Full Summary: AU. There are rumors on the streets of New Orleans of something dark hidden within the catacombs of the city. Something beyond price. Something, even, worth dying for. A story about the blackest secrets of appetite and sin. ROMY Darkfic.
A/N: Ugh. I've been holding onto this chapter for weeks. I just don't think it's right. But if I don't release it now, the whole story will peter to an end and then I might actually have a life and that idea terrifies me. So, without further ado.
Disclaimer: Shockingly, I haven't acquired Marvel during the thirty-two days since my last disclaimer. And in case "The Hollow Men" isn't in public domain, I don't own that either.

Never Say Die
Chapter Three: Scar Tissue

The counter was hot beneath his hand, and when he lifted his arm to flag the barkeep, there was a sweaty impression of his palm on the Formica that quickly evaporated. The bartender had been leaning against the wall with her ankles crossed and cleaning a glass with her dishrag. When she saw Remy she set down the glass and wiped her hands on her apron, using her shoulders to launch herself away from the wall.

"What's your poison, pretty boy?" She asked, tucking the rag into the back pocket of her jeans and leaning over the counter.

Remy swiped his eyelid with his thumb. "Bourbon," he muttered, looking away. He watched a girl dancing with her hands outstretched over her head and her eyes closed, turning her head from side to side so that her long hair swung as she moved. He watched the rhythm of feet against the floor and the fingers clenching waists and the swirl of cotton skirts beneath the flashing lights. This was a place he came to when he needed to forget. To lose himself in the pounding of shoesoles and the heat and the thudding of hearts. The bartender took out a tumbler and filled it partway and slid it across the counter toward him.

He nodded at her and then wet his lips and took a sip and set the glass down again, grimacing. He could not drink away the ache that had settled just beneath his ribcage. He could not get the taste of sugar out of his mouth. He took out the tin of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his duster and flipped it open. Remy removed one and licked the tip and then took out a match and popped it against his thumbnail and lit the cigarette. He waved the match out and swallowed the rest of the whiskey, and his throat continued to swallow after it was gone. He coughed and raised the glass above his head, the butt sending up a thin riband of smoke under the artificial lights.

"Thirsty?" The bartender said as she refilled his glass.

"Always," he whispered. She started to put the bottle away but he took a drag from the cigarette and said, "Leave it," the words rolling away in a cloud of smoke. He tapped the butt against the ashtray and then rubbed his forehead with the inside of his wrist.

"Rough day?" The waitress asked.

"Rough week," he said.

She smiled to herself, then took the rag out of her back pocket and began to wipe down the bar, though it was already clean. "Maybe I can help," she said. "I'm getting off work." She looked up at the clock and then untied her apron and slung it over her shoulder. "What do you say?"

He pulled out the barstool next to his, tracing the lip of the tumbler with his finger. "What are you gonna have?"

She took out a bottle of white rum and turned it so he could read the label.

"Little kids shouldn't be drinkin' Silver," he said.

She snorted, unlatching the gate and letting herself out of the bar. "Little kid yourself," she said, taking the seat next to him. "Got a smoke?"

He pushed the tin toward her, watched her cup the tip and strike the hammer of her lighter a couple times. When the fag began to glow red, she set the lighter down and took the cigarette away from her mouth and blew out a stream of smoke. She put her hand on his knee and slid it up and down slowly, each time bringing it higher.

"I can make it go away, you know."

She wasn't the right one. He shrugged, rolling the glass between his palms.

He felt her lips close to his neck, felt her breath elicit goosebumps on his skin. She twined her fingers in his and stood up behind him, pulling his arm so that his barstool spun lazily and he was facing her. "Come on, pretty boy." She put her hand over her mouth and puffed on the cigarette. Behind her, flashing lights fell on bare arms and necks and grinding hips. He reached out and fingered a lock of her hair.

It was all wrong.

She held the butt in her lips and caught his fingers in hers and then smiled, rolling her shoulders to the beat of the music. She pulled him up off the hassock and wrapped her arms around his neck.

He did not move with her.

She wasn't the right one.

The dancers pounded their feet against the floor, and he could feel the vibrations through the soles of his boots.

