REALMS OF LOSS - for now

Mick dedicates it to Star
Star dedicates it to Mick
And both dedicate it to Wolverine6claws and Cirocco...
*and* The Logan_Remy Slash Group
Thank you all

PROLOGUE

The moon floated lazily in a cloud-darkened sky, impersonally
watching the lives and brief brutal deaths of small creatures
amid the bushes and the grasses of the park. Safe and
unheeding in their Mansion the mutants slept, for the moment
unconcerned in living another day.

Bishop listened to the tiny sounds, strangely serene. His mind
dwelt idly on the current inhabitants of the rambling mansion.
The students were all asleep, curling around their young dreams
like commas, the teachers slept entwined in what came to be
dubbed by everybody - with all the nuances of tenderness,
annoyance, humour or amusement - as "The Love Wing".

Tiny tendrils of a crystal sound gently reverberating with
sleep-inducing echoes entered his consciousness and slowly,
easily, unknowingly, he fell asleep dreaming he was awake at
the con and fondly imagining his friends in bed.

There, the first couple, the `Royal' couple. Fiery, powerful,
majestic Jean and her heartstrong slave-husband burning every
night in the flame of the Phoenix.

The reborn couple. Beast at last at ease with his body in the
loving adoration of Iceman, who had bought him laughter in
exchange for discipline and gained a freedom unknown in the
usual confines of a collar.

Then the power girls, Ororo and Rogue, flying in ecstasy, riding
in rapture the thunder and whirlwinds of their tryst-couch, lying at
last quiet in each other's loving arms.

The warrior princess: Psylocke, happily free of Angel's cloying
attentions. She slept alone, smiling at a dream.

Then the wonder of the Wing, the wonder of the mansion. The
amazing two-in-one. Bishop smiled in his sleep - everyone
smiles when they see them or think of them - at that unlikely
meeting of soul and body. Wolverine and Gambit now simply
Logan and Remy in their hard-fought-for, their blood-paid-for,
their light-beyond-the-darkness love, slept in a joy that seemed
transcendent.

They started as a bet, became a secret joke, continued as an
amazing reality. Their two hearts beat as one, same rhythm,
same strength. In battle, it made them a holy terror, each an
extension of the other, each knowing where the other was at all
times and both cross-knowledge combined giving them an edge
they wouldn't have alone. Gambit with exploding missiles thrown
seemingly recklessly, but never falling near the Wolverine
slashing and punching with happy abandon, never once
checking to see if his love is in the way. They *know* where each
is or will be.

They dance the dance, the balance and flight dance of Death that
Remy invented as a teenager now giving an added, lethal edge
to their fighting. When things seem hopeless, you just need to
see Logan fly and use his Remy as a ladder to throw himself at
tall foes. You just need to see Gambit, raining death, cross over
or under the Wolverine's shoulders to surprise the enemies, and
you can smile and whoop. The dance gets the villains. Always
has, always will.

Bishop has danced with them sometimes, has danced the
combination of rhythms and martial arts that results in jerking,
flying human weapons. He always had to leave the dance early.
They keep it up for innumerable minutes to hone their bodies to
perfection.

Storm and Rogue dance to the whoosh of wind and air over their
heads, twisting, diving, looping and climbing to a pattern that's
both ballet and manoeuvre. Bobby and the Beast join them every
day and even solipsist Psylocke has been drawn in the unity of
the dance.

When you are in the dance you don't need to look, you always
know where everybody else is, and that is an edge of victory. The
ultimate beauty, the ultimate control, the ultimate danger.

Bishop's smile widened, that could really only come from mad
Remy, lovely Remy, lethal Remy.

And what can one-heartbeat give them in bed in the heat of sex,
in the carelessness of desire, in the pounding of lust? Bishop
dreamed of being awake and slid deeper into the dream.
 

CHAPTER 1

INTERLUDE

On the roof of the X-men Mansion a gleam of albino hair and
mad pink rabbit's eyes.

"How goes, my servant?" Nothing mad about the voice, it has
gone beyond madness to a kind of anti-sanity, lucid, cold and
sharp as a frozen rapier.

