"My Little Runaway"

by techie

kallie_warwick@hotmail.com

Fandom: Xmen

Pairing: Logan/Remy


"My Little Runaway"
by techie


Chapter One: Of Kindness Unexpected

Panting, the boy ran at full speed around the corner, finally scrambling into the questionable safety of his favorite hiding place.

The dumpster stank, but then, so did he.

He always had, ever since - ever.

Three days of no food had made him desperate, and clumsy.

Huddled in the filth, he - for no-one had ever bothered to give him a name, just "the boy" and "the child" - stuffed the sandwich in his mouth, chewing frantically. Three huge bites and it was down, and even a beating wouldn't change that. Muffled voices cursing, kicking the edges of metal, and the boy began to tremble violently, rocking - making sure he was away from the edge of the boxy construction - on his haunches.

More thumps, threats, curses. Muffled crash. A cry of shock, then fright. Sound of running feet. "Ya can come out now, kid." The voice was gruff, pitched low, but something in it made him peek uncertainly over the edge of the dumpster's rim. Standing in a pool of dirty streetlight was a rather short man, with hair that came up in two points, an angular, almost sharp face but for the masculine strength there, and the most beautiful eyes the boy had ever seen. Blue-grey, with a touch of the faintest silver, they seemed to flicker in the dim light. A hand extended, and the boy was lifted effortlessly from the filth. "What's yer name?"

"Don' have one." He made a curse a defiance.

"Uh-huh." The man seemed to consider. "C'mon, kid."

"Where you take me?" Faint fear, a flicker of hesitance.

"T' getcha somethin' more t' eat than a hamburger."

*

True to his word, the odd man did precisely that, not batting an eye when the boy tore into seconds, then thirds, slowing only at the fourth portion.

Wild thoughts skyrocketed through the boy's mind.

What will he ask of me? Will I have t' - no, don' think that. Don'. He shivered. "You been on the street a while." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't an accusation either. "Long 'nough." he tried to sound unconcerned, but a hint of pain and fear rippled in his voice. He didn't ask, mercifully enough, about his parents. He'd had enough of that from falsely concerned social workers who put him in homes just short of Hell. The man watched him, but there was none of the sweaty, hungry look in his eyes that made the boy feel so very small and even more dirty. Only a kind of patient compassion. "Thank y' for..." He indicated the stacked dishes then realized suddenly that he owed this man more than just a thank you. Food cost in the Big Easy, and his heart hammered in his throat as he feared what the man might do.

"Don't worry about it, kid." That gruff tone carried an honest note that fascinated the boy. He paid the bill without comment, then motioned for the boy to follow him. The youngster hesitated. "Lissen kid, I know what it's like t' feel alone an' rolled inna dirt." Those eyes met his, no accusation, and not merely sympathy. It was empathy he saw, and a kindness that went far deeper that their owner would ever admit to. The boy took a deep breath, and followed the man out.

*

The man had found an empty room despite the crowds in town for Mardi Gras, far from the celebrations, and left his young, bewildered guest there to shower and get comfortable. There were two beds, a television, and a small refrigerator with ice-cold bottles of beer the boy was warned to leave alone in a mild, if firm, tone. Hopping in the shower, he heard the door close and felt a moment's fright. Then he felt the warm water against his skin, and luxuriated in scrubbing away the patina of filth he'd lived with for the last year, never quite getting it off in his infrequent, brief towel-baths he'd managed. He even was able to wash his reddish-brown hair, and climbed out just as the door opened again. Quickly, the boy wrapped a wide towel around his skinny waist and peeked out. "Gotcha some clothes." came the now-familiar rumble. A bag was tossed his way, which he caught one-handed, startled. "See if they fit, kid."

*

Fit they did, and he was delighted. He now wore blue jeans, a black shirt, and boots, no longer feeling filthy or repulsive as he tiptoed out.

The man was sprawled comfortably in one of the chairs, and he hoped, suddenly, that the strange, kind man wouldn't hate him once he saw his red-on-black eyes. "I'm Logan, kid." said the man, seriously, staring directly into the boy's eyes with no sign of revulsion or worse, pity. "An' you say you don't got one?"

"No. Never lived with anyone long 'nough for them t' give me one."

"Awright then." said Logan, calmly enough. "How 'bout Remy?"

The boy blinked. "Remy? As a name?"

"Yeah." "Why...why would you give me a name?" For years, he had craved a real identity, and now it was offered to him.

Just like that.

The boy's eyes were huge.

"Had a buddy back in the war that was named Remy. One'a the bravest men I knew." He was leaning forward slightly, letting the boy make his
decision.

