DISCLAIMER: None of the characters belong to me, as well you know.

Who Knew?

Part 1

Three years was a hell of a time to still remember a pretty face, he'd told himself. Even if it was a pretty face he'd promised himself he'd see again. He wasn't usually too stringent about keeping that kind of promise. 'Count yer blessin's now,' Tante Mattie had said, 'Never know when dey'll be gone 'gain.' He'd always passed that off as just something people said, like 'Of course you don't look fat' and 'I love you'. He still remembered bragging about the lack of disembowelment to St. John when he'd called to let the lad know he wouldn't be back from his jaunt to rescue Jean-Luc only to find out that St. John had taken up permanent residence in Bayville to be closer to a certain fille by the name of Wanda. 'There's nothin' this sheila can' do mate - I'm tellin' ya she's magic!' Remy had no desire to recall what else the excitable Aussie had said about the witch, but he vaguely remembered something about marriage and touring the world's dryest areas together. He sincerely hoped the girl had more sense than he even if she did lack judgement and marry him. Or had. He wouldn't know. It wasn't like he'd kept in touch, or been around.

Three years was a little long to leave it after all. No use driving into town to look them up to find out the Australian native had either forgotten him or had moved on. Either way, it wasn't worth it. He'd managed to escape being gutted like a freshly caught trout by Wolverine once, he didn't fancy seeing if the luck held true twice. Anyhow it hadn't been luck. More the intervention of a certain pretty face who'd been much more than just that. Any woman who could kick arse, accept manipulation for the right reasons, still come out on top, and (so he heard) save the world in the space of a few weeks was a lot more than just a nice pair of legs and a set of green eyes.

He'd told himself it didn't matter – hell, he'd told his bourbon it didn't matter – countless times, but despite the slip back into old titles and routines, the comforting monotony of grand theft and near-death experiences, the bourbon didn't wash away the taste of grape-tinted lips and the deck of cards missing the Queen of it's Hearts still hid in the concealed inner pocket over his own heart. Three years was an awfully large amount of alcohol and an awful lot of time to erase details. Lined eyes. Kisses. Being yelled at only to be saved and forgiven because there was a spark of good in him he thought he'd left behind years ago.

He remembered coming to on the warehouse floor feeling like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer yet grinning like a fool.

He remembered being shoved out of a train and having his fingers nigh crushed by someone who might lack his powers but still equalled him.

He remembered feeling almost deserving of the gutting he'd been spared by a Roman Emperor-esque nod of approval. Does the hapless slave live or die?

The right things for the wrong reasons? The wrong things for the right reasons... What was the right reason again? Maybe he should go to Bayville and ask St. John? Check in and see how things were? He'd promised to swing by, hadn't he? Promises weren't his strong suit. Running, deception and violence was more his backyard and he preferred playing by rules he knew. He didn't know right from wrong as such and it had always worked out well enough. Why not now?


"Count yer blessin's, Remy," Tante Mattie said, stroking back the tangled hair of the young man who might as well be her own child if love was any measure of these things.

"Count yer blessin's..." She didn't pretend to understand what was going on, he'd never been a usual child, but she did know there wasn't much she could do to help him. His delirium seemed to have no end, as did the fever racking his body, and they had had to fire-proof his room as he gradually lost control of every aspect of his powers and they tore him apart from the inside out.

'Y' call dat man, Jean-Luc, y' call 'm an' y' tell 'm mah petit bebe needs dere help oh Ah swear t' Gawd Ah'll tear y' 'part!'

She smiled at the memory. They'd be here soon. The ones the fevered boy on the bed she sat on had told her about. If anyone could help, surely they could. Her baby with the beautiful eyes noone else would look at. His father's pride, his Tante Mattie's everything. His eyes snapped open and focused on her face long enough for her to understand this could be a rare moment of lucidity.

"Mon petit, dey'll be here soon, y' hold on fer y' Tante, i's gone be alrigh'," she said calmly, holding back tears with an iron will and a pinch of that special magic all mother figures possess that allows them to face any obstacle in their baby's life with a dry eye and a ready embrace.


"How long has it been like this?"

"What was the cause of it all?"

"Have you tried –"

"Let me, Ah'll –"

"No, don't, we don't yet know how –"

He felt a lightening of the weight across his chest that seemed to radiate from his arm - or was it further down? His hand? It was consistent, a steady flow of clarity dissolving the walls of his confusion. He couldn't hear them anymore. Were they even there? How long had he been dreaming? Not dreaming – insane? Were they talking about him at all? He was too tired to talk to them. But the tugging on his hand persisted and he opened his mouth to tell it to stop, he was too tired to deal with it. Make Henri do it... It wasn't fair that he always had to take care of things...


Something was stroking his brow. It was pleasant enough and he wondered what it might be. He saw something green but his eyes weren't open – were they? He blinked. They must be. Lots of green.... He tried to comment it but he couldn't speak and he heard voices. He didn't try to discern them from eachother or the ones in his head, Lord knows they were all gibbering on unbearably anyhow. No point trying.

Have to try... Please try... What? Try? But he didn't want to, he tried to say, it was hard and he was tired. No, no, he wouldn't –

Please, Remy... Try for me... Listen... It was a very convincing voice and he focused on it. Lilting. Familiar. Soft. The black cleared and the green solidified into eyes, eyes watching him. He'd had this dream before, hadn't he? The green eyes and the pretty voice telling him to wake up? Not right now, he thought, later. Always later.