"All as you desire, my lord. I have given them a deep and
pleasant sleep. They will not wake until I will it so." *This* voice
is silver and shiny, like a stricken crystal goblet.

"Good. Proceed to capture."

Dark figures enter the house, walk through the halls, unchecked
by Bishop's dream of wakefulness, and enter a room.

They dress impersonally, like hospital nurses, the two bodies
abandoned in a coma-deep sleep and carry them out and away
into the night.

Bishop sleeps, and in his dream of loving coupling, he smiles.

REMY

My mind's slow an' fuzzy. Can't really focus, but dimly realise I'm
wakin' up from what feels like drugged sleep. I was in too deep,
feels more like climbing up a slippery, dank well. Ain't no light,
even I can't see a thing. Feel the cobwebs on my face signal the
mass-feeling sense has kicked in. The air is warm, humid an'
still, my lungs wanna pant, but somethin' stops me and I breathe
light and slow.

Where....? Oh, Logs is lyin' near an' still in deep sleep by the
sound of his breathin'. Feel his heartbeat: slow, powerful an'
calm. My heart beats with his, dissipatin' the fuzziness an' the
start of fear.

I touch him lightly an' feel spandex. What the…? Krot! We in
uniform an' I can't remember dressin' up or nothin' after we
made love last night an' fell asleep exhausted.

Now I realise we're lyin' on some cold metal, but not a slab. It's
the floor of a holdin' cell, we have been captured. But how did
whoever-it-was manage to drug us? How they manage to
bypass Bishop an' the Mansion's defences? I designed 'em for
fucksake! Take a thief to catch one.

Got to grin. No matter how dark my thoughts, Logs has affected
me with his favourite exasperated phrase. Get a grip, Gambit, we
in danger an' you the only one awake, so no sugary love
thoughts, s'il vous plait. Stay focused on the job. Use to
advantage the fact that Wolvie's calm heart keeps you calm no
matter what an' explore this krottin' cell.

So movin' slow an' wary, I crawl along the metal floor 'til I meet a
metal wall. Follow the wall to the corner an' measure the cell.

Krot, it's small an' bare. Means either they don' plan to keep us
here long or this an oubliette an' we supposed to die of thirst. I
can do nothin' if it the second, so I gotta act on the first. Try the
door, chaudin!

If I can find a door, we high an' dry. Ain't a door made I can't open,
but I can't find a door, the hope-devouring word oubliette keeps
poppin' in my mind. Then I feel it.

It's a line so thin I almost missed it again. No lock, touch every
inch of it, only the smooth, cool metal I cannot identify. Put in one
of my cards an' it don't even begin to get into that seam. Too
thick.

Almost charged the card to see what happens. Better not, maybe
the jailers don't exactly know the extent of our powers.

Need Logs, need his Wolverine claws to rip an opening for us.
Ain't no sense lettin' him sleep if I can wake him.

"Logan!" Don' yell. They might have listenin' devices an' the cell's
too high to reach the ceiling. Don' wanna give whoever it is an
inch if I can help it.

"Logs, wake up, love!" I half-shout, shakin' him harder, hopin' the
love-name annoys him awake, but he don' respond at all. How
much of that drug they gave us? His healin' factor should've
cleared his system by now. Weh, but when is now? Got no
sense of time passed. Coulda been
hours or jus' a few minutes.

Shake him as hard as I can – Dieu, but he's heavy! – but if his
heart didn't beat so strongly, would feel I was shakin' a corpse.

Erase immediately the thought. Makin' myself more nervous than
already am will serve no purpose.

Have no option but to wait. Sit down beside him and think
furiously.

Who coulda taken us? An' why put our uniforms on us? Have all
my cards, all my bags of tricks, is this logical?

Only if nothin' matters because we here to die.

But we can die just as well naked, why dress us up?

Because we woke up, put our uniforms on, went on a mission
an' got drugged an' taken here? Can't remember it, but that don'
mean that it didn't happen that way. This a mental dead-end.
Unless Logs remembers what happened when he wakes up, I
can't know.

Who took us? Quickly scroll a mental list, but all the baddies I
can think of have never acted like this. Someone has to have
changed modus operandi to build this impenetrable cell and
dump us in. And why?