"Yes! Oh, yes! Thank you, thankyousomuch...." the boy - Remy - stammered.

Logan nodded seriously, granting the boy the dignity of not noticing his tears.

"Ya hungry, Remy?" Logan's voice was so calm that the boy had to wipe his eyes against his arm, drying his tears as the odd, compassionate man didn't notice his loss of control.

"Y...yeah." Rising with easy grace, he walked to the door, waiting for the boy to catch up with him.



Chapter Two: Hearth and Home

The food at the tiny motel restaurant was surprisingly good, and Logan simply let the boy eat.

No longer half-starved, Remy kept glancing at the man under his long, eye-hiding bangs, wondering at his good fortune - and fearing it might end.

"D' you live near here, sir?" he finally asked, careful to be respectful.

Respectful hid his mounting fright.

What if his benefactor decided to turn him over to the care of the authorities?

A moment's panic almost made him drop his soft drink, and Logan regarded him with those deep, beautiful, somehow unreadable eyes.

"Nah." replied the man, voice naturally low and gruff, like a great cat breathing. "I live on th' road, Remy."

Terror rose in those young eyes then, red on black, and he felt the sting of tears as he prepared himself for another betrayal.

The streets, please God, not the fake families that hurt even worse, please, please...he thought, disjointedly.

"Are ya...movin' on, then...?" Remy was suddenly ashamed of the break in his young voice.

Logan stared at him, then placed a surprisingly gentle hand on the boy's.

"Depends."

"D-depends?"

"Yeah."

"On what?" asked the boy, voice trembling, struggling not to cry.

"If ya wanna come along."

The next days were a blur of unfamiliar activity for young Remy. The short man brought in books, and moved them to a small, functional apartment with a suddenness that shocked his younger companion.

Remy would have never imagined, in a million years, that he would be offered with simple calm, the priceless gifts Logan gave him.

For one thing, he brought in supplies and with patience and unshakable belief in the boy's abilities, taught the youngster to read more than simple signs.

"I never gave much thinkin' to this book stuff." said the boy, as Logan passed him a series of books. He'd expected "good educational titles", but not the eclectic, interesting mix his companion had returned with in a battered paper bag.

"Try findin' what ya like, Remy. We'll go from there."

He was given clothing, trusted with money to run short errands to and from the tiny corner store, and even sent off to a movie on some weekends.

It was more than perfect.

And even better, Logan was always there with an answer when he ran out of understanding, patience when Remy was on the verge of tears, and trust when the boy doubted himself.

Eyes now concealed behind finely-made RayBan sunglasses, he could walk anywhere he wanted, though his companion's stern admonition to be "in by nine" was never questioned.

Some days, Logan would tell him he had a job, and would disappear for a day or so, never more than three. He would pay Miz Bernald downstairs for the rent and give Remy a list of lessons, but he never placed demands on the boy.

Remy found himself able to spend time with boys his own age up at the church on the corner, though he never entered the building.

It made him nervous.

And his voice was changing, gaining a rich timbre of a New Orleans native.

Every time Logan returned, he and Remy would sit and talk, sometimes of important things, sometimes just about - life.

Remy had seen himself as an outcast, lower than dirt.

Now, Logan believed in him.

Remy loved him for that.

One stormy evening, Remy came into the kitchen yawning and stretching, and began to rummage through the refrigerator.

"Remy, this is a friend o' mine. Jean-Paul, this is Remy." said Logan, who somehow had remained unseen the entire time.

The tall man smiled at the boy, nodded a greeting.

"Evenin'." said the boy, noting the fine clothes the other man wore.

"Remy, why doncha siddown, here." Something in Logan's voice made all Remy's senses go on the alert. Feeling an acute sense of nervous tension tighten it's way up his back, he pulled out a chair and sat obediently.

"I got a long job comin' up, kiddo, and I don't wanna leave ya here alone. Thought ya might like some company, and Jean-Paul's got a right fine place." said Logan, gently.

"You leavin' soon, mon ami?" asked Remy, voice controlled.

"Jus' fer a couple weeks."

Remy regarded Jean-Paul sidelong, half-wary.

Then he nodded, careful to not show his inner turmoil.

After a few more jobs, Remy came to enjoy staying with Jean-Paul LeBeau and his huge, extended family out in the thick, humid Louisiana swamp.

Logan taught him some basic fighting techniques after he returned, and his fear of abandonment began to subside.

But it was then the confusion set in.

He had felt a bond with Logan from the beginning, a closeness, and at first it was from son to father, loving him for his compassion and gentle patience.

Then it had become young man to older brother.

Now it wasn't the simple friendship his age-mates described, it was something - different.

