These "dreams" I've been havin' are really startin' to make me hate
the idea of hell, not that there was much to like in the first
place. Thinkin' about relivin' yer mistakes in live over and
over `gain for the rest of eternity bites, but the nasty truth of it
gets stronger once ya live through something even close to it. And
yea, if ya ask me, that's `xactly what I think I'm goin' through
right now. But instead of relivin' ever kill I've ever made; I'm
seein' every sign I ever missed, signs that might have saved the
Cajun's life in the end. Maybe if we noticed shit early on, we
coulda got to know him better. Maybe he would have told us `bout
Sinister and the Massacre. Maybe.
I really hate that word, ya know? Maybe. It's the same fuckin' thing
as `what if?'. It never gets ya anywhere and it just drives ya up
the wall, knowin' all the shit that might have happened, all the
shit that coulda been different. All of it just drives ya nuts. But
no matter if I like it or not, I gotta live with maybe and `what
if?' everyday. Sure, the dreams aren't all that frequent or nothin'
but that doesn't mean I don't relive `em everyday, every time I see
one of the others. And yea, it's all drivin' me just a little bit
outta my head.
Not that I can really complain, since there's gotta be some reason
behind this. My mind probably thinks that I deserve this somehow,
and who am I to disagree, eh? I wasn't there when they let that joke
of a trial condemn the kid and I wasn't there when he died, but that
don't make me any less guilty when it comes to never gettin' to know
the kid. I stuck to my own shit just as much as everyone else when
the kid was obviously withdrawin' into his self. I razzed the kid
about his playboy ways and attitude just as much as everyone else
when there was nothin' funny `bout it. I watched the kid hide behind
mask after mask without doin' a damn thing `bout it, just like
everyone else.
That's all that they ever were, too. Masks; the many faces of Remy
LeBeau. Tons o' masks for the stage production he was puttin' on,
complete with a leadin' lady, dramatic plot twists, and comedic
relief. He played the part for whatever ya needed, for anyone. There
were only a few times when those masks slipped off. There were only
a few times when we felt the pain beneath the shields. There were
only a few times when we saw the real Remy, under the act. Like the
day in the Danger Room, trainin' with Warren. There was nothin' fake
or acted about the way he reacted towards Wings' insult `bout his
days as a thief. Raw, unchecked venom seeped into his words and
actions when Warren suggested he stole the bo-staff of his. The one
he earned when he became a Master Thief in the Guild.
But then, there was barely ever anythin' between Worthington and
LeBeau that wasn't pure venom. Now there are a few people in this
mansion that could live without ever seein' the other again, but
nothin' like what passed between the two of them. Warren never needs
a reason to hate anyone, it's in his blood to be distrustful, and
especially with someone he has no hope of ever understandin'. So
LeBeau was a prime target `fore he ever opened his mouth. And Remy,
after that day in trainin', never had a reason to trust or like
Wings. Their relationship out of uniform was non-existent and
neither really thought it was a cryin' shame.
And it really wasn't, as long as they could work as a team when they
needed to, it didn't really matter that they couldn't stand hide nor
hair of each other. But what happened in Antarctica was a shame. Its
one thing to dislike a person, but it's another to turn on a
teammate in his time of need. Warren's done a lot of the things over
the years that don't sit well with me, but leavin' Gambit to defend
himself in that trial is the worst yet. Somethin' that spoiled lil'
brat should go to his grave regrettin'.
Oh, he's been miserable ever since they got back, but that ain't got
nothin' to do with regret or remorse. He's been in one hellova bad
mood since findin' out it was Remy that assembled the Marauders, the
mutants responsible for him losin' his wings. It's like he thinks
just hearin' `bout it again means he can sulk about it all over
again. I know it had to suck, probably `bout as bad as someone
installin' metal claws into yer arms, but that don't give him the
right to throw a tantrum about it for weeks. Even Betsy refuses to
deal with his shit, not that she's all that sane right now from all
that Crimson Dawn crap. And it really don't give him the right to
turn his back on Gambit, ever. I've said it before, and I'll say it
again: X-Men take care of each other.
