Title: Heaven sent

Author: Morgana (morganalebeau@yahoo.com)

Website: http://www.oocities.org/morganalebeau/

Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual content or violence

Pairing/main characters: Gambit/Angel, Wolverine/Jean-Luc LeBeau

Series/Sequel: followed by Hold Fast That Which Is Good

Summary: Warren visits New Orleans on a business trip and doesn't know that there is a contact to kill him, which the Assassins' Guild accepted to carry out. While returning from a nightclub, Warren runs into an Assassins' trap. Facing death, an old team-mate comes to the rescue. Warren flees, following Gambit's instructions. Once they are in safety, he realizes that the Cajun has amnesia and everything that happened after the age of 10 is now a blank. However, assassins don't give up that easily....

Disclaimer: Gambit and X-Men is (c)copyright of Marvel Comics. No copyright infringement is intended. Lyrics by Blackie Lawless, W.A.S. P.

Archive/distribution: Yes, just drop me a note telling me where you're archiving it.

Warning: This story is definitely Alternate Universe!

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Heaven sent

By Morgana

 

Chapter One

Hold on to my heart

Take away the pain, inside my soul
And I'm afraid, so all alone
Take away the pain, that's burning in my soul
Cause I'm afraid that I'll be all alone
So just hold me, hold me, hold me