If they had us drugged an' dead to the world, finishin' us off
would've been very easy. Why the oubliette? So maybe it is not a
stay-there-until-I-forget-you-and-you-die cell. Maybe they want us
for somethin'. Maybe they, whoever-they-are,… krot how not
knowing irks me! Maybe the krottin' assholes are blackmailing
the Xmen holdin' our death over their collective sex-fixated head.

Will not allow this. The idea of my Stormy made to do something
she doesn't want, because she loves me, is enough to make my
blood boil,… but it doesn't, the pull of Logs' quiet sleep stops my
heart from acceleratin'. Start to see that what I considered a
blessing could become a curse in disguise. Why doesn't the
damn man wake up?

What if he doesn't wake up?

This thought chills me to the bones. Know it's stupid, woke up
an' so will he when the drug leaves his body, but can't help the
chill, the frisson of real fear.

No, he will wake up. He will. He must.

INTERLUDE

"What is he doing?" asks Elric, the albino mage. He is curious,
but not overmuch.

"It is hard to perceive. He is pulled by different emotions now and
he's not easy to read at all times. But I think he is thinking of a
way out, my lord." Slow and gentle like rubbed crystal,
Jahrmeed's voice vibrates in the air, there's no emotion in it, it is
almost pure sound.

The third thing people notice about Jahrmeed is his hair: long,
straight, a pale lemon colour, very thin yet very heavy, it falls like
molten metal down his back,

The second thing people notice is his skin: translucent like pink
alabaster with a sheen like glass covered with a film of oil.

But the first thing everyone notices about him are his eyes: larger
than normal in a thin face, all irises with no sclera and no
apparent pupil, they are coloured a fathomless violet like the
purest amethyst.

They are eyes that see beyond the surface of the self to the core
of every being; the Hypath knows every nuance of feeling of every
being on every world. And can manipulate them at will.

"Shall I send the Boastful One to them?" Elric asks after a
moment's reflection, chin on his magic sword's pommel.

"Not yet, my lord. The one they call Gambit needs to realise that
his mate is paralysed. He needs to feel deep fear and for some
reason he is unquiet, but not afraid yet. He will not come to me
until his fear for his mate will force him."

"So be it, then. We will wait."

REMY

How long have been waiting for Logs to wake up? Have no idea.
Worries me a lot. Generally have a good spatial an' temporal
sense, yet had to explore the cell inch by inch an' have no sense
of the passing of time. The drug must be still in my system,
impairin' my senses.

Wanted to see if I can still energise cards, but the thought that I
could surprise our capturers an' maybe find a way to escape
always stopped me.

May have to leave my love here, if he doesn't wake up an'
someone opens that door. The thought makes me nauseous,
but if someone opens that door, I will blast my way out an'… No,
no negative thoughts. Will blast my way out an' come back for
Logs with the Xmen.

I wait and wait.

Have to piss. Krot! Krottin' krot! Lots of hours passed then. Hate
to lose the liquid, but can't hold it much longer.

I drag Logs to a corner of the cell, my eyes cross with the effort of
draggin' him and not urinate, but I make it.

Then go to the opposite corner and piss.

Nothing to clean my hands with an' the stink is unpleasant, but
feel much better.

Get back to Wolvie an' I realise he has pissed himself.

Fucking krot, Remy, why can't you think?

Should have taken his pants off and not cornered us this way.

No use cryin' over spilt piss, is there?

Take his uniform off an' drag him to another corner hoping I
haven't chosen the one the door opens toward.

Clean him as well as I can with the dry parts of his uniform an'
my neck-and-head piece. Then cover him with my duster. He
hasn't moved or reacted through all of it an' I lie down over him to
touch and embrace him, to feel his breath and be reassured.
Besides can do nothing, why stay far from my other heart? Kiss
his unresponsive lips an' nestle in his neck.

It's not the humiliation of pissing in a corner of a very small cell
that so saddens me. It's Logan's, exactly because he is out of it.
He would hate it if he knew, but would not make a big thing out of
it. His not knowing saddens me to the marrow.

