PI LOG: Afterimage -- Warren and Remy
After trying to smooth Scott's feathers about the encounter with Warren, Remy discovers Archangel himself using the top of Greenwood Properties as an angsting post. The Cajun invites Warren in, but he has few words of wisdom for a drunkard with a self-hate complex.
Greenwood Properties -- Chinatown
Snow continues to fall on Beacon Harbor, clinging to the roofs and the streets like fur on a wet dog; heavy and dirty. Atop the Greenwood Properties, the shadows of the dark night sit heavy and still, menacingly so for those who aren't accustomed to the dark. In the shadow nearest the doorway, the shadows seem just a bit thicker--as if something is crouched there. The drained bottle of cheap scotch-whiskey half-covered in snow might narrow down the list of suspects, but the telltale glint of metallic wing that shows now and then as the figure shifts to take another drink from a second bottle gives it away most of all. Warren Worthington is drunk. There's no questioning that. His normally sharp blue eyes are rheumy and unfocussed, and his blue skin is tinged with purple around the cheeks where his face has flushed from the alcohol. Warren himself is covered in a thin blanket of snow, but each time he shifts, chunks fall away to the rooftop.
It's just as well Remy has finally made his way home, as the snow is just getting thick enough to both get in the way and to trace his rooftop path. His feet crunch as he lands on the roof of his apartment building, but immediately Gambit has gone into a defensive crouch, cards in one hand. He knows the shadows of this roof better than the shadows of any other part of the city, and beyond that Remy sees relatively well in the dark. It's only a few heartbeats before he straightens, and calls warily, "Warren?"
The shadows move again, and Warren shifts full to his feet. The dangerous glint of his wings menaces outward from the shadows like two snakes testing the air, and then there's a growl of irritation before the loud *shnnk* of metal being sheathed heralds the disappearance of those wings. Warren stumbles from the shadows himself, carrying the bottle of scotch in one hand. He stares at Remy for a moment, then slumps up against the door. "Ya juss gonna leave a man out in theh cold?" he asks, the slur in his voice only barely perceptible.
"I us'lly take de stairs straight to de 'partment, me," Remy says, motioning with his chin towards the fire escape as he straightens. The cards aren't put far away. "An' I damn well *will* leave you out here in de cold if you gonna let dose t'ings rip my 'partment up. I got a dog I got to t'ink of. Promise me dey stay tucked away an' you're more den welcome in m'home."
Warren winces at the barb--not just a little flinch of the face, but a full backwards stagger as if he's been punched in the gut. "I deserved that," he mutters, but doesn't make the requested promise. Instead, he just nods his head and says, "I've got them under control." Warren pushes the bottle up and takes a rather hearty swig, then squeezes his eyes shut as the burn washes down into his innards.
"Leave de booze here." Remy says, quietly, before he moves to step past Warren and swing down onto the fire escape. He walks all the way to the third floor landing before looking up at Worthington, his expression more placid than might be expected. "Comin'?"
Warren stays on the roof for several heartbeats, letting Remy get down to the landing. All the while he stares at his bottle of Scotch, as though weighing Remy's orders with his own internal desires. The wings flex outward briefly, but then with a feral scream Warren throws the bottle away from himself and over the edge. The wings slink back away, and the bottle shatters down in the alley below. Warren breathes deeply for a few moments, then manages his way onto the fire escape and down the stairs to the landing.
Remy takes a deep breath as he slides the window open, slipping through and bowing immediately to greet the ecstactically jumping puppy. Once Jolie is calmed and corraled to the couch, the Cajun will move out of the way so that Warren can enter. "Bein' drunk probl'y ain't de best 'dea right now, 's all." He says, quietly, once Warren is in range to hear him.
Warren waits on the landing, staring down at the alley while Remy blocks the way. When he hears the sound of the Cajun's voice again, he turns and slips in through the window, then closes the portal behind him. Warren looks about the apartment for the first time, taking in the scenery. "Not likely gonna sstopf bein drunk jusst because I threw the bottle way," he says, still slightly slurred. Warren sighs and collapses into the lazyboy nearest the window, then leans forward and puts his head in his hands. "I'm a God-damned mess," he groans.