Blackie Lawless

In complete silence, the young man steals through the abandoned corridor underneath the ancient crypts. Briefly, he feels immensely grateful that New Orleans is a city of superstition. It's probably the one reason why the priest doesn't dare to disturb the rest of the dead laying here in their cold tombs.
The corpses don't bother him and he sneaks passed them. This is his only way to get into the cathedral, which is the one place where he feels safe enough to spend the night. At least here people don't try to take advantage of you. Here, they don't threaten to kill you if you refuse to give them the little money you made during the day.
Oh, the priest probably knows that he has been sleeping in his church for the last few weeks, but for some reason he allows it to continue. Sometimes at night, he hears the priest moves about, checking the doors and making sure all candles have been extinguished. During his first night here, he foolishly lit a few candles. A mistake he won't make a second time.
The silence? the silence in this holy place always works on his nerves and he needs time to get used to the absence of noise, which fills the streets during the day. But he's safe here and exhausted, he sinks onto the floor. There's a warm rug in front of the altar and he curls up on it. It's blasphemous and the first time he slept here he expected the heavens to strike him down, but nothing happened.
Feeling miserable, he pulls the old and worn coat closer to his body. High above the altar hangs a crucified Christ and gently, he whispers an apology, assuring the heavens that he doesn't want to offend, but he needs a place to sleep, far away from the dangers in the streets!
An angel statue looms over him and strengthens his feelings of safety. This angel has a warm facial expression and his hands are extended, as if calling people to join him. The first time he came here, the angel scared the hell out of him.
But to the right of the altar is a huge, grande statue of the Virgin Mary and it reassured him that he was welcome here. She has such loving eyes? He wishes his mother would look like that? He has never seen her or his father, but he hopes she resembles this statue and maybe one day he will find her. Right now, his situation looks hopeless though.
His eyes slip shut and mentally, he reviews the past few days. Things happened too quickly and there are times that he isn't sure that all events really happened or that his vivid imagination made them up!
It all started a few weeks ago when he woke up in a hospital. He freaked, wondering what he was doing there. One of the doctors, an elderly man called Evans, asked him his name and date of birth, as he'd had no any ID on him when they'd brought him in. His answer didn't surprise Evans. He had no recollection of who he was, what his name was, where he had been born, or how old he was.
Part of his mind is still blank. However, he does remember certain things.
He remembers growing up on these streets here in New Orleans. During the first ten years of his life they were his home. He doesn't remember any faces of people that he was fond of though and there are still bullies around who try to intimidate you. They're after your money or anything of value you happen to possess.
All he possesses now are the clothes on his back. The doctors took pity on him and found a way to buy him some clothes. He stayed in that hospital for at least two weeks. At the end of those 14 days, they wanted to transfer him to another hospital to help him regain his memory. They also started him on heavy medication and he felt sedated and isolated. He couldn't bear the thought of another day at the mercy of those sedatives.
So he ran. How he got out of the ambulance, he doesn't know. The driver was getting himself some coffee and donuts and the door opened. In a daze, he leapt outside. Talking in hindsight that probably wasn't the most brilliant thing to do, as he ended up on his face, instead of his feet. His coordination stunk due to the drugs and he barely made it to the cover of the trees.
But the driver never realized that he was gone, as he had closed the door behind him. When the driver arrived at the hospital they must have been pretty mad at him for losing a patient!
He still keeps the prescription for the meds in one of his pockets, just in case. Doctor Evans had firmly ensured him that the meds would help him regain his memory, but he doesn't want to feel drugged like that ever again.
That's all he wants? his memories back. He wants to know who he is. Why he lived on the streets. What pulled him back to New Orleans?
He took up his old life style again, shocked to find that most of his hiding places still existed and weren't occupied. Within a few days, he'd memorized his chain of hideaways and ventured out to find food and water.
In his youth he had been a talented thief. He'd picked pockets without the owner ever noticing, but he's a grown man now and no longer has the advantage of being small. People notice him? notice his ragged clothes and? haunted eyes.
His eyes. The first time he stared at his reflection he recoiled. Le diable blanc, that's what they called him and even now they whisper it whenever he forgets to put on his sunglasses. Maybe he should go by that name and forget he probably has a real one.
He remembers most of what happened to him up to the age of ten, but there are even holes in his mind when it comes down to the first five years of his life.
He vaguely remembers carrying out orders from an old man who scared him gutless. He didn't have a say in things, the old man told him what to do and he obeyed, even if he hated doing it. Who was this man? Why was he supposed to obey? And how did he suddenly end up on the streets?
His head reels. He's depressing himself, but it's hard to stop. Doesn't he have a right to know who he is and how he lost his memory?
Struggling for contact with reality, he opens his eyes and stares at the angel statue. At the edge of his mind a memory struggles closer. He stared at this angel before, even cherished its warmth? The Archangel Raphael.
In a city like New Orleans you can't escape the influence of Voodoo, superstition and religion. It's an odd mix and most Cajuns need something to hold onto. Voodoo never attracted him and he tried hard not to get tangled in the webs of these Voodoo priests as he has this weird feeling they might want him for one of their rituals? le diable blanc would definitely be a catch!
But these angels? he can look at them for hours; let his thoughts drift and even hope that they will come alive for him.
"I'm pathetic." The sound of his voice startles him. He should keep quiet.
But he really feels pathetic! Last night, he dreamt that the angel had come to live and gathered him in his arms. The angel even promised to take him to heaven because he had been good. Proudly, he had stared into his blue eyes. "Didn' steal, non?"
He eats out of garbage cans and sometimes he gets lucky. People throw away excellent food! He found sandwiches, still wrapped up and untouched in garbage cans! At first he was a little suspicious. What if it was a trap, set by some weirdo who had drugged the food? But hunger can do terrible things and eventually, he simply devoured it.
But he worries about a different type of people when he's on the streets, searching for food. During his youth he quickly learned to stay away from men who look wealthy, but whose minds are vile and dirty. Yesterday, one of them walked up to him, promising him a lot of cash if he let the man tie him down and? he managed to get away from the bastard. Hopefully, they will never catch him.
His thoughts run in circles. Images of New Orleans fill most of his memories. He knows that he lived here once, but now he hates the place. He wants to leave it behind and travel someplace else. This city constantly emanates bad vibes!
Cold? the cold creeps into his bones through the rug and he hugs his legs, pulling up his knees. Although he hated staying at the hospital, at least there he had a warm bed and regular meals. Maybe he should have stayed there, let them drug him. This isn't much better.
He rubs his hands together, trying to warm them. The metal bracelets create a hard sound. He was found wearing them. Evans tried to remove them, but the metal is relentless. They aren't uncomfortable, but they do feel cold to the bone.
The angel statue stares down at him and he's relieved that there's no condemnation in that stare, just promise and love. Something slips back into his mind. He prayed at the feet of this statue when he was only a small boy and now, as a grown man, he speaks the same words again. "Ange de Dieu, toi qui es mon gardien, puisque le ciel m'a confié à toi dans sa bonté, é claire-moi, dirige-moi et me gouverne aujourd'hui."
No angel will want to listen to the miserable sinner that he is. But what's a man, even a man without memory, without hope? He will never give up and die fighting, but does he still have the energy to continue this quest? "Jus' want to know who I am, mon Dieu?"
Soft footfalls startle him and he struggles to get back to his feet. But it's been days since he ate last and exhaustion finally catches up with him. He can hardly move a muscle. The sunglasses almost slip from his nose and he realizes that he's even wearing them inside the cathedral, as he doesn't want to offend any sacred spirit dwelling in here. "Who are you?" Hell, his own voice sounds alien to his ears!
"What are you doing here, mon fils?"
The voice sounds gentle and kind and he works up enough courage to peek at the man hovering over him. It's the priest. "I'm leavin', m'sieur." Hopefully, the priest won't call the police. He could run but he doesn't want them chasing him through the streets.
Surprised, the priest studies him. Two weeks ago he realized that someone was using the cathedral as a sleeping place, but he never expected to find a young man, curled up on the rug. Young people hardly ever visit the church these days and finding this young man in front of the altar mystifies him.
His old eyes travel up and down the young man's form and he slightly shakes his head, seeing the bruises that cover part of the youngster's face. It's obvious that he has been involved in a fight. He's skinny and moves with an alarming sluggishness. Concerned, he decides to take care of this stranger.
He can't bear to look into the priest's eyes, which seem benign and briefly he hopes that the man will let him stay. By staying here during the night, he isn't doing any harm! Maybe if he offers to keep an eye on the entrance, making sure no one else sneaks inside at night the old priest will let him stay. But will the priest accept such an offer from a trespasser? "Didn' steal anyt'in', père, " he adds quickly. "Would never steal from de Church."
The priest waves the comment away. "I know you didn't steal anything. I would have noticed if you did, but you have been sneaking in here for weeks. Why?" His concern grows, hearing the startled tone in this young man's voice. Something is very wrong with this youngster!
Only now he realizes how old the priest really is. His hair is grey, brow wrinkled, but the brown eyes radiate life. Somehow? somehow this old man seems familiar, like he should know this priest? he feels incredibly lost. "Need a place to sleep," he says, trying to explain his trespassing.
The priest makes his decision. This young man needs help and he can't turn his back on this youngster or chase him away. "It's cold on the floor, mon fils." Awkwardly, he extends his hands and tries to help the young man to his feet, but old age weakened his body and he has to let go, afraid he might take a fall.
Cautiously, he refuses to lean on the brittle old man. But those eyes? he saw them in a dream that he had a few nights ago. "Do I know you?" he asks, wondering why he feels this insane urge to put his trust in the old priest. Too tired to question his instincts, he gives in and bows his head. His fate is now in the priest's hands.
He stares at the young man, pinches his eyes and finally gets out his glasses. "You don't need sun glasses in here," he says in a kindly berating tone. "Put them away, mon fils." Instinct tells him that the youngster hopes to find sanctuary here and he wants to learn more about the pained expression on the young man's face.
His hands tremble as he slowly removes them. He doesn't want to open them, reveal them to the priest. People always cross themselves seeing his eyes and then chase him away.
"You can't be scared of me!" the old priest exclaims in a teasing tone. "I'm an old man, almost eighty!" Why is this youngster so hesitant to open his eyes?
A little reassured, he opens them slightly. He fears the priest's reaction though. The old man will probably tell him to leave the church and never come back!
"Mon Dieu," the priest sighs seeing them and involuntarily takes a step back. The eyes are red on black. "No wonder you're scared to look at me, mon fils!" But he makes sure that no judgement sounds in his tone. He has lived a long life, survived two world wars and refuses to give into superstition. The good Lord certainly has a reason to send this young man with these alien eyes to his church!
In a belated reflex, he flinches. He truly expects the older man to change his mind and to order him out of this holy place. Why would the priest allow him, devil spawn, to stay here?
"You need to get warm," the priest says softly. The black and blue bruises on the young face tell him that this youngster needs someone to take care of him and he's more than willing to serve the Lord in whatever capacity his saviour deems necessary.
The young man remains motionless, uncertain if he misheard. Is the priest really taking him in? Him? Le diable blanc? He doesn't want to admit it, but it hurts, people calling him that name. Worst thing is that he's starting to believe them! What if he really is the devil's son? He's got the eyes?
"Are you coming?" The priest turns around, as the young man doesn't move. "I think we need to talk." It's obvious that the youngster doesn't trust him, can't trust him and he realizes that instant that this young man lost his faith in the goodness of people, expecting only beatings and scolding.
Suddenly, the priest's words sink into his mind. His body's no longer paralysed and he hurries towards the old man, almost tripping over his own feet as he follows the priest. He's afraid that this unexpected lifeline will slip away from him.
The priest leads his guest through a corridor and then opens a door to his private rooms. "It's not much, but all I need." Closely, he watches the young man's pupils dilate. The youngster never expected him to truly welcome him to his home. Sadness washes through his old bones. Something crushed every ounce of trust in this stranger's soul.
Candles create a soft warm glow and he craves their warmth. Incense fills the small room and hesitantly, he steps inside. So tired of being alone... he desperately needs the older man's company.
The priest points out the two chairs near the fireplace, which radiates warmth and light. "We both need to sit down, mon fils."
He wants to argue, but his legs give out on him and he collapses onto the chair. The warmth is entrancing and he stares at the priest's old callused fingers, as they fold in prayer. "Merci, for? takin' me in." The priest gives him an undecipherable look and he grows uncomfortable. Concern springs from those ancient eyes and seeing that emotion in those brown orbs takes him aback. Does this old man really care about him? Why care?
"You must be awfully cold." The old man shifts in his chair and reaches for the coffee pot standing on a table next to him. After pouring two cups, he looks up. Distrust colors the red on black eyes and he realizes he will have to work hard on gaining this young man's trust.
His hands shake, but he accepts the offered cup and relishes the feel of something hot in his icy hands. Cautiously, he takes a sip and sighs. "Oui, I am, père," he whispers in dread. What the hell is le diable blanc doing talking to a priest?
"My name is Etienne," he says softly. "You look like you need some food, mon fils." Too skinny, he thinks upset. Now, by the light of the flames he notices the starved expression and the hollow cheekbones.
"Has been days since I ate last," he confesses gingerly and relishes the hot coffee as it slides down his throat.
"You find bread and Gumbo in the kitchen," Etienne says softly. "Help yourself. My old bones?"
His eyes sneak off and find the bowl of Gumbo on the table. "Don' want to eat your dinner, père," he confesses in a guilty tone, although temptation almost overwhelms him. He craves the food like oxygen.
"There's more where that came from, eat," Etienne instructs in a determined tone. He ate his share before making his rounds. "You need the food," he points out, hoping this lost soul will accept the offer.
His stomach growls loudly and before he knows it, he's sitting at the kitchen table, stuffing the bread and Gumbo into his mouth. He tries to eat as much as possible, uncertain when he will get another chance to fill his belly.
Etienne suddenly stands in front of him, which is odd, as he didn't hear the priest walk into the kitchen. The old man sits down opposite him and gives him an inquisitive look. "I owe you an explanation, père Etienne," he starts hesitantly. But he doesn't know what to tell the old priest. He doesn't know the truth himself.
"Take your time," Etienne replies patiently. He has seen enough wounded souls to recognize the hurt. First, this young man needs to learn to trust him.
"Don' know who I am, père Etienne. Only remember livin' here when I was a chile? remember de ange statue? I don' know my name..." he stutters embarrassed.
Etienne whispers, "You lost your memory?" The lost expression in the alien eyes touches his heart. "I want to help you, mon fils."
"Do you know me, père Etienne?" Leaning forward, he prays that the priest knows his name. "Please?"
"Non, I don't know who you are. But you must trust me now?" Slowly, he gets to his feet. "You look like a ghost, mon fils. First, you need rest. You do trust old père Etienne, don't you?" He shoots a genuine prayer to his Lord, hoping that this young man will decide to give him this chance. Oui, God certainly sent this youngster for a reason. Now he needs to find out why he was chosen for this task.
Etienne's tone makes his eyes water. "You're de first to?" he can't finish. Etienne's the first to treat him kindly, like a human being who deserves consideration and respect. "You don' t'ink I'm a? freak?" He almost said le diable blanc.
"Non, you aren't a freak," père Etienne assures him, but realizes that someone installed that believe in the young man's mind. Why would anyone want the youngster to hate himself? To think of himself as a freak? "You need rest, food and care," he says eventually, hoping the young man realizes he's sincere.
"Dey call me le diable blanc," he finally admits in a tone filled with self-loathing. "You sure you want me here?" He wants to move, wants to get to his feet, but he can't. His words will probably make père Etienne recoil in abhorrence. Why had he said them!
But père Etienne remains calm, almost expecting such an admission. There's so much pain in those eyes! A deep urge to soothe the young man takes over. "You aren't le diable blanc, mon fils. They only say that because your eyes scare them. People try to destroy what they fear. No devil would go to sleep at the feet of the statue of archangel Raphael."
Embarrassed, he closes his eyes. His alien eyes don't seem to matter to père Etienne and the priest's words take away a deep ache inside his soul. He desperately hopes that the priest is right.
Père Etienne gestures him to get to his feet and slowly, he follows the priest into the small bedroom. "Dere's only one bed," he stutters in a guilty tone. No way he will let the old man sleep on the floor or in that chair!
"I'm old. I no longer need that much sleep. Lie down, mon fils and get warm." Slowly, he reaches for the blankets, pushes them aside and pats the mattress. "Don't deny an old man, mon fils." It irritates him that he doesn't know how to address the youngster. "You don't remember your name?" he asks to be certain.
"Oui," he whispers in reply and hates himself for being this weak, but the bed looks warm and soft and it's been so long since he had a good night's sleep! Mentally crumbling, he gives in and sits down. Acting liking a sleepwalker, he removes his dirty boots and then collapses onto the bed. It's even softer and warmer than he thought! It's a little piece of heaven!
"Mon fils," père Etienne starts, "What do you want me to call you while you're here?"
His eyes slip shut, and he loves the feel of père Etienne's gentle hands, tenderly tucking him in. For the first time since he woke without memory he feels warm and secure. All it took was an old priest showing him some kindness! Truly pathetic! A tear threatens to slide down his cheek and he quickly wipes it away. He doesn't want to cry! "I don' know," he whispers. "Le diable blanc," a hurt part of his soul insists.
"Non, mon fils. I will call you Remiel, after the angel of mercy, as you seem to put so much faith in them." His voices sounds calm and full understanding. The young man's tormented eyes cling to his lips and he smiles gently explaining his choice. "He is one of the holy angels, responsible for true divine visions and you look like you need one to help you carry your burden." Père Etienne softly squeezes the young man's cold hands. "Oui, Remy sounds fine to me and now? sleep."
Remiel? Remy? Père Etienne wants to give him an angel's name? Tears start in his eyes and get caught on the lashes. The priest's soft voice lures him into sleep, but in his mind echoes his new name Remiel; Remy.
He fears the return of the nightmares, which are waiting at the edges of his subconscious. They are the main reason why he doesn't want to go to sleep. He doesn't want to startle père Etienne, knowing he will wake up screaming, bathing in cold sweat?