He's not sleeping, he's either unconscious or paralysed. Can't
stand that thought. Does he know I'm here with him? Can he feel
me? Does he feel the pull of my heart that wants to accelerate
and beat madly? How can I get through to him?

The door opens suddenly an' noiselessly.

Chose the wrong corner, krot!

Get on my feet in a second an' throw a fanning out pack of
energised cards at the shadows I dimly see. The light's in my
eyes and I don' dare aim too close. Better barrage them an'
move as fast as I can.

Jump-run towards the shadows throwing cards all the time and
the shadows fall down, but they are many an' I can't get them all.
Push a couple of… men or human looking somethings, can't
see at all for a moment because the light is blinding, but shove
and punch and throw and shove an' am through.

Hands grab me an' I know I'm not fighting human beings, but
there's not time to see what they are. They go down and that's all
I want to know right now. Am in a wide corridor and run
desperately along it, but the men-not-men are too many. Go
down fighting but cannot dislodge them.

They bind my hands behind my back. Am not risking a broken
wrist an' can see it's hopeless. Kick an' do all the damage I can,
but they have me and after a while I stop. No sense in making
them angry, cannot afford to self-destruct with Logs lying like a
piece of meat in that fucking cell.

The not-men, now I can see they aren't human maybe not even
alive, take me to another cell while I try an' make sense of what I
see. This place's totally featureless: have to count steps to have
an idea of distance an' it takes an effort to see where the walls
end an' the ceiling begins. As in the cell, floor, walls and ceiling
are metal. The sheen of it hurts my eyes but I try to memorise the
turns we take.

Hopeless. Think we have doubled up a couple of times, but
there's absolutely nothing that can make me sure of that.

They hold me with handlike appendages that are as strong as
steel, can't twist out of that grip without maybe breakin'
something. In a pinch I can energise the thing they bound my
hands with, but would hurt myself, maybe seriously, so that's not
yet an option.

Have to see what happens an' try and escape.

I'm pushed into the other cell an' the door closes. Almost sigh in
relief. Victor Creed is there and can always take Vicky. Got so
worked up for nothing.

But Vicky looks embarrassed and that's not normal for him.

The drill with Sabrepuss is always the same: he scratches me,
licks the blood, says disparaging things on how I taste an' then,
if allowed and I'm seriously impaired, he proceeds to rape and
run. He never, but never, looks embarrassed about any of it.

"Vicky…" I say friendly enough.

He stops me at once with a paw over my mouth an' hisses in my
right ear

"Shutup, this is one hell of a mess. Now play frightened and if…
*when* I get out, I'll alert your asshole friends."

Oh, mordieu, but this is bad! Very very bad. Vicky going to alert
the Xmen? What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?

Nod to show him I hear and understand and resign myself to
what will undoubtly follow.

"Look, I accepted just to fuck you, but they want you separated
from the runt and I don't know why. They're powerful people,
beware." He even tells me.

And then he rips my pants off me an' pumps into me.

Even in that he feels desperate an' afraid an' he succeeds in
really frightening me.

Who the krot are these people? Granted Sabrepussy is a
coward, the king of hit-and-run, the king of
hitting-on-the-weakest, but `beware'? But `alert the Xmen?' No,
this is beyond his usual cowardice. This. Is. Exceedingly. Bad.

He must have finished an' I scarcely realised what he was
doing. All my systems are RED ALERT an' I'm tense as a violin
string.

The not-men come and take me quite ungently to the old cell.

There's absolutely fuckin' nothing I can do about it.

INTERLUDE

"What did you reveal to him?"

Sabretooth is badly frightened, the white-skinned wisp of a man
with the mad pink rabbit's eyes gives him the willies and the
slimy bastard has made him so ill he still feels his stomach
churn.

"I lied to him to make him take it and shut up." he grumbles.

"You said you would turn him from his mate." Elric always
speaks low and lucid. The metallic, not-quite-there quality of his
voice is so unsettling to this soft, befuddled race that he never
has to show his power or his real magical strength.

