Work Text:
It’s a quiet day. Slow, at least as slow as a day can be for the King of Thieves. Dozens of missions to oversee, apprentices to train, reports to read, heists to plan, assassins to keep watch over— nothing Jean Luc can’t handle. He does it mechanically, without complaint; his people depend on him, after all. So he files paperwork away, takes notes and gives orders, and tries his best not to look at the family photos that haunt the wall.
Of course, things never stay quiet for long in the bayou. So when there’s an almost imperceptible crack in the floorboards, right in front of the door, he just pauses and raises his head.
“Jean Luc?” Bélize quietly steps into the room, a sober look on his face. “Think you should come downstairs. There’s some news you gotta see.”
He doesn’t ask if it’s serious— if Bélize dares to disturb him in his office, it has to be. So instead, he gets up and sighs, already grabbing his coat.
“What kind of news?”
“Mutant news.”
For half an instant, his fingers tighten against the fabric, an almost imperceptible tell.
“The X-Men are involved,” Belize finishes.
Of course they are— and so is Remy, or they wouldn't have called him downstairs. Silently, his brother in law leads him to the living room, doors to the kitchen wide open and the sound of the news blaring. No one speaks over the noise.
Quiet. That's bad news.
Henri is pacing in front of the TV, body reckless as his eyes stay fixated on the screen. Behind him, Emil, Theo and Yvonne are sitting on the couch, while Etienne is leaning against the armrest, knuckles white as grabs the upholstery. Mattie sits in the recliner, beads of a rosary clutched tight as she watches, Pierre hovering near the door behind her.
No one speaks for an instant, trying to make sense of the mess of blurry images before them. He can see what must have been buildings torn into shreds, flames licking the promise of a town, hope and bodies surely buried under the rubble.
“It's— dere's been an attack in Genosha,” Henri begins, running his fingers through his blond hair for what must be the hundredth time. “Dere was a gala. They send a journalist, they were reporting live, and den there was an explosion—”
“An explosion?”
“Not Remy's,” Pierre immediately reassures. “From dose machines— the Sentinels. One of them's attacked the island.”
“The journalist said the X-men are here to protect them, but we ain't seen Remy yet.”
Nothing too far out of the ordinary yet— nothing that should warrant this level of worry. So why is his heart pounding in his chest?
“He's over dere, I know he is,” Emil insists. “He told me he was going— told me his girl wasn’t acting like herself lately.”
None of them comment on the fact Emil has broken the rules of the exile— it’s not the first time nor the last, he knows. Even Henri treats the rule more as a suggestion— you can take a thief out of the bayou, but you can't forget family, he supposes.
“She's not his girl,” Théo mutters.
“C'mon, how long have they been dancing around each other? They're pretty much married at this point,” Etienne answers, an attempt at a joke that doesn't quite dispel the tension. Bélize shoots his youngest son a look, disapproval heavy in his sight.
“We think they’ve been targeting the crowds,” he whispers. “Kinda hard t’see, but they went for the gala hall first, den the town center.”
“We ain’t seen Remy,” Henri repeats. “Keep tryin’ to find him but—We can’t find Remy.”
Remy's eight, standing in the streets with clothing far too big for him and shoes with soles so worn out he might as well be running barefoot. He's apologising, yet his head is held high, defying the man he's just tried to pickpocket.
A foolish attitude, for most people. But if anything, Jean Luc’s always admired determination.
The kid before him looks scrawny, malnourished to his very bones. Full of life, but so thin that it seems you'd snap his ribs if you hugged him too tight. He’d give him six or seven years, at most— it’d take him weeks to discover his age, hidden behind grime and near starvation.
No powers, not yet. A devil in nickname only, a child damned before he could ever have deserved it. A good pickpocket.
The most precious son Jean Luc could have found, he thinks.
On the screen, the journalist starts shaking, grabbing the camera man to hide behind the remnants of a building, any semblance of professionalism long forgotten in her tone.
She points towards something just out of frame, tears gathering in her eyes, throat choked out as another group of battered mutants in fine clothes join them.
When the camera turns, Jean Luc can feel the air knocked out of his chest. The background is blurry, hidden by whatever buildings remain, yet they see it clear as day. It's— it's not a machine. It's an abomination, three headed as the Fates, crawling under the burden of its own neon metal. Closer to the group, smaller versions roam, robotic voices calmly announcing their doom. One of them gets closer, steps booming, looking out to the side as the journalist presses herself against the wall, trying to remain undetected.
Then, its eyes light green, and one of the survivors yells out a warning. A red blast brings down a building, somewhere just far enough to be hidden from the camera— they hear the screams nonetheless.
“Dey’re tryin’ to get everyone. Dieu, they’re tryin’ to wipe them all out,” Mattie whispers, tears swelling in her eyes. “These poor people.”
“C'mon, Remy, where are you?” one of the boys mumbles, so low he can’t discern the voice.
The group runs desperately across the alley, trying to join another group ahead, to get away from the threat— but these people must be running from their very own threat, he knows. They’re cornered, trapped like rats.
