Disclaimer: If they were ours, Marrow wouldn't have needed a
damn
*makeover*.
Spoilers: For What Gambit Did in the Morlock Tunnels, but
that's
getting to be quite a while ago, and continuity isn't our
major concern
here.
Summary: Penance.
Ratings note: R? violence
Authors' notes: Yet another of the what-shall-we-do-with-
Marrow
vignettes.
Acknowledgements: Te was thinking a lot about V's outrage
over Gambit's
treatment by the X-Men while doing this... Jane
was undoubtedly chortling
over the easy enslavement of her
co-author...
Feedback: makes us sing in the shower.
janestclair15@hotmail.com and
teland793@sbcglobal.net
*
The thing is, she'd been getting to *like* the slippery Cajun
bastard. Something about the way he didn't flinch whenever she
walked in, just watched her with steady, slightly sad eyes.
Something
about that time he'd picked the lock on Cyclops' liquor
cabinet and taught
her how to drink properly. Whiskey, gin,
tequila, and by the end of
the night she'd been past fucked up and
headed for unconscious, and he'd
sort of pushed her to bed, not
much more sober than she was.
Not fair that it should be him. The one she's been hunting. All
of
him tied up in the Marauders and the rage that drives her awake at
night. All those old fantasies of using her bones to slowly shred
the tendons of the ones who did it until they really *understood*
what
she'd lost.
Quiet, dark space in which she gets to inflict her revenge.
She'd screamed at the X-Men when they came back without him.
And louder
when they told her why. Less because he was dead
than because they
wouldn't let it be *her* doing the killing. Not
fair for it to be
pretty, pretty Rogue, who'd always had him.
Raged and threw things and carved the sleeve of Rogue's suit away
with
the bloody edge of her thighbone and *snarled* animal-furious
until they set
Beast on her and pumped her full of something and
she woke up more than a
day later in med-lab, curled up like a dog
on one of the beds.
And even now she can smell him. Something about the cologne
he's
taken up since he's been back that crawls up her nerves. Too
obvious
for a thief. She keeps wondering whether he's trying to
track himself,
or if he's trying to attract hunters.
Maybe it's just right for the new him. This X-man the rest of them
don't
want back. Either because they can't forgive him or because
the light of day
is tough to face when you've got blood on your
hands.
Upworlders.
If they were gonna do it, it should've been done *right*.
Finalized.
Something sick and cowardly about leaving a man to freeze to
death. Or
starve. Perfect for a Marauder in its ruthlessness, but if
it'd been her,
she'd've stayed to watch. Make sure.
But now he's back, and it takes a lot more spine than any of
these
half-assed murderers have got to kill a man twice. No one
asks how he
survived. No one gives two shits most likely. A nice
little heavenly
reprieve for being bad.
Play nice, kiddies, and learn your lesson: The dead walk.
They talk in slow, half-cringing voices and scrape weakly at the
remains
of their old life.
Not yours anymore, you freak!
She wants to yell it out loud. Not yours. Not theirs. Not hers,
either,
because isn't she just as bad?
Why *is* he still alive, since he's right here and Marrow can find
him
just by following her nose. Following that invisible slime trail
of guilt
and penance no one's around to take.
'cept her. Yeah. Her.
So. If she forgives him -- screams and blood and faces all twisted
up
with pain and the man running with her who won't let her go
back won't let
her go until they're far away and it's sunny and hot
and *wrong* and the air
isn't right and then gone. Bump of
ground, scratchy weave of a welcome mat
and she'd watched long,
strong legs pump and pump away from her...
Marrow growls aloud, and the hall around her seems to still for it.
Whole
house listening to see what she'll do, who she'll hurt, what
else she'll
fuck up because she doesn't *know* better.
Whole house wired for sound with good ol' Professor X keeping a
close eye
on all his charges.
Makes her neck itch.
Or maybe it's just a bone thinking about making her bleed. It's a
little
maddening, just like it's a little maddening to find herself
outside
Gambit's open door. Opened a crack, no light spilling out in
the dark
hall. Cologne all soft upworlder-uncautious-man and her,
Marrow.
Just as Morlock as she needs to be.
She doesn't knock. He's in there, she knows. He's not breathing
as
softly as he would be if he were hiding. Just sitting. Near
the
window, she thinks. Close to the cold, because it is cold
out. She
tends to stay away from the great outdoors on principle, and
the
miserable cold of semi-upstate New York is just one more good
reason. Ache in her from that chill and her bone-enforced
half-nakedness.
Slinks up and crouches just out of his reach. Aware of how fast he
can
move and how fast she can, and not worried in any case because
he isn't
going to attack her. Something in him cracked while he was
out on the
ice. If he moved fast enough to take her off her guard
he'd shatter.
She knows this.
He turns toward her, eventually. Arch and curve of the hollows
around his cheekbones that she does and doesn't pity. Wanting
this
agony for him and knowing exactly how ugly it is to die
slowly. So that
eventually she stands and grabs his wrist and pulls
him to his feet.
