The Witness
by
Rocky-Cat



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A walk down Bourbon Street. An invitation to sin, decadence, and pleasure. Hot jazz and cold beer. The joyful press of warm bodies and non-stop revelry. The sly suggestion of sex. So naughty, but oh, so nice.

That's what the tourist people would like you to think and that's what the sentimental poet in Remy's soul wanted to believe. The truth, he was forced to admit, was far different. This was no longer the Bourbon Street of his youth or the Vieux Carre that he once called home. The old devil's playground now looked as it had been recast by a hormonally driven Disney-wannabee.

The drunken partyers were still there, reeling aimlessly in the street, but they seemed louder and cruder than Remy remembered. The dark, intimate bars where, for the price of a drink, you could lose your heart to a jazz chanteuse or swap blues with a Delta guitarman now blared ear-splitting Top 40 rock played by inept cover bands whose amplifiers clearly went up to 11. One tacky souvenir shop after another sold the same out-of-season Mardi Gras beads and rude T-shirts. A host of Cajun-themed rip-off restaurants beckoned to the oblivious tourists who couldn't tell the difference between the sophisticated Creole birthright of La Belle New Orleans and the hardscrabble heritage of the bayou dwelling Cajuns. And storefront alcohol dispensaries vied with one another to see who could pump the cheapest liquor into the expense-accounted conventioneers the fastest. It was hard to repress a shudder of revulsion.

Remy slipped unobtrusively through the crowd, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder even on a weeknight, and moved away from the horde past St. Peter and towards the relative quiet of Ursulines. His fingers twitched slightly and he grinned as he felt the reflexive urge to relive his youth and pick the occasional tempting pocket or two. Old habits died hard, as many of his X-Men colleagues would doubtlessly agree.

He brushed past yet another knot of black-clad Goth teens and stopped to glance after them. They huddled in small groups in the shadows of the old buildings or strode incongruously amidst the peacock colored carousers. At first Remy wondered at their numbers and their presence. Slowly it dawned on him, though. These were the devotees of that famous author, the one who lived here in town and wrote all those vampire stories. The teenagers were pilgrims come to see the sights mentioned in the books and what? Perhaps have some macabre romanticism rub off on their oh-so-normal angst-ridden adolescence? Get a life, mes amis, Remy thought with amusement. They're just stories, made-up fantasies, and some of them not very good at that. He couldn't understand the idea of someone taking a bunch of pretend people so seriously. Ah, well, he thought with a mental shrug, it takes all kinds, non?

Farther along Bourbon St. the sidewalks were no longer overshadowed by elaborate wrought iron balconies and the buildings were set back ever so slightly from the pavement. It was easy to miss the shabby bar and fortunately, most tourists did. Lafitte's was reputedly the oldest bar in America, dating from the 1700's, and, if you believed the story, the decrepit blacksmith shop was once the legitimate cover business for the notorious pirate's criminal operations.

Remy neither knew nor cared. All he knew was that this ramshackle wooden shed offered an oasis of calm and quiet in the midst of swirling chaos. He entered the candlelit bar and was pleased to see that they had yet to install electric lighting. Glowing tapers ringed the perimeter of the dark room, yet they barely threw off enough light to illuminate the small tables that cluttered the floor. Even in the brightest daylight it was always the netherworld dusk between millennia in Lafitte's.

A few desultory customers sat at the short bar and a bored woman let her fingers laze idly across the piano tucked away in the rear. Remy ordered a Jameson's straight up and navigated his way around the central chimney to a shadowed table that hid him from view yet allowed him to keep an eye on the two doors that opened to the street. Stealth and self-preservation were fully ingrained habits.

Here he could forget that he was a thief or an X-Man. Here in the darkness that was his natural element he could be whoever or whatever he wanted to be — maybe even himself, for a change. Remy let his eyes roam past the scarred tables, across the age-darkened walls and along the zinc-topped bar. He could actually feel himself relaxing as he effortlessly fell in synch with the laid-back rhythms of the city. An easy smile stole across his elegant features and settled in his gleaming red-black eyes.

He thought briefly about sharing this hideaway with Storm. He'd always wanted to show her his New Orleans, had promised he would someday, and he still intended to keep that promise. But no, this wasn't the place to bring her. The dark, close room would bring out poor Stormy's latent claustrophobia and the last thing Remy wanted to deal with was a terrified weather-witch bottled up in a confined space.

Non, he thought regretfully, his New Orleans still existed and it was still a magical place, but it wasn't this Technicolor tourist trap.

Idly LeBeau's hand drifted towards his pocket and slipped out again, a coin tucked into his palm. As he sensed the person closing in on him a dim glow began to emanate from his hand, the quarter charging with its own kinetic energy, ready to be released explosively on impact. A heavy hand struck Remy resoundingly on the back and it was only by the sheerest good luck that Remy managed to let the charge dissipate in time.

"Remy LeBeau, as I live an' breathe. What you doin' here, frere? Ain't seen you in, shoot, more den ten years, homme."

"Ti Jock? Dat you?" Remy looked carefully at the large man standing next to him and saw in his careworn features a shadowy reflection of the cocky young teenager who once held bragging rights as the hardest drinking, hardest fighting Cajun in three parishes. Suddenly the man smiled and images of all the good times and tight scrapes they'd shared flashed through Remy's mind. No question about it. With his crooked grin and faintly scarred knuckles this was definitely Jock Doucet.

"Y'looking good, Remy. De years been kind t'you. Heard tell y'been livin' in Europe, though. Whatcha doin' back here?"