Père Etienne's face reveals worry as he strokes back some dirty strands of auburn hair. When he set out to find the intruder he never expected to find this youngster! Not many young men seek shelter in the cathedral nowadays!
Although the haunted red eyes are closed now, he still senses the young man's dread. Remy. The name soothed the startled youngster. "You need time, mon fils. I will try and find out who you are," he promises passionately. "I never had a son, maybe that's why le bon Dieu sent you, mon fils?" Leaning forward, he squeezes the ice-cold hands. "I will watch over you, Remy."

 

Chapter Two

Sometime during the night his dreams change into nightmares and he finds himself in an awfully familiar large room. To his right is a horrible statue. Shivering, he turns away, as that face revolts him.
"Come closer and sit down, young one."
His skin turns to goose flesh. He knows this sharp voice, filled with hidden power and vices. Unable to walk away or wake up, he obeys the command and shuffles closer to the man who's sitting on a throne-like chair. The hairs at the back of his neck stand rigid, warning him that he's in danger, but like before, he has no way of escape.
A bony hand touches his face and instinctively, he tries to back away from it. The claw squeezes his shoulder and pulls him closer until he stands in front of the old man. //Don' want to look up//, he thinks in sheer panic, but the fingers lift his chin. In utter dread, he stares into emotionless eyes.
"Don't look at me like that!" the white haired man hisses. "There's still disgust and defiance in your eyes, child!"
But how can he hide his feelings when this old man utterly terrifies him? Quickly, he lowers his eyes and awaits punishment.
"The prophecy clearly states that you're his chosen one, child." The old man shakes his head in disdain. "But you will never take my place! I'll break you and you will obey and serve me instead!"
Remy cringes, hoping that only a tirade will follow, as he's too scared to think of other forms of punishment.
"You're already mine, child. All you can do is tremble and stare at me in fear!"
His body shakes and his eyes try to tear apart the floor, so he can disappear into it. Clueless, he listens to the man's raving and suddenly he's jerked forward and forced onto his knees.
Cruel hands and sharp nails deliver blow after blow, scratching his face. He doesn't raise his arms to protect himself, knowing that nothing can stop the old man's rage. He's determined to take this beating without even uttering a yelp.
A vice-like claw closes around his throat, slowly pushing the little air he has still left from his body. At last, he yelps, begging for mercy. Amused, the old man laughs. Defensively he curls his body, as his nemesis flings him across the floor. He distinctly hears the predatory footfalls and closes his eyes in terror.
"Don' touch me, please? Don' hurt me?" he pleads softly. It's a mistake. The old man laughs sadistically and the beating stops. Cold hands unbutton his shirt. "Non, please, m'sieur, don'?" he tries one last time.
"You don't have permission to speak, child! I won't tolerate disobedience! You will learn not to defy me! Your power is nothing compared to mine!"
"Please don'?" the whispering turns into whimpering.

"Remiel?" Père Etienne pulls up a chair and sits down next to his guest. This is the third time that the young man is suffering from a nightmare and their intensity scares him. "Remy?" he tries, uncertain whether the youngster will react to the name. "Wake up, mon fils."
His brow grows knitted, seeing the terrified expression on Remy's face. "Remiel, listen to me!" he says, harder this time.
"Don' touch me, please? don' hurt me?"
"I won't hurt you, mon fils, but you need to wake up!" père Etienne whispers reassuringly. Why is this young man so afraid of being touched? "Remy," he whispers eventually and shakes him gently. "Wake up!"
A terrified keening wail escapes Remy's lips and petrified, he struggles into a sitting position. All he knows, all he feels are fingertips touching his shoulders and he can't bear that touch. "Don' touch me!" he yelps in panic. His ragged breathing now slowly regulates itself. "Where am I?"
"In the cathedral," père Etienne reminds him. He pulls back his hands and folds them in his lap. "I worry about you, mon fils," he says honestly. "You're in pain."
In shock, Remy stares at the old priest. The grey hair reminds him of the white haired man in his dreams and he hides his face behind his hands. Trembling violently, he finally manages to peek through his fingers. The eyes? père Etienne's eyes are full of sympathy and concern. "His eyes are always cold," he whispers in an unguarded moment.
"Whose eyes?" Père Etienne walks into the small kitchen, realizing that his young guest needs a moment to compose himself. "I will prepare some herbal tea for you, mon fils. It usually settles my nerves before going to sleep."
Remy remains motionless and watches the old priest retreat. He scared the poor old man! Why had he given in and gone to sleep, knowing the nightmares would freak him out? Maybe because he hoped that they would stay away for just one night?
Père Etienne fills a mug with hot water and puts the herbal tea in it. It needs to sit like that for a few moments and he returns to the bed. Although fear still claws at him from behind Remy's eyes, the young man seems calmer. "What scared you?"
Remy shakes his head. He doesn't want to burden père Etienne. "Rien," he lies.
"Why are you afraid of being touched?" père Etienne asks, determined to break through Remy's defenses. "I can guess, but I rather hear it from you."
And much to his amazement, he finds himself opening up to the priest. "Dere is dis old man and he?"
"Oui?" père Etienne whispers patiently. "What does he do?"
"Beat me."
"Why?"
"Because?" Now there is a good question! Confused, Remy searches his memory. "Because I defied him."
"You defied him?" Père Etienne returns to the kitchen, removes the tea bag and walks back to his chair. "Be careful, mon fils. It's still hot."
Remy closes his trembling fingers around the mug and looks up gratefully. "Merci."
"Now tell me," père Etienne starts, "why did you defy this old man?"
"I don' know." Cautiously, Remy shrugs his shoulders. "My memory's full of holes and his words? I've forgotten dem."
Père Etienne wonders if that's the truth, but decides not to push his scared guest. "Empty the mug," he advises. "It's almost time for me to light the candles in the cathedral. I suggest you clean yourself up. I will try and find you some new clothes."
Embarrassed, Remy realizes that his dirty clothes stained the white bed linen. "Sorry 'bout dat."
Père Etienne smiles. "Don't worry about it. Take a shower and when I get back we'll have breakfast."
Remy takes some deep breaths and then sips from the tea. "Wouldn' have known what to do if I hadn' found you," he whispers thankfully. Père Etienne is the first friend he made since he got here.
The priest rises from his chair. "I will be back in one hour." As he reaches the doorway, he almost turns around, telling the young man not to leave the cathedral without informing him first, but reconsiders. He can't force Remy to stay here.
Remy continues to sip from his tea and his eyes wander through the room. Père Etienne seems to be very fond of books and scrolls. The shelves are stuffed and almost collapse underneath the weight.
Finally, he feels calm enough to lean back his head and he rests it against the wall. For the moment he's safe and warm. "Can' stay here," he whispers softly. He can't infringe on père Etienne and his mind is set. Once he has calmed down, he's going to leave the church. The thought of returning to the busy streets upsets him, but he has to find out who he is and he won't find his answers hiding in this room.
But maybe he will take that shower first. He feels dirty and his clothes emanate a vile smell. After placing the mug on the floor, he slowly gets to his feet. He feels tired to the bone and briefly he fantasizes about returning to the bed and hiding underneath its covers. His feet drag over the floor as he lacks the strength to properly lift them.
Père Etienne's bathroom is small, but warm and clean. Sighing heavily, he slips out of his clothes and steps into the shower cabin. He closes the cabin door behind him and turns on the water. It takes him a moment to adjust the temperature. The warm water cascades down his body and suddenly, everything comes crushing in on him.
Why? Why did this have to happen to him? Upset, he stares at the metal bracelets. Why is he wearing them? They feel cold and the doctors couldn't cut through the metal. They had never seen metal this strong!
Wet hair falls in front of his face and he forces back his tears. Crying won't do him any good. He has to do this on his own!
Several minutes later, he emerges from the shower and grabs the towels to dry his skin. Père Etienne must have collected his clothes, as they are gone. In their place, he finds briefs, jeans, a sweater, socks and some sneakers. "Merci," he whispers again. Then he notices the small note next to the clothes.
"Dinner, 20.00 tonight," he reads aloud. Kneeling on the floor he presses the note to his chest. "Mebbe, père Etienne," he whispers in uncertain tone. He shouldn't accept this invitation. Something bad will happen to the old priest for caring about him. He's bad luck!
Quickly, he slips into his new clothes and puts on the sneakers. Père Etienne even got his size right! Feeling uncomfortable, he steals back to the kitchen. Maybe there's some bread that père Etienne can spare, but as he reaches the kitchen table he freezes. Père Etienne placed a plate filled with sandwiches on it, along with milk and coffee.
He grabs the sandwiches and quickly eats them. This food is his! In a hurry, he drowns the coffee and milk and then sneaks out of the priest's rooms and back to the crypts, leaving the same way he arrived. Hopefully no one noticed him.

Père Etienne sighs, seeing the empty kitchen table. He cleaned the bathroom and now he sits down to read in his bible. But every now and then his thoughts drift off and he wonders where his young protégé is now.
Irritated by his lack of concentration, he closes the bible and does the dishes instead. Then he collects the young man's dirty clothes. Out of habit, he first checks the pockets before putting the clothes in the laundry basket.
"What's this?" Curiously, he unfolds the piece of paper. "It's a prescription," he realizes puzzled. The meds' names don't mean a thing to him, but he tucks it away. Later today, he will get the meds and hopefully Remy will return this evening. There's so much he wants to talk about to the young man!

