Work Text:
Trash Day
by BJ
" It's time to throw out the trash."
It was an innocent enough statement. I walked into the kitchen and noticed that the can was full. I never expected it to send my lover running.
I sigh, and curse under my breath. For anyone who has never been abused it's probably impossible to understand how a simple phrase can send a grown adult into hysterics. That's the thing about being abused, it takes away your reasoning. It forces you to be at it's mercy forever. It never lets you go I don't care how much "therapy" you get.
There's probably a whole scientific community out there that will swear I'm wrong, but I bet ya that none of 'em ever looked up from whatever corner they could find to escape to, and saw a fist or a boot comin' down at 'em again. None of 'em have ever had to go to sleep hungry because they were too scared, and too overwhelmed by the cruelness of the world to move to do anything about it. None of 'em ever settled in for the night, and had real doubts about ever wakin' up again.
I know something about abuse. I was used as an experiment. I can't say how long it went on because a result of it is that I have no memory of a huge chunk of my life. That's not entirely true either I guess. I'm not sure if the memories I have are real, or just some shit they planted in my head to fill the space they left behind after they stole my life from me.
But that don't matter much now.
I could smell the fear, and guilt, and anger, and shame, and a dozen other things on my boy as he bolted for the door. I didn't even have time to say his name...
" Remy?"
I looked down at myself with a growl as I caught a glimpse of him heading toward the tree line. All I had on was a thread bare pair of boxers that I wore only because Cyke told me if he came to the door, and I answered it nude again he was gonna burn down my cabin and make us move back to the mansion. It ain't my fault he always seems to come out here after we've made love!
We don't do that as often as the rest of them think. We aren't animals. But Remy is a sensual creature if there ever was one. He don't even have to try. Sometimes he's just sittin' there readin' a book, or eatin' an apple, or chewin' his nails, and I get this overwhelming * need* to touch him. I can't really explain it.
He calls to my soul.
I have to know that he's real, that he isn't just a dream.
It's not even always sexual. Much of the time I'm content to pull him close, and just hold him for a while. Breathe in deep, and fill myself with his scent. Much of the time just being close to him is enough.
I run to our room and throw on a pair of jeans as I think as loudly as I can to Jeannie. It usually ain't a problem findin' her. I think her bein' a telepath makes her a natural born snoop. ~Jeannie! Rem's in trouble. Send Hank out here while I track him down.~
~Do you need help? ~ She and Scott know about Remy. They understand as well as they can what's probably going on. Scotty's been there, not to the same extremes, but he's a good sounding board when these things wind down. I found out that it helps me to help Remy if I have a chance to talk to someone while he sleeps. It makes talking to him easier. It takes away that edge of anxiety, and the fear that the next time might be the time he can't find his way back from the past.
~No thanks darlin' I need to do this alone.~ Truth is I *want* to do this alone. I want it to be *me* that finds, and calms him. *Me* that he can always count on.
~I'll let Hank and Scott know. Good luck.~
She's gone from my head as I pull on my boots and head out to find Remy.
The trash is still full.
*****
My Remy's like a cheetah. Fast as the wind when he needs to be, but I have a pretty good idea where he will be.
I ain't a cheetah. Oh don't get me wrong I can move pretty fast, but I feel like a lumbering elephant compared to my Rems. All this metal might save me in a fight, but it weighs a ton when it's weighin' on me along with fear, and anger. Not at Remy, he's not himself right now. I'm angry at the bastards that put this fear into my otherwise fearless lover.
Right now he's just a little boy who hasn't got a clue as to why people always seem to want to hurt him. He's a little boy who listens when the closest thing he's got to a guardian tells him to do things that make *me* feel like gagging when I think about how young he had to be, but he does them for fear of the beating he'll get if he refuses. He's a little boy who has no memory of a safe, warm place to eat or sleep.
He's a little boy who's confused, and alone, and scared, and running because if he stays still he *knows* he will never survive the day...
OH HELL... I shudder when I realize that he's a little boy who was thrown out just like the trash.
