Strange Angels

by Ascian

I cannot help myself, but I worry for her sometimes. Worry at how she drops everything to be with him--that man--the one responsible for the deaths of those she once called family. I am worried because she still does not know the truth.

And I am afraid of what will happen to her when she discovers the secret we have all been keeping.

***

Dawn--the sun had not yet risen, but the air was slivery with new light. The gloom of night was seeping away from the forest surrounding the Mansion, and the low mist that hugged the trees and open, running lawn felt cool, moist, and sweet.

Marrow leaned out of her bedroom window on the second floor, pressing her cheeks to the wind. It was good to be alive. Especially now, when life had become something more than an interminable existence fueled only by some primal urge to survive.

There was a knock at the door, and she reluctantly pulled her body inside. "Yeah?" she called.

"It's Peter," came the muffled response. Marrow grinned, and padded on light feet to the door. From the pile of blankets tumbled messily on her bed came a soft woof that ended in a tired sigh.

"Took you long enough," she said loudly, yanking the door open so hard the hinges groaned. It had come to the attention of some of Marrow's friends that there would probably soon come a time when the poor door might just come flying off in her hands, no small feat considering it was made of thick, heavy oak. Still, considering the fact that Marrow had only recently been persuaded to move out of the basement, the rest of the Mansion's residents were willing to overlook the wear and tear of what was, admittedly, her private space.

Peter Rasputin stood outside of her room, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and jeans. His hair was damp, and tucked under one arm were two large sketch pads and a narrow pencil tin. He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling.

"Not every person is able to drag himself out of bed as early as you seem capable of doing," he said in his light accent. "But still, I apologize if you waited for very long. I did tell you that early morning light was the best for sketching."

Marrow shrugged, slightly embarrassed by the kind humor in Peter's eyes. It still shocked her sometimes--people being nice to her. Or at least, not trying to kill her outright. Although after all her time spent with Gambit, she thought she had moved beyond such feelings of surprise. Other mutants--pretty ones, ugly ones--even humans--were capable of kindness. She just had to keep reminding herself of that.

She held the door open for the tall Russian, and stepped back to let him into her room. She had decorated the small living space herself, and while there wasn't much furniture to speak of, the walls and shelves were filled with photographs and special little knick-knacks that she had collected over the past few months. There were pictures of her and Peter, from their week-long road trip down the East Coast (as well as a dried beach grass wreath he had braided for her), and a snap shot--enlarged and framed--that had been taken at a formal ball Marrow had attended in Taipei, Taiwan. The first time she had ever gone anywhere fancy without an image inducer on. There she was in all her bony glory, pink hair matching her dress. Gambit stood on her right, head cocked with a half smile on his lips, arm wrapped casually about her waist.

There were more pictures of Gambit and herself--the most recent had been taken in New Orleans. And with any luck, in the next couple of months she would have pictures to pin up of herself with the Eiffel Tower looming behind her. Gambit had promised her another vacation, and she had chosen pretty-pretty land--the place every Morlock spoke of with a mixture of disdain and longing. Paris, France. City of Lights. Of Love. An Upworlder decadent paradise, or so the old story went. But the sewers were supposed to be nice.

"I see you already prepared for our lesson," Peter said, with a look of approval at the two easels set up beside the large double window. He glanced over his shoulder as the bedcovers wriggled and a black nose appeared from beneath the sheets. A low whine filled the room.

"Thought it'd be dumb not to," Marrow muttered, stalking over to the bed and pulling the covers about until a small white dog rolled out of the mess. Brown eyes stared mournfully at her, and four little legs churned in the air. Marrow sighed. "You gotta go, don't you."

Peter turned his face away to hide his smile. "I can wait," he said. "D.D., I think, cannot."

Marrow shook her head. "What is it with you people? His name is Damndog."

"Yes," Peter replied gamely. "But I think D.D. suits him just as well."

"Whatever," she said, picking up the little mutt and lowering him to his feet. Six or seven months old, with a body that looked like a hot dog and a very large head that resembled the star of 'Old Yeller'. "Come on, Dammit," she said, using her own nickname for the growing puppy. He tripped after her to the door, and without a look back at Peter, the two of them went for a walk.

***

I watch her leave the room--back straight with confidence, head held high. She would make a very good model, I think. Long, clean lines--a graceful fl ow to her movements. I reach for a pencil and begin to sketch the image of her retreating back. This, I think, I will show her when she returns from walking D.D.

The sun is rising, the light falling softly on the newsprint and strokes of lead, and I have begun to lose track of time when there is a knock at the door. Sighing--I dislike being interrupted, even during sketches--I go to answer her door. A part of me is not surprised when I open it and see Gambit. I suspect, however, that he is startled to see me instead of Sarah--although it is very hard to tell anything at all about Remy LeBeau and what he feels or thinks.