"He wanted sex with the man and is lying now. He will go to the
friends of the couple and ask for their help on their behalf.
Touching me has disgusted him too deeply for him to consider
enmities or loyalties. In his head now it is their race against us."
Jahrmeed is not concerned and not coldly clinical, Jahrmeed is
the unfolding of the secret feelings of the heart.

"No, wait! You cannot read my mind! Nobody can read my mind!"
Victor know he's stinking of fear now, he can smell the fear on
himself, but how can he fight someone who can make him fall to
the floor puking with the tip of a finger?

"No use, then, my servant?"

"No, my lord."

Elric raises the huge sword apparently without effort and before
Victor Creed can run or parry, he thrusts it deep into his furry
chest.

The sword Stormbringer drinks the Sabretooth's black soul and
its master feels the energy course through his weak body and
make him strong again.

"A paltry soul, but strong. I will have more of these." The Prince of
Ruins says sombrely.

REMY

They slam me down in the stinking cell an' leave me there. Can't
even hear the door close, but closed it is an' I'm left to reflect on
our pickle.

A hot and dangerous pickle, to go by what Vicky said. Am inclined
to believe him. He was totally freaked out and scared to the
bones. What kind of people have us?

At least now I know they are none of the usual baddies,
Sabretootie knows them all, in fact has worked with them all, so
these people are new. The not-men that dragged me there and
back may be aliens, but they felt like constructs: not exactly
robots, but not really alive.

This is bad. Said that and will say that again. This is bad. *Very*
bad.

The thing on my wrists is going soft, probably an alien material.

Enemies from outer space. We have friends in outer space,
don't we? If Vicky is really goin' to contact the Xers, and don't see
a reason why he would tell me that in that tight, frightened voice if
he wasn't, they can call on their space friends and maybe find a
way to free us.

Because I've come to the conclusion I can do fuckshit.

Charm is useless with those not-men and exploding the things
I'm allowed to touch is lunacy.

Oh, will do it, if I see that it can be useful and to hell with my
wellbeing! But Logs is out of it an', without his back-up, hurting
me doesn't seem an useful option.

Wiggle to him an' as I wiggle the bonds dissolve.

Tres rad! Now am free to wank!

Yes, keep it up, Gambit, keep the sarcasm an' the morale up.
When you go down, you're fucked. Not as in loved by your
beloved man, `course, but as in buggered to perdition.

Time passes. A horrible amount of time passes. Almost pass
out with the desolation an' the tiredness and the thirst.

My mouth feels like a team of drunken footballers had decided to
let go of their bodily wastes in it all at once an' my troath feels as
if someone had pushed a rag drenched in acid down it and
further down to the pit of my stomach.

Apparently did something terminally wrong with Sabrie and we're
left to die of thirst. Only thing I can dimly envisage as good in this
is that Logs will not suffer pain. At least hope so. He feels so
peaceful and unconcerned I can hope he's really out of the
worrying and the hopelessness and the agony of thirst.

Keep embracing him as well as I can. What's the sense in doing
anything else? If they came now couldn't even defend myself an'
him.

Then I feel it. In my mind, in my soul, a tendril of a sound like the
rim of a crystal glass rubbed by a wet finger and in the high
humming echoes there are vibrations like… no, not words but
states of feeling. They push gently an' want not despair but fear,
not desolation and loss but hope, not death but surrender.

Be damned in hell before I surrender to them! May be half dead,
may even be dying, but adrenaline surges in me at the thought.

Whoever is the shit who's doin' this to me… Now that I think of it,
remember an echo like this while I was fallin' asleep back
home… Whoever it is, he's goinna have another think coming. If
it's the bastard who put us to sleep I want to obliterate him, want
to explode him an' watch him crumble into ashes an' laugh.

Focus all my charm power an' make it hate, hot, hard and
piercing hatred, an' throw it straight back at him.

Ha! Got him! Don't know how I know that, but I do and *that*
makes me glad. Then I feel my very self crumbling in exhaustion
an' understand that was my parting shot.

It's getting dark behind my eyes now. Hold on with all my will
power to the thought of Logs, of his love, of my love, of our two
hearts beating in unison, on how happy we have been an' how
that was worth anything…

Worth more than life…

TBC