Another week passed, Jean tryin' to deal with everythin' and Warren
throwin' ravin' fits `bout the Cajun deservin' every last cell in
his body frozen for bein' responsible for losin' his wings. Another
week I had to spend thinkin' `bout the man behind the mask of a
smooth operator and the fear he had `bout showin' his full deck.
Another week came and went, and the dreams returned.
* The women were on their monthly retreat, again. I was still
wonderin' when the word retreat came to mean shoppin' in the local
mall for an entire weekend. But whatever, it gave the rest of us the
chance to get the hell outta the mansion for a guy's night out. A
night out without them worryin' `bout their girlfriends freakin' out
and a night out to get lucky if they didn't have a woman already. A
night out to get completely smashed and blow some cash at cards,
pool, and on booze. Every man's dream, right? Even then, I still had
to drag half of them out with brute force most of the time, namely
Slim and Hank. But this time I got lucky, and everyone was
standin' `round ready when I came downstairs.
It was a sign that we were all worked to the bone, with mission
after mission and the school to run, too. The last few weeks had
been nothin' but work work work, and it was definitely time to play.
You know what they say… when the cats are out, the mice will play.
And all work and no play makes Cyke a dull boy. Chucklin' at my own
humor, I started the engine of my jeep and started for
Harry's. `Cause so many of us were actually goin' this time, and
voluntarily, I took Henry, Bobby, and Remy with me.
"So the woman let you outta yer cage this time, Cajun?" I asked with
a smirk, glancin' at him in the backseat through the rear view
mirror. A sheepish smirk pulled at his full lips and he shrugged a
little.
"Oui, what she don' know, won' hurt her…" Grinnin' in response, I
nodded my head in understandin'. I heard Bobby's laugh and saw the
amusement in Hank's eyes, already glad this night was lookin' up. I
really needed to blow off some steam and relax for a change.
Everyone else needed to unwind a lil', too, especially the three in
my jeep. Hank had been researchin' non stop `bout somethin' or
another, barely even comin' outta the lab for food. Bobby had been
gettin' more and more tense by the week, not that I had any clue
what the hell that was all about. And the Cajun, well, he was always
good for a night out, and had been lookin' a little worn out lately.
Hell, I'd be worn out too if I had to tutor brats in French and deal
with a woman like Rogue when I wasn't savin' the world over and
over.
Pullin' up in front of Harry's, I cut the engine and grinned at the
men unbucklin' their seat belts. "C'mon boys, it's time to get shit
faced."
"Ah, my eloquent Canadian friend, where would we be without your
lessons in moderation?" Hank shook his head, the ghost of a small,
sarcastic smile on his blue lips. I opened the door as Bobby and
Remy jumped out, glancin' over at Hank in the passenger's seat.
"Shove it, Blue." I smirked and answered, closin' the door and
followin' the two kids inside. Halfway inside, I heard Hank's laugh
and response, glad my mission to get `em all to relax a little was
already workin'.
"I do love it so when you prove me right, Logan."
An hour and forty-odd bottles later, Hank and I were sittin' at a
table in the back, watchin' Drake and LeBeau play a game of pool.
Okay, so we watched Bobby stand by while Remy sank every ball on the
table. Hank was leanin' heavily against the wall and the back of the
booth, mumblin' somethin' I couldn't understand. And with my
hearin', that means he was loaded and a half. Amused, I took another
swig of my beer and turned my attention back to the kids, the ones
that probably thought I was too outta it to hear every word they
said.
"So you and Rogue, what's that like, man?" Bobby asked, standin' off
to the side with both hands clasped over the top of the pool stick,
lookin' younger than he was.
"Whatcha mean, homme?" Remy asked as he sunk a striped ball in the
corner pocket, apparently just barely payin' attention to the buzzed
Icecube.
"I meeeeean… what's it like bein' with a girl, you know, that you
can't even touch?" He explained, watchin' with boredom as he lost
horribly. Serves him right for playin' against someone named Gambit.
"Remy touch her plenty, mon ami," he answered with a fake leer and a
smirk he was obviously forcin'. I thought I'd never get why that kid
felt like he had to put on a show 24/7. But Bobby didn't seem to
notice the forced attitude and I got my first real insight into it.
