Title: Benediction

Author: Jo-Chan (CondorJo@aol.com)

Rating: NC-17

Pairing/main characters: Gambit/Angel

Series/Sequel: complete

Summary: A hot night in the Big Easy.

Disclaimer: Remy and Warren and the rest of the Xes are, quite obviously, not mine. Boy, don't I wish that they were, though ^.^;; (in otherwords, no infringement is meant by this, please don't sue me, I'm certainly not making anything off this.) ^.~

Archive/distribution: Please ask me first. ^.~

Warning: Contains m/m sex. If that bothers you, I'd suggest not going any further.

Notes: Comment? Crits? Pleasepleaseplease? Condorjo@aol.com [flames cheerfully printed out and used at catbox liners]

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Benediction

By Jo-Chan

 

THEN:
Once upon a time, in swamp country shack, lived an old couple named Tante and Oncle. They weren't far from the drab smear of Morgan City where Tante pandered her personal blend of Catholicism and voodoo to the few wan tourists looking for the quaint heart of Cajun country.
They stank of cheap whiskey and something acrid and primeval. The stink that seemed to increase with the proximity of the boy who slept in the corner. Even at 13, he towered over Oncle with a long-boned grace that left the older man trollish and squat by comparison. It was a comparison that never sat well with him. Or with Tante for that matter. Devil-chile, Tante called him at times... they rarely called him "Remy"... A name his mother may or may not have given him.
But Devil-chile... that origin he knew. For the strange red-black eyes that burned in his pretty young face, for the story that Oncle recited like a catechism with every crack of the belt. "Boy... yo' momma... she was git by de red-eyed devil hisself.. tried to kill you in de womb boy... bottle a' gin anna hot tub but you too stubborn t'die boy. You got born anyways... and kilt her in de doin'. We try an' raise you right, boy. We try an' get you to live in de way a' God... but you still got de eyes o' de devil. An' if ah gotta beat dat devil outta you... ah will!"
Not long after the first straggling traces of beard started to surface and the changes started to break in his voice, Remy started to see things.
It wasn't much at first. Like the dance of squiggles you see when you look up at a bright sky for too long. But it grew, until everything started to shimmer and dance with a life of it's own. He would be mesmerized by it, by the wonder and the beauty of it.
Then, once upon a time, the boy named Remy made the fatal mistake of telling about the lights, as the belt came down on his narrow shoulders. The beating paused, and the words about the beautiful sparkles came tumbling out, his gumbo-thick accent trying to keep up with the rush. That's when Tante brought out her long metal knitting needles. "Boy, we tried and be good t'you. Tried t'teach you right an' drive de devil from yo' bones. But de devil still in yo' eyes. So t'git the devil out... we gon' take dose eyes out."
Remy was a wiry boy, but not that strong, and he struggled, terror rising in his throat as Tante walked towards him, a look of almost-regret on her piggish face. Remy's long-fingered hand closed convulsively on the rough wooden floor as he tried to free himself from Oncle's sweaty grip. And for a second.0,.. Just long enough to draw a breath.. He reached *inside* the wood, felt the pulse and play and song of the atoms and electrons whirling about.
And in that second, that long breath, the world went a sudden and deafening ruby-pink.