"She went to walk D.D.," I tell him, feeling my emotions shutter backwards, away from the man in front of me. "She should be returning soon."

Gambit watches me, his eyes appraising my state of dress, and flickering behind to the easels set up by the window. Something in him seems to relax just a little, and I wonder why. Does it matter to him who Sarah is with? Would he care if she and I were lovers?

"I jus' wanted to ask her if she was hungry, dat's all," he says, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ratty jeans. There is a small smile on his lips. "My turn to cook breakfast, an' I thought I'd see if she has a special order for de chef."

Is that all you are here for, I ask him silently, and for a moment I wonder if I have spoken out loud. His eyes darken, and I realize that I have not spoken--that is the problem. I have taken too long to respond, and I am just standing there, staring at his face. "You can wait for her," I say, trying to keep my speech from sounding hurried. "Or I can give her your message. We have an art lesson this morning."

Remy's smile has died. That, I have learned, is not a good sign.

"You don' like me being her friend, do you?" He asks softly, posture still relaxed, head tilted to one side.

I hesitate, wishing that I were a better liar than I know myself to be. "No," I answer truthfully. "Any relationship built on deception is wrong."

"Den I s'pose all of us are sinners," he retorts, his face hardening. "None of *you* have told her de truth."

"It is not our truth to tell," I respond, although my heart cringes at his words. He is right, he is right. But how to tell Sarah? What would it do to her? I shake my head, chagrined but at the same time unwilling to concede to the man in front of me. It is different. It is. Sarah does not look at me--or any other--in the same way she looks at Remy. Her eyes are different when she is with him. They are the eyes of a girl who believes that she is beautiful, for whom such a belief is a gift.

"Of all of us, you have helped her the most," I tell him softly. "No one can deny that. She has changed only for the better during her time with you."

"Sarah's de same person she was when I first met her," Remy says tersely. "Din' do nothin' but show her some kindness an' a little of de world. She did de rest." He narrows his eyes, and leans towards me. I cannot see his hands, and resist the urge to back away. He whispers to me.

"Truth, mon frere. It's a funny t'ing. Sometimes it does more harm than good. You say it's my responsibility to tell Sarah de truth--the truth being dat I'm de one who made most of her life a living hell. Now mebbe you're right. But I also know dat if I do dat I might be creating another hell for her, an' she deserves better. Sarah's been doin' real good--finally learning how t'appreciate life. To love a little. An' if leaving her a little ignorant lets her live a happy life, then *dammit* Peter, I'll make sure she stays dat way."

I stare at him, astonished by the cold resolve in his voice. But there is something more, turning in the shadows of his eyes.

Desperation.

And then I hear the sound of a dog whine, and we both turn just in time to see Sarah appear at the end of the hall, D.D. close on her heels. Her feet are wet with dew--she has gone barefoot again--and her cheeks are ruddy. I wonder if she has heard our conversation, but she says nothing. Simply looks at the two of us, with our stony faces and bodies rigid with tension.

"Something you guys need to tell me?" Sarah's voice is quiet. Too quiet.

Remy takes a deep, shuddering breath. I remain very still. The air is crackling, and I am afraid to move-- as if by doing so I might somehow send a spark into the air that will change the balance of the moment. I realize that I too, am desperate. Desperate not to be the one who tells the truth. I am a hypocrite, but at this moment it is a role I would gladly play for life.

She is waiting for an answer, and we do not have one to give. She has caught us unprepared, unmasked and exposed. Even Remy, with his silver tongue and charm, manages only to mutter something about breakfast, before turning quickly to walk down the hall away from Sarah and myself.

And I am left alone with her. With her hurt eyes and unspoken questions.

We do not have our art lesson.

***

Marrow did not go down for breakfast. After Peter left, taking his sketch pads, pencils, and troubled face with him, she locked the door and lay down on her bed. Damndog curled up on some covers she pushed to the floor, and fell asleep within seconds.

//Truth//, she heard in her head. //It's a funny t'ing.//

Marrow turned on her side to look at a framed picture of herself and Remy hanging on the wall. The two of them were both sitting on his motorcycle, grinning at the camera. Her cheek was pressed against his back, her arms wrapped around his waist. One of his hands covered her own.

//Sometimes it does more harm than good.//

But Remy would never harm her. Not him. Not ever.

//You say it's my responsibility to tell Sarah de truth--the truth being dat I'm de one who made most of her life a living hell.//

Marrow curled up on herself, and closed her eyes. For as long as she could remember her life had been one terrible nightmare after another. From one horrific night in the sewers, filled with blood and heat and screams, to a wasteland in another dimension filled with the same. She briefly wondered how all the pictures of her smiling were possible--how a person like her could even know how to smile, or to laugh. There had been so much hate in her heart, for so long.

