maker?”
That familiar frown (for what other expression would you expect to see in a story as unsatisfactory and dismal as this) drew down the center of Rogue’s face once again and she said, “Funny, Cajun,” (funny, sometimes meaning ‘amusing’ or ‘provoking laughter’, but here meaning ‘stupid and mirthless’) and then, “Remind me next time the professor picks up a power signature at the scene of a crime ta make sure you’re nice an’ unconscious before Ah volunteer ta investigate.”
“Oh? You gonna tire me out?”
“With a really big mace,” She agreed, as happily as she could, considering.
“So you like handlin’ big stuff.”
She squinted, suddenly distracted by something in the almost distant-horizon. “Unfortunately for you.” Truthfully, she could have been speaking for both of them, for indeed, there were many (one might employ the phrase ‘a series of’) unfortunate events preparing to unravel around them. Already the dark something in the distance was growing larger, and closer, and began to shape itself into the figure of a tall, broad-shouldered, darkly-clad man.
Almost instinctively, Remy drew himself closer to Rogue, took an almost imperceptible step in front of her and wondered aloud, “Who’s our guest?”
“Ah have no idea.” She said, “But whoever it is, they’re headed right for us.”
“Hmm.” He pulled his hand clear of his trench coat, and almost by magic a thin deck of cards materialized in his palm. He had the urge to light one (as was his gift) and throw it at the figure, but he refrained because though unseen things are almost always dangerous, frightening and terrible, they are sometimes not.
Indeed, as the figure approached even closer, it began to take on more familiar characteristics: there was a glinting of steel where skin ought to be, a gait they both knew well, and a soft, accented voice called out to them, requesting their attention. After a moment longer, the figure removed the dark hood of his sweatshirt, and what was left of their hesitation evaporated into the air, replaced only by a strong sense of curiosity. Piotr Rasputin had not been seen in Bayville since the unofficial disbanding of Magneto’s Acolytes. The grapevine, as reliable in the matter as any small strip of agriculture was likely to be, placed him back in Russia.
“Hey, Petey,” Remy said, though what he thought was ‘Russia is a lot closer than it used to be’.
“Remy. Rogue,” Piotr inclined his head. His manner was polite, but his features were strained with sadness and frustration. He very clearly had something important to say, but for the longest time, seemed to hesitate, as if he was afraid of embarking onto questionable territory.
“So, about this arson…” Rogue began, and then abandoned the sentence altogether.
“Is it hot out here,” Remy asked her, absently, “O’ is dat just you?”
She raised a fist to threaten him, but just then Piotr finally found the disheartening words he needed and managed to extricate them from his throat. “This time yesterday, I was mentoring a group of children in Russia who had developed… special abilities, like ours.” His features darkened. “But there was an attack. The children were stolen. It’s much worse,” Piotr continued quickly, before they had occasion to assume that was the entirety of the misfortune. Linking his hands behind his back, he said, “I came here to beg the assistance of your Charles Xavier, but by the barren destruction I found in place of your mansion, I can only assume he and your friends have been taken, as well.”
“Wait, what?” Rogue bit her lip, as was her habit when things seemed to be confusingly bad (she would, of course, be biting her lip quite frequently after this moment) and her hands moved to the communication device fastened to her ear. It beeped twice, and crackled with static. She pulled it off and stared in confusion. “It’s dead. The comm line never goes dead.”
Opting for a more conventional means of contact, Remy reached into his trench coat and dragged out his phone. He dialed, waited, and then took a deep, shaky breath. “No answer,” He said, looking to Piotr again. He pictured the mansion in his head, as Piotr described it, crumbled, crashed and crunched into nothingness. Where the rest of their team might be, he couldn’t begin to imagine.
Presently, Piotr straightened his considerably strong back. “I sought you out because I hoped we might work together to solve our mutual problem.”
“How did you know we were here?”
The Russian said, “I heard rumors on your American radio station that this arson might have been the work of a disaffected mutant youth.”
Remy said, “An’ you knew we’d be investigatin’.”
“Nyet. I thought you, my old friend, might be the arsonist.”
Rogue turned her face in the general direction of the school. Her arms moved up to wrap around her chest and she found herself dreading what must come next: a visit to the desecrated site. “Come on. We have to confirm it, ourselves.” She said, willing herself to move forward. Remy stepped up to her side, and for a moment, they locked gazes and both contemplated the fact that they might very well be orphans, of a type, again: alone, in a dangerous, dastardly world.
I wish I could say they quickly found that Piotr had been mistaken, looking instead two manors to the right of Xavier’s place; or, that the task ahead of them, though great, was not too great for their fractured hearts to handle, and that at the very least, they would always have each other. That would be quite uplifting, indeed.
But it would be a lie.