Title: After the Ball

Author: Scarlet (ScarletL8E@aol.com)

Website: no site

Rating: G

Pairing/main characters: Gambit

Series/Sequel: Reflection-series 3

Summary: A little darker, maybe a little confusing to some.

Disclaimer: S'okay, you probably don't know that the X-men don't belong to me. So this is where I tell you. The X-men don't belong to me. Everybody clear on that? But so help me, if I see Chat show up in an X-men comic book, I'm gonna go on a rampage. In other words, I don't have time for Marvel to sue me for using their characters, but I will make time if they use mine :)

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After the Ball

By Scarlet

 

Remy sat sideways at the table, cheek propped against his fist. His other hand was occupied by an old beat up rubber ball, and one foot swung slowly back and forth in time with the ancient and therefor noisy clock's tic-toc rythem.

For a long time he remained motionless, staring at nothing, and absently caressing the chewed and torn toy.

His expression went slowly from reflective to melancholy, and his slightly trembling fingers held the ball tighter, as if he feared it would be taken away.

Finally, the downturned lips tightened; a conclusion had obviously been reached. The signs of strain elsewhere remained, and so it would have been evident to an observer that the resolution he had come to was very likely not a happy one.

He stood, and sharply exhaled, as if mentally preparing himself for an unwelcome task, and walked with a graceful stride that somehow managed to be both reluctant and determined out to the back porch.

He stood there, motionless and silent, and that same observer might have noticed the fingers that now clutched the worn and dilapidated ball were white from tension.

He turned his head and looked down toward his hand. One by one, as if he were fighting for possession of his soul, or a freedom he didn't understand, he forced his fingers to let go. Now he cradled the ball gently, carefully.

His head lowered further, and the corners of his mouth became precariously still. The observer undoubtedly could see how his jaw went rigid, and a betraying pulse beat rapidly at the base of his throat.

His hand painstakingly moved to hold the ball directly in front of him. His head came up, and then leaned back, and he swallowed hard.

The hand holding the ball so protectively shifted to hold the ball against his chest, fingers splayed. His other hand had tightened to a fist at his side.

Abruptly his head turned to the side, and the his hand once again grasped the ball. Not gently this time, but almost resentfully.

He spun away, unceremoniously hurling the ball as far from him as he could. He didn't stop to see where it went, he didn't care.

He made it back into the house, and stopped in the middle of the kitchen floor. He clenched his hands into fists once again and stood there, as if he was incapable of taking another step.

His shoulders tensed, and then shook once, twice. The third time sent him to his knees. The fourth brought his hands to cover his face, and bowed his shoulders forward.

Why had he done it? Did he have one reason he could point to and say that this is why? One reason he could put in words? One reason he could understand, if not explain?

And so, he went after the ball.

 

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