But Remy could not be responsible for the suffering in her life. It just wasn't possible. He was the one who had finally pulled her out of the hole. Sam, Peter, Kurt--they had done their best and even if she could never bring herself to tell them how much she appreciated their friendship, it was Remy who made her feel safe. And she had not felt safe for a very long time. Not since she had been a little girl.

That safety had ended on the night the Marauders had come. She knew that much about the mutants who had massacred the Morlocks. She knew their names, could still see in her mind fleeting images of stomachs peeling open like fruit, guts spilling out, tangled. Of someone laughing.

And she had run--run from the red, red blood and the screams of her family, and the laughter that seemed to float upwards, up into the moist air and cement ceilings of the sewers. Crying--tears blinding her and she had tripped--and then someone had caught her waist, hoisting her up into arms that were shaking as much as she was, pressing her face into a neck warm with the scent of blood. Running, running--her rescuer had taken her away into the darkness. "Shhh, now," he had whispered hoarsely. "Shhh, petite."

Petite.

And Marrow forgot how to breathe.

***

I do not know what to do. I find myself pacing the length of the Mansion, sketch pads and pencils tucked under my arm. I cannot seem to sit still. A part of me senses that I am running--trying to escape the responsibility of friendship and truth, but there is no place to go where I can leave myself behind--no way to ignore my sudden indecision and guilt.

I do not know what to do.

This is not my truth to tell. I did not make a deal with Sinister, and lead the Marauders to the Morlocks. I am not responsible for the agonized deaths of hundreds. I have not lied about my past. I am not a thief.

But Sarah is my friend, and I care for her. Nor can I forget the look in her eyes as I left her room. She heard us talking--I am sure of it now. It will not be long before she comes looking for answers. She deserves the truth, and she will receive it--whether or not it is from Remy, some other X-Man, or myself.

She deserves the truth, but I realize now that I have never wished for her to hear it. Because of the pain it will cause her. Because of the pain it will cause us should she change--or worse yet, leave.

I suddenly feel very sorry for Remy LeBeau. I feel sorry for us all.

***

She found him in his room. When she opened his door, she was surprised by the murky gloom that greeted her. His thick curtains were completely drawn, and the smell of cigarettes filled her nose. The light from the hall fell on the bed, revealing a long leg and bare foot. In the shadows surrounding the pillows, Marrow saw the faint glow of embers.

"You were there," she said quietly, stepping into his room and closing the door behind her. The sudden, plunging, darkness did not bother her and she moved towards the silent man lying on the bed. "I remember you now, Remy. You rescued me."

Gambit took a deep breath. "I was dere," he agreed in a low voice. "An' I picked up a lil' girl wit' bones sticking up out of her body, an' took her from dat place."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" Marrow asked, staring into the shadows where his face should be. The cigarette glowed again, and in the faint light cast by it, she caught a glimpse of Gambit's eyes. They looked dark, hollowed out. Much like how she felt at the moment. Discovering that Gambit was the man who had rescued her from the Massacre all those years ago should have made her feel, at the very least, wonderful. Instead, she felt afraid.

"Because," he answered her quietly, "Of why I was dere in de first place."

A spike of dread plunged straight down into her gut. She could not speak to ask the question she knew he was waiting for, and it was all she could do to just stand and stare at him.

She heard the bedsprings creak, and caught a glimpse of movement. Gambit sat up, swinging his feet off the covers to rest them on the floor. There was a long moment of silence, filled with smoke and the sound of breathing.

"Sarah," he finally said, and Marrow thought his voice was going to break on her name. "When I was younger, I made a bad deal. I was desperate--din' know what I was gettin' into, but dat's no excuse. I was jus' stupid."

Marrow listened to him, dread spreading from her gut to the rest of her body, making her feel leaden and clumsy. "You were there," she whispered again, staring into the shadows surrounding his face.

"I was dere," he said. "Because I was de one dat found de Morlocks, and led de Marauders to dem."

There was a roaring in her ears, a pressure behind her eyes that pushed until she thought her skull would split. She tried to breathe--found she could not--and staggered backwards. Gambit made no move to touch her, and she leaned against the wall and forced herself to take one long gulp of air. Images flashed through her mind--flesh slashed to the bone, fires burning her friends alive. The screams. And Gambit had caused it all. He had led the Marauders straight to them. Her best friend in all the world--

"I should kill you," she rasped brokenly, speaking the first words that flew into her mind. "You deserve to die."

"I do," he agreed quietly.

Rage made her blind--she clumsily lurched towards him, hands balled into fists. "What's wrong with you?" she hissed, throat too tight to give voice to the shriek filling her chest. "I've seen all kinds of perverts in my life, but I never met anyone as sick as you. You take some kind of pleasure in being with me, Remy? All those memories I bring back? You get off on letting me think you're my friend?"