"Non, but you stop gettin' more drunk. You want somet'in' dat ain't booze? Coffee? Water?" Jolie doesn't stay on the couch long, but leaps up to put her front paws on Warren's knee and sniffsniff in his general direction. She's getting big. Remy hovers near the couch, waiting for potential drink orders, before saying in that still-so-soft voice; "Scott didn' take your t'reat so well."
"Coffee," Warren replies glumly, voice muffled by his hands. Leaning back, the blue-man runs his hands through his hair, then crosses his arms at the chest. "I don't expect he did. I was acting like an asshole, and I think you were right about why." He looks down at his hands; at his blue skin. "That wasn't me, back there. I don't threaten people--especially not Scott--by threatening to bring what I know are their worst fears to life."
Remy nods, and turns to the kitchen to start a pot and heat a mug of instant coffee for Warren. His voice is only louder, not more animate, when he calls. "I know it wasn't you; part of de reason I even stepped in at all. But dis Scott, he don't know you from Adam. An' now he t'inks you're dangerous. I t'ink he might be after blood, if you run into him any time soon."
"Great," Warren deadpans, closing his eyes and leaning back in the chair. "Jusst fugging great," he mutters softly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I lose control of the wings and make a verbal thhhreat, and the most dangerouss mutant I can think of--and probably worsse, if he doesn't have Xavier's teaching--hasn't got the sself-confidence to shhrug it off." He sighs and opens his eyes to look towards the door into the kitchen. "Any chance he's jusst fuming steam and will feel better in the morning?"
It isn't long before the Cajun re-emerges with a mug of coffee, which he offers towards Warren without acoutrement before dropping onto the end ofthe couch. "I t'ink he was scared and don't know better how to handle it. I t'ink mebbe if you give him a time to cool down an' apologize, explain t'ings, he be okay. I ain't gonna tell you where he lives, 'dough, b'cause he ain't gonna cotton to dat if he t'inks you're out to get him>"
"I don't want to know," Warren replies glumly, then takes a sip of the coffee. He eyes it balefully a moment--as though expressing his sturn displeasure with its lack of alcohol--then looks up to Remy once more. "If you see him ... well, no, I don't want to put you in that position." He sighs and just shakes his head. "How much easier this would be if that bastard had just let me die."
"Now, t'inkin' like dat ain't gonna get you nowhere. He didn' let you die. So you got to make de best of it, hien?" Remy shrugs, almost nonchalantly, his eyes almost rolling. "If you wan' me to ferry messages, I will. He don't want me to talk to you 'bout him none, but he ain't gonna blast me t'rough a wall if I come visit. We get on okay, prob'ly 'bout as well as me an' de ot'er Scott got on."
"As I recall," Warren says after another sip of coffee, "You and 'the other Scott' often butted heads over your profession." Warren smirks slightly at his own jibe, but there's no heart in it. It's not even a very good jibe. He sighs and stares into the brown-black liquid. "Tell him I'm sorry, would you? I'll make an apology in person, if I can, but I want him to at least hear it if I can't."
Remy smiles, lopsidedly, and shrugs. "D'spite de fact dat I was retired, me an' most of de team butted heads 'bout my profession, when it came up. Used to it." It wasn't much of a jibe, really, but Gambit is maintaining the smile if for no other reason than to try and lift Warren's spirits a bit. "I tell him. Promise."
Warren sits silently, unsure what else to say. Somewhere, deep down inside, he knows he should thank the Cajun for his help. But what little control the skin cells have smother the desire, and Warren simply stays quiet. Sipping his coffee cup, Warren stares off into space, lost in his own thoughts and his own world.
The Cajun is used to being underappreciated and taken for granted; Gambit won't even blink an eye at the fact that neither Warren nor Scott have thanked him for his efforts at averting disaster. Instead, Remy stands, chasing a hand through his hair briefly. "I had a long night. I hate t'be a rotten host, but if I don't get some sleep, I'm gonna be useless t'morrow. I put a pot of coffee on if you wan' more, an' anyt'in' in de fridge is yours. Got a spare room you're welcome to crash in t'night 'long as you don't shred not'in' nor puke in it."
Warren sits quietly a while longer, not bothering to respond to Remy's offer or explainations. He sits in the quiet, in the chair, sipping at his coffee till it's gone. He doesn't bother to get up and refill his mug. He doesn't bother to get up and use Remy's room. After a few hours of quiet, Warren finally snaps out of his quiet and looks towards the hallway. "Thanks," he murmurs softly, then stands and lets himself back out the window quietly. "For everything," he finishes after closing the window tight, then spreads his wings and heads out into the night sky.