Shit.
I never really know what's gonna trigger one of these flashbacks.
It's not like I haven't said something about the trash to him a thousand times before.
Something in his mind just grabbed hold of it this time, and the memories started to suffocate him. It's been a good while since the last time this happened. That time Wings happened to mention a homeless woman he shooed away from his car.
I stalk down the path to the mansion trying to catch his scent.
He's been this way.
He's headed for the garage.
He's trying to escape.
My heart breaks for him all over again for never having anyone who cared enough to save him from all that shit.
*****
I enter the garage slowly, I don't want to frighten him more than I already have. I hear him before I see him.
It's always the same.
He cries softly for the child he was, or maybe for the one he never got to be. He's sitting on the cold hard floor rocking back, and forth in a dark corner of the garage.
He comes here to escape.
I thank whatever's out there every time that he hasn't ever actually made it to his bike, and out of the doors.
Out of my life.
Jeannie, Scott, and Hank are standing in the opposite doorway out of his view. Their faces show the sympathy they can never give him, and it warms me. He would never accept it anyway believing it was pity, but he can't see their eyes the way I can. He can't smell the remorse they feel seeing the intelligent, brave man he is turned to this. He's not as alone as he thinks.
*We're* not alone, not anymore.
I nod my thanks, and they seem to relax as a group, and back away slightly to give me the privacy I need to get my boy back.
There is no magic formula, no actions that are set in stone. It's not like I do this, and this, and this, and he's all better. I have to wait until he's ready to be helped so I just sit down slowly, cross my legs, and watch him.
The sobbing has ended, but he's still shaking like a leaf. Tears still spill slowly down his cheeks from his tightly closed eyes.
He's seeing it all again.
He's reliving whatever moment from his past my words triggered.
There is nothing in the world I want to do more than pull him into my arms, and comfort him. I want to beg him to forgive me for causing him this pain, but I can't do that.
It would only make things worse at this point.
I was an adult when I was used. I had an adult's understanding of the situation. I knew that if I could just bear with it my torture would end, and I would be able to recover, and move on.
He was a newborn when he was stolen from a hospital, given into slavery, forced to learn to steal to survive.
And when he finally escaped that he was forced to sell himself.
He went from a bleak existence to a hellish one.
How do you learn to understand that?
I blink slowly as I stare at the beautiful creature before me, and I try again to imagine his life back then. I give up when I realize that I can't possibly understand. No one could who didn't survive it.
I decide to try something different.
I'll remember all the good things I know about him. His empathy will pick up on that.
I'm not an emotional man. I don't remember birthday's. I couldn't care less what day Cyke and Jeannie got married, or when I decided to join Chuck's "fight for the dream". I have never in my life been to a party that didn't involve lots and lots of beer.
But I know Remy's favorite color is blue, "like y' eyes Cher". It used to be white, "like a clean piece o' paper." He always sounded so sad when he said it... He sings in the shower when he thinks no one is listenin'. He has a beautiful, deep voice. He loves to play piano, and his favorite band plays progressive rock, not jazz or blues. He has a stuffed bear that his Tante gave him soon after he went to live at the LeBeau house on the top shelf of his closet that he will not be parted from. His favorite food is *not* gumbo, it's mac and cheese. He watches Disney movies, *yes*, with *me*, though I'll never admit it, and he's fascinated by toy trains.
I know that when he loves, when he takes the chance, he loves unconditionally, and from the depths of his soul.
I know that I never want to spend another moment of my life without him.
He responds to my presence by opening his eyes. He's still scared, but it's a start. I scoot a little closer, and lay my hand carefully on his knee, "Rem?"
His stunning eyes meet mine, and I breathe a sigh of relief when he pants quietly, " I was... I was there a-again." Another tear falls.
Another stab to my heart.