The giant turns then, angling its face towards a window, each move shaking the ground. Someone yells out, and through the shaky lens, they can see a figure moving, climbing it as if it was no obstacle.
It’s little less than a blur, a torn white suit, a hint of familiar long brown hair.
It’s enough.
Remy's ten, sitting on a small stool in the bathroom. He's squirming so much in the chair that Jean Luc worries he's going to rip his hair out. He takes it slow, dragging a fine tooth comb through each strand, from the roots to the very ends. Remy wiggles around — can't stay in place for a minute, dat one. He doesn’t complain, though. Just lets out a whine when he reaches a particularly tough knot.
“Papa, are we done soon?”
“Soon, chaoui, soon. Would go faster if y’ didn't mess up your hair every time y’ go outside.”
“Sorryyyyy,” he pleads with a pout, though Jean Luc's pretty sure there isn't a hint of shame in his eyes. “Is dat why you keep you hair all braided?”
“Amongst other things,” he shrugs. “Keeps it out of the way during missions.”
Remy escapes the chair to turn around, earning himself a sharp pain when he accidentally tugs on the comb still tangled in his hair. Despite this, he grabs the comb with ease, and stares down his father with all the seriousness a 10 something year old can have.
“Papa, can you braid my hair?”
It takes barely a few seconds for Remy to reach his destination— to fling himself at the very head of this monster, to sever it with a simple hit, his bo staff glowing brighter than the stars. The decapitated head is sent through the window in one swift movement, Remy landing safely inside.
The camera moves away now— it doesn’t matter. Remy’s alright.
Henri finally stops pacing, Théo and Emil cheering from the couch.
Remy’s alright.
Jean Luc lets out the breath he was holding. Remy’s okay— why won’t his heart stop thumping?
Someone in the group smiles, a sight so unlikely in the middle of this hell. The camera man gets up, yelling over the chaos, directing them towards what must have once been a square, where others are trying to reach safety.
Stay away from open areas, he wants to yell at the TV, at the hundreds that he wishes someone could save. It makes you more noticeable— for the love of god, move. It wouldn’t change a thing, he knows. The machines are hunting, bloodlust flowing through their wires, cold and calculated hatred etched into their very code.
A man gets thrown into a car in front of them, and he hears gasps, desperation in their voices. It takes them a second to recognise him, blood and sorrow sullying his face. Their leader? He looks half dead himself, straining against the threats.
Remy reaches the square then, blowing through a wall with a group of strange looking mutants behind him. A claw tries to reach them, drawing near him— he notices it in time, grabbing his tattered scarf and charging it. He flings it at the robot, a bright glow he knows to be strong enough to topple a building. From the side, Emil whistles at the sight.
That girl— not really Remy’s girl—flies through a sheet of metal, fists angry and face laden with tears. The three headed monster glows green again, targeting the fallen leader and those who joined him. There’s no way they’ll all dodge in time. The white haired man seems to gather his forces, magnetic energy dancing at his command as he summons a shield.
The camera is dropped on the ground then, abandoned by those running to safety. From where it lands, though almost half the screen is obscured by the ground, they can see a blast charging, particles dancing in the metallic creature's mouth. There's no way he can save them. And when it’s done with him…
Out on the side, a flash of reddish hair, peppered with a white streak— she's trying to go after it and Remy's trying to stop her, his heart soft even in the middle of hell.Magneto sees her; a swift movement of his hands and metal flies, enclosing them both in a shield of debris— safe?
There’s no safety in this god forsaken place.
The Sentinel fires. For an instant, it's so quiet that he can hear his blood pumping in his chest— then the attack meets the shield, and everything breaks. The actual blast is like hell unchained, the force unleashed so ferocious it seems to be leaking through the TV.
When the smoke clears, there's nothing left but a fuming crater, bodies so torn they're melting in the earth. Something foolish in Jean Luc hopes it's just the broken angle, that there might be survivors out of frame— he knows there isn't.
The girl bursts out of the metal sphere, flying in rage— straight towards the machine.
“She's going to get herself killed,” Mattie whispers.
“Remy's going after her. He— dat damn idiot! Stay down!” Henri pleads.
The deadly eyes track her, gleaming red. Another strike preparing; she doesn't heed the warning, but Remy does.
Instead of rushing after her, he runs off screen, a second of hope before they hear the roar of a motorcycle. It moves towards the horizon, towards the monster and the girl, glowing bright as day.
“Why the hell is he chargin’—” Emil’s mutter is cut off when Remy leaps out of the vehicle, sending it straight into the girl. It explodes on contact, the magenta hue flashing on the television as she falls among the debris, far from the danger she was trying to reach.
Remy's twelve, curled up on his bed like angry teens always are. Except this time, it's not anger cursing through his body, but heavy, raging sobs. His hands are still bandaged, fingers purposely avoiding grabbing the sheets. From where he's standing, Jean Luc can already see sparks flying, purple ambers burning before they can reach the bed.
“Remy.”
His son curls up further, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, trying to shut the whole world out
“I don't want t'hurt anyone,” he pleads. “I don't wanna be dangerous.”
“You ain't,” Jean Luc reassures. “You ain't dangerous, petit. Dem powers, they're a tool. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“I can’t control them. Dey make me unsafe to be around,” he insists.