Every time he thought about it, he was half-frightened and half-exhilarated, confused and sure, and often had to find something to do to burn off nervous energy.

But then one horrible day, the news he had subconsciously dreaded all along came.

The team Logan had been with had been killed on the job.

He was dead.

Logan was dead.

Somewhere in the distance, Remy heard Jean-Paul telling him he would be safe, and he knew he would be this man, this Cajun's, son.

Like Logan planned, he would not be alone.

He'd be with people who already - cared.

Would be with him, teach him, keep him safe.

Logan was dead.

In too much pain to weep and with all the power in his ten-year-old body, Remy screamed.



Chapter Three: Illusions Ungranted

Remy swung his long legs up onto the bed and pulled himself into a ball, sharp chin resting on his bony knees. He kept his eyes closed, trying to disconnect himself from the slowly rising dawn, trying to ignore the sleep-mumbles of Henri, trying to hide himself in the shadows.

He didn't want to marry, but everyone expected him to.

It was his duty, as Jean-Paul's son.

To forge a peace, he had to give up his own.

It hurt.

Tears squeezed out onto his lashes, but he fought them down, swallowing convulsively.

Despite his relative youth, he'd developed a reputation as a ladies' man, with his quick, lazy smile and always-hidden eyes, a reputation he'd cultivated.

Wiping his eyes now, he tried to think of the positive, to divide his mind into sections, as Logan had taught him.

Logan! the slash-whip of pain finally made him bury his face against his knees, feeling tears slide down his cheeks despite his best efforts.

He had only started to realize that his heart was not focused on the many partners he'd had - certainly he'd enjoyed them, and tried hard to make sure that they'd enjoyed him, but every time he came away from the experiance, he felt dirty.

Cheap.

Every time he had sex, it was Logan's face he saw, the kind eyes of a dead man.

*

Bella was a beautiful woman.

Intelligent, determined, and proud, she held her head up and didn't look at anyone during the entire ceremony.

Remy felt a sense of tired pain waver in his heart as he glanced sidelong at the woman he was marrying.

He hadn't seen her in years, and now he was becoming her husband.

Husband.

The young man dimly heard the instructions to kiss his new bride, and mechanically bent to gently brush her lips with his. Saw - what?

Sorrow. Comprehension. Empathy.

Remy mouthed "I'm sorry" to her, and she took his hand.

It was done.

He had never felt more alone.

*

In the end, a silent understanding was forged between husband and wife.

"I know you don't love me." she had said.

He'd tried to comfort her, and Bella raised a hand, eyes never wavering.

"Do you?"

Remy opened his mouth, then closed it. He put a gentle hand to the side of her face, staring into her eyes, trying to see the girl he'd known.

Bella shook her head. "Non, Remy. You don't love me. And I know you never can." she said, gently, no anger in her voice. Just a kind of rueful sadness. "You don't even know why."

"Remy...care for you." he said, and that, at least, was honest.

"But not love me." her voice was soft, eyes on his face.

"I..."

"Remy. We don't have to play a game to keep the Guilds at peace." she rested a hand on his. "You live your life, and I mine. Oui?"

He closed his eyes, a single tear tracing down the sharp angle of his cheek.

Bella kissed it away, and he held her for a moment, loving her as much as he could.

"Why?" he whispered, voice full of anguish and confusion, self-reproach and bewildered hurt. "What wrong wit me, Bella? What...?"

She placed a finger on his lips.

"You not love me, Remy, an' I know - you love your heart away t' someone else. I understan' that." she said, heart aching for the handsome young man she had married, even knowing he could never give her his heart, his love.

She loved him, had always loved him, and he cared enough to her to be honest, open.

Gave her the love he had to offer.

But in the end, it wasn't enough to save them.



Chapter Four: Sun Out of Shadow

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

His leg was sore and aching, so he walked.

Step. Drag.

Step. Drag.

Smell of burning ozone and death-born rot, darkness and pain, blood in his mouth.

Step. Step. Drag.

Healing now, hurt but healing.

Soldier of the cause to them, nothing more.

Step. Step. Drag.

Pain and aloneness, not lonliness, the lone wolf who the pack knew should be alpha but walked his own path.

Step. Step. Step...

Leg healing, confusion of red and white overhead, ignoring them.

Not caring about the shouts and attempts to grab him, shaking them away.

Step. Step.

Better now, time to go.

The forest, green and rippling with soothing shadow, sang it's siren song.

The pack's alpha called out, but he ignored him.

Not his alpha.

Pack's alpha.

He wanted to return to the forest, rest, leave the scent and taste of what the two-legs made, the flatness of the forest they took and molded to their whim but never understood.