Carefully, he plots his route through the busy streets and slips passed people who are rushing to get their groceries. This is one of the safer spots in the big city and he spends most of the day in the park, watching people, hoping someone will walk up to him and call him by his name.
Suddenly, goose bumps appear on his skin. Someone is watching him! As he scans his surroundings, he quickly locates the source of that stare. A man, dressed in a grey suit, is staring at him from underneath heavy eyebrows. The cold brown eyes are fixed on him.
"Need to get goin'," Remy realizes. This man is up to no good. His wallet is probably filled with cash and his mind with obscene thoughts. He has to be more careful in future, move around more and refrain from drawing people's attention. Hopefully, this man won't follow him.
He turns around a corner and finds himself in a deserted alley. Not a good development, but maybe there's an open door and he can hide there. However, his luck has left him and he finds himself with his back against a wall. A wall too high to climb.
"How much?"
The voice startles him and he quickly faces the man. Merde! The man followed him and is now showing off dollar bills.
"How much for a quick fuck?"
Merde, merde, merde! Quickly, he searches for a way out. This isn't the first man who thinks he's selling his body! Why do they think that? Why?
"I'm waiting," the man says, growing impatient.
"I don' do dat for money," Remy replies eventually. "You got de wrong person."
"I don't think so," the man objects. "I've seen you sitting in the park for hours. You're homeless and you need money. What about 50 dollars?"
"Non!" Remy insists fiercely. "I ain' no whore!" His eyes return to the wall. He's trapped.
"We both know that's a lie," the man quips and draws 50 bucks from his wallet. "C'mon, don't play hard to get."
Remy's eyes narrow behind the sunglasses. Looks like he will have to fight his way out of this alley.

"Eight o'clock," père Etienne whispers with a sigh. "And no sign of Remiel." He made his rounds, even locked the doors at a later hour, hoping Remy would accept his invitation after all.
On the kitchen counter sit the meds he picked up, just in case the young man needs them. "Mon Dieu, you let me find him. Please bring him back to your temple," he sighs distressed.
Although he lived most of his life inside church walls, he knows the bitter reality of the outside world. He has seen children; young adults and even men and women his age live and die on the streets. At one point, he even volunteered to help out in a shelter, something his superiors disliked, but couldn't forbid. "If someone needs help, it's you, mon fils. You're a lost soul."
//Oui, Remy acts tough, like he can handle everything the world throws at him, but during his tormented sleep, I saw through the mask. Remy's ill equipped to deal with true criminals.//
He sits down and stares at the Gumbo. It's a leftover, but should fill their bellies just fine.
Today, he asked a few of the other priests if they have seen a boy with red on black eyes in the church. But most of them have only been here a few years and couldn't help him. He's determined to ask Paul, a priest his age who has worked here for 20 years and who will return to the cathedral tomorrow.
Suddenly, he catches a scraping sound, like feet dragging over the stone floor. He gets up from his chair as quickly as he can. "Remiel, mon fils, is that you?"
"Oui, père," he whispers crestfallen and steps into the room.
"Remy!" père Etienne exclaims startled. "What happened to you? Come into the bathroom!" he commands and picks up the first aid kit from the cupboard.
Slowly, Remy stumbles into the bathroom. Dried blood is tied into the lashes of his eyes and he can't exactly see where's going.
Père Etienne sits him down on one of the chairs he brought along from the living room. "You fought!"
"Had no choice, père," Remy objects and hisses as père Etienne disinfects the cut just above his left eye.
Père Etienne decides not to comment on it, realizing there are several reasons why Remy could have ended up in a fight. But he hopes Remy didn't resort to stealing, got caught and ran from the police. The youngster is already in dire straits! "Did you suffer more injuries?"
"I can take care of myself," Remy insists in a pleading tone. The bastard cornered him in the alley and aimed his blows at his ribs, which hurt every time he breathes too deeply.
"Remy," he sighs the name. "Just tell me."
Hearing that name in such a gentle tone sparkles some kind of memory in his mind. Can it be his real name? Did people call him Remy before? Confused, he pushes the question back into a corner of his shadowed mind.
"My wrist hurts," he admits eventually. Père Etienne can't do anything for his aching ribs but a firm bandage around his right wrist might do wonders.
"Let me see if it's broken."
Remy watches the old priest, who's now probing the extent of his injury. It's strange. Although père Etienne reminds him of the old man in his nightmares, he feels completely safe.
"It's not broken," père Etienne concludes, "but I will bandage that wrist." In silence, he wraps the gauze around the injured wrist. "This bracelet? can you take it off? It's in the way."
"Don' know how. It has no lock." Apologetically, Remy shrugs his shoulders.
Père Etienne does his best to work around it. "I hoped you would be back, mon fils." Surprised, he registers the blush on Remy's face.
"I'm hungry," he admits in a guilty tone. He isn't sure he can steal the food he needs in his current condition.
"Let's eat then," père Etienne says resolved and waits for his protégé to get to his feet. "Hope you don't mind eating Gumbo again."
"Love Gumbo," Remy whispers. Feeling uncomfortable, he follows the priest into the kitchen. He still can't understand why the man cares about him. "What?" he whispers stunned as his eyes drift off into the bedroom. A mattress lies on the floor, next to père Etienne's bed.
"You can sleep on that mattress. I need my own bed tonight." Père Etienne sees the lurking tears in the young man's eyes. "You thought I would throw you out, now didn't you?"
At a loss, Remy bites his lip.
"You don't know me very well, mon fils," he says in a kind tone and gestures Remy to sit down. "Before we start?" he folds his hands and whispers a prayer, thanking his Lord for the food. It doesn't surprise him that Remy's whispering the words too. A Catholic raised this young man! "Bon appetite," he says and fills the bowls with hot soup.
Hungrily, Remy attacks the food, shoving bread and Gumbo into his mouth.
Amused, père Etienne looks at the shining red on black eyes. "I won't take the food away from you," he whispers and suddenly, his heart misses a beat. Did someone starve Remy in the past? No, why would they? He shrugs off that unsettling thought.
"Sorry," Remy whispers after swallowing his last mouthful of Gumbo. He's still hungry, but tries to ignore it.
"I got more sandwiches," père Etienne says and points him to the fridge.
Embarrassed, Remy remains poised. "Don' want to eat all your food, père Etienne," he says guiltily.
"Mon fils, the church looks after its own," he berates Remy and shoes him over to the fridge. Pleased, he watches the young man as he devours another plate filled with sandwiches. "Got you some sweats to sleep in," he says in a soft tone. "I will turn in early today."
Remy can't help but grow suspicious at such generosity. "What do you want from me in return?" He desperately hopes that he didn't make an error in judgement. What if père Etienne hides his vile perversions better than most men? He shudders and pushes his chair away from the table.
He notices the sudden distrust in the alien eyes and realizes that this is their first moment of truth. "What I want? Nothing," he reassures Remy. "Well, you could do the dishes before turning in. My hands always cramp up in the water."
"Not'in' except for de dishes?" Remy stutters in disbelief.
"But you're my guest. I should do them myself." Smiling warmly, he leans back and watches as realization spreads over Remy's face.
"I'll do de dishes," Remy replies confused and collects their bowls and plates. As he carries them to the sink, he notices the two small packages on the kitchen counter. He recognizes the names of the drugs. 'Did you??" his voice trails off.
"Found the prescription in your pocket and I picked them up. I'm sure the doctor wants you to take them for a good reason."
"Will help me get my memory back," Remy mumbles absentmindedly, "but when I take dem I feel like de livin' dead. I feel?cut off and lost. Ain' want to be drugged."
"Think it over," père Etienne says and walks into his bedroom. "I'm going to sleep. Extinguish the candles before turning in, Remy."
The door closes and Remy stares at the meds. Père Etienne is right of course. But taking them means that he will be dead within hours. He can't survive like that on the streets!
While doing the dishes, he tries to figure out the priest. Père Etienne seems a decent man. At least he didn't take advantage of him. Maybe he can learn to trust the priest.
Unwilling to go to sleep, he sits down in front of the fireplace, which still burns brightly. Hugging his waist, he rocks back and forth. He doesn't want to go sleep, doesn't want to return to that horrible place where the old man kept him prisoner.
But while he's struggling to stay awake, his eyes slip shut and he drifts off into sleep.

 

