Work Text:
I’ll Come Running
Rogue needed to carry Remy—Death—back to the infirmary from the showers. He'd been too weak to walk on his own, so he'd made the trip in her arms, his head resting on her covered shoulder the entire time.
It broke her heart, seeing him like this, knowing how much he would hate being so vulnerable, so visibly helpless when he liked appearing strong.
Logan walked behind them, watching Remy like a hawk, communicating only in grunts and beleaguered sighs.
He and Remy had a complicated relationship, born of mutual, grudging respect rather than tolerance or warmth. Rogue knew Logan's presence would only add insult to injury, and she could only hope that—if any part of Remy was lucid—he found something gratifying in the notion that Logan expected his feeble form to morph into evil incarnate.
Rogue tried to be reassured by that as well, though she could practically feel Logan's scowl on her back as she walked, and each step left her feeling more irate.
What did he expect her to do instead?
Ain't gonna leave him there, sugar.
She was half tempted to turn around and snap at him.
It might be that Apocalypse was playing some sort of long game, possibly that Death or Remy or whoever he was had similar plans.
But this was a world in which a man could be yanked from his grave by the devil, brought back to life with powers even more intense than his potent natural gifts.
And in that world, it was just as possible that Remy LeBeau was inside the broken man in her arms, clawing his way to the surface, trapped and begging for help.
Don't Remy matter to you, too? she wanted to scream.
Didn't anyone else want him back?
Rogue knew she was being unfair. Her teammates had done a great deal to bring Remy to his new home, to help him now that he was here. She had seen fear for Remy in their eyes, knew there was love in their hearts.
And yet, it didn't feel like enough.
Maybe it wasn't really about Remy, not entirely.
A greater display of concern would betray a sense of hope that her teammates didn't have. And any hope they felt couldn't overcome their honest wariness, their certainty—which was not unreasonable—that Apocalypse wasn't done with the X-Men.
Still, it was hard to ignore the unmistakable undercurrent of mistrust, one that Rogue had hoped might eventually fade. But in every gaze from Hank, in every pregnant pause during meetings, in Logan's presence as he doggedly followed her and Remy every step she took, Rogue could hear the questions. The team asking without words.
To whom was she loyal? Would she protect the team? Or would she only protect the man she loved?
Rogue wondered bitterly whether those questions might be asked of Scott and Jean, of Ororo and Forge. Whether Hank's brief dalliance with the reporter-turned-Prime-Sentinel had ever been cause for concern. Rogue had been looked at askance for occasionally supporting Erik, but had anyone ever questioned Xavier's unwavering loyalty to the man above all else?
Why was the line drawn at Remy? Why was the line drawn at her?
It stung that she often had to pry information from her teammates lately, that her reassurances weren't enough. That there was so little faith in her reasoning, that—to them—her hope seemed so misplaced.
It had always been like this for Rogue, as a child, as a member of the Brotherhood, as Erik's pupil in the Savage Land. She knew she could be reckless, liked a good fight, tended to explode. But she also wore her heart on her sleeve, wanted the best for others, fought hard to keep others safe.
She supposed she was a unique mix of earnestness and skepticism, of tenderness and ferocity. She had a big voice and big hair, was bright and bold, seemed to enter a room before she stepped inside.
With the right life, with the right love, she might really have shone.
But so many people had looked at her and seen cracks in her armor, more soft places to pierce. To her father, her Aunt Carrie, her mamas Mystique and Destiny, Erik. To all of them, she'd been foolish, too earnest and hopeful, merely brawn without brains. Too unwilling to accept the darkness of the world around her, too stupid to know why she should.
Rogue had believed them for so long, had clung to them longer than she ought for precisely those reasons. But she also saw their anger and misery, the way people shrunk away from them, the eternal vigilance their lives required.
She didn't want that for herself. She'd decided long ago that she wanted to risk joy and love. She knew she might hurt, but embracing her heart would give her life meaning, would help her be the person she was.
Someone else might not have cared that the dangerous man in her arms was also hurting and sick, confused and scared.
But that wasn't her, would never be her.
Rogue's heart buoyed her judgment, her compassion helped her understand. It made her kind when she could have been callous, helped her think as well as feel.