He had to put on a show `cause everyone else expected him to.
"You know what I mean, Remy. What's it like to be in love with a
girl you can't have sex with?" The forwardness of his question was
probably because of the few beers he'd had earlier, but it snapped
LeBeau out of his concentration.
"What's dis really `bout, Bobby?" He asked, from Cajun Playboy to
Concerned Teammate in the drop of a hat. Somethin' I'll never
understand, but I'll always envy and maybe one day appreciate. When
he got a sigh from Drake, he straightened up and rested his hip
against side of the table, coat swishin' in the air as his stick
switched hands.
"I was just wondering… you know, if things were better without the
sex. I mean, it's gotta be easier, right? No expectations, no
complications, no…" He trailed off with another sigh and looked at
Remy, suddenly the grown man instead of the clown. Remy seemed to
consider this, eyebrow raised marginally underneath his black
shades, takin' his time to phrase his answer.
"Oui… easier, mais-" Remy answered slowly, like he was talkin' `bout
somethin' important, not Drake's sex life.
"But what? It's easier. So it's better, not to have the sex… because
then no one can screw up the relationship, that way… there's no
threat of it, you know, sucking and there's no threat that it'll all
blow up in your face." Noddin' to himself, Bobby looked like he'd
just figured out the meaning of life. Remy frowned and headed over
towards Drake, fillin' the air with the smell of warm leather,
slender thighs brushin' together through black leather pants.
Once he got to Bobby's side of the table, he leaned back against it,
restin' a firm ass on its ledge and stretchin' out long legs. "Mebbe
so, mais makin' love is a part of amour, non? You don' do it
thinkin' ir'll blow up in ya face. You do it because you love da
femme, `cause you wan' to. What's got you so worried, cher?" His
voice dropped low, to keep the others from hearin' what they were
talkin' `bout, but all hearin' LeBeau talk `bout "makin' love" in
that Southern Comfort voice did was make me adjust myself.
"Every time I have sex with a woman, I ruin the relationship. It
always blows up in my face. It's always one thing or another, but it
always ends up with the same conversation. `Bobby, I had fun but,
the fun's over.' `It was great and all, but it's gotta end.' `Oh
it's not you, it's me.' `Thanks, but no thanks.' Every damn time."
There was a sarcasm to Bobby's voice but a lil' desperation in his
eyes, somethin' I'd never noticed.
"Bobby, dat ain't ya fault. Jus' because you sleep wit' a femme den
break up, don' mean dat you ruined da relationship. It jus' means
dat all dose femmes weren't right for you. You been worryin' `bout
dis for far too long, mon ami. You gotta let go of dis guilt. It's
eatin' you `live, cher."
Remy rested his hand against Bobby's shoulder and Drake looked down
at the floor, shufflin' his feet a little, but noddin' just the
same. It took a minute to notice, in my slightly drunken state, but
I realized with a start that LeBeau knew all along. That he got in
the car with us tonight, that he offered to play a game of pool with
Icecube, that he went to all that trouble just to draw this out of
Bobby, to help him when no one else even knew there was a problem.
Later that night, on the drive home, I glanced over at Remy in the
driver's seat. From my place leanin' against the passenger side
door, I could see Hank and Bobby passed out in the back seat. The
radio was playin' somethin' real quiet and LeBeau was humming along
under his breath.
"That was a good thing ya did, back there, kid." I praised, leanin'
my head against the cold glass and watchin' him outta the corner of
my eye.
"Que?" He stalled, tryin' to pretend he didn't mastermind a plot to
help a teammate that barely spoke to him on a regular basis.
"Don't play dumb with me, Cajun. I know damn well what you did for
Drake. Yer a good man, LeBeau."
Even in the dark, I could see the blush that tinted his high
cheekbones. He was silent for a minute or two, still watchin' the
road, before answerin' me in a grateful tone that I'd never heard
before, not even with Rogue. A real tone, one that proved what a
puzzle Remy LeBeau is and always will be.
"Merci, Logan." *