Chapter Three

St. Louis Cathedral
Worried, père Etienne remains poised in the doorway. In front of the fireplace sits Remy, shivering and shuddering. His young protégé is once again having one of his nightmares. However, last night taught him not to walk away, so he pulls a chair close, sits down and studies the youngster.
"Remiel?" He says in a soft, determined tone. "Remy" he tries again, almost automatically settling into using the shorter name. "You're having a nightmare," he whispers soothingly.
Remy rocks back and forth, desperately seeking comfort and craving safety. Père Etienne's voice manages to penetrate his mind and slowly, he recognizes the kind voice. The blanket of terror lifts from his mind.
"Remy?" Père Etienne places a hesitant hand on the young man's shoulders. "You will be more comfortable on the mattress." The red on black eyes reveal pain and shame.
"Don' want to sleep," Remy objects strongly, leaving his nightmare world behind. His watering eyes plead with the priest for understanding. "Don' want to go back dere, père."
"You dreamt of the old man again?" père Etienne asks, eager to get his guest underneath some blankets. The fire died a long time ago and Remy needs to get warm.
Unsteadily, Remy rises to his feet. The nightmares worn him down and he doesn't even consider objecting. "Don' want to sleep," he repeats stubbornly, but a moment later he lies down on the mattress.
Gentle hands tuck him in and stroke away stray locks from his face. Strangely enough, that touch doesn't upset him. Those fingertips radiate concern and he smiles weakly. "Don' worry 'bout me, père Etienne. I can take care of myself."
"Non, you can't," père Etienne states resolved and ignores the confused expression on his guest's face. "What did the old man do that scared you? Did he beat you again?"
Remy takes a deep breath. He doesn't really want to remember his nightmares, but realizes that they hold the key to his past and identity. "He said that my powers don' compare to his," he whispers eventually and his own answer puzzles him. "Don' know what he was talkin' 'bout."
Thoughtfully, he observes Remy and then reaches a decision. "Listen to me, mon fils. You need sleep, but those nightmares keep haunting you."
Remy experiences a growing unease. "Oui?"
"I read the prescription's instructions, Remy. One of the drugs is designed to ensure an undisturbed sleep. It's only 23.00. Will you take one pill? It should lose its effect during the morning." Pleadingly, he locks eyes with the young man. "You need rest." He hopes Remy will consent to his proposal. "Otherwise the nightmares will never let you alone."
"Don' know, père," Remy replies confused, remembering how cut off he felt when the doctors fed him those drugs. He doesn't want to feel like a zombie again! But it's tempting? a night without nightmares?
"It's only sleeping medication. It's the other drug that makes you feel sedated," he soothes the young man. "I'll watch over you, make sure that nothing goes wrong." The promise hangs in the room. "I'm serious, Remy. No harm will come to you."
Reluctantly, he gives in. Père Etienne's honest tone convinces him that the priest is serious. Oui, for some reason, the old priest cares for him. "I want to sleep? mais don' want de nightmares."
"Bien." Contented, père Etienne moves over to the kitchen to get the meds. From the corner of his eye he watches Remy, who is trying to hide underneath the blankets. The young man's still shaking violently. He wishes there was a way to take away Remy's pain and fears.
Remy peeks from beneath the covers and sits upright as père Etienne returns with tea and the meds. The warmth and care in the old priest's eyes continue to baffle him and again he wonders, why does the priest care that much about him?
"Sip slowly," he advices and hands Remy the tea and meds. He watches closely, making sure the young man really swallows the medication. He wouldn't put it passed Remy to only pretend taking the meds. "I won't let anyone harm you, mon fils." Reassuringly, he repeats his earlier promise.
After emptying the cup of tea he hands it back to the priest. "Don' know how to say dis," he starts hesitantly. Pulling up the blankets to his chin, he slowly rocks back and forth. It's a strange habit and sometimes he feels the urge to bang the back of his head against the wall while he's rocking.
"What is it, mon fils?" A little puzzled, he notices the rising blush on the young man's cheeks. He never met someone craving this much acceptance and affection. "This old man hurt you pretty bad, non?" he realizes eventually.
"Oui," Remy admits with a sigh. A strange revelation hovers at the edges of his mind. Last night he begged père Etienne not to touch him and now? part of him wants to be held and comforted so badly that it hurts. But he can't ask the priest to hold him. Père Etienne would never do that!
//Mais he's de only one you trust? de only close?// a tiny voice berates him.
Instinctively, père Etienne recognizes Remy's inner turmoil and slowly covers the young man's hands with his, squeezing them gently. "I'm here, mon fils. Now try to sleep?"
Reassured, Remy lies down again and stares at the ceiling. His breathing slows down and père Etienne gets back into bed as well. Suddenly, he realizes that the old priest is still holding his right hand! Embarrassed, he wonders what to do. Pulling back feels inappropriate, but this puts père Etienne's arm in an awkward position.
"Dormir bien, Remiel," père Etienne says and gives the icy hand one last squeeze. "My old bones," he whispers apologetically before slipping his hand back under the covers.
"Merci." His eyes drop shut. Merde! Those drugs act fast. His mind is reeling and the room spins around him. But he can't deny the transcendent rest that overwhelms him as his thoughts stop running in circles. It's a pleasant fatigue; much different from the sedated state he was in during his time at the hospital.
Père Etienne notices the now steady breathing and turns onto his left side so he can watch Remy's face in the half dark. There's a full moon tonight and the beams illuminate the bedroom. //Too young,// he muses. //You're much too young to have suffered this greatly, mon fils,// he mentally sighs and then closes his eyes as well.
Remy curls his body into a tight ball and releases a deep breath. Relaxed, his thoughts drift off, but this time the drugs keep his troubled dreams at bay. This time, he dreams of an angel with fair hair, blue eyes and blue skin.

Père Etienne's face softens as a gentle smile melts into the deep lines, edged onto his brow. It's noon and his protégé is still asleep. Remy is so peacefully asleep that he can't find it in his heart to wake the young man. It's probably the first night of decent sleep the youngster had in weeks, maybe even months!
He sits down and studies the handsome face, wondering how old Remy is. Taking an educated guess, he realizes that his young guest can't be older than 25. //Probably even younger. But he looks older because of the hard life he has been leading.// But hopefully that will change now.
He walks over to the cupboard, picks up plates and knives and retrieves several food items from the fridge. //Maybe I should wake him. He needs to eat.// Last night, he realized how skinny Remy is and he plans on remedying that.
"Non," he whispers, "I will wait until he wakes." The meds are finally working, giving the young man the rest he needs and he probably needs to catch up on a lot of sleep.
Eyes? Eyes are watching him and instantly, Remy leaps to his feet. Still drugged and sleepy eyed, he tries to keep his balance, but fails. He collapses in a heap on the mattress. His instincts kicked in, but in his foggy state his reactions are belated.
"Remiel?" Père Etienne rises from his chair and moves over to the doorway. Wisely, he keeps his distance. The young man's eyes look haunted and he appears ready to attack or defend himself from a possible assailant. What happened to the youngster to cause these extreme reactions? "Remy?" he whispers softly. "It's me."
Even in his blurry state of mind, Remy recognizes the tender voice. "Père Etienne?" His eyes slip shut again and he places both hands on the mattress to steady himself. He nearly yelps as his right wrist cries out in protest. It might not be broken, but it's still heavily bruised.
"Oui," père Etienne replies, but doesn't move any closer as he doesn't want to scare the confused youngster. "Do you need help?" he offers in a friendly tone.
Breathing heavily, Remy struggles to regain control over his senses. "Feel like I'm still 'sleep," he murmurs nervously.
"Take your time, mon fils," père Etienne advises. "Sit and wait for your mind to wake up as well. I will fix you some coffee in the meantime."
Embarrassed and even ashamed of his clumsiness, Remy finally manages to sit cross-legged. Soft, pastel colors flash in front of his eyes. The meds he took last night only slowly lose their effect.
Père Etienne is probably right. //Don' rush? // he chides himself, but his instincts urge him to get moving. Sitting quiet like this makes him an easy target. //No one here, 'cept père Etienne and he won' hurt me?// he reasons with himself, but part of him refuses to listen. People are always out to get him!
Patiently, père Etienne waits for his guest to join him in the small living room. Seeing the obvious panic on Remy's face saddens him. Even here, the young man doesn't feel safe!
After long minutes Remy pushes himself onto his feet, using the wall as support. Confused, he realizes that beams of warm sunlight caress his skin. //Can't be dat late!// It should still be morning! He never sleeps this late!
Shakily, he makes his way over to the table and sits down. His hands tremble as he reaches for the coffee. "Don' feel bien?"
"But you slept for 12 hours without a single nightmare!" père Etienne points out to him and presents fresh fruits and sandwiches to his guest. "It's only normal that you feel shaky right now. It will wear off."
"Should be on de streets 'ready," Remy mumbles uncomfortably. "Takin' up too much of your space and time, père." Sipping from the coffee, he starts feeling alive again. But the priest is right. He had some wonderful dreams last night, which featured a beautiful woman with long white hair and eyes and? an angel. //Can' mention dat too him! Père Etienne will t'ink I've gone insane after all!//
"You can stay here as you long as you want. You don't need to leave during the day," père Etienne reassures him. He distinctly notices the sluggishness in Remy's slow gestures. "You can't walk the streets like this, mon fils."
"I have to, père," Remy objects in an unsteady tone. "Need to find out who I am."
"Mon fils," père Etienne sighs the words. "I can't stop you from leaving, but please remember that I count on you to have dinner with me? You would greatly disappoint me by not visiting your old père Etienne." Although he's old, he still knows how to play people and this young man is an open book.
"Will be back, père Etienne," Remy promises in a sudden outburst of passion. "Will be back for dinner."
"Bien," père Etienne gives in. "Now eat, drink and be careful out there on the streets, Remiel!"
Remy smiles, hearing that name. "I will be back," he repeats sincerely.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I'll see you tomorrow, Robert," Warren says fatigued and marches out of the Louis XVI Restaurant in the French Quarter. Although the food was excellent -not too spicy- he wants to return to his penthouse at the Pontchartainhotel as quickly as possible.
New Orleans. He hates being here for more than one reason. His entire life he has been forced to attend dusty business meetings because his business partners expect him to be interested in his holdings, but this visit is different.
This time he's here on dangerous business. After all these years, he's finally through with paying the Assassins' Guild protection money. His father made the mistake of giving into their threats 40 years ago. The Assassins' Guild threatened to kill his father and his family if he refused to cooperate. So, his father gave in.
Now, he's putting an end to it. //Let them try and murder an X-Man!//
Warren signals his chauffeur that he wants to walk back to the hotel and the limousine drives off. He needs a moment to clear his head.
The Assassins' Guild already knows why he's here. He sent them a letter, stating that he wasn't sticking to their deal any longer. Their reaction was? odd, to say the least. No threats, no letters, nothing. However, that doesn't worry him.
//Or maybe I no longer care what happens to me?// he muses. After Apocalypse his life became a charade and he no longer feels like the man he used to be.
Slowly, his thoughts drift back to the past. Everything started in those damned Morlocks tunnels where Harpoon almost destroyed his wings. But the worst part was that they could have been saved, if not a so-called friend of his had them amputated!
And then? Apocalypse. His worst nightmare became true when Apocalypse turned him into Death, one of his four Horsemen. Only because of Rogue he managed to break away from Apocalypse!
Subconsciously, he still hates himself for the pride he took in being Death. The power and strength that filled him when he had those powerful wings supplied him with a constant adrenaline rush!
He slipped into depression after coming to his senses. The impact of what he had done nearly crushed him. If it hadn't been for Bets he would never have pulled through.
//But Bets?// Warren feels melancholy. He lost Betsy's love a long time ago, but only a few weeks ago he finally had the guts to face that truth. //That shadow walking of hers gives me the creeps!// After he found out that evil attracted her he started to distance himself from her.
Bets is another reason for coming to New Orleans. They decided to stop seeing each other. He had hoped that the time apart would convince him that he wanted her back but? //I don't love her any more. Not like I used to!//
Now, he's here on his own and maybe that's the most important reason why he told off the Assassins' Guild. Maybe, deep down in his heart he no longer cares. He doesn't want to consider the possibility that he has a death wish. Not Warren Worthington the Third! Never!
The Assassins' Guild. He shivers, remembering that another Guild has a base in New Orleans; the Thieves Guild. That's one Guild he never wants to come into contact with.
Gambit? Remy LeBeau, son of Jean-Luc LeBeau, patriarch of the Thieves Guild.
Just thinking that name angers him. A soft growl struggles from his throat. Gambit, the traitor, is responsible for gathering the Marauders. Remy LeBeau handpicked Harpoon himself!
//But Gambit's dead!// Warren remembers pleased. //After I refused to continue to defend him, all hell broke loose and in the end, Rogue left him there to die!// But although he's pleased that Gambit got what he deserved, he still has mixed feelings about the trial.
Eric the Red chose him to defend Gambit and he accepted. But after hearing that Gambit worked for Sinister, gathered the Marauders, he told LeBeau to defend himself.
"And only minutes before that, I reminded Eric the Red that X-Men take care of each other!"
Feeling miserable for several reasons, he turns around the corner. It's only a 30 minutes walk to the hotel and he enjoys being in the open air. At times like these, he craves pulling the restraints from his wings and simply take to the sky.
But that's impossible. He can only walk these streets unnoticed because of the image inducer he's carrying. His blue skin would instantly give him away and he doesn't want to run any unnecessary risks. After all, he runs a business empire! //And I DON'T have a death wish!// he thinks, trying hard to convince himself.
Gambit, the name sets off another rush of anger. The Cajun fought at his side, never mentioning his involvement with Sinister. That's the thing that ticks him off most. Remy LeBeau never admitted his part in the Massacre until the trial! The Cajun thief pretended being his friend, knowing very well that it was one fat lie.
Remy LeBeau cost him his wings and heaped a lot of pain onto his soul. If it hadn't been for the damned Cajun the Marauders would never have slaughtered the Morlocks! Gambit led them into those tunnels! The Cajun never cared about their lives, was only interested in getting his money from Sinister!
Enraged, his hands clench into fists and he wishes that he could slam them into the wall right now, but that would only draw people's attention. //No, not the wall, make that LeBeau's face!// Now, that would be sweet justice and payback at the same time!