Rogue had deeper reasons as well, for pushing forward. For risking being fooled, for guarding Remy, for thinking of the team, but not herself.
Rogue had gathered truths about Remy slowly, though he became more forthcoming with time, love, and trust. But every story had been shared uneasily, and Remy had appeared to be waiting for the moment when he'd revealed too much, bracing himself for the time when his actions finally became too unforgivable. He seemed mystified every time she listened and stayed, couldn't seem to understand why that might be.
Rogue supposed it made sense, that Remy's life had taught him he was destined to be tossed away with the day's trash, to be left behind.
Remy LeBeau had not only been thrown away as an infant. He'd been cast out by his Guild, his family. An exile from a people of exiles.
Since leaving Louisiana, since being told that crossing the border would be signing his own death warrant, he'd spent much of his life alone, on the run. Sometimes scraping by, sometimes living in luxury. But always on his own, asking for no help, expecting none anyway.
Remy was far more skilled and talented than he let on, and he was unapologetic when his capabilities were revealed. He knew of his many merits, would be the first to agree if told he was beautiful and charming.
But Remy knew that his worth—to most people—came from those abilities, from those traits. And when those were stripped away, he was hard-pressed to see value in the man hiding underneath.
That part remained veiled, shown to only a select few.
It was incomprehensible to him that he could be cherished for himself, that the heart he kept guarded would be treasured by anyone. That anyone would remain.
Rogue would always regret not telling him why.
I love you. I'll always love you.
But for now, for however long she had him, she would show him every day.
She knew that, if any part of Remy remained inside the man in her arms, he would be anticipating being left behind, forgotten, discarded. He would not ask for help, would not expect it anyway. And though he would want to be loved and held and protected, he would never say. He would never tell anyone that he was aching, that he was in terrible pain, that he wanted someone to make it better.
So, Rogue would say it for him. And she would hold him even if no one else would, would not let him be thrown away.
Rogue rested Remy on the infirmary table, making sure his hospital gown was tied in a way that wouldn't leave uncomfortable knots under his spine. She stroked his hair, pushing it out of his face.
She shifted him into place, put a soft pillow under his head and pulled up a blanket as Hank attached an IV.
"We think a shower is really gonna help with that fever?" Rogue asked.
"It will certainly not hurt. And I will continue to check his temperature at intervals and give him fluids. He appears dehydrated and highly undernourished."
Hank gave Rogue a meaningful look.
Rogue rolled her eyes.
"I know," she sighed.
"His condition will improve just as well if you take care of yourself."
"He's not wrong, kid," Logan said from by the door. "And you know the Cajun would agree with us."
"I reckon he'd also think you're playin' dirty."
Logan just smiled.
Rogue was about to glare at him when Logan's face changed.
"What?"
"Let's take a walk, kid."
She saw him exchange a look with Hank.
"What? Why?"
Remy suddenly began to cough and thrash, and just as quickly, the regular beeping of his heart monitor became a steady tone.
He went still.
Rogue gasped, her knees feeling weak.
"Oh my God. Hank!"
Hank remained calm as he examined Remy, his expression grave.
He gave Logan another look, and Rogue felt a hand on her arm.
"Come on, kid. Let's take a walk," Logan repeated.
"No! Why's that happenin'?" she cried.
Hank pushed a button, and an alarm began to sound. He flipped open a box, and pulled out a defibrillator.
Rogue felt all the air flee her lungs.
"No!"
The door swished open and Jean came rushing in to help Hank.
Logan managed to pull Rogue out as Ororo also arrived.
They helped Rogue to the floor in the hallway as she shook, gasping for air.
She looked up at them plaintively.
"Please."
Remy couldn't die.
"Please."
She couldn't seem to say anything else.
"My sister!" she heard Kurt call.
She hadn't even heard him arrive.
He sat next to her, putting an arm around her.
Rogue knew the others were talking, probably trying to be comforting, but she just stared at the infirmary door, girding herself for what she would see and hear when the door opened again.
We did our best.
His body was too weak.
He has been through too much.
Rogue felt sick, realized tears were streaming down her face.
Please, Remy. Please.
She couldn't do this again.
She palmed her forehead.