But she would do.

His fingers tightened on her pelvis, bringing her closer. She smiled into the collar of his shirt and tilted her face up toward his. "Why so sad?"

He brushed hair away from her eyes, and instead of answering he leant down and kissed her. Around them, bodies twisted and writhed and the bass pulsed and the world did not slow on its axis. It did not stop for her. He could still see the disco lights dappling her face and moving away. He could still hear the music. He could taste her.

She did not taste like sugar.

He turned away. She grabbed his wrist and tripped as she followed him off the dancefloor. When he got to the bar he wrenched his arm free and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and tossed off his drink.

"You're leaving?" She said as he picked his trench coat off the stool and folded it over his arm.

He shouldered through the door and into the alleyway, heard it bang open behind him.

"Hey." She lunged forward and got hold of his sleeve, swinging him around. He raised his arms in exasperation.

"What?"

"That's it? You're just gonna take off?"

He looked off to the side, pretending to consider it, then looked back at her. "Yeah."

He tried to turn again, but she tightened her grip and held him there. "Wait."

He looked down at her.

"Give me a name."

He studied her for a moment. "Remy," he said, taking his wrist back. "LeBeau."

"That Remy LeBeau?" She nodded her chin at the brick wall behind him. He twisted around. Written on the brick in black sharpie was his name, encircled by a heart.

This was a place he came to when he needed to forget.

He pulled the duster on and then put his hands on the lapels and snapped them open and shut. "Yeah," he said, his red eyes burning up the darkness. He began to walk away with an uneven gait, his shoes scuffing the tarmac. "That Remy LeBeau."

...

Every once in awhile, a leaf breaks loose of the sugar maples lining the river and twirls downward, flashing now and then as it catches the light. He watches them as they land on the dark waters of the Mississippi river and float downstream, rotating lazily as the current carries them away. The virgin's bower forms lacy patterns on the tree he is in, and he swings his leg as he sits with his back against the trunk. He takes the jaffa orange out of his pocket and begins to peel it with his jackknife, watching the skin fall away into the water as he works. When he is done, he folds the blade back in with the heel of his palm and takes a bite, the juice running down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand.

It takes him a moment to see her. She is standing by the Mississippi and wearing a white dress, and her skin is spangled by the sunlight sifting through the sugar leaves. He has never seen anyone here before--here, at the ruins of the granary beside the river where the cement jetty has begun to crack and the bunch grass grows up in the spaces in between. He drops down from the tree and lands on all fours.

She looks over at him carelessly. The brick walls of the Court of Two Sisters are crumbling and curtained with ivy and white Christmas lights, and cradled between them is a fountain whose waters are dyed the exact same shade of blue as her eyes. He cannot look away. He holds out his hand.

"Name's Remy."

She looks at his bare feet and then at his hand, still sticky from the Jaffa. She takes it.

"Bella Donna."

The banquet room is empty when he returns. There is confetti on the floor, and his boots stir it up into the air so that it drifts down lazily in his wake.

"Julien?" His voice echoes. He pivots around in a circle, scanning the hall for his brother-in-law. He hears a sound from a darkened corner and when he turns, he sees the boy's slender figure rocking back on the rear two legs of his chair, one hand steadying himself on the table. Remy takes a step forward and then stops. "Been lookin' for you, homme."

The front legs thump back down on the carpet. "That right?" He says. "Belle's worried sick about me, neh? An' now you be here, comin' t' my rescue like a reglar goddamned hero."

"I jus' want to get y'home."

"Dey all look up t'you y'know. Call you de Diable Blanc. De White Devil. Like you some kinda god." He purses his lips, shaking his head slowly. "Dey don' have a clue."

"I don' want any trouble t'night, Julien."

"'Course y'don'. You not'ing but a coward. And dey say you gon unite de Guilds." He starts to laugh bitterly, and then he chokes up and sits back in his chair with his elbow on the table and his fist in his mouth as he stares off into nothing. After awhile, he leans forward and picks up the glass of champagne and raises it over his head and mutters, "T'de happy couple, may dey rot in pieces." He tosses the drink back and swallows. He is still for a moment, and then he stands so suddenly his chair clatters backward and he flings the empty flute at the wall where it explodes in a rainfall of glass.