 

Chapter Four

Feeling ill at ease, Remy's eyes scan the surprisingly empty streets. It's not that late and he wonders where the stream of people went that crowded the pavement only one hour ago. It's like the city is holding its breath in fearful apprehension, ready to reveal its worst secrets.
He only seldom visits this particular part of town, but something drew him here today. It's mostly upper class and the shop owners don't like to see homeless people hanging around and usually call the cops. But here he is.
Strategically, he chooses a darkened, shadowed street corner and observes the few people passing him by. They're mostly businessmen, clad in expensive suits and carrying briefcases to emphasize their important position in this city.
Their arrogant faces upset him; make him cringe in repressed anger. Only yesterday one of them tried to 'buy' his services in that deserted alley. Absentmindedly, he rubs his injured wrist. His ribs however, stopped aching during the night.
He hates these men, who think that they only have to show off their money to get what they want. Some of them only want his ass and when he refuses, their injured pride drives them to extract revenge by beating him up.
"Not dis time. Never 'gain!" he vows passionately. No man will ever touch him against his will again. It's bad enough that these nightmares torment him, show him what this old man did to him in the past.
Soundlessly, he hides deeper in the shadows. His hands no longer tremble due to the meds and relieved, he fumbles for that one sandwich he stowed away in the pocket of his coat before leaving the cathedral.
From behind his sunglasses, his glance is drawn to one man in particular. Dressed in a hated grey business suit the man makes his way across the street towards him.
Entranced, he stares into hard blue eyes of steel, which hold a strange attraction. //Dey're beautiful!// he realizes startled, instinctively knowing that those eyes only are that hard because something soft and vulnerable hides behind them.
Helplessness washes through him as he finds himself following the stranger. Unable to break free, he finally realizes that those eyes awoke a terrible need inside his soul, which now flares into life.
As the man finally looks up, he notices the anger edged onto the stranger's features and he's sorely tempted to retreat and stop this foolish quest for information. But something stronger than his fear pulls him forward. He needs to know where this man is staying!
//Why? Why am I followin' him? I hate dese egocentric bastards!// he wonders confused. The man's fine costume indicates that his wallet is filled with credit cards and hundred dollar bills.
Cautiously, he pulls away from the shadows and ventures onto the pavement, as the stranger increases the distance between them. He pulls the hood of his coat over his head to conceal his face and pushes the sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose.
Now that his face is obscured he covers some of the distance between them, but remains at a cautious distance.
//What's dat?// he wonders confused. One bright red light slowly moves over the stranger's back towards his neck. Goose flesh forms on his skin, realizing the danger the man's in. He doesn't wonder why or how he knows this, he simply acts as a deeply ingrained training kicks in.
//Someone 's takin' aim!// His own conclusion startles him. //If I don' do anyt'in' de man's goin' to die!// Although the stranger represents everything he has come to hate during his time on the streets, his conscience berates him. He has to stop the sniper!
So he moves, quicker than he ever imagined possible. But even his dazzling speed can't save the stranger. A soft hiss fills the air as the laser hits target, taking the blue-eyed man down.

Warren yelps as something incredibly sharp cuts through the bone of his right wing and into his back. In terrible pain, he staggers towards the wall. He never thought the assassins would react this quickly!
The pain grows nearly unbearable and he sways on his feet, holding onto the wall for support. He's an easy target here on the streets and he needs to find cover! Damn his arrogance! Damn his pride! It was arrogant stupidity that urged him to defy the Assassins' Guild! Maybe he has a death wish after all?
Unexpectedly, a hard body slams into his, taking him down. What the hell's going on? Do the Assassins want to end this disagreement one on one? That hardly seems their style, judging by that sniper attack!
The pain in his wing makes him cringe and he bites his lip until it bleeds. Sucking in his breath, he tries to struggle free from the strong arms that enfold his waist, but fails. The determined hands pull him into a deserted alley and he realizes his disadvantage. In this confined space he can't use his wings. Damn! He can't use his wings anyway. One is damaged!
He refuses to give into the pain and a frightening panic is born. His wing! They damaged his wing! Freaking out, his hands try to claw at the restraints to establish the extent of damage done, but he feels strangely paralysed and can hardly move at all. An insane fear claws away at his mind. His wing!
Still fighting unconsciousness, he pants, "Not again! Never again!" He is NOT going to lose his wings again! Not after all he has been through to reclaim them! Apocalypse made him pay a terrible prize, one he will continue to pay for during the rest of his life!
"Don' fight me!"
The urgent voice cuts through his crazed mind and he freezes in horror. Bewildered, he leans heavily on his saviour and searches for a face among the shadows. Sunglasses hit the pavement with a metallic bang and reveal red on black eyes.
Time stands still and then realization crushes in on him. "YOU!" he screams in unbridled rage. The pain no longer matters. The fear of losing his wing is forgotten. All that matters right now is the terrified face that stares back at him. Red on black eyes! "You!"