NOW:
Warren sat at his table at Donna's Bar-B-Que Cafe as a brass band shook the cinders of the old building. He was a conspicuously still object in a sea of color and movement. The beer bottle in front of him sweated with the oppressive late summer heat, the drips puddling on the smooth wooden table.
Betsy had gone to the ladies room in a pique. And not returned. There would have been a time when Warren would have gone in after her, fearing she'd been taken by forces evil and unknown. But with her shadow-shifting powers in high gear, and her temper both fearsome and erratic from the crimson dawn, Warren was fairly certain she'd just stepped into a sliver of darkness and gone home, her absence teaching him a lesson he wasn't certain he wanted to get.
It had been her idea, a romantic evening in New Orleans, listening to jazz and eating bar-b-que spicy enough to make your brain hemorrhage. Warren had leapt at the chance, grasping for a trace of what they'd had.
Now he was sweating like his beer bottle in a crowded bar, his wings aching in their careful restraints to keep them flat, wondering what he was still doing here. The thought brought action and he pushed away from the table, leaving the tip and stepping out into the darkness of Rampart Street. It was one of those streets that was slowly shedding it's "unsafe after dark" reputation, but the guidebooks still urged the tourists to take a cab back to their hotels when visiting.
Warren made a little snort as his fine shoes clicked along the old sidewalk, and the humidity hung like a sodden blanket over the city. He didn't have a hotel. He could fly home, for sure, but Westchester was an awful long trip and his head throbbed from the heat and cheap beer.
He thought wildly for a moment that he should try and get mugged. Boy-oh-boy, wouldn't THAT teach HER a lesson. He caught himself before going too far and shook the thought from his head. More like that, and he was going to be going as crazy as Betsy was.
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Two young men lounged in front of Brouchard's Television and Radio Repair ("We Now Fixe Playstation" scrawled in red sharpie marker on cardboard in the metal-grated window). One, blond and roundish, faded blue eyes wide and jittery, wiped a grubby hand across his shabby Metallica t-shirt and stared intently at the televisions flickering in the window.
"H-hey, Remy.. They're talkin' bout mutants on the tee-vee gain" he drawled in his hesitant way. "Think you're a mutant? Y-you got them eyes..."
His companion breathed out cigarette smoke, slow and serpentine in the heavy air. "Shah. Remy ain't no mutant. De chile o' de devil, son" he said without inflection. His dark glasses reflected the faded streetlamps and he hunched into the baggy plaid shirt, hanging open to reveal the worn white tank beneath. He was all long lines and angles as he unfolded to a standing position to peer in Brouchard's window.
"Y-yeah. Right" Chris's stubby fingers dug in the pocket of his tattered khakis, looking for a smoke. "Thought that wuz Charlie Manson or somethin'" Remy barked a short bitter laugh, giving the grainy news footage of the mutant menace a final disdainful glance before sliding down to the concrete again. "Shit, boy. Dat man, he just crazy in de head."
"G-guess it's time t' get to work, huh?" Chris had closed his eyes in nicotine bliss. "First wave gonna be comin' out soon." The stocky blond let the cigarette dangle from his lips in a wan impression of James Dean. "See ya at the Taco Bell, man."
"Mebbe. Mebbe ah find me some rich birdie an' ah'm off t'somewhere else. Ah don' need dis town." Chris looked down at his companion, Remy's long, handsome face maddeningly without expression behind those black sunglasses. "Shit, y-yeah. Right. See ya at the Taco Bell..or at th-the Cathedral.."
Remy stubbed out the cigarette on the concrete as he listened to the fading scrape of Chris's sneakers into the darkness, before getting up and squaring his shoulders for the night ahead.
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Warren was in a bitterr mood when he rounded the corner. His wings ached and the heavy New Orleans night was weighing on him. He would find a place with air conditioning, and drink many many cold things until morning, then he would go home. By then, perhaps Betsy's pendulum would have swung back, and she'd come looking for him.
He paused, lost, and wiped the damp, fine blond hair from his face. Not that it mattered in this light, but he gave another silent thanks for the image inducer. He might be sweaty and blue in reality, but dammit, at least he didn't have to look that way. He didn't know how lost he'd gotten in contemplation of his general discomfort until he realized with a sudden start that he wasn't alone.
