Work Text:
Lay Down Your Head
After finishing with the team in the Danger Room, Remy had gone straight to his bedroom.
His head felt like it was in a vice, but he didn't want anyone to know, hoped that no one noticed just how out of sorts he was.
He had always been surprisingly healthy, despite enjoying a variety of exceedingly unhealthy habits. But, once in a blue moon, something knocked him off his feet.
It was usually an injury of some sort, so he couldn't blame his body, but he occasionally got headaches that were so painful that they completely took him out of commission.
He'd gotten them once or twice as a boy, and each time, he hid somewhere, writhing in pain, trying to keep the contents of his stomach in place. But Tante Mattie had caught him out.
The first time, she'd scolded him and given him something that turned the pain into a dull ache, forced him to rest, and the headache eventually passed.
After that, she gave him something to make into a sort of tea when his headaches returned and told him she'd give him a whooping if he didn't learn to take better care of himself. She also told him that he didn't have to hide when he wasn't feeling well, that people around him would want to help, that she would always want to help.
But Remy didn't have her anymore. He barely had anyone anymore.
Hank eventually managed to concoct something that brought the pain down as well, since Remy had long since finished the small jar that Tante Mattie had given him, and he couldn't very well go back for more.
But even then, Remy needed to hide in the dark, something pressing against his sore eyes, the room cool and quiet. It was miserable, and it made him feel weaker and more vulnerable than any wound could.
That part felt like it added insult to injury. He could walk around with a black eye, healing bones, sutured stab wounds. Those things told people that he wasn't taken down so easily, that he could take whatever the world threw at him.
But when his body rebelled? That was much harder to accept, and it somehow felt far more painful.
Back in his room, Remy turned the AC up to full, shut the curtains, and grabbed the stupid weighted eye mask that he hid at the back of his underwear drawer. He'd bought the mask in a moment of desperation, and he hated that it actually helped.
He refilled the glass of water that he kept on his nightstand, took some of the meds—whatever the hell they were—from Hank, and then he flopped onto his back on the bed.
He hadn't even taken off his coat or boots, but he didn't care. It would be easier for everyone to bury him in them this way after he inevitably expired.
He had just put the eye mask in place, could feel the gentle pressure against his sore eyes, when he heard his door fly open.
"Remy!" a voice snapped.
Great.
"What are-" Rogue gasped, cutting herself off.
Remy pressed a hand to his aching head.
"Ain't a great time, chere."
He felt the bed dip next to him, and his brow furrowed in surprise.
"Remy, what's-"
"I'm fine," he groaned.
"Sugar, you're wearin' an eye mask with eyelashes."
"They didn't have another one," he grumbled.
She jabbed him in the arm.
"Ow!"
"I ain't worried 'bout the eye mask," she snapped.
He felt Rogue move off the bed, then heard a rattling sound.
"You takin' meds for somethin'?"
Remy groaned.
"I'm fine."
She yanked the eye mask from his face, and he winced.
"Non-"
"You ain't fine. Why didn't you tell me you weren't feelin' well?"
"Just need some rest, chere."
He held out his hand, and she put the eye mask into it.
He covered his eyes again.
"I'll be fine soon."
Rogue sighed, and for a moment she said nothing.
"Remy…" she finally said.
"What?"
"This been goin' on a long time, huh? Must be if you got pills."
"Oui," he sighed.
"What's hurtin'?" she continued.
"My head," he admitted.
"Alright."
Alright?
She got off the bed, and after a moment, he felt her tugging off his boots.
"Sit up for a sec?" she asked.
Remy knit his brow, which hurt like hell.
"Why?"
"Just sit up," she huffed.
He did, glaring at her, even though it also hurt like hell.
She helped him out of his coat, tossing it onto the easy chair he kept in the corner of his room.
He tried to lean back, but she stopped him.
She tugged off her own boots and climbed behind him on the bed.
He couldn't tell what she was doing, and it would hurt too much to turn and look, but he felt her shifting in place.
"Alright, lie back," she finally said.
He was feeling fogged, but he obeyed, and his head landed on a soft, cool pillow.
She put his eye mask back in place, moved her gloved hands so that he could adjust it, and then he felt her fingers in his hair.
His mouth fell open.
"What…?"
"Where's it hurt? Where on your head, I mean?"
He pointed, and she began a slow, soothing massage where he'd indicated.
Remy was surprised to feel his eyes beginning to sting.
"Don't have to do this, chere."
"I'm always gonna want to take care o' you, Remy."
"Hate askin' for help."
"I know. But you don't need to ask. Just need to let me know you're hurtin'. I'll take care o' the rest."
Remy swallowed hard.
How long had it been since anyone wanted to take care of him?
She ran her fingers through his hair, gave the strands a gentle tug, and it somehow relieved a bit of the pressure in his head.
He sighed, the stinging in his eyes turning to burning embers.
He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
Damn it.