*Now* I can hold him, and I do before he finishes his sentence. I can't speak around the lump in my throat for a long minute then I finally whisper back, "Yeah baby... I know. I'm so sorry. "
He's dropped his head to my shoulder, and breathes into my neck, " It seemed so *real* all o' a sudden." He takes a deep shaky breath, and continues, "I c-could *see* it, an' *hear* it, an' *smell* it..." I can feel his heart pounding in his chest. " M' head hurts Cher, can we g' home? 'M real sorry I ran... I jus'... I... I had to get away..."
I pull him closer for a second, and rub his back with long gentle strokes.He's crying quietly again. I don't have any magic words that can make him okay, and I hate myself for that. I'm his lover, his protector, I should be able to *fix* this damn it!
Hank passes silently behind us, he'll be at home waiting when we get back. On rare occasions Remy is left with a migraine when he comes back to himself. This looks like it may be one of those times.
"Can you walk?" I whisper into his soft hair. I'd gladly carry him, but only if he needs or wants me to. He's embarrassed by what he sees as this weakness in himself no matter how many times Hank or I tell him there's no reason to be.
He nods against my shoulder, and we slowly stand. He's still shakin' bad, and I can sense the headache building. I keep an arm firmly wrapped around his waist in case he needs to lean on me, or maybe it's because I may need to lean on him.
Not another word is spoken between us as we slowly make our way back home.
*****
" How is our young friend this morning?"
I stop suddenly, and blink at Hank as I walk into the mansion's kitchen. He's been waiting here to pounce on me every day this week. He can't help but be inquisitive, it's part of what makes him a good doctor, and a good friend. After I let him see Remy that morning, and after I sat down and had my talk with Scotty, I refused to let anyone near our cabin so he's been here waiting first thing every morning since to ask about his young friend.
" He's better today. He'll be here soon."
" Did he tell you what he remembered this time?"
It's the first time Hank's asked the question that I know has been burning in his mind, but is it my place to say?
I consider it, and realize that it's a quiet question from a concerned friend so I pour myself some coffee, and sit across from him at the table. No one else is awake yet, and maybe he'll be better prepared to help Rem if he knows. " Just more of the same stuff," I sigh. " He remembered digging for food in a dumpster, and finding a little playmate after she'd been raped and murdered."
Hank just nods.
Blue's a good man. He spent weeks reading, and researching, and talking to fellow doctors about child abuse when he found out about the true horror that was my lover's past. He won't ever fully understand where Remy's coming from, but the fact that he made such an effort, that he *tried* makes him my friend for life. He's about to say more when the door opens, and Remy walks in.
" Mornin' Henri."
This was a bad one.
His voice is a little softer than usual. He's still a little pale, but the tremors that plagued him the first twenty-four hours are gone. The three days of Wolverine enforced rest have helped a lot.
He walks to me, and bends to wrap his arms around my neck. " I woulda been here sooner, but *someone* forgot t' take out th' trash." He kisses my cheek, and then straightens to stand behind me. " I guess you'll wan' t' see me in y' office?"
It's as much a statement of dread as a question to Hank.
Hank meets my eyes for a second then takes a last sip of his coffee before he smiles at my lover, " Yes my dear boy. Go on down, and I'll join you in just a second."
I grab Remy's hand where it rests on my shoulder, and tug him down for a kiss before he has a chance to move. Our eyes meet, and I give him a tiny nod. Hank is a friend, it's safe to talk to him.
Remy's eyes drop, then raise to meet mine again. It's as if he's looking to me for strength.
He doesn't seem to understand that *he's* the strong one, the courageous one of the two of us.
I let him look as long as he needs to without blinking. I let the love, and respect, and admiration I feel for him flood my mind, fill my senses, spill from my eyes...
and he graces me with a smile.
That smile... it makes everything in my world *right.*
It keeps me sane.
It makes me whole.
I finish my cup of coffee as I watch them walk away to the offices below talking quietly to each other.
Outside in the distance I can hear the trash truck as it picks up, and takes away all the rotten, discarded, unwanted things from our lives so we are left with only the things we want to keep.
The things we *never* intend to lose.
I smile, and turn to follow the scent of my lover.
END