The boy was maybe 18..he could hardly be older.. with rusty silk hair; lean and self-conscious of his grace. Warren's mouth went dry as some primitive reaction stirred in his lower brain. "Lil' off de beaten path, aintcha, sah?" young voice roughened by Camels and god knew what else. Warren reminded himself to breathe and get a grip on himself.
"Aren't you a little young to be out on a school night, kid?" He heard himself saying, wondering if this punk kid was going to mug him... Or... he paused. The youth sniffing around him like an alley cat at the promise of food. He'd bristled a little at the school night comment, like teens are prone to do, before recomposing himself, sidling against Warren in a most feline way.
Warren's wings twitched in their restraint at the touch and he caught the youth's wrist. The fine-boned hand had been surreptitiously reaching for the promise of a wallet. "Tsk. You don't want to do that, kid."
"You right... Ah don'. Ah don' mind workin' for de money. You int'rested in dat, sah?"
And to Warren's amazement... he was.
He stared at the hand in his grasp, the bitten nails and slender fingers. The scent of musk and sweet cigarette making him light headed as he listened to the thumping in his own chest. "It's a hand, cher." the young man drawled, a quirk of a smile on his lips. "For de right compensation, dat hand an' it's friends, dey make you forget yo' troubles, non?"
There it was again, that loss of reason. Warren heard himself muttering some sort of assent into the young Cajun's hair. Soft hair. Softer than Betsy's....Warren's clear blue eyes lost their clouds. He'd spent half his life.. More.. Around telepaths. He'd had his head screwed with by masters of the art. Carefully, he disengaged himself from the boy in the dark glasses. Even aware of it as he was, the young man's pull was... Impressive.
The Cajun made a small sound. "Hmp. Guess you don' wan' ol' Remy after all, sah?" he looked mildly surprised... And annoyed.
Warren frowned, blond brows knitting together. "Remy, is it?" He slowly let the hand he was holding drop. The urge was still there, to give the kid however much he asked for and take him right in the alley. The clarity of that urge startled him. He'd never evinced a desire for another man before in his life. (Candy Southern had once teased him about being the best looking straight man she knew, something they'd always laughed over). He focused, trying to push the siren call out of his head and his groin long enough to make an objective observation of the kid.
Too skinny. The youth obviously didn't eat regularly. Goodwill clothes, the brown madras shirt over a white tank top, jeans baggy from simply being to big, rather than a stylistic statement. But he was... beautiful. There was no denying it, even without overwhelming... charm, the boy exuded.
He was a mutant, more than likely... there could hardly be another explanation... surviving the best he knew. Warren felt a twinge in his heart, as the urges he was drowning in was joined by a gentler feeling. The kid had been letting Warren take him in, looking for a chance to still make a sale to this well-groomed Yankee. "Oui. Remy."
"What I want is for you to show me to a good hotel. And we'll get you some dinner." Warren hoped the words weren't squeaking out like they felt in his throat. He was doing it to give this kid a night off the streets, get him a meal. Find out what was going on with his mutant powers. That was the ticket.
(Warren, you liar.) He scolded himself. (You're doing this because Betsy dumped you in New Orleans, you're pissed and horny and this *kid* is stirring things up in you that you didn't know existed.)
Whatever Warren Worthington's motivations were, the expressionless black glasses dipped in a slight nod. "A'ight mon ami... You unnerstand, de top quality hotels aren't always in Remy's... usual hangouts, non?" Warren quirked a golden eyebrow. He was expecting more oily forced self-assurance. What he'd heard was suspicion.
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They walked in relative silence, the creepier streets giving way to the bustle of the French Quarter. The young Cajun's heavy, worn boots gave his long stride the illusion of being longer, mechanical like a tin soldier, even though the boy had perfected a graceful, nonchalant slouch. Warren hid a smile until Remy finally paused in front of a grand old dame of a hotel. "De Dauphine Orleans" he made a careless gesture. "It's de nicest one ah could t'ink of, sah." His long hands found their way back into his pockets, and he didn't make a move as Warren stepped to the door. "Come on. Told you I'd get some dinner in you."
The young man hesitated, then. "Dat you did. But Remy.. He don' take charity. So don' t'ink you goin' t'heaven f'dis, non?"