Remy is very quiet. "I t'ink you've had too much t'drink," he says. "I t'ink y' maybe ought to come wit' me, now."

"'I t'ink y' maybe ought to come wit' me, now,'" Julien mimics. He rips the tablecloth away from the table, sending the wedding cake crashing to the floor. A dish rattles to a standstill. "Fuck that. It shoulda been me leadin' de guilds, LeBeau. You ain't even half de man I am." He kicks the chair. "Not half!"

Remy raises his hands a ways and then lets them drop back to his sides again, frustrated. "You t'ink I asked for dis?" he says. "What do you want me to do?"

Julien is standing with his hands clenched at his sides, chest rising and falling heavily, his head bowed and his shoulders rolled back. "Fight me," he whispers.

"What?"

"Fight me!" He shouts, catching the underside of one of the tables with his fingers and overturning it. "I'll take back what y' stole from me, t'ief." He looks up, his jaw set, and his eyes meet Remy's.

"I'll take back de assassins."

"Belle. Belle, wait up." It has begun to rain, and his feet send up spumes of water from the gutters as he runs after her, spattering the legs of his jeans with dark medallions. He jostles his way through the crowds on the street and sees her up ahead. "Belle--" he grabs her elbow and spins her around. She brings her hand up and slaps him. Hard. He releases her arm and raises his fingers to his face, more hurt by the malevolence than the sting in his cheek.

"I didn't have a choice," he says. The rain falls as finely as a secret, sending up a halo of mist around everything it touches. It is cold, and they can see their breath in the air. His hair is sticking to his skin and he blinks away the water on his eyelashes.

"Just leave already, Remy. Get outta Dodge. I don' want y' here no more."

"Takes a liar t' know a liar, chère," he said, "so dere ain't nobody in de world who's got it on better authority dan me dat you don' mean dat."

She stares at him evenly. "But I do. I want y' t' leave, Remy. I don't wanna remember ever time I see your face."

"I can't. I don' know what kinda man I'd be wit'out you. I don' wanna know." He takes a step toward her and touches her arms and says in a whisper, "I'm in love wit' you."

Her eyebrows knit together. He cannot tell whether or not the wetness on her cheeks is tears. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, her blue eyes never leaving his. There is a heartbeat of stillness. Then she takes a few skipping steps backward and turns away, tugging her hood up over her head as she begins to run. And she runs away from him.

This time, he does not follow.

He simply stands alone in the downpour and watches her disappear.

Leaves twirling downward blood, blood on the floor by the wedding cake. He holds out his hand, still sticky from the jaffa orange. He watches her run away, holding the hood down over her face.

Wake up, Julien. Wake up wake up wake up.

Rice spilling out of the pocket of the black silk dinner jacket and crunching beneath his boots and skittering across the floor. God, what have I done?

What have I done?

BANG!

She caught herself before she hit the ground, slamming her palms into the floor so hard the floorboards jumped. Musta fell off the bed, she thought, rolling over onto her back and staring up at the ceiling. Nice ta know Ah still got th' cajun's reflexes at least. One of her bra straps had slipped off her shoulder during the night, and she pulled it back up as she sat upright.

"Anyone ever tell you you sleep like the dead?"

She looked over at the four-poster, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm. The boy stretched out on her bed with his fingers laced behind his head raised an eyebrow at her. He was long and aerodynamic, and his white t shirt glowed against suntanned skin.

"I had to tilt the mattress to getcha up," he said.

"Y'all shoulda just let me get mah beauty rest, St. John," she muttered, picking a tattered lace and crinoline skirt off the floor and stepping into it. "Now Ah feel like the dead." She snugged it up around her waist and twirled around, watching the fabric pinwheel.

"I woulda if it was up to me," he said. "Mystique's been carryin' on like a pork chop ever since ya got back."

Rogue ran her fingers over the front of her racerback tank, the black cotton still moist from her nightmares. "What is it this time?" she asked.

St. John turned onto his side with one elbow propped up on the bed and leaned the side of his face against his fist. "It's Saturday arvo, sheila," he said. "You been in a coma f' three days."

