Scott watched the girl at his piano from across the room. She was young- fourteen, maybe- and her face contorted in concentration as she dabbled with the keys, plucking notes from the air and combining them to form a catchy tune. She repeated it several times, adding onto it slowly, slowly, and Scott allowed himself a small smile.
And then a frown just as quickly as he noticed Sebastian Shaw slide onto the bench beside her. Scott bit the side of his mouth as Shaw molested the girl behind smiling, sincere eyes. He chatted with her for a moment, unaware of Scott's watchful glare, and moved his mouth close to her small ear. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, obviously perturbed by his close proximity. When he withdrew, she colored slightly and shook her head, raising a hand to her forehead as if to tell him she was feeling ill. Shaw did not want to hear that at all. Instead, he settled his hand on her thin arm, sinking big fingers into her pretty skin and wrenching her close against his wide chest.
When she attempted to wriggle free, Sebastian murmured drunken curses into her neck and clamped her close, drawing a small crowd. Scott waited for the girl's father to intervene, but he didn't come. Deciding he had nothing to lose, Scott shot to his feet and cut through the crowd until he was closest to Shaw. "Hey," he said sharply. When Shaw turned to regard him, Scott took the opportunity to deck him swift and hard across the cheek. Roars of approval bellowed around him. Scott's eyes widened in shock and vindication, despite the dull pain throbbing through his knuckles.
His moment of glory was cut short when Shaw sprang to his feet and threw his own punches in- one in Scott's eye and two into his abdomen.
Scott yelped, clutching at his stomach and stumbling backward. He felt arms steady his back and shoulder and recognized Jean's voice. "Scott! Come on; I'll get you fixed up." She tugged at him and Scott saw Shaw standing before him, triumphant grin plastered across his features. Scott imagined that very grin directed toward Jean five years ago when he leant a hand toward her demise. The thought of Jean then- young and bright as a blooming rose- swelled inside of Scott and strength accompanied it.
He lunged forth against Sebastian, hurling punches wherever he could get them- against his cheeks, eyes, and nose. The crowd hollered and screamed encouragements all around him until their voices were a shrilling, unending drone. Amidst their calls he heard a single voice clear as a high bell. "Scott. Scott!"
He turned and saw her swaying on her feet, both hands against her temples and her face flushed red. He stood, receiving no resistance from the body beneath him. He rushed to her just as her blue eyes rolled back into black abysses and she slumped against him as if her bones had melted. He scooped her unconscious form and carried her upstairs, leaving a battered Sebastian Shaw behind him.
**
Rogue sat on the plush chair positioned by an open window in her room, a book between her delicate white hands. Her eyes scanned the pages but her mind was not on the novel she held. Instead, she pondered Jean's short years; her husband's thoughtful ink-black eyes; Remy's sensual passion from the night before. Her eyes fluttered closed at this and her heart skipped a single beat. She heard her front door open and the steady footsteps of her tall, handsome husband as he searched throughout their house for her. "Ah'm in the bedroom," she croaked, tears already welling in her pools of liquid emerald.
He appeared at the door, smiling brightly. "Ah, hello love." He crossed to her and bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head, shying from his mouth. He stood, his brows etched in worry.
"What is it, darling?" He knelt beside her when she didn't respond, folding his hands in her lap. "Rogue, tell me."
She met his eyes then, her full bottom lip trembling. "We must talk, Donitello."
**
Remy held the cigarette between his fingertips, inhaling the smoke deeply and resting his head against the headboard. He hadn't made the bed yet; he hadn't wanted to, because as long as the sheets were crumpled and the scent of her auburn hair still lingered in the pillows, he would know that she had been there, with him the night before. If he died tonight he'd die happy knowing that.
The knock at his door shook him from his reverie. "Come in," he called, extinguishing his cigarette. He swung his legs over the bed and straightened, his hands resting on either side of him.
The doorknob turned slowly and a wave of apprehension swallowed the Cajun man. He shot to his feet but Donitello had already closed the door behind him, arm raised and pistol in his trembling hand. Remy froze, standing only three paces away from the barrel of a loaded gun and his mind quickly calculating the best approach to his dilemma.
"Thief," Donitello spat, his voice wavering and his mouth pursed tightly. "Liar. How..." he swallowed a sob, "How dare you. I love her... more than you could ever fathom if you lived to be immortal!" He hollered the last part, his sore emotions getting the better of him.
The gun shook in his hands and Remy's emblazoned eyes locked onto it, his own hands raised defensively in the air. "Donitello, t'ink, homme. T'ink. You don't want to commit a murder. You don't want to do dat."