Remy flinches uncontrollably as the fury in those blue eyes double. The man's tone is filled with hatred and rage and that hate is aimed at him! Why? He didn't shoot the stranger? //Mebbe he t'inks I tried to kill him?// The question, 'Do you know me?' burns his lips, but he's too scared to ask, fearing the possible answer.
But the stranger faints and Remy can barely support his weight. His wrist sends waves of pain through his arm, but he manages to ignore the stinging ache and concentrates on tightening his hold on the stranger. "Got you," he whispers reassuringly, a little relieved that the man can't hear him.
Gritting his teeth, he pushes away the renewed ache emanating from his ribs. This man needs him and he can't let him down! "Goin' to take of you," he promises determinedly. "Dey won' get to you!"
Why is he this concerned about someone he doesn't know? Someone who stared at him with so much unspoken hatred in his eyes? But these eyes mirrored the angel's from his dreams.
What if that sniper had a perfectly sound reason for wanting to kill this man? What if this stranger is a crime lord, drug dealer or pimp? But somehow that doesn't feel right. Although there was hate in those orbs, he didn't find any evil in them. An overwhelming urge to protect his man washes through him.
The man's too heavy to carry, so he drags him through the alley and finally reaches one of his hideaways. After kicking open the door, he drags the unconscious man into a corner and helps him sit upright against the wall.
Confused, he sits on his heels and wonders what to do next. //Examine his injury?//
A warm feeling courses through him now that he can help another person in need. Père Etienne set the example. Père Etienne took him in and cared for him. //Can do de same for dis man!// Hesitantly, he strokes a few stray strands out of the man's face.
Very gently, he takes hold of the man's shoulders and rests the unconscious body against his chest, giving him free access to the injured area. Slowly he strips off the man's jacket. Suddenly, electricity sizzles through the air, making him jump back. The stranger falls forward onto the dirty floor.
Remy blinks his eyes in bafflement. The man's whole appearance's changing! Holding his breath, he watches in disbelief. "Mon Dieu," he pants and backs further away from the stranger. His heart pounds madly in his throat and he can't believe what he's seeing.
A veil seems to lift from the man's face and reveals blue skin! BLUE SKIN! His mind feels strangely numb. Blue skin and blue eyes? "Mon Dieu!" he stutters shocked. //Blue skin?//
But the transformation continues and the fair hair turns into spun gold. Remy's eyes drift lower and he pants slightly, gasping for much needed breath.
"Wings? White wings?" They spring from the man's back and the feathers seem soft and warm. "My dream? I saw you in my dream!" he realizes in dread! His dreams can't come true! This can't be an angel!
Shocked, he kneels beside the angelic creature and leans in a little closer to stare at those magnificent wings. However, his heart misses a beat seeing the bloodstains defiling the right wing. There's even more blood on the man's white shirt.
//Wings? feaders? blue skin? blue eyes?// his head reels and he's scared to speak. The sound of his voice might wake the angel and right now he doesn't want to face those angry eyes. Maybe this angel was sent to punish him? Why else would the angel stare at him in disgust like that?
//But he needs help?// Setting aside his fear, he realizes that he needs to examine the injury to determine what kind of help the angel needs. But his hand remains poised in mid air. //Can' touch an ange!// he thinks upset. His touch would certainly defile the celestial being!
His hand falls to the dirty and moist floor and his mind desperately searches for an acceptable reason to stall examining that wound. "Bandages? have to clean de wound? painkillers," he whispers uncomfortably. But in order to buy those things, he needs money! Money, which he doesn't have!
But maybe his angel has! However, searching an angel's pockets seems inappropriate and he pulls back. Shivering, he wishes the angel would wake up and tell him what to do!
A strangled moan flees the man's lips and urges him into action. Maybe he's breaking rules here, but he has to do something! So, he pushes the angel back into a sitting position and, after taking a deep breath, allows his fingers to stroll down the angel's back. The feeling that washes through him as he touches the feathers of those fabulous wings, takes him aback.
//An ange? I'm holdin' an ange in my arms!// he thinks amazed and shakes his head as an unexpected tear breaks free from his eyes. He always hoped angels existed, but never expected to ever meet one, even less hold one in his arms! "Don' care what you'll do to me once you wake," he whispers respectfully. "Merci for dis gift."
But a droplet of blood falls onto the back of his hand and reminds him of the seriousness of the situation. "Sorry, mon ange, mais I need de money." His left hands searches for the wallet while supporting the unconscious body with his own. This angel feels surprisingly soft and warm.
It only takes him a moment to locate the wallet and then he slips it out of the pocket. With a quick flip, he opens it. "Don' want to steal," he assures the angel, "mais I need de money to pay for your meds."
Looking through the wallet's content, he grows curious. He takes out one hundred dollar and stuffs it away in his own pocket. That will cover most expenses.
Curiosity gets the better of him and he scans the name signed on the credit cards. "Warren Wort'ington?" he whispers and shivers violently. That name feels damned familiar! That name? "Do I know you? Non, did I know you?" he asks aloud.
The angel doesn't answer him, but at least now he knows his name. "Warren?" he whispers and smiles nervously. The name seems oddly off. Maybe his subconscious hoped that the angel's name might be Michael or Raphael.
Another soft mew of agony fills his ears and he quickly looks about. This isn't the best place to nurse an angel back to health. They're hiding in the basement of a condemned building and it is cold and damp.
"I hid blankets in here," he suddenly remembers and rests Warren's body back against the wall. Methodically, he searches the basement until he finds the two torn and dirty blankets. They will have to do for now.
"Will be back," he promises as he tucks the angel in. "Will take me 'bout 20 minutes to return." He knows very well that Warren can't hear him, but the sound of his own voice soothes him. "Trust me, mon ange."
Père Etienne! The name suddenly cuts through his mind. Maybe the old priest can help! But the cathedral is too far away and he needs to disinfect the wound first and bandage the wing and back! No, he can't go to père Etienne now and has to break his promise. The angel needs him most!
After making sure that Warren is resting as comfortably as possible, he steals over to the doorway, fumbling for the bills in his pocket. He doesn't want to leave this angel alone in his current state but has no choice. "Will be back," he whispers one last time and then flees the room.

 

Chapter Five

It takes Remy over an hour to buy all necessary items, bandages, painkillers and a balm to fight off a possible infection. The little amount of money left, he uses to buy sandwiches and orange juice. Normally, he would search the garbage cans for something edible, but Warren's money enables him to buy proper food.
He sneaks back into the abandoned house and covers up the entrance so no one can find them. The sniper especially worries him and he needs to convince Warren to stay hidden until the coast is safe. But will the injured man listen to him?
Cautiously, he sneaks closer. His angel hasn't moved since he left and a pool of blood formed underneath the unconscious body.
Not wasting a single moment, Remy hurries over to his side and kneels. Carefully, he wraps his arms around Warren and pulls him over to a warmer corner. The blankets drag over the floor, leaving behind a trail of blood. There's so much blood that he fears his help might come too late, but determinedly, he strips off the blankets and probes the injury with his fingers.
"Goin' to take care of you," he promises sincerely. After resting the man's body against his chest, he applies the balm, hoping the wound isn't infected yet. Next, he bandages the man's back and shoulder, pulling the bandages tight, as he hopes it will stop or slow down the bleeding.
But as he moves to examine the wing itself, his hands falter. He's hesitant to touch those magnificent feathers, even if they're stained with blood. This angel means the world to him and he's still trying to figure out why. And those wings? An angel's wings? and he's touching them!
There's no way back for him and his trembling fingers gingerly examine the wound. Relieved, he finds that the wing itself isn't hurt that badly. The blood emanates from the man's back and he only locates a small puncture in the wing's bone. He can't do much about that. The bone needs time to heal. But just to be on the safe side, he covers the puncture with the balm.
The feathers feel so damned soft to his fingers and astonished, he realizes that his eyes are watering. Why are these wings so important to him? "You'll fly 'gain, mon ange," he says reassuringly. But the unconscious man doesn't respond and Remy smiles melancholy. For some reason he has been chosen to take care of this angel and he vows not to let Warren down.
He checks on the bandages to make sure that they aren't too tight. Bien. But now his angel is shivering due to a feverish cold and reacting instinctively, he slips out of his own long coat. Tenderly, he wraps up the shuddering angel in the coat and then covers him with the blankets as well.
A few feet away from Warren, he sits on his heels, studying the unconscious angel. There's nothing else he can do, except for a quick prayer that his angel will survive the night.

Hour after hour passes by. His teeth chatter due to the cold, but he knows instinctively that his angel needs the blankets more. Trying to distract himself, Remy's thoughts drift back to père Etienne. The old priest is probably greatly worried. It crosses his mind to give père Etienne a call, but he can't bring himself to leave his angel alone.
His biological clock tells him that it's way passed midnight and the night is still growing colder. But he can beat the cold. He learned to detach himself from it when he was still a child. //Jus' t'ink 'bout père Etienne's warm rooms!// he chides himself privately. Oui, he can beat this cold. Almost lured into sleep, he startles as Warren releases a strangled scream.
"Don't!" Warren suddenly yells, lost in his own nightmares. "My wings!"
He wants to soothe the confused angel and so he crawls closer. But shame and a sudden sense of self-loathing keep him back. He doesn't deserve it to comfort this angel. Something tells him to keep a respectful distance.
So, he listens in fear to the angel's continuing yelps, even covers his ears to shut them out, but fails. He knows what it feels like to be trapped in those nightmares, but he can't cross that line, can't comfort his angel.
In a fear ridden delirium Warren loses himself in the nightmares. His yelps turn into strangled moans of pain. Apocalypse's face haunts every corner of his shadowed mind and he can't outrun the bastard. Apocalypse's voice sounds in his ears, promising him new wings to replace the old ones, which he lost. He still hates himself for even listening to Apocalypse's offer!
Remy's hands still cover his ears and he's biting his lip, trying to shut out the yelps. He doesn't want to hear them! They remind him too much of his own pain!
"Stop? Stop?" Warren whispers helplessly, trying to keep Apocalypse from realizing his insane plans. "Don't turn me into Death!"
"Can' help you," Remy mumbles in return. Warren's pain is almost tangible and slowly chokes him. Eventually, unable to stop himself, he moves close enough to touch his angel. Very hesitantly, almost certain that the heavens will strike him down, he folds one arm around the angel's shoulders. He encounters no resistance and continues to pull Warren close, careful avoiding putting pressure on the injury.
Instinctively, Warren reacts to the proximity of a warm body, offering him comfort and surrenders to the embrace. //I'm not alone,// he realizes relieved. Someone is holding him, soothing his troubled dreams. His tangled nightmares subdue as he allows himself to be held and eventually rocked.
This presence feels warm and even protective. When was the last time someone had done this for him? Bets had made it very clear that she expected him to work through this by himself. Yes, she'd offered comfort, but he couldn't let go in her presence, not like he was doing now. Bets expected him to be strong, but deep down, he had always known that she didn't really love him. She loved his appearance, his power, even his strength, but she hated his weaknesses.
When was the last time that someone had held him like this? His father had? when he had only been a child. His father sometimes pulled him on his lap and told him about his mother. At times, they'd both ended up crying.
"Let go, mon ange."
The soft, nearly hypnotic voice drives his thoughts away from the past and he surrenders to the present. All that counts right now is that he isn't alone any longer. Warren lets go, cuddles up to this warm body and releases a deep sigh.
Confused, Remy wraps both arms around the cold frame and holds him tightly. But his body almost freezes as Warren rests his head against his chest, snuggling up to him. Small tremors shake his hands as he strokes back the golden hair. Does this mean that the angel trusts him to take care of him? Him? Le diable blanc? Remy pulls up his legs, wraps his body around Warren's and offers his little body warmth to his icy angel.