He doesn't resist, but the eyes watch her like bright,
sharp lights, and he follows closely enough that there's no tension
on
his arm. He could break free if he needed to.
Well, good. She'd hate to think that all the survival instinct that
pulled them both out of the blood of the tunnels, his arms around
her
skinny, bone-dangerous child's body, smelling like fear and
horror and the
ozone-smell that she's learned since is the smell of
his kinetic power at
work... She's glad it isn't gone entirely.
Nothing of him left if it
was.
Drags him downstairs, underground to her room in the basement.
They
picked it for her originally, she thinks, because it was easy to
monitor. About one step up from a prison cell. She decided she
liked it, though... Underground inherently more *home* for her
than the
upworld, and the half-light of the basement makes a
good approximation of
what she's used to.
And no one comes around to bother her about the mess. She
knows
that Bobby gets chewed for the wreckage he lives in, and
the pretty little
ones in the school at Boston get lectures on living
neatly, but she's both
grown-up and hidden, and she can live
however she wants.
Which is more or less how she would have lived if she'd always
been
Morlock. Scavenging and building from what she finds, so
that her
personal space is half ratnest and half collage. Clothes
she's torn
too badly to wear again in a box by the door, to get used
for rags or
whatever, clothes she's waiting to tear to uselessness
waiting on a chair.
A couple of books that she likes are in there, but they're out of
sight
in the mess, hidden the way she knows is best. Bed in the
corner with
a sleeping-bag and collection of old blankets, mostly
torn, thrown over
it. Her bone-spiked doll leftover from
childhood stashed somewhere in
the depths of covers.
He folds himself down onto the edge of the bed when she lets
him go --
strange and homeless-looking, like he could sink into
the rags and vanish.
Leave nothing but dry-rotting armor and that *smell*. Burned
in her
senses now, carving an it-shaped hole out of the rest of
her perceptions.
This man. Her *savior*. Sitting there and
waiting for the judgment no
one else has the balls to give.
Not even him.
"I *liked* you."
"I know."
Barely even catching his reply because that wasn't even *close* to
what
she wanted to say. What had to *be* said. "Shut the fuck up."
He nods, and settles back into his slouch.
Time for more silence, way too big for her room, pressing into her
from
all sides before even two minutes have passed, and pacing
through it is like
wading through muck that stinks so bad it takes
a while to really understand
that you're smelling it. Half-sealed
sewer pipes and rot.
Thick heat of that *other* world, and the day her first calluses
burst
and "*Talk*."
No tease, no smile, just "what do you want me to say?"
Me, not Gambit. And it's a good fucking question. She's heard it
all. Rogue's rage and Storm's angry understanding and everything
Wolverine said with his own silences. And she can't even say she
just
wants to hear it in his voice, because she *doesn't*.
Absolutely never wants to see those over-red lips shape
themselves to
apologies and god-fucking-damned *regrets*. Doesn't
know why so much as has
that... feeling. Of something finalized
and ugly, too soon out the oven,
*something*.
"Do you know how many of us died?"
"Oui."
"Do you know their names?"
He lists them, one by one. More than she remembered. Lists the
way they
died and where they lay. Lists what they were wearing
and she can see him,
masked against the smell -- no. Not masked.
Walking and memorizing. Not
crying, just... noting.
Awful things stuck to his boots and Marrow bites her cheek until
she
tastes iron, wills bone to pierce her scalp in a dozen places
and watches
his eyes. Fucking undead eyes fucking *killer* but no,
he just *ran*.
Fucking *coward* fucking killer fucking *Gambit*. Blood running
down her
neck and back, sliding ticklishly to pool at the base of
her throat and
spine. Stain and wet her down and she can't blink.
Breathing through the
thinnest hole her body can make. Nails
digging into her palms. "Keep going."
And he never pauses. Not to nod, not to lick his dry lips, just
keeps
talking in that low almost whisper until he comes to the
end, when he
finally stares directly into her eyes.
Open plea for nothing like mercy and "I can't. Sometimes Gambit
can't
feel it no more."
Backhands him before she knows what she's doing, fist
clenching in
resistance only after it's already done and Gambit
lets the blood from his
lip drip unhindered down his chin.
"It was not the only thing Gambit did."
Other cheek, more blood. Something curling and alive in her,
something
hot and painful and right like medicine, like bone.
"Gambit never would have told."
His eye will blacken quickly.
"I still like you, chere."
And she's on him then, fingers clenched around his throat, knees
digging
hard into the muscles of his thighs. Watching and being
watched, as the tip
of his tongue shows between his swollen lips.
One moment, just like this,
for everything.
It's not enough.
Marrow rips herself off him and punches him again and again,
biting her
own lip and making sounds she couldn't have
identified as human,
counterpoint to his grunts and aborted
moves to defend himself. Hits and
hits as her eyes blur, as her
blows grow awkward and glancing and everything
just *burns*
until she can't take it anymore. Until she bites off a scream
and
cries, at last.
For someone, anyone who isn't like her, or him, or them, or
anyone Marrow
thinks might actually exist.
And when Gambit wraps his arms around her and pulls her close,
she lets
him.
End
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