His shoulders shook softly. "She's..." Donitello choked. "She's..." Emotion and raw pain caught in his throat. "She's," he tried again.
Remy nodded slowly, closing the space between them and lowering the gun in Donitello's compliant hand. "I know," he said quietly.
Rogue's husband bore into Remy's eyes and the Cajun fought the urge to turn from him. Tears in a man's eyes were scorching. And they had been his own eyes for the last five years.
Donitello- artist, poet, lover, but never killer- sighed, running a hand across his face. "I can't kill you. I can't... kill another man."
Remy swallowed. "Den you're a better man dan I am, homme."' He reached a hand and rested it on the other man's shoulder. Donitello jerked away violently as if Remy had burned his skin.
"You love her." It wasn't a question or statement, it was a command and Remy nodded positively. "Make her happy all the time."
"You don't even have to tell me, mon ami."
Donitello's eyes seared through Remy, full of hatred and contempt but with it a twinge of mutual respect. Both men had gambled their everything on one woman, and both had been wounded in the process, but in the end, only one was blessed.
Too hurt to truly hate, Donitello stalked to Remy's door, turning suddenly and blurting, "Does it ever get easier? I mean, will I ever forget her?"
What could Remy do? Five years his lesions had to heal and yet even time could not dull the ache. That's why he came back.
Remy nodded. "You will in time."
Donitello smiled weakly, appreciating the lie in some sick fashion. And then he was gone.
**
Remy waited at The Sun later. They had never officially agreed to meet there but he knew she'd come. That's where he'd find her.
She stepped through the door, black hood draped across her head and pretty face peeking from within. She saw his face and smiled- really smiled. Remy's pulse quickened. He ran to greet her but she met him halfway. He didn't have the strength to be incredibly romantic and sweep her off her feet, just kiss, long and sweet with the feel of her slim hands in his hair and her body cradled in his arms.
They parted, her sparkling green eyes gazing into his adoringly. "Why are you here?" He asked, a smile playing at his lips.
She sighed thoughtfully. "You've obviously nevah met anyone with red eyes like yoah's." She grinned, and he couldn't help but kiss her again.
**
Jean rested soundly, cradled in Scott's arms and having just woken up after the excitement of his little bar escapade. He smiled down at her. "Hello darling."
"Why hello," she replied, stifling a yawn. They laid like that for a moment, reveling in the peaceful glow they'd created.
Scott breathed her in, soft and fragile and no powder layered on her skin- she really looked twenty-one now. He squeezed her gently. "I like you like this. No rouge on your cheeks and your lips pink as the day you were born. You look... beautiful." The corners of her mouth perked and she planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Jean, I..." he began awkwardly.
"Yes, Scott?"
"I... want to take you away from here. When we were kids I promised I'd come back and I just want you to know that that hasn't changed. You're getting out of here."
She sighed, turning her head. Scott felt her shake in his arms and he immediately shifted to face her. "What is it? Jean, what's wrong?"
She chuckled bitterly, swiping angrily at her tears. "Oh, Scott," she cried quietly. "I'm dying." She looked up at him with watery blue eyes. "I'm dying," she repeated even more softly.
He hugged her close. "Jean, Jean. Stop crying, now. Just don't. Listen here, *I'm* going to take care of you, you hear? I'll take care of you." He kissed her face, over her eyelids, across her smooth cheekbones, her pale forehead and rose-petal lips. "We leave tonight."
She gazed at him. "What if I give you the consumption, the way my father..." her voice trailed off and was swallowed by the dark walls of her room.
He kissed her once more, longer this time and with sure fervor. "Then let it take me. To live with you a brief moment in love surpasses by far the hellish agony I've endured without you."
She took his hands in her own. "Tonight, then."
**
Months later, Donitello wandered the fine streets of his city New Orleans as he was often seen doing on nights when the heat remained and the air hung still like the stars. She had long gone with some friends of hers, undoubtedly never to be seen again, that he knew.
On his casual midnight stroll a gentle wind caressed his hair and skin, leading him down a twisted dirt road and to his own sealed fate.
Sick with misery, he followed the road until he met a ruined house at the side. Curious, he climbed the porch stairs, gaining himself entrance. The sound of gay laughter and merry music pierced his ears and he read the sign carved in the wood panel just over the entrance.
'House of the Rising Sun'
A/N
Yeah, so that's my story. You see what happens when you're enslaved by plot bunnies spawned from a single song? Let this be a lesson to you.