A warm beam of sunlight wakes Remy the next morning. His eyes flash open, feeling another warm body pressed against his. Warren lies nestled in his lap and his body reacts automatically to the warm pressure. "Merde!" he curses softly, as he grows aroused. Determinedly, he fights it down.
//This is an ange! Mon Dieu! I can' feel dis way for an ange. It's disrespectful!// But hell, he can't help feeling the way he does. //Got to be stronger dan dis feelin'!//
Remy tries to creep away, but Warren clings to his warmth and refuses to let go. He can't use force to free himself, too scared he will worsen the injury, and so he gives in eventually and continues to hold his angel.
"You need to eat, drink, get better," Remy whispers absentmindedly, trying hard not to think of this warm and desirable body pressed into his. "Once you can walk 'gain, I'll take you to père Etienne. He'll know what to do." The sound of his own voice scares him and he grows quiet.
Tenderly, he tries to wake his angel. They can't stay in this damp basement much longer. Suddenly, a terrible apprehension sweeps through him, remembering the rage in those blue eyes as they locked with his. But he has to persevere now. "Wake up, mon ange? please?"
Maybe hearing his real name will wake the unconscious man? "You've got to wake up, Warren!"

Through a fog of pain, Warren registers the voice, calling his name. //Wake up?// he thinks alarmed. When did he fall asleep in the first place? A sharp pain slashes through his back and then he remembers the sniper attack. The assassin shot him in the back, the coward! But what happened after he had been hit?
A hard body had taken him down? Out of the shadows the eyes had risen, burning into his soul. RED ON BLACK. He recognized them instantly; they belonged to the traitor LeBeau. But one thing had seemed oddly out of place. Those eyes had radiated fear, pain and terror. Inappropriate emotions for those demonic eyes!
"Wake up, mon ange!"
The insistent voice pushes him into consciousness and slowly, his eyes flutter open.
Remy immediately frees himself of the embrace and retreats into a corner, worried about Warren's possible reaction and waits for his angel to make the first move.
Warren cringes, as the pain in his back intensifies. //Don't move! Moving about will only make things worse!// His wings! Automatically, his fingers check on his wing. It's still there. A terrible fear glides off his shoulders. But someone bandaged his wing? LeBeau? Why would he care?
"Are you in pain?"
That voice! That voice! Although it's been months since he last heard it, he knows it only too well. It's Gambit, who hunches down in the corner. "You!" he exclaims in an odd mix of hatred and curiosity.
Remy pulls back into himself, protectively folding his arms around his waist. Terrible recognition burns those steel blue eyes. Only a moment ago he wanted to ask Warren who he is, but now his courage leaves him. //Mebbe I don' want to know who I am? Not if de trut' is dat terrible?//
It takes Remy his remaining courage to ask, "Can you walk? Want to take you some place safe."
"Do you think I am fool?" Warren states in disbelief. "No way I'll ever again trust you, Gambit. And what the hell are you doing here?" The last thing he heard from the X-Men was that Gambit had died in Antarctica. Rogue had sought him out, assuring him that the Cajun thief had paid the prize for betraying their trust.
Remy trembles violently, hearing that name. Gambit? Is that his name? //Don' want to know! Are not goin' to ask!// Gambit, the name echoes pain and guilt and his mind spins. For some unknown reason he resents that name and the terror connected to it.
Warren manages to study Remy's reaction through the mist of his own pain and shakes his head in disbelief. Why is the Cajun acting like he never heard his name before? "What games are you playing this time, thief?"
"T'ief?" Remy repeats stunned. Oui, he stole food and clothes in the past, but only to survive on the streets. Even a saint would turn into a thief to fill his belly! Isn't the angel's judgement a little harsh?
Well, maybe this angel knows the part of his past he has forgotten? Doubtlessly, this angel knows everything about him, every sin he ever committed. No use in hiding from the truth. With every passing second he becomes more convinced that this angel is here to punish him for his past crimes! But maybe he can try and redeem himself if he helps this angel. "We need to leave dis place. It's too cold and you need to get warm."
Warren's eyes narrow in suspicion. The Cajun is a better actor than he ever suspected! As he focuses on those demonic eyes, he only finds sincere concern and pain. And why does LeBeau look like this? Why is he dressed in clothes, several sizes too big for him? A deep cut disfigures his brow, still dripping blood from underneath a dirty band-aid. Only now, he sees the bandaged wrist. This doesn't make any sense!
"What do you want from me, Gambit? Haven't you done enough damage already?" Warren sneers impatiently, remembering their shared past. In an effort to get to his feet, he moves too quickly and grows dizzy. LeBeau is still staring at him with that blank expression in his eyes.
Remy bites his lip. "Gambit? Is that my real name?" He struggled to reach this decision, to actually ask this question. Now that he awaits the answer, he grows afraid. "And why do you t'ink I'm playin' games?"
Warren quickly rests his back against the wall for support and studies the Cajun's empty eyes. Something is wrong here. Why would Gambit pretend ignorance? "Of course it's your name, Gambit!"
"Gambit," he whispers the name, resenting it. If that's his name he hates it with a passion.
Warren slowly shakes his head in puzzlement. He's trying hard to figure out just what's going on. LeBeau looks like he neglected himself, hungry and drained. This isn't the Remy LeBeau he knows! //Okay, let's recap. LeBeau doesn't know his name, or who he really is. But damned! He saved my life out there on the streets! If he hadn't pulled me into that alley, that sniper would have succeeded in killing me!// Oh, how much he hates to admit that truth; that he owes Gambit!
Remy shakes off his unease and hesitantly extends his left hand. "Got to get you out of here." He half hopes that Warren will refuse help and will walk away from him. Suddenly, he fears discovering his real identity.
Looking at the offered limb Warren wavers. //I've got make a decision right now.// He can't make it on his own. He needs LeBeau's help if he wants to stay one step ahead of the assassins! But he no longer trusts Gambit, not after the trial and learning the truth about LeBeau's part in the Massacre. //I don't trust him.//
"Here," Remy says softly, faintly aware of Warren's inner struggle. "You need to eat and drink. Bought dis for you." Slowly, he picks up the package, unwraps it and offers Warren the sandwiches. Although he's hungry like hell, he hasn't eaten them himself, knowing his angel needs food to grow strong again.
Warren raises a questioning eyebrow, as the sound of Remy's growling stomach echoes through the basement. Briefly, he closes his eyes, trying to make sense of this unusual situation. What if LeBeau is sincere and really wants to help him? Damn! He needs more information! Another wave of growling drifts closer. "Looks like you're hungry too, Gambit," he says eventually, deciding on a course of action.
"I can do widout de food," Remy says awkwardly. He feels relieved now Warren is calming down. //Gambit,// he muses nervously. //Like Remiel, Remy a lot better!//
"I still don't get it," Warren states unexpectedly. "Why help me, Gambit?"
"Dey wanted you dead," Remy replies simply. "Can' let dem murder an ange?"
Warren accepts the sandwiches, but returns a still half full bag to the Cajun. "You look like you need the food more than I do."
Hungrily, Remy attacks the food. "Merci," he says and smiles brilliantly.
Warren takes a deep breath. Remy is shoving the food as quickly as possible into his mouth. //Almost looks like he expects me to take the sandwiches away again,// he muses privately. "Where do we go from here?" he asks, shivering due to the moisture hanging in the basement. A million questions burn his lips, but what he really wants to know is; //Why did you save my life, LeBeau?//
"I've got a friend in de cat'edral," Remy explains in a proud tone. "Père Etienne will help you." His face softens as he thinks of the old priest. "He even gave me my name, Remiel? after de ange of mercy. And when I saw dose wings," Remy stops himself just in time before he gets carried away, "I always believed in anges."
Warren swallows hard, finally starting to understand why LeBeau is acting like this. "You lost your memory!"
"Oui," Remy admits in a soft tone. "Don' know who I am. Only remember wakin' up in a hospital. Don' know who I am? but you do and? dat frightens me!" There, he said it! Trembling, he avoids Warren's blue eyes.
Everything finally sinks in. Remy's admissions suddenly make sense. //But what about that 'I always believed in angels?' bit?// The honesty in those words hit hard. //LeBeau thinks I'm a REAL angel! Damn!// Even the reverie in LeBeau's eyes makes sense now. "Let's get moving," he decides eventually and takes a first hesitant step. He has a lot of thinking to do and needs time to do that. His back hurts, but it's bearable.
"Mais oui." Remy moves quickly to support Warren and expects to be pushed away, judging from earlier reactions.
And yes, Warren considers pushing him away, but as he falls forward, he quickly holds onto the arm LeBeau slung around his waist. He hates being depended like this!
"I've got you, mon ange," Remy whispers softly. Thinking aloud he continues, "Père Etienne named me Remy? got no idea what my real name is and Gambit?"
Warren freezes in his movements and stares at the Cajun. "Your real name's Remy." Why does he suddenly care about LeBeau? But the lost expression in those pleading eyes tear straight into his heart. How can he possible stay angry with LeBeau, when the man doesn't remember who he is? When the man saved his life, without knowing he was saving the life of a team-mate?
"Remy?" A smile flashes alive on his features. "Remy's my real name? How did père Etienne know dat?"
Warren can't help making the next remark. The absurdity of the situation is getting to him. "Maybe an angel whispered the name into his ear?"
Remy grins awkwardly. Perhaps learning about his real identity isn't that bad after all? Something in those blue eyes softens and reassures him a little. But the rage is still hiding underneath the blue surface.
Warren is shocked at his own reactions. What the hell is he doing; trusting LeBeau like that? The Cajun can't be trusted! But he can't stop himself from holding on tightly as Remy pulls him along. There are a lot of unresolved issues between them and maybe it's time to start working through them!

 

Go on to Part2