Warren scratched the back of his shoulder where the restraints were chafing from the humidity, amused by the sudden baring of machismo fangs from the youth. "Don't worry, kid. I won't try and play angel with you." A quirk of a smile teased the corners of his mouth in silent amusement as he opened the door. "After you, "mon ami" ."
Remy made a small snort and meandered into the lobby, the sudden chill of the air conditioning raising the fine copper hairs on his arms. He rocked on his feet as Warren secured a suite in one of the restored cottages. The X-man watched the youth out of the corner of his eye. With his fine features, he looked as though he should belong in a place like this with it's brass and polished wood. As it was, he scuffed a foot on the dark carpeting, almost shyly, like a visiting country cousin. It was heartwarming... and it made Warren wonder how much of it was calculated.
It wasn't more than 20 minutes later, they were sitting in the quaintly French provincial suite, staring at the room service tray. It had taken some cajoling on Warren's part to convince the kid he could order whatever he wanted. He had to admit, the crawfish had a mouthwatering aroma... but he wasn't in the mood for culinary exploration. Warren watched him eat, hesitant at first, picking at the meal with feral-cat caution, before giving in to the temptation of crawfish etouffle.
It wasn't until he was nearly done that the dark glasses came up and seemed to fix on Warren. "You ain't eat yo' dinner, frere.. You gon' sit an' watch me eat yours too?" The suspicion had eased from his voice a little, the humor genuine. Warren shook his head, fine blond hair dusting against his forehead. He'd been forcing himself to focus on the actions of eating, the unattractive chemical and mechanical processes the human body went through, as Hank had loved to describe in detail at the dinner table, to watch his less furry brethren turn amusing colors.
It helped take the edge off the need that still coiled in the pit of his stomach... But whatever this kid's power was, it was a hard lure to break. And the more Warren was around it, the less he was certain he wanted to. "Actually... I was wondering about the Roy Orbison glasses you're wearing." he started, picking at a piece of eggplant on his plate. "They welded to your face?"
A rusty eyebrow inched over the top of the glasses. "De glasses.. dey ain't non' yo' business sah... Ah don' take em off." He pulled away from the table a little, a ghost of defensiveness taking over his posture.
(And there we have it.) Warren felt an odd sense of gratification. "Not ever?" He asked, casually, around another mouthful of eggplant, thinking of Kurt's yellow eyes.. How Storm's went brilliant white when her powers flared... what was the boy hiding behind those black plastic screens?
Remy's jaw twitched. For the first time, Warren could almost hear him thinking. ".....Ah take em off for de......customers..." He worked his jaw for a few moments, as if trying to gauge the situation. "Dat what you are now, mon ami?" Clearly, this entire situation was not working out the way the boy was used to, and he raked through the rust-silk hair that kept falling in his face.
Warren felt like he was on a precipice. For a man who could soar, heights held no fear, but this was an undiscovered country he was facing. This mutant... This kid... obviously needed help... needed him... needed someone to care about him... Warren wasn't sure which "him" his mind was referring to, though, as he found himself out of his seat, pulling the Cajun to him.
There was the taste of crawfish and cigarettes on his mouth, Warren noticed as he realized his hands were tangled in that soft russet hair and he was kissing... he was kissing another man for the first time in his life. His wings twitched against his back as he felt Remy's long fingers come to rest on his shoulders. (Not yet. Don't scare him off...) He took the younger man's fine-boned wrists in his hands, easing them off his shoulders, guiding them backwards to the bed. The boy could kiss, part of Warren's brain noted breathlessly. Boy, could he kiss.
The springs under the floral duvet gave a small protestation as their weight sank down on them. He leaned over the Cajun, releasing his wrists. "Take them off..." he murmured into a final bruising kiss. The slender hands were shaking slightly as they closed over the glasses, removing them, closing them with a click in the quiet room. Remy's eyes were closed, long auburn lashes brushing a high cheekbone. Warren stroked the copper scruff on the boy's chin. "It's ok..." he said softly. "I won't tell..."
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He could feel young man tremble underneath him for a moment, his bravado faded. Slowly the eyes opened and Warren found himself gazing into red-black embers... Innocent and demonic all at once. "Dis de part where you run screamin' out de room." His voice was soft and shaking.