Tell me how you think it ended or *should* have ended. REVIEW, good people!
And then a frown just as quickly as he noticed Sebastian Shaw slide onto the bench beside her. Scott bit the side of his mouth as Shaw molested the girl behind smiling, sincere eyes. He chatted with her for a moment, unaware of Scott's watchful glare, and moved his mouth close to her small ear. She shifted uncomfortably on the bench, obviously perturbed by his close proximity. When he withdrew, she colored slightly and shook her head, raising a hand to her forehead as if to tell him she was feeling ill. Shaw did not want to hear that at all. Instead, he settled his hand on her thin arm, sinking big fingers into her pretty skin and wrenching her close against his wide chest.
When she attempted to wriggle free, Sebastian murmured drunken curses into her neck and clamped her close, drawing a small crowd. Scott waited for the girl's father to intervene, but he didn't come. Deciding he had nothing to lose, Scott shot to his feet and cut through the crowd until he was closest to Shaw. "Hey," he said sharply. When Shaw turned to regard him, Scott took the opportunity to deck him swift and hard across the cheek. Roars of approval bellowed around him. Scott's eyes widened in shock and vindication, despite the dull pain throbbing through his knuckles.
His moment of glory was cut short when Shaw sprang to his feet and threw his own punches in- one in Scott's eye and two into his abdomen.
Scott yelped, clutching at his stomach and stumbling backward. He felt arms steady his back and shoulder and recognized Jean's voice. "Scott! Come on; I'll get you fixed up." She tugged at him and Scott saw Shaw standing before him, triumphant grin plastered across his features. Scott imagined that very grin directed toward Jean five years ago when he leant a hand toward her demise. The thought of Jean then- young and bright as a blooming rose- swelled inside of Scott and strength accompanied it.
He lunged forth against Sebastian, hurling punches wherever he could get them- against his cheeks, eyes, and nose. The crowd hollered and screamed encouragements all around him until their voices were a shrilling, unending drone. Amidst their calls he heard a single voice clear as a high bell. "Scott. Scott!"
He turned and saw her swaying on her feet, both hands against her temples and her face flushed red. He stood, receiving no resistance from the body beneath him. He rushed to her just as her blue eyes rolled back into black abysses and she slumped against him as if her bones had melted. He scooped her unconscious form and carried her upstairs, leaving a battered Sebastian Shaw behind him.
**
Rogue sat on the plush chair positioned by an open window in her room, a book between her delicate white hands. Her eyes scanned the pages but her mind was not on the novel she held. Instead, she pondered Jean's short years; her husband's thoughtful ink-black eyes; Remy's sensual passion from the night before. Her eyes fluttered closed at this and her heart skipped a single beat. She heard her front door open and the steady footsteps of her tall, handsome husband as he searched throughout their house for her. "Ah'm in the bedroom," she croaked, tears already welling in her pools of liquid emerald.
He appeared at the door, smiling brightly. "Ah, hello love." He crossed to her and bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head, shying from his mouth. He stood, his brows etched in worry.
"What is it, darling?" He knelt beside her when she didn't respond, folding his hands in her lap. "Rogue, tell me."
She met his eyes then, her full bottom lip trembling. "We must talk, Donitello."
**
Remy held the cigarette between his fingertips, inhaling the smoke deeply and resting his head against the headboard. He hadn't made the bed yet; he hadn't wanted to, because as long as the sheets were crumpled and the scent of her auburn hair still lingered in the pillows, he would know that she had been there, with him the night before. If he died tonight he'd die happy knowing that.
The knock at his door shook him from his reverie. "Come in," he called, extinguishing his cigarette. He swung his legs over the bed and straightened, his hands resting on either side of him.
The doorknob turned slowly and a wave of apprehension swallowed the Cajun man. He shot to his feet but Donitello had already closed the door behind him, arm raised and pistol in his trembling hand. Remy froze, standing only three paces away from the barrel of a loaded gun and his mind quickly calculating the best approach to his dilemma.
"Thief," Donitello spat, his voice wavering and his mouth pursed tightly. "Liar. How..." he swallowed a sob, "How dare you. I love her... more than you could ever fathom if you lived to be immortal!" He hollered the last part, his sore emotions getting the better of him.
The gun shook in his hands and Remy's emblazoned eyes locked onto it, his own hands raised defensively in the air. "Donitello, t'ink, homme. T'ink. You don't want to commit a murder. You don't want to do dat."