Finis!
Greenwood Properties -- Chinatown
Snow continues to fall on Beacon Harbor, clinging to the roofs and the streets like fur on a wet dog; heavy and dirty. Atop the Greenwood Properties, the shadows of the dark night sit heavy and still, menacingly so for those who aren't accustomed to the dark. In the shadow nearest the doorway, the shadows seem just a bit thicker--as if something is crouched there. The drained bottle of cheap scotch-whiskey half-covered in snow might narrow down the list of suspects, but the telltale glint of metallic wing that shows now and then as the figure shifts to take another drink from a second bottle gives it away most of all. Warren Worthington is drunk. There's no questioning that. His normally sharp blue eyes are rheumy and unfocussed, and his blue skin is tinged with purple around the cheeks where his face has flushed from the alcohol. Warren himself is covered in a thin blanket of snow, but each time he shifts, chunks fall away to the rooftop.
It's just as well Remy has finally made his way home, as the snow is just getting thick enough to both get in the way and to trace his rooftop path. His feet crunch as he lands on the roof of his apartment building, but immediately Gambit has gone into a defensive crouch, cards in one hand. He knows the shadows of this roof better than the shadows of any other part of the city, and beyond that Remy sees relatively well in the dark. It's only a few heartbeats before he straightens, and calls warily, "Warren?"
The shadows move again, and Warren shifts full to his feet. The dangerous glint of his wings menaces outward from the shadows like two snakes testing the air, and then there's a growl of irritation before the loud *shnnk* of metal being sheathed heralds the disappearance of those wings. Warren stumbles from the shadows himself, carrying the bottle of scotch in one hand. He stares at Remy for a moment, then slumps up against the door. "Ya juss gonna leave a man out in theh cold?" he asks, the slur in his voice only barely perceptible.
"I us'lly take de stairs straight to de 'partment, me," Remy says, motioning with his chin towards the fire escape as he straightens. The cards aren't put far away. "An' I damn well *will* leave you out here in de cold if you gonna let dose t'ings rip my 'partment up. I got a dog I got to t'ink of. Promise me dey stay tucked away an' you're more den welcome in m'home."
Warren winces at the barb--not just a little flinch of the face, but a full backwards stagger as if he's been punched in the gut. "I deserved that," he mutters, but doesn't make the requested promise. Instead, he just nods his head and says, "I've got them under control." Warren pushes the bottle up and takes a rather hearty swig, then squeezes his eyes shut as the burn washes down into his innards.
"Leave de booze here." Remy says, quietly, before he moves to step past Warren and swing down onto the fire escape. He walks all the way to the third floor landing before looking up at Worthington, his expression more placid than might be expected. "Comin'?"
Warren stays on the roof for several heartbeats, letting Remy get down to the landing. All the while he stares at his bottle of Scotch, as though weighing Remy's orders with his own internal desires. The wings flex outward briefly, but then with a feral scream Warren throws the bottle away from himself and over the edge. The wings slink back away, and the bottle shatters down in the alley below. Warren breathes deeply for a few moments, then manages his way onto the fire escape and down the stairs to the landing.
Remy takes a deep breath as he slides the window open, slipping through and bowing immediately to greet the ecstactically jumping puppy. Once Jolie is calmed and corraled to the couch, the Cajun will move out of the way so that Warren can enter. "Bein' drunk probl'y ain't de best 'dea right now, 's all." He says, quietly, once Warren is in range to hear him.
Warren waits on the landing, staring down at the alley while Remy blocks the way. When he hears the sound of the Cajun's voice again, he turns and slips in through the window, then closes the portal behind him. Warren looks about the apartment for the first time, taking in the scenery. "Not likely gonna sstopf bein drunk jusst because I threw the bottle way," he says, still slightly slurred. Warren sighs and collapses into the lazyboy nearest the window, then leans forward and puts his head in his hands. "I'm a God-damned mess," he groans.
"Non, but you stop gettin' more drunk. You want somet'in' dat ain't booze? Coffee? Water?" Jolie doesn't stay on the couch long, but leaps up to put her front paws on Warren's knee and sniffsniff in his general direction. She's getting big. Remy hovers near the couch, waiting for potential drink orders, before saying in that still-so-soft voice; "Scott didn' take your t'reat so well."