She'd been so damn distracted, quibbling with herself about things that didn't matter. Everything seemed so small in comparison to Remy's life.
What good was it to worry about issues of trust and empathy if he was about to die?
She'd been feeling so proud of herself, thinking about looking out for Remy, up on her high horse like it was the two of them against the world. Telling herself she would always be there for him, that she would always keep him safe.
She'd been so sanctimonious as she walked, too stuck in her head to question why Remy was so weak, had assumed that holding him as he cried had been enough.
And he might have been dying in her arms.
Even if he survived, this might very well be where the end began, the start of his true decline. Maybe Remy's body wanted to return from whence it came, to a box resting peacefully among those of other thieves, to a tomb far, far away.
The infirmary door swished open suddenly, making Rogue jump.
She didn't want to look up, knew her heart was about to break again.
But she had to know.
She finally raised her head, and to her astonishment, Hank's eyes held relief rather than grief.
"He is stable."
Rogue clamped a hand over her mouth, choking back a sob.
"And I believe he has asked for you," Hank said, sounding genuinely stunned.
Rogue blinked at him.
"He- What?"
"Mein Gott!"
"He- What did he say?"
"He asked for chere."
"He did?"
He'd only called her that once before, had looked as surprised as she felt afterwards.
"I don't- I don't understand," Rogue's brain was starting to feel like pea soup.
Kurt stood, holding out a hand.
"Let us see him first. There will be time for questions later."
That was a very good point.
Rogue jumped up and dove into the infirmary.
Rogue ran toward Remy's bed and took his hand.
"Remy?"
He tried to shift, and that made him wince.
"Merde," he groaned.
"Careful, sugar."
He was hooked up to oxygen, and his body looked weaker than before, but he still looked perfect to her.
"Mon amour," he croaked.
Was that a good sign? A coincidence?
"I'm here, my love."
She gave his hand a squeeze.
"I'm so sorry, baby," she babbled. "I shoulda noticed you were bad off, but I just- I promised myself I'd look out for you, and I'd always be there for you, and then I wasn't even-"
Remy pulled her hand to his lips, kissing it, and then he closed his eyes with a sigh.
Rogue gaped at him.
"He- But-"
She looked at Hank, then back at Remy.
She was about to speak again when she noticed something.
Rogue tilted her head.
Though the change was faint, his skin seemed pinker now.
That couldn't be possible.
And then she saw that there were now a few brown strands among the thick white locks on his head. Brown hairs that hadn't been there in the shower.
Rogue gasped, turning back to Hank.
"He- He looks-" she sputtered.
Hank nodded.
"I have noticed as well."
She was going to end up passing out again.
"Then what-"
"It is possible that cardiac arrest managed to trigger something."
Right.
Rogue felt her eyes filling with tears.
"Thank you. For savin' him."
She ought to have said it sooner.
Hank gave her a small nod.
She stroked Remy's hair, sniffling.
"There any other changes?"
"I do not know just yet. I had not heard him speak before this, so I must administer a few tests."
"Does this mean…"
"He has not appeared to struggle cognitively. As for other abilities. And memories… We do not yet know."
Rogue nodded.
"He does seem to know you," Hank noted.
"Spent a lotta time around him, though," Logan reminded them. "Could be he's used to you by now."
"I know," Rogue huffed.
She'd forgotten all about him.
Rogue realized her wet hair was starting to drip on the infirmary bed.
Damn.
She was still in her wetsuit and boat shoes. She'd forgotten about that, too.
She pulled her hair back, tying it around itself.
"I need to change, but-"
She looked down at Remy nervously.
"He will be fine," Hank said reassuringly.
Rogue chewed her lip.
"Alright," she finally said.
Rogue stroked Remy's head one more time.
"Gotta go change, sugar, but I'll be back."
"Non," he whined, grabbing her hand.
That made her snort. He did seem more like Remy.
"Got to, sugar. I'm all wet."
His eyes opened at that.
And for just a moment, the eyes she loved so much seemed to twinkle mischievously, and the faintest smile formed on his lips.
Rogue felt her jaw drop.
Audio/Podfic Version
(read aloud by me!)
Length: 18:22
Listen: I’ll Come Running mp3