His shoulders shook softly. "She's..." Donitello choked. "She's..." Emotion and raw pain caught in his throat. "She's," he tried again.
Remy nodded slowly, closing the space between them and lowering the gun in Donitello's compliant hand. "I know," he said quietly.
Rogue's husband bore into Remy's eyes and the Cajun fought the urge to turn from him. Tears in a man's eyes were scorching. And they had been his own eyes for the last five years.
Donitello- artist, poet, lover, but never killer- sighed, running a hand across his face. "I can't kill you. I can't... kill another man."
Remy swallowed. "Den you're a better man dan I am, homme."' He reached a hand and rested it on the other man's shoulder. Donitello jerked away violently as if Remy had burned his skin.
"You love her." It wasn't a question or statement, it was a command and Remy nodded positively. "Make her happy all the time."
"You don't even have to tell me, mon ami."
Donitello's eyes seared through Remy, full of hatred and contempt but with it a twinge of mutual respect. Both men had gambled their everything on one woman, and both had been wounded in the process, but in the end, only one was blessed.
Too hurt to truly hate, Donitello stalked to Remy's door, turning suddenly and blurting, "Does it ever get easier? I mean, will I ever forget her?"
What could Remy do? Five years his lesions had to heal and yet even time could not dull the ache. That's why he came back.
Remy nodded. "You will in time."
Donitello smiled weakly, appreciating the lie in some sick fashion. And then he was gone.
**
Remy waited at The Sun later. They had never officially agreed to meet there but he knew she'd come. That's where he'd find her.
She stepped through the door, black hood draped across her head and pretty face peeking from within. She saw his face and smiled- really smiled. Remy's pulse quickened. He ran to greet her but she met him halfway. He didn't have the strength to be incredibly romantic and sweep her off her feet, just kiss, long and sweet with the feel of her slim hands in his hair and her body cradled in his arms.
They parted, her sparkling green eyes gazing into his adoringly. "Why are you here?" He asked, a smile playing at his lips.
She sighed thoughtfully. "You've obviously nevah met anyone with red eyes like yoah's." She grinned, and he couldn't help but kiss her again.
**
Jean rested soundly, cradled in Scott's arms and having just woken up after the excitement of his little bar escapade. He smiled down at her. "Hello darling."
"Why hello," she replied, stifling a yawn. They laid like that for a moment, reveling in the peaceful glow they'd created.
Scott breathed her in, soft and fragile and no powder layered on her skin- she really looked twenty-one now. He squeezed her gently. "I like you like this. No rouge on your cheeks and your lips pink as the day you were born. You look... beautiful." The corners of her mouth perked and she planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. "Jean, I..." he began awkwardly.
"Yes, Scott?"
"I... want to take you away from here. When we were kids I promised I'd come back and I just want you to know that that hasn't changed. You're getting out of here."
She sighed, turning her head. Scott felt her shake in his arms and he immediately shifted to face her. "What is it? Jean, what's wrong?"
She chuckled bitterly, swiping angrily at her tears. "Oh, Scott," she cried quietly. "I'm dying." She looked up at him with watery blue eyes. "I'm dying," she repeated even more softly.
He hugged her close. "Jean, Jean. Stop crying, now. Just don't. Listen here, *I'm* going to take care of you, you hear? I'll take care of you." He kissed her face, over her eyelids, across her smooth cheekbones, her pale forehead and rose-petal lips. "We leave tonight."
She gazed at him. "What if I give you the consumption, the way my father..." her voice trailed off and was swallowed by the dark walls of her room.
He kissed her once more, longer this time and with sure fervor. "Then let it take me. To live with you a brief moment in love surpasses by far the hellish agony I've endured without you."
She took his hands in her own. "Tonight, then."
**
Months later, Donitello wandered the fine streets of his city New Orleans as he was often seen doing on nights when the heat remained and the air hung still like the stars. She had long gone with some friends of hers, undoubtedly never to be seen again, that he knew.
On his casual midnight stroll a gentle wind caressed his hair and skin, leading him down a twisted dirt road and to his own sealed fate.
Sick with misery, he followed the road until he met a ruined house at the side. Curious, he climbed the porch stairs, gaining himself entrance. The sound of gay laughter and merry music pierced his ears and he read the sign carved in the wood panel just over the entrance.
'House of the Rising Sun'
A/N
Yeah, so that's my story. You see what happens when you're enslaved by plot bunnies spawned from a single song? Let this be a lesson to you.
Tell me how you think it ended or *should* have ended. REVIEW, good people!