Step. Step.

Coming fully erect, he moved away from the agitated pack.

The forest whispered her secrets.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, a brief sharp pain.

Bared his fangs in irritation.

Red, red glow... Something. Something long ago.

Shaking off the restraining hand, he swayed slightly from side to side, torn.

Red. Red glow.

Night and fire, hidden and open.

Then the strange metal-tasting sedative took effect and he slumped, aware of feeling lost and empty.

Sun out of shadows. Sun. Red. Red glow...

*

Remy had not been comfortable in the huge mansion until he'd explored it.

Though he stole nothing, he poked his head in the rooms, just to make sure there were people here, genuine people that felt and needed and ate and did everything people did.

And were mutants, like him.

Ororo had promised to talk once she and the other X-Men returned.

It was then he came to the last room, isolated somehow from the others.

He pushed the door.

It wouldn't open.

He tried the lock, but it had some kind of special mechanism, unlike the other rooms.

Someone lived there, but he didn't know who.

So he made his way back downstairs, just as the X-Men were hurrying past him, a body laying limp on a stretcher.

Chapter Five: Cages

Remy saw the stretcher and it's burden bustled into the elevator, shadowing it out of curiousity - and something deeper, something that made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

Once the elevator came back up, Ororo was the sole occupant, and regarded her adopted brother with a little suprise, but then smiled a welcome.

"What happen, pednat?" he asked, staring at the elevator, then back at the young woman.

Was it really only three months ago they'd met? That his life had fallen apart?

"Wolverine was badly hurt." explained Ororo, starting down the hallway, matching strides with Remy.

"Wolverine?" What a strange name to go by. thought Remy, absently.

"A very dear friend."

Remy was suprised by a flare of jeleousy, but followed her into the kitchen, smiling at the growls his stomach was making.

Wolverine. he thought, bemused.

*

"It's bad." Jean said, simply, green eyes worried. "He's not coming out of his feral state, and I can't reach him."

"Oh, wonderful." grouched Warren, from where he was sitting. "Now we have to worry about a rabid animal running loose."

"Logan is not an animal!" objected Kurt, glaring at the winged mutant with glowing yellow eyes.

"He's dangerous, especially now!" shot back the blonde, tilting his chin angrily.

"Stop it!" barked Scott, and turned to Jean. "We'll have to put him in the holding cell. For his protection and ours."

*

Remy snapped awake to a strong feeling of pain and terror, confusion and need.

A - torn -feeling, as if the world had cast it out - again.

Alone.

Trapped.

Rage!

Scrambling to his feet, Remy found that he couldn't turn away from that grieving, silent cry.

So much pain, so much terrible lonliness - no, that wasn't it, at least not all of it.

A horrible aloneness.

The elevator bleeped when he touched it, and he felt a brief sense of pleasure that it did not reject his touch, opening instead.

Slipping in, he felt the slight drop as the metallic-sterile conveyance began a controlled decent.

"It like a hospital down here." Remy said aloud to himself.

When the door opened, he stepped out, wincing as the terrible pain washed over him - and wincing at the bang-thuds! that vibrated along the walls.

"Hello?" he asked, in English, rounding the corner.

A low, dangerous growl rippled through the shadows, and Remy saw the faint flicker in the air showed some kind of - what? Restraint field?

Like that security system in Paris. he reminded himself.

He saw the crouched figure, disheveled and rocking faintly in anguish.

Trapped!

Alone!

Remy frowned, eyes filling with tears at the horrible, massive pain echoed within him.

"Etes-vous tout droit...are you all right?" the young man asked, switching to English.

The figure leapt at the field with a howl, and Remy fell backwards in suprise. There was no rage in the movement, only a frantic desperation. The face was bruised, battered, and the snickt of claws extending was somehow - normal. An extension of a feral, wild body.

But Remy recognized that face, that dear, gentle, familiar face.

"Oh mon Dieu! Logan! C'est un miracle!" he cried, and tears burst from a deep, unplumed, unhealed place within him as he stared with wild hope and dawning joy - then deep, empathic pain. "Oh, Logan - what has happenend to you..."

Chapter Six: Would

(This chapter is dedicated to Xantissa, for her kindness, encouragement, support, and being an all-around wonderful person. Thank you for trusting me with the gift of your wonderful fiction, and keep writing! :)

Remy felt the sting of tears as his heart broke, and somehow, at the same moment, rose into his throat. "Oh Logan, what dey do to you?!" he whispered, touching the edge of the doorjam.

Eyes followed him, eyes as blue-silver as a summer storm, as old as the world.

Tormented.

Alone.

Trapped.