"I won't." came the response. The X-factor was so unpredictable, the forms its mutations took, often bizarre... Often beautiful. The rest of Warren's reply was a kiss that started at the young man's mouth and began working it's way down his throat.
He'd fallen into the darkness of those eyes and he was certain now he didn't want to climb back out. The body they belonged to, long and graceful, was moving underneath him. Not a struggle for escape, but slow, enticing, inciting the desire that coiled like a snake inside of him to rise up. Warren stopped fighting it, felt the long legs wrap around him as he was pulled in closer. His wings were trembling in the restraints, trying to beat against his back, aching to be free, to display in some courtship ritual stored in the primitive avian parts of his brain. He had enough presence of mind left not to, though, afraid of shattering whatever tenuous trust he had at the moment.
A strong, slender hand slid between Warren's legs, finding the stiff outline of his erection, kneading it. He made a low moan against Remy's throat, feeling the younger man's pulse quickening against his lips. Warren slid his hands under the worn white tank, the hard planes of Remy's chest giving him the peculiar sensation of touching himself.
Warren had always prided himself on being a ladies man... Knowing all the right places that made a woman weak in the knees. But as he trailed kisses down the hollow of Remy's throat, he found himself seeking the spots that would make *him* squirm. Somewhere over the roar of blood in his ears, he heard the rasp of a zipper, his, and not more than a moment later, those long, sensitive fingers were wrapped around him.
Warren found Remy's mouth again, tasting his tongue. He couldn't stand it any longer. He needed to be inside... and the suggestiveness of this young man underneath him, sucking his tongue as if it were something else, was driving him to the edge. He must've said something, although he wasn't sure what, because Remy broke away with a little ragged gasp, his hands leaving Warren's shaft to undo his own jeans. Warren watched, fascinated, those hands working down the worn denim. He leaned back, taking in the whole picture, Remy's flat stomach leading into the hard-on nestled in a tangle of dark auburn between slim thighs...Warren had to take a breath and steady himself.
Something asserted itself to Warren, then, and he reached into his back pocket, yanking the blue foil wrapper out of his wallet. It was the 90's... Couldn't be too careful. Even with Betsy around... God knew what Kwannon had done with that body before Betts had taken up residence in it. The Cajun actually seemed almost amused... almost pleased... It was hard to tell, but he took the condom, unwrapping it as he slid out from under Warren "s'like a magic trick, cher..." he murmured, the edges of his strange red eyes crinkling a little in an almost-smile.
Warren watched, transfixed, as the young man used his mouth to slide the latex on, until he couldn't take him in any further, and Warren's fingers were tangling in Remy's russet silk hair to hold himself steady. He gave a soft, disappointed groan as Remy pulled away, reluctantly releasing his grip on him. With a weak little laugh, "S' good trick" he mumbled with a little smile. The edges of Remy's eyes crinkled slightly again, and Warren realized that *was* as close as he was getting to a smile from the Cajun.
The lines of Remy's back were clean and spare, almost like a greyhound's. As Warren lost himself in the motion of slowly penetrating the young man, he started to trace the lean muscles under soft skin. He was trying to take the edge off the sensation... god, he was tighter... hotter than any woman Warren had ever been with. There was a soft gasp underneath him and he opened his eyes to see Remy's long fingers working at the coverlet, catching his lower lip in his teeth. All the suspicion, the attitude was gone from his face, replaced by a simple rapture. It was that moment, Warren decided he much preferred that expression, and bent down, letting one hand slide down Remy's groin to stroke him. He found the sensitive places on the back of the Cajun's neck, nipping and kissing as he thrust.
It was becoming difficult to hold back. His body was almost demanding that he bury himself in that incredible heat and gain release. The soft, small, animal sounds coming from Remy urged him to slow down, prolong it for the both of them, until neither his mind nor his body was in any shape to resist.
He'd never come so hard in his life.