He felt Rogue gently stroke his cheek, and then she moved her fingers back to his scalp, massaging his aching head once again.
"You're okay, baby," she said soothingly.
Death groaned, trying unsuccessfully to shift his body. His wrists and ankles were still restrained, and when he tried to move his head, the suppression collar clunked against whatever he was lying on.
Had he fallen asleep?
He didn't recognize his surroundings.
He'd thought he was in his room but... No, he didn't have a room.
Had he been in his cell? He couldn't have been. Someone had been touching him gently.
No one ever touched him…
But his head had been aching, and someone had begun massaging his scalp, bringing the only relief his aching body had felt since he could remember.
It had felt familiar, comforting, like an article of clothing that fit him well.
Had it been real?
He blinked, realized the room he was in was bright, fluorescent bulbs above him seeming to burn his retinas.
Death could feel his heart pounding, and he realized his head—and everything else—ached even more than before. He probably would have been writhing in pain if he hadn't been restrained. His body couldn't seem to remain still, and everything hurt.
He clamped his eyes shut.
He felt himself shiver, even as his skin seemed to burn. He seemed to be covered in scorching sand, was being dragged against dry, cracking rock. And yet his insides felt like molten lava, too unwieldy and scalding for the iciest water to cool.
He seemed to be shaking more, his body quaking so hard that he could hear the collar tapping as he shuddered.
He realized he could hear voices.
"We have to bring his fever down, and he's already had more medication-" someone said matter-of-factly.
"I am not doing that," insisted a man with a gravelly voice.
Landon? London?
"No one asked you to, sugar," snapped a voice Remy recognized.
Rogue.
"I'll do it," she continued, her voice somehow soothing despite its hard edge.
"You're not doing it either," the man insisted.
"Well, he can't do it alone."
"No one is doing it, kid."
"You really think I won't knock you out?"
"It is not safe-" the man interrupted.
"The sooner we bring his fever down, the sooner he can return to his cell," came the calmer voice.
"See, doctor's orders-" Rogue said tartly.
"The doctor has lost his mind," growled the other man.
The voices began to fade.
Death's head seemed to loll, though something scraped his chin as he moved. His hands were now behind him, and his wrists were bound together.
He seemed to be sitting on something, and the sound around him seemed to crash against the walls, echoing inside his head.
He opened his burning eyes, and he saw that someone was standing in front of him, wearing what looked like a wetsuit.
He blinked, looking down at himself. He was naked except for his underwear.
What…
A sudden whooshing sound filled the room, and in another moment, ice seemed to stab at Death's skin.
He cried out in pain and tried to stand, but a hand planted itself on his shoulder.
"Gotta stay there, sugar," came an apologetic voice.
"Non-" he groaned, trying to pull away. "Non."
He looked up into a pair of beautiful green eyes that were wide as saucers.
Rogue stared back at him as though taking in something unexpected.
"Remy…?"
He realized that it was her gloved hand resting on his shoulder, her grip that firmly held him in place as he tried to move away from whatever was scraping at his skin.
"Non," he said again, begging.
"I promise the water isn't as cold as it feels."
Water?
He looked up at the spray, couldn't believe that the acid rain eating through his skin was coming from the showerhead above.
His eyes darted around, though he knew there would be no escape. He was in some sort of large shower area, could see benches beyond the end of the tiled wall. The man who looked like an angry rabbit leaned against a row of lockers beyond them, his eyes fixed on Death.
Death tried to yank apart his wrists, realized they were fastened to something else as well.
He needed to get away from this liquid fire.
He just wanted to lie down in his room and be left alone.
Death felt his brow furrow.
He didn't have a room. He had a cell-
He pictured a chair in the corner, imagined a large bed with soft sheets. But he'd never had those things.
Right?
He tugged at his restraints again.
Rogue knelt in front of him, now eye level.
"Careful, kid!" the rabbit shouted.
Rogue looked over her shoulder, probably glaring, the way she usually did when she thought someone was butting in unnecessarily.
She turned back, her eyes soft and filled with worry.
"I know it hurts, sugar. But Hank says the water's gotta be lukewarm if we want that fever to go down."
He shook his head again.
Please, he wanted to beg.
His eyes were stinging in a different way, and his chest felt tight.
She wrapped her arms around him.
"Just need to cool you down a bit."
But Remy was already made of ice, and he felt like he was dying.
"Please," he rasped.
"You're okay, baby," she said, the way she always did when he was hurting or sick.
Was that a real memory?
"We'll be done soon," she continued.
Remy felt his chest hitch as he tried not to completely fall apart. He didn't know what the hell was happening, or even what was real.
He didn't think he could get any more words out, that he would ever get answers rather than pain.
But the woman holding him seemed to know what he needed anyway.
"I've got you, sugar," Rogue said.
Remy leaned his head against her shoulder and wept.
Audio/Podfic Version
(read aloud by me!)
Length: 13:05
Listen: Lay Down Your Head mp3