He moved fast--faster than her own body could respond--and there he was, looming above her in the darkness of his bedroom, all muscle and long bone. The air between them was hot and brittle with tension. "Kill me," he spat. "Turn me inside out and nail my skin to de wall if dat'll make you happy. But don't accuse me of dat. Don't ever accuse me of being wit' you because I take *pleasure* in de memory of what happened dat night. You want de truth, petite? Being wit' you is *painful* for me. Every time I look at you a part of me screams because you're a living, breathing piece of a past that I would give my life to change."

"Then why?" she finally shrieked, slashing at his chest with fingers that had turned razor sharp. Blood sprayed her face, and Gambit staggered under her blow. "Why did you pretend to be my friend?"

"It wasn't pretend," he gasped, body swaying. Blood flowed freely down his chest--the smell of it was more powerful than the cigarette smoke. His breath rattled in his throat. "Any pain I felt being wit' you was worth it, because you were a gift--like from some angel dat had finally taken pity and decided to give me a second chance. If I could do some good for you--keep you safe--any sacrifice would have been worth it."

"That's not friendship," she snarled. "That's paying a debt."

Gambit shook his head, lips pressed together in a stubborn line. "I trust you wit' my life," he wheezed. "Dat's not debt. Dat's love."

Marrow choked back a sob--rage and hurt were folding in on each other, and her heart ached. She wanted to lash out, kill him, stab him with her fingers and skin him alive for all the pain he was causing her. All the nightmares of her life stemmed from that night in the tunnels when a part of her had died, along with her friends and family. She was not sure she could ever forgive him for that.

But she had survived the massacre because of Remy. And as much as she hated him right now, she could not forget the last few months. Taiwan, New Orleans--they had gone through so much together. The smiles, the laughter--could it all have been a show? That possibility hurt almost as much as discovering Gambit's role in the deaths of the Morlocks.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth, Remy?"

"I was afraid," he whispered, his voice cracking with pain. "I was afraid of losing a friend, an' I haven't got so many dat I'm not going to fight for every one I have."

Silence filled the air between them, a quiet so deep, Marrow thought she could hear the blood oozing from Gambit's chest. "You gonna finish de job?" he asked, and she could hear in his voice the acceptance. Even, perhaps, the anticipation of a final, brutal blow. But there was no fear--he was not afraid of her.

"Not today," she murmured. Her hands were shaking, and she lowered them to her sides. Her fingertips shortened and dulled, and she pressed them into her palms. "But you'll be paying for what you did for the rest of your life, Remy. I'll make sure of that."

He nodded, pressing his hands to his bleeding chest. "Mebbe you'll just save my soul along de way."

"I'm no angel, Remy," she told him, reaching for the bedroom door so she could call for help. "You made sure of that."

***

I am one of the first to hear the news. Remy is in the med lab, being treated for deep contusions in his chest. The wounds are not fatal, but his flesh has been cut to the bone. An inch lower and he would have died.

It is no secret who nearly killed him. Sarah's fingers and face are covered in blood.

But Remy is alive, and before Hank anesthetizes him, he tells the others to leave Sarah alone--that what happened is between them and none of their business. To some of us though, the reasons behind Remy's near death are no mystery. We have kept the truth hidden from her, too.

I tell her that as she stands inside the med lab, watching Remy sleep. She looks at me, eyes dark.

"All of you so afraid of the truth," she whispers disdainfully.

"That is true," I say. "But we were also afraid of losing you."

She shakes her head. "Careful, Petey. I'm going to start thinking I actually mean something to you guys."

I can hear the pain in her voice, and it is hard for me to remember the vibrant grin that lit up her face only hours before. So much can change so soon. I touch her shoulder. "You do mean something to us."

She laughs, surprising me, but it is a bitter sound. "I'll try to remember that, the next time I'm feeling down."

We do not talk again for a long while. I am not sure why I am keeping her company in her vigil at Remy's bedside. Perhaps because I feel responsible for the way the day has turned out, for my own part in the deception. She should not be alone. I glance over at her, and as I do I catch a change in her face. A flicker of resolve that fills her eyes and disappears.

I suddenly realize that Sarah does not hate Remy--or if she does, such hate will not last forever--and that when he awakens she will still be standing here, at his side. What has passed between them has both weakened and strengthened her. Perhaps, even, it will strengthen Remy.

"It is hard to find love without pain," I tell her softly.

"Have you ever found it, Petey?"

I smile sadly and shake my head. "But I hope you do, Sarah."

"I'm not sure I want to," she says, and continues to stare at Remy. I watch her for a moment, and take a slow, deep breath. I will not worry for her anymore, not at how she will one day--once again--drop everything to be with him--that man--the one responsible for the deaths of those she long ago called family. The man who has become her family. I will not worry, because now she knows the truth.

And that will set her--all of us--free.

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