Breath coming in slowing, ragged pants, they lay tangled on the bed. There was a soft hum of the air conditioner kicking back on, sending a cool drift of air against sweat-sheened skin. It seemed like a very long time before Remy turned in Warren's arms in that sleepy feline way of his. "You a mess, cher." he said softly, the edges of his eyes showing that ghost-smile again. "T'ink you outta clean y'self up." Warren pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Hn. Yeah" he sat up sluggishly, picking at the rumpled white linen shirt.
"Back in a sec." Ponderous with relaxation, he shambled into the bathroom, trying to straighten himself up. The cold water from the sink was the second best thing he'd felt so far tonight.
Warren stared at his reflection for a few moments, looking over the skin made rosy by the grace of the image inducer. Without it, it was a paler blue than his eyes.. And the flush would be like bluebells, an embarrassing comparison Betsy had made once. He tried to compose his thoughts. He'd let the kid rest, get a good night's sleep, then try and broach the subject of his powers. Warren wasn't much of a believer in fate, but there had to be a reason that god or Allah or Jehovah or bob the almighty threw a mutant in his path and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to follow through.
Satisfied that he'd gotten his thoughts in line, Warren turned, speech at the ready.
And the room was empty.
He stood there, staring for a moment, the comprehension coming slower than it would under other circumstances.
He was gone.
Warren's wallet lay on the bed open. The kid had been thoughtful enough to leave Warren his credit card and his ID, but the cash was gone. "That little bastard." He said it with more concern than anger. Already dangerous the world was getting less safe for mutants and sooner or later, Remy was going to cross paths with a customer who didn't accept those red eyes or run away from them.
By the time he'd finished that thought, he was already down the hall and heading for the lobby, but not knowing where to look in a city that was obviously the Cajun's home turf.
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Remy waited in the sputtering glow of the giant Taco Bell chihuahua, leaning against the fake white stucco of the squat building. It wasn't uncommon for Chris to be late, after all, dates didn't always go as planned. Remy lit the second to last cigarette in his squashed pack, and watched the smoke rise up around the plastic dog humming like some bizarre Mexican bug zapper.
He sank to his haunches, uncomfortable. But the discomfort wasn't a matter of seating. (Warren Worthington III, the New York State drivers license had read) It was a silly name. A pompous, stuck up, northern name. Belonging to some whitebread, well-bred white anglo-saxon protestant yuppie-boy trying to ease his guilt over exploiting some down at the heels Cajun trash. Even if his touch had been gentle. Something in his blue eyes... understanding? God forbid... He might have actually cared... Remy glared up at the chihuahua in it's jaunty revolutionary beret and pushed his "angel" of the evening out of his mind. Chris was really late. Remy wondered again why he worried about the round-faced boy. The child of the devil didn't need friends. Didn't need love.
"A'ight. Remy don' need t'be hangin' round here waitin f'you, son." he said, mostly to the giant plastic dog and forced himself to his feet. He'd go to the Cathedral. Chris was there more than likely, snoring on a pew. Remy'd end up there eventually. He wasn't going to go there looking just for him.
Right.
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Warren had debated looking for the boy, debated letting him go, letting them go their separate ways. But the debate had ended with him trying to describe Remy to some wasted teen on a corner, and plodding through the humid night. It was one of the few times he'd have been willing to trade the gift of flight for a good solid dose of telepathy.. or at the very least, Logan's highly tuned sniffer.
The last round of questioning and minor bribery (thank heavens for ATM machines, he mused) had led him to a Taco Bell in a redevelopment area. The boy was gone again... But the trail hadn't gotten cold yet. Another dogged round of questioning led to a place known as the Cathedral. (Who knew after all this time... I should've been a cop, not a mutant freedom-fighter). It was a condemned church the city was in the process of infighting over, historical monument or architectural debris to be paved under. But while the old building was in buerocratic limbo, it had become a haven for junkies, winos, and runaways.
Without Remy around him, Warren had felt the obvious pull, the... charm, if you will, fade away... But it hadn't taken the feelings associated with it. There had been a need in him, ignored and shunted aside, that the boy's presence had awoken... had answered. And he'd seen a need in Remy too... For someone to care... And God help him... Warren cared.
