***
“Nice to see you again, Remy.”
“It’s hard to see me without turnin’ around, chere.”
I turned on the ball of my foot, flipping my backside to the X-Men’s leaders. It seemed an appropriate gesture. Charles’ voice was vague behind my ears, a fly buzzing around my head. Remy had not changed much in the years since I had seen him last. He’d sprouted a clipped goatee, and allowed the bergamot-scented mane to dance freely over his shoulders. The glowing red eyes were soured with age. There were too many memories and too many mistakes to keep them frisky and bright. Still, it was Remy, and I was nearly grateful to see the old bastard.
“As I was sayin’, Xavier…” Remy continued, allowing his garnet gaze to glide over my shoulder. “Ol’ Remy be callin’ your bluff ‘bout that. You’s always buttin’ in on my affairs.”
His arm outstretched toward me, and I took the offered hand. The door slammed behind us with a swift kick of my foot. Brief glimpses into my past flashed before my eyes. I remembered the click of the kickstand on his motorcycle, and the burning scent of gasoline as he sped off into the night. I remembered the weary look on Charles’ face, the false reassurance, and the constant pressure of his precious dream. Rage boiled beneath my skin, scalding.
“He here, chere. Know that’s why you came back. Always de bridesmaid, never de bride for ol’ Remy.” His old Cajun voice was bitter, sunken with depression. Yet he spoke with the ease of an aged man, wise in affairs of the heart. I felt my heart leap foolishly into my throat and then sink down into my gut.
“Show me.” I came off weak, pathetic, and begging. My statement dissolved into a question. My tongue wilted, tasting of cardboard, mildew, and moldy bread.
“Dunno why you ne’er liked de Cajun, chere. Two Southern sweethearts like us, we made for each other.”
Words failed me, along with the ability to create a witty response. Remy led me toward the elevator to the underside of the mansion, created specifically to train and often times medicate the warriors that comprised the X-Men.
“He isn’t an X-Man.” My voice shook. Five years away and I had become a sniveling shadow of myself.
“No, chere.”
“Why then? Why is he here?”
I stared forlornly at the harsh steel panel, brushed and polished, glistening so pristinely that my reflection glared back at me. I glanced at the figure ahead with her bronzed skin, malnourished and fragile frame, self-cut hair, and tired limestone eyes.
And then I caught the scent.
***
End.
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