“You’ll learn to handle them, Remy. Every good tool requires a bit of training.”
“I tried! I swear I tried, but they just won’t stop—”
“Patience, chaoui. Practice makes perfect.”
“They’re not— stop acting like this is like lockpicking or knives! I’m a ticking bomb,” he yells out.
“Remy. Listen to me. I’m not saying your powers ain’t dangerous. They can be, if you so choose. What I’m saying is that we’re gonna teach ya, so that you will always, always have a choice about what you want t’ do with them. What do you want to use dem for, petit?”
“...t’be useful, I guess.”
Rogue falls to the ground, to safety, and yet Remy keeps running. Could never stay still, dat one— so he runs and jumps and dodges, drawing the machine's attention towards him.
The camera is too far, shaky and uncentered, and yet Jean Luc drinks up every little detail he can find, each sign that his son is still fighting.
His hands are gripping his bō staff until his fingers threaten to break, energy spilling into his staff as he draws a wide circle above his head. He jumps, ready to land a devastating blow—
A metal arm pierces through his side, blood blooming on his white suit.
“No!”
Someone screams— Is it Henri? It sounds so close to his own voice. It doesn't matter. All Jean Luc can see is the figure on the pixelated screen— blood spreading like poppies against the snow, and Remy, his boy, hanging from an iron road, breathing but not moving, his son—
No— please Lord, no. Anyone but him. Take— take someone else instead, but not my son.
It’s a shameful prayer, one last shot to the heavens— a sin, perhaps, to wish death upon another. He doesn’t care— the Good Lord might not understand, but he prays his Mother will.
Remy's sixteen now, looking curiously at all the pictures on the wall of his office as he waits for his father's approval of the mission plans. It's a good plan, if a bit too uncertain for Jean Luc's tastes— there's too much they don't know about this heist, too much information buried. The kind of mission he wouldn't trust anyone but Remy and Henri with.
He almost jumps when Remy speaks, hovering over one particular, worn picture of him and a woman in a white dress.
“How did you know your wife was de one?”
His wife. Right. He doesn't call her mom, unlike Henri. Never did, because he never got to know her.
Because even though her absence breaks his heart every single day, she's been gone for years and he's still there. God, ain't that unfair? Still there, waiting by a grave for a miracle that won't come. He's got grey hairs and two almost grown sons now, and yet she's forever young, frozen in the pretty picture he had to choose for her grave.
It still knocks the air out of his lungs every time, still makes him look for eyes that ain't watching him anymore and reach out to a hand who isn't there to return his caresses.
“Why you askin’, Remy? You having doubts ‘bout Bella?”
“Non, none of dat. Just curiosity, I guess.”
He takes a moment to study the question, yet the answer comes out of his mouth on instinct.
“She made the whole world a little brighter whenever she was around.”
Remy turns to him then, a strange glint reflected in his ruby eyes.
“If you could go back in time and see her again, but you had to leave everything else behind, would you do it?”
“Remy, I'd tear the whole world apart to see her smile one more time.”
His son was always a little bit too much like him.
When the pink light starts to spread, spilling from Remy's wounds, Jean Luc’s not surprised. Desperate, mad, numb, guilty, devastated — but not surprised. Of course his son wouldn't go without a fight.
It takes less than half a second— and then the energy spreads to the whole machine, burning bright and magenta, blinding the whole screen in its might— yet none of them tear their eyes away.
They all know it's coming. It has to, there's no other solution.
Jean Luc prays for a miracle— It's a fool's hope, but what else could a father do?
It still comes.
The unmistakable burst of pink light, the sound of the explosion that barely reaches the television. The blast that swipes half the earth, leaving the camera starring a sky that has never felt colder. The energy finally let free.
The room has never been quite that silent, something distant in Jean Luc notes. The dust settles over the lens, the fire somewhere in the distance still crackles as debris crashes, and they're all so damn quiet. He never thought Remy would go quietly.
Pierre turns off the TV, his knuckles white against the remote.
“Turn it back on! We need to know—”
“Don't”, Jean Luc interrupts.
“He might still be out dere— Dad, he could be wounded, we need to—”
“Henri.”
God, he wants to believe Remy’s out there. That he beat all odds once again, that he’s just out of frame waiting for the perfect dramatic moment to reveal himself. But he knows, guessed the answers laid plain in the bright fire.
Henri’s face is sunken, eyes wide and filling with tears— his son looks so much like him, he’s always been told.
“He’s gotta be out dere, Dad. Please. Remy can’t be—”
His voice breaks before he can finish the sentence.
The world might as well be turned to dust and Jean Luc wouldn't care; but he still has a son to care of, one who just watched his brother— the thought seems impossible to even think, feelings too heavy to ever rest on a simple human’s heart.
Unbearable— but his son is looking at him, needs him, so he has no choice but to bear it anyway. He grabs his hand away from the remote and draws him in an sorrowful excuse of an embrace: Henri latches onto him like he might break his bones, and he's not sure who starts wailing first.
Remy's twenty nine, and he's dying miles away from home, under the screams of those who love him.