Part of him reported quietly that Ororo had brought him here to give him a home. Another, larger, vivid part yelled back that Logan was his home - his only family.

He loved Ororo.

Truly, like a sister, a friend.

But...

But.

Angrily, fearless with anger and hurt, he swatted the release on the door, and felt the rush of air as the feral rushed out, then - stopped. Head cocked, watching him, hands flexing, he almost dropped to all fours, stopping at a low crouch.

He could smell eye-salt on the cub, water and salt.

Sadness.

This distressed him in a way he did not quite understand.

Moving forward a few paces, he lifted a fingertip, brushed it along the soft, angular cheek. Brought the fingertip to his lips and tasted it, just the tip of his tongue.

Need-want, need beyond want.

Sniffing the air, he circled, scenting the soft, rich identity of the cub.

Not-quite-grown cub, almost not-cub.

He growled low in his throat.

Danger-cage-place - cub was in danger now, Fire-Eye, he named him in his mind.

Fire-Eye, for his burning irises that glowed against the shadows around them.

The not-pack not-quite-enemies - quite - would soon come back, putting sharp metal in his skin and making strange noises that spoke of no-acceptance no-trust that cut deep.

Then there would be - pain.

Pain of one into two, then only pain from self.

The cub - Fire-Eye - would be in danger.

No!

This brought the sharp feeling of hunt-defence.

Fire-Eye was - pack.

His pack.

Not the other-pack that he was - tolerated - in.

Where he was forign alpha, avoided except when blood was needed. He was tired of being not-pack, being outsider, lone.

The cub smelled of lonliness, but the cub was his pack.

Uttering a soothing little sound, he moved forward and petted the cub's head-fur gently, soothing his fear and offering comfort.

*

Remy's heart hammered, then melted as a gentle hand caressed away a single teardrop, then felt his body give a surpising rush of tingles as he watched Logan taste the single droplet. When he circled, the young man luxuriated in the curiousity, then the warm blanket of fierce protectiveness/posessiveness that rolled over him.

Then suddenly, he was lifted and tossed gently over a strong shoulder, and they were moving, leaping effortlessly from shadow to shadow, then running through the mansion.

"Wolverine!" yelled the tall, angelic blonde, extending wide, stunning white wings in warning.

With a curt growl, Logan swatted the mutant aside and stalked toward the door.

"Stop, Logan! We don't want to hurt you! Remy, are you all right?!" Jean, the redhead, Remy recognized even upside down.

He wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream.

Remy more all right now den he been in years. his thought was interupted when her husband, a tall brown-haired man - Cyclops - stepped around her.

"Logan, put him down! Now!"

Logan bared his fangs in answer, and Remy heard Ororo coming down the stairs.

"Pednat, let us go!" he whispered to her, heard her sharp intake of breath.

More was being asked than simple passage.

He needed - he needed Logan - and she knew, he could feel her knowledge, that he needed this oppertunity more than he needed even her. Remy was suprised to feel not anger or hurt or rejection from the woman, but gentle acceptance and a kind of bright hope.

"Let them go, Scott." she said, in regal, commanding tone.

Everyone gawked at her as Logan moved closer to the door, growling in a kind of exasperated patience at a blonde boy and pushing him against a blue-furred figure Remy couldn't remember.

"Let them go." repeated Ororo, as Logan worked his way around the others, then suddenly bolted out the door, down the walk, and into the woods. Remy half-expected him to stop, to do - something - but he kept moving, finally sniffing the air and shuffling uncertainly at the edge of the glen, near a small lake.

Radiating soothing warmth and acceptance, Remy felt himself lowered and regarded thoughtfully.

"Frrrr...." Logan managed, in a kind of rusty growl.

Remy sensed - being fed, being warned to stay.

A bit indiginant, he said, "Remy c'n take care of himself!"

*

With an internal sigh, Logan whipped the cub's feet out from under him and set his teeth along the long, elegant jawline. Stay!, that feral gaze commanded.

The cub needed to eat, and they could not stay near the not-pack pack.

With effortless grace, Logan dragged the cub to the hidden hole, his hidden den, and pushed him in, hearing the idiginant squawk.

Then he carefully replaced the foilage and sniffed the air.

Yes, this was good. Time to hunt, to provide.

Then....

Logan cocked his head, brow furrowing.

Then?

He would find them a place for pack to have as their own, pack-territory.

Yes.

Sense-memory told him where to go, but they would pass through two-leg territory.

Where the air was foul and the water bitter, where everything the scent came from was a falsehood.

The cub would need to be protected.

Reassured, Logan started into the treeline.

Time to hunt.

To provide.

Then....they would...

Would....

Would.

END PART 6