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Remy found Chris at the Cathedral, curled on a pew like a puppy in front of a fireplace. "A'ight, boy. I been waitin' on you all naght. Time t'get up. C'mon." He shook him roughly a few times then paused... his hand not leaving Chris's unmoving shoulder.
Unmoving. And no heat radiated up to meet his fingers through the thin shirt. "Aw... No..." With much greater care, Remy turned the boy over. Chris's round face staring up at him, doughy and slack with open taxidermy-glass eyes - dull and unseeing.
The strap on the boy's arm told Remy all he needed to.
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Warren was certain he'd taken a wrong turn down the darkened backstreets. This place had a maze-like quality he thought you only found in decrepit eastern European cities.
He was about to turn back when there was an unremarkable "hiss-pop"... The sound, perhaps of a firecracker being lit. He paused, only to get knocked off his feet when it was followed a moment later by a definitely remarkable thing... A brilliant pink-red flare... that carried with it a sizable explosion. The shadow-denizens of the street scattered in sudden shock.
"What the HELL??" Warren picked himself up... suddenly afraid of what it portended. He'd seen mutant-haters try and kill their "prey" in more heinous ways than he could count. This could only be bad. He stared into the darkness, shaking the ringing from his hearing, and saw another faint contrail... Followed by another impact.
His nose may not have been acute as Logan's... But Warren's distance vision... His eagle eye (he had always snorted at this assertion)... couldn't be denied.
There was a familiar profile in the darkness on top of... an old church.
The Cathedral.
With a soft curse, Warren released his wings, letting them unfold through the pleats in the back of his shirt.
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"Remy haddanuf a'dis place.. gahdam, devil-take you all fuckin' sewer!!" Remy's voice broke with an adolescent rage has he kicked loose another roof shingle, taking it into his hands and feeling the charge build up in it. There were already smoking craters in the street from the previous two.
"You don't want to do that..." came the soft voice from behind him, stalling Remy, and he turned ember eyes to the sound, to see who dared.
They would have presented an interesting tableaux to anyone foolish enough to have stayed around. The air around the Cathedral silent for the moment except for the distant whine of a police siren.
Warren stretched out his wings against the warm breeze that lingered at roof level. "You don't have to this, Remy..." He held out a hand to the boy, reduced by the moonlight to a dark and pale ghost in faded plaid and denim, red eyes burning in the shadows.
"Un Ange..." Remy froze, transfixed for a moment by the silvered outlines of Warren's massive wings, the shingle pulsing in his hand. It wasn't until it was nearly at critical mass... The object sparkling and popping like a fourth of July sparkler that Remy suddenly looked down "MERDE!!!" and threw it aside. It bounced off a gargoyle before blowing a crater into the cemetery below and knocking Remy off his feet, sending him sliding down the steeply pitched roof.
"Remy!!" A wingbeat and Warren was holding the boy's narrow hands, trying to haul him back up.
"Gahdamnit, s'too late. If you tryin' t' redeem me, y'too late, angel. Gahd don' wan me... De Devil don' wan me... Jus' let go!" He struggled as Warren balanced himself with his wings, dragging Remy back to the roof.
"It doesn't have to be like this Remy... There's a place you can go... a place for people... like you or me... mutants... " The boy had stopped struggling against Warren's tenacious hold, narrow shoulders sagging in a form of defeat.
"Course dere is. Is called Hell, cher. But de devil, he don' wan' ol Remy.. Not good enough for your heaven.. Not bad enough for hell.. So ah stay here an' watch de people die round me." There was a small, desperate quality behind the words. "Ain't nothin' worth savin' in dis town... Shor not me..."
The wail of the sirens grew, echoing through the alleys deserted for the moment from the commotion. Warren rested his cheek in Remy's hair, feeling the narrow shoulders tremble in some potent cocktail of anger, despair, and possibly, just a little hope. "Can you trust me... Just a little? Will you come with me?"
Remy tried to scrub a tear away from his face. "Warren Worthington. Dat ain't no name for an angel." He ran a slender, tentative hand over the silky white feathers, the hope beginning to win on his face, in his voice. "You gon' take me t' heaven?"
"Only if heaven's in Westchester."
".......ah'll take dat gamble, ah guess...."
And he smiled.

 

END