Now, Remy, please...


The kiss woke him... He felt the kiss, felt it properly, tasted it properly like it was real, like it was actually happening again, and his eyes opened to a sea of cream and flowing white, green eyes looking at him from beneath thick black lashes. Very pretty.

"... wake up..." "'m awake..." he rasped. Must be really ill, he thought, bad cold maybe? He didn't remember sleeping, didn't remember going to bed or being ill. He didn't even think he was in his own bed anymore. Where was he? He felt too weak to turn his head so he blinked to clear his sight and looked up again.

"'m glad you're awake..." The pretty voice for the pretty face, he thought, trying to focus on it. There was a hand on his, idly caressing it, milky fingers ending in even, clean, clear nails, and he grimaced. Didn't remember that either, but this wasn't right. The kiss always ended in him sleeping, on and on...

"Ah have t' touch you," the pretty voice said, and he found he held no objections to this notion. Seemed alright by him. Even the voices were quiet. A lone, lazy spark travelled from his index finger up the white hand and sank into the soft, bare skin of the attatched wrist. Looked just like charging cards did, just smaller... charging minute locks, maybe. Yes.

"Y' have t' stay awake or it'll take longer..." Okay, awake, he could do that... His eyes inched their gaze away from where the spark had disappeared back to the green of the pretty voice's eyes, dragging over black and red on the way. Auburn, maybe, like Tante Mattie's hair. Not red. Silly. A little white, then a different white. Softer. And the eyes held him again.

"Try and stay awake, Remy, please try..." But he was dreaming again, dreaming of kisses.


" – much better, Professor... Keeps drifting away though... It feels all wrong in mah head, lahke a wall or somethin'..."

"Has it helped having Kurt and Logan in here with you when you drain him?"

"Sometahmes... Ah don' really know they're there – Ah can feel Kurt huggin' me an' Logan holdin' me back when Ah'm gettin' tired, but mostly Ah don' know anyone's there bu' me an' him, an' he's dead t' the world... it's like Ah'm trapped inside his head, Professor, an' it's not a good place t' be..."

"I think perhaps he's come round, if you would care to show me..." Remy felt the soft white hand on his cheek and felt the weight lifted off him again, only this time when the hand moved, the weight didn't settle again. It stayed gone.

"P-professor – Ah – what happened?" "I don't know, Rogue, perhaps if our guest is awake he can shed some light on this... Mr LeBeau? Can you hear me?" Remy nodded, only a tiny movement that left him feeling as though he'd run a mile backwards, and began to understand that perhaps he was really quite ill and not just dreaming it all.

"Remy, can y' hear me?" the pretty voice was asking him, using his name. Was it her?

"Chere..?" he tried, but his voice was barely recognisable as his own and he doubted it was coherent enough for them to understand.

"Did he say –"

"He called meh chere, Professor, he knows Ah'm here!"

"Rogue..." he tried, opting for a more direct approach, and whether or not he was dreaming, the sudden clench of the hand on his arm felt real enough for him.

"He – Ah – Professor..."

"It's alright, Rogue, you don't have to stay if you don't feel up to it –"

"No! Ah wanna stay!" It was so hard to keep track of what they were saying, but he felt so much clearer and she had said she wanted him to try...


"You are at my Institute, Mr LeBeau, your Aunt called us because you've been very, very ill." This other voice was calming, but he preferred Rogue's. It was safer.

"Non, 'm not..." he tried to protest, but the fille shook her head.

"Professor, he doesn't understand – Ah can feel it in mah head, he won' understand until he's better an' then he'll wanna leave..." She sounded distraught. He hated when women got distraught. That was when he would generally excel in his role of knight gallant and come to their aid with a sympathetic ear and equally if not more sympathetic arms. Usually that helped with the crying issue. He truly hated it when they cried. The way he saw it women were lovely – if expensive - creatures meant to be admired and craved and fawned over. Crying and general unhappiness really had no part in it. But try as he might he could barely lift his head, let alone give her a hug, and he rather suspected he'd find himself in the morgue before she ever let him put his arms around her never mind how upset she sounded.

"Rogue, calm yourself, please. This young man won't be going anywhere until he's well, we made a promise to his Aunt and I do believe even Logan was convinced by her argument that he needed our care." Rogue looked wistful.

"She said she'd skin 'im an' hang 'im on her fron' porch, didn' she?" The Professor looked shifty for a moment, as though trying to conceal something.

"I don't recall the exact details but it may have been something like that, yes."

"Professor, you gotta help him... I don' know half of what's been done t' him an' Ah should've put him in a coma by now!"

"His powers are extraordinary... And his regenerative abilities rival Logan's own... I'm afraid we'll have to wait until he improves to question him furter, but for now it is enough that he recognises you. You bear him no ill feeling?"

"Ah don' know... He's pretty much in mah head fer good now, so Ah cain' really tell how Ah feel... More lahke how we feel..." Listening was strenuous business, Remy decided. It was enough to be awake and let her voice carry him away. So soothing...


Author's Notice: This will be continued after a minimum of four reviews which should make time for continuation of my other ongoing fiction Scarlet Letter.

Thank you for reading.