Her hand slipped at the vanity table and a lipstick fell to the ground and rolled away. "Say what?" She asked incredulously, turning to look at him.

He nodded. "Things were looking pretty crook for awhile, butcha pulled yaself together all roight," he said.

"Judas priest."

He was wearing tight black jeans with a yellow belt, and she had been able to see in the pocket of his pants the impression of a butane lighter. He slid it out and flicked it open with his thumb, then whipped it shut again. She waited for him to speak, watching his reflection in the mirror as she tugged on a pair of opera gloves.

"Your eyeliner's all smudged," he said finally. Flick. Switch. "Makes ya look loike a junkie."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks, St. John."

Flick. Switch.

"It's edgy. I loike it."

She put her hands on the table and let her head fall back in exasperation. "Y'all jus' gonna sit there an' watch me?"

Flick. Switch. "I dunno, mate. Doesn't sound loike such a bad idea." He caught the cloth she threw at him.

"Seriously, now."

He shrugged with one shoulder. "Yah gave Mystique a real scare. Kept groanin' and mutterin' in your sleep. Sayin' 'wake up' over an over again." He looked at her closely. "You roight?"

Skin as white and fragile as a sparrow's egg. The knife hits the floor with a chime and he takes a step forward. His fingers hesitate an inch away the flesh. Then he grips the boys' arms tightly and lifts his torso away from the ground. The head lolls backward.

"Wake up, Julien."

His body is heavy.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!"

He punctuates each clause with a shake. The boy's eyes are still open. He does not blink. He thinks to himself, This is not what sleep looks like.

This is not what sleep looks like.

She turned her head slightly, her eyes lowered, and whispered into her shoulder, "I'll be fine."

But there were goosebumps on her arms and there was a ringing silence in the room, and neither one of them believed what she was saying.

...

Georgie Porgie, puddin' an pie
Kiss the girls and make them cry
Make them cry
Make them cry

How did it start? He doesn't know.

Leaning up against dirty zinc bars. Neon light filtering through the smoke like a fog. A new place each night. A new face. The strobelight shows him in still frames as he moves slowly through the darkness, like a carnivore. Bumping against the hips and the shoulders of dancers, unnoticed. Intoxicated by the stench of sweat.

His pulse quickens. Blood rushes, until he hears nothing except for the sound of the congas drumming in his ears. Feels nothing except fingertips brushing against skin, catching the bottom of her shirt and pulling it up. Hands running up her spine, pulling her closer. There's flesh to sink against, to make him feel so goddamn alive.

He can't get enough.

How did this start? He doesn't remember anymore.

Pressing in the locks on the powder room with his thumb. Fluorescent lights illuminating the smudged lipstick. A new face every night. She raises her arms in the air as he takes the hem of her blouse and lifts it up over her head and then flings it away. It catches against the edge of the sink and slithers to the ground where it lies in a pile of white silk. The smell of sweat. The muscles in their backs contracting. Fingers sliding over flesh. She says, "Tell me you love me."

And he does.

He tells them what they want to hear.

He doesn't tell them they are nicotine patches. Substitutes for the real thing. The thing that's slowly killing him. He doesn't say they make the ache go away for a little while, that when he wakes up the next morning he'll remember them by their perfumes instead of their names: Bergamot. Sandalwood. Patchouli.

Instead he tells them lies.

His apartment is dark when he gets home. A car passes by outside, its headlamps chasing a rectangle of light around the bare walls of the room. The reflection in his bathroom mirror is used up. As empty as the husks of the flies caught between his screen and his windowpane. As dry as the rosepetals pressed in his black book. He opens the vanity cupboard, disrupting the image, and takes out a razor and then closes it again.

And then the hollow man is staring at him once more.

He cuts himself once, near the underside of his jaw, and wipes away the blood with his fingertips. When he rinses them beneath the faucet, the water runs red. After he has finished shaving, he cleans the razor with a tissue and sets it on the sink, and then he puts his hand on his chin and pulls his face from side to side, examining the smooth skin. It has been awhile since he was last clean-shaven. He does not like the way it looks.

He takes a handtowel off the rack and dries his face.