"Coffee," Warren replies glumly, voice muffled by his hands. Leaning back, the blue-man runs his hands through his hair, then crosses his arms at the chest. "I don't expect he did. I was acting like an asshole, and I think you were right about why." He looks down at his hands; at his blue skin. "That wasn't me, back there. I don't threaten people--especially not Scott--by threatening to bring what I know are their worst fears to life."
Remy nods, and turns to the kitchen to start a pot and heat a mug of instant coffee for Warren. His voice is only louder, not more animate, when he calls. "I know it wasn't you; part of de reason I even stepped in at all. But dis Scott, he don't know you from Adam. An' now he t'inks you're dangerous. I t'ink he might be after blood, if you run into him any time soon."
"Great," Warren deadpans, closing his eyes and leaning back in the chair. "Jusst fugging great," he mutters softly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "I lose control of the wings and make a verbal thhhreat, and the most dangerouss mutant I can think of--and probably worsse, if he doesn't have Xavier's teaching--hasn't got the sself-confidence to shhrug it off." He sighs and opens his eyes to look towards the door into the kitchen. "Any chance he's jusst fuming steam and will feel better in the morning?"
It isn't long before the Cajun re-emerges with a mug of coffee, which he offers towards Warren without acoutrement before dropping onto the end ofthe couch. "I t'ink he was scared and don't know better how to handle it. I t'ink mebbe if you give him a time to cool down an' apologize, explain t'ings, he be okay. I ain't gonna tell you where he lives, 'dough, b'cause he ain't gonna cotton to dat if he t'inks you're out to get him>"
"I don't want to know," Warren replies glumly, then takes a sip of the coffee. He eyes it balefully a moment--as though expressing his sturn displeasure with its lack of alcohol--then looks up to Remy once more. "If you see him ... well, no, I don't want to put you in that position." He sighs and just shakes his head. "How much easier this would be if that bastard had just let me die."
"Now, t'inkin' like dat ain't gonna get you nowhere. He didn' let you die. So you got to make de best of it, hien?" Remy shrugs, almost nonchalantly, his eyes almost rolling. "If you wan' me to ferry messages, I will. He don't want me to talk to you 'bout him none, but he ain't gonna blast me t'rough a wall if I come visit. We get on okay, prob'ly 'bout as well as me an' de ot'er Scott got on."
"As I recall," Warren says after another sip of coffee, "You and 'the other Scott' often butted heads over your profession." Warren smirks slightly at his own jibe, but there's no heart in it. It's not even a very good jibe. He sighs and stares into the brown-black liquid. "Tell him I'm sorry, would you? I'll make an apology in person, if I can, but I want him to at least hear it if I can't."
Remy smiles, lopsidedly, and shrugs. "D'spite de fact dat I was retired, me an' most of de team butted heads 'bout my profession, when it came up. Used to it." It wasn't much of a jibe, really, but Gambit is maintaining the smile if for no other reason than to try and lift Warren's spirits a bit. "I tell him. Promise."
Warren sits silently, unsure what else to say. Somewhere, deep down inside, he knows he should thank the Cajun for his help. But what little control the skin cells have smother the desire, and Warren simply stays quiet. Sipping his coffee cup, Warren stares off into space, lost in his own thoughts and his own world.
The Cajun is used to being underappreciated and taken for granted; Gambit won't even blink an eye at the fact that neither Warren nor Scott have thanked him for his efforts at averting disaster. Instead, Remy stands, chasing a hand through his hair briefly. "I had a long night. I hate t'be a rotten host, but if I don't get some sleep, I'm gonna be useless t'morrow. I put a pot of coffee on if you wan' more, an' anyt'in' in de fridge is yours. Got a spare room you're welcome to crash in t'night 'long as you don't shred not'in' nor puke in it."
Warren sits quietly a while longer, not bothering to respond to Remy's offer or explainations. He sits in the quiet, in the chair, sipping at his coffee till it's gone. He doesn't bother to get up and refill his mug. He doesn't bother to get up and use Remy's room. After a few hours of quiet, Warren finally snaps out of his quiet and looks towards the hallway. "Thanks," he murmurs softly, then stands and lets himself back out the window quietly. "For everything," he finishes after closing the window tight, then spreads his wings and heads out into the night sky.
Finis!