Remy lies down on the bed with a bottle of whiskey. He can still smell Sandalwood on the sheets. He drinks too quickly, and by the time the phone rings his legs won't work. The bottle slips from his fingers and falls to the floor with a thud. His chest heaves involuntarily. The sound of the phone is violent in the empty apartment, reverberating from the dentils, and each time it ends the silence seems louder than ever. Finally, the new answering machine beeps.

He hears his father's voice, but the words make no sense, and the last thing he remembers as he falls away into an unnatural sleep is something called the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. He thinks to himself, This is how the world ends, and it echoes over and over inside his skull.

This is how the world ends.

This is how the world ends.

This is how the world ends.

Not with a bang, but a whimper.

And then there is only blackness.

A/N: THIS CHAPTER WAS BASED ON A TRUE STORY. No, not really. It's all a lot of dross I wrote while I was "inspired." Inspired being the politically correct way of saying I was totally bombed on something called Goldschlager. Now there's a drink. Kids, try this at home. I don't know, am I being a bad influence again?

Special thanks to Erin of Canberra for help with St. John's accent and slang. Special thanks to all of you who have made the short list of people I like (AKA, reviewers). If not for you, I would've gotten way fed up trying to write this chapter and ad libbed the ending, and it would've wound up something like:

"And then he put the glass slipper on her foot, and lo! it fit, and Remy and Rogue rode away into the sunset and lived happily ever after. THE END."

And lastly, to everyone who's reading, thanks.

Ana: Wow. That's really, really generous of you. The truth of the matter is, I haven't seen the series for such a long time--I'm constantly worried that I'm screwing up left and right. So, thank you so much for your support!
RogueVampire: Yes! Yes! Someone thought it was decent enough to review both chapters! Thank you so much.
Wildcard186: Haha, thanks! It is definitely easy to get too carried away with a setting as rockin' as New Orleans. At the same time, I feel like I haven't done it justice, sometimes writing generic scenes that could happen almost anywhere. I'm glad you stumbled on it, too. Your review gave me warm fuzzies.
Emerald Cloud: Just for you, I purposefully put off job-hunting so I could focus on publishing this chapter. ;) Hope you liked it.
Raven09: It came! Late, but not never. Thanks so much for the fave, and thanks for reviewing!
Romylover: Aw, thanks! I hope you liked the chapter. :)
pennylane87: Wow. You are one of the nicest reviewers OF ALL TIME! Thank you so much.
ziRi.butterfly: Yes! You're back! #glomp# You are the best favorite reviewer ever.
xxxxcrazychickxxxx: Thanks! Hope you liked the chapter! :D
The Duplicitous One: Haha. Oh, Remy'll get his turn. Damn, you've got pretty good eyes. Now I have to do something unpredictable. REMY & ROMY FOREVER!
ishandahalf: Haha, thanks. Indeed, a cat-and-mouse game is in the works! I'll try to make it worth your while.
SarahtheRogue: Wow. That's about the best compliment anyone could've given me. Thanks so much!
Lucia de'Medici: Huh. I think I'm speechless. Wow. Pretty sure that's never happened to me before. All joking aside, I know. I know exactly what you mean. The heat. The black silhouettes of exotic ferns against a lavender sky. The parts of the city that vibrate with the echo of the ages. And something more. The cradle of voodoo. The smell of vice. The sinister slave barracks crawling with ivy and the gothic mansions that housed unspeakable evils. It's thrilling. It gets into your blood and it never gets out. Like it plants a little of its own dark hunger inside you and you always crave more of it.
Anyway. I don't think I have to tell you that you're pretty much worshiped on this site and that your reviews are therefore gold. So, really truly genuinely--thanks. Also, when I was writing my finals essay for English 151 on Conformity and Rebellion, I came across a poem called "Miniver Cheevy," by Edwin Arlington Robinson. In the fifth stanza, Robinson wrote:

"Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one."

And then there was a nifty note at the bottom of the page explaining that Medici was a family of bankers and statesmen, notorious for their cruelty, who ruled Florence for nearly two centuries during the Italian renaissance. That wouldn't have anything to do with your pen name, would it?