"Just visitin', mon ami, checkin' out the old places." Remy chose not to mention that home was in New York these days and his career path had shifted from professional thief to costumed super-hero. It was just too confusing to understand, even for himself. "But you never liked de big city," he continued. "Never could drag you here, even f'de femmes. What make you change y'mind?"

A dark shadow flickered across the big man's face as he sat down at Remy's table. "Looking f'work, Remy. I'm fixing t'leave Luzianne f'good dis time."

"Co faire?" Remy's eyes opened wide at the astonishing news.

"I been working in a machine shop in Houma, fixing bits an' pieces of dem oil rigs what's out in de Gulf. Sometimes it's good paying work, sometimes not. Dere jus' been too many 'nots' lately. Gotta find something steady dis time, me. Been t'inkin' 'bout California."

"What about Rosie? She okay wid' dis?" Remy remembered Rosie fondly. Short, pretty, and smart as she was sassy, all the boys with a lick of sense and an eye for looks had chased after Rosie, Remy included. But Rosie had only let herself be caught by big, lumbering Ti Jock. She saw something special in the rowdy, hard living party-boy and, as usual, she was right. To everyone's surprise, including his own, Ti Jock settled down and gave up most of his wild ways. Remy had lost a reliable drinking buddy and partner-in-crime when Rosie came into Doucet's life. He shook his head and smiled as the image of another fiery Southern brunette invaded his thoughts. Just amazing what a woman can do t'your life, non?

The sound of a plastic cup crumpling in on itself banished all thought of Rogue from Remy's mind. Rivulets of beer puddled under Ti Jock's clenched fist, pooling wetly on the heavy table. Jagged bits of plastic poked out from between his fingers and, to Remy's astonishment, the big man looked as if he were fighting back tears.

"My chere, she died two years ago," he whispered. "She had de cancer," he said, his voice gaining strength slowly. "Nothin' they could do f'her. Left me wid t'ree bebes an' not much else."

Jock stared up bleakly, his gaze fixed on some point over Remy's shoulder, some place far in the past. "By de time she go t'de doctor, it a'ready too late. She never tell me 'bout de pain, never let on dat anyt'ing wrong. But she knew. Somewhere, deep in her heart, she know she leavin' us soon. De pain so bad de las' few days, she could barely breathe. Didn' even recognize her own Jock, she didn'.

Nothin' I could do f'her, Remy, nothin'." A bitterly self-mocking smile twisted his features. "Couldn' fight my way outta dis one. No one t'punch, no one t'lay into. Me, de best fighter around and I couldn't even take care of own my wife. Some man I turn out t'be, hehn?" Jock dropped his head and continued speaking to his lap.

"De priest, he tell me dat my Rosie gone on to a better world, dat she wid' Jesus now an' she happy. But he not de one dat have to tell dat t'de li'l ones. My oldest, Angelique, she de spittin' image of her mama, just seven years old. She know dat her mama won't be comin' back no more, but Robbie an' Jaime too little. Every night dey wanna know when Mama gonna come home t'kiss dem an' tuck dem in again. Dat priest, he need be d'one t'look my bebes in de eye every day an' tell dem dat Jesus needs their mama more den dey do."

"Jock, you're angry," Remy said softly

Jock's gaze snapped up and locked with Remy's. His eyes burned with an passionate fire, frightening in its intensity. His arm quickly closed the space between them and his beefy fist closed in Remy's shirt, pulling him close. "Hell yeah, I'm angry, LeBeau," he grated.

Remy hung unresisting in Jock's grasp and prepared to weather the coming storm. Just as quickly as it began, though, the outburst was over. Jock's fingers relaxed and his whole body slumped as if the weariness was suddenly too much to bear.

"Aw, who'm I kidding, Remy? I'm scared. I'm scared t'death f'myself, f'de kids, f'all of us. I don' know how t'live wit'out my Rosie. She was d'only thing made my life worth living. Oh man, I feel like I lose a little life each time I breathe. Weren't for de kids, dere wouldn't be any reason t'get up in de morning. Lotta days I don' know why I even bother."

Remy listened with increasing concern. This didn't sound at all like the Jock Doucet he remembered. The Ti Jock of his youth was a man who met every challenge head-on with scant regard for the consequences. He recalled seeing Jock face off against a barroom full of liquor-crazed Cajuns armed with nothing more than his fists and a bellyful of beer. Jock had taken a two-by-four smack across the top of his head and not stopped until he'd taken four of the mob down with him single-handedly. This was the man who doggedly continued to court his Rosie despite the overt disapproval of the Huvals who were sure their girl could do better than this brawling lout and the tacit discouragement by his own parents who knew their son was reaching above himself. Jock Doucet and fear had never been on speaking terms, not as long as Remy could remember.

Was this what giving yourself heart and soul to another entailed? This complete loss of self that Ti Jock was now struggling with? More than once Remy had longed for a true love to come into his life. There was an emptiness in his soul that he knew could be filled no other way, a longing for completion, and a need to become more than himself in the company of another, but he'd done too many foul, shameful things in his short lifetime to feel that he could ever deserve the love of a decent woman.

No hope for an ol' t'ief like me, Remy thought dejectedly.

And even if someone were willing to accept the many burdens that came with loving a man like him, Remy wasn't sure he could allow it. What right did Remy LeBeau have to expose another person to the physical perils that were a daily part of his life, let alone the emotional dangers? He'd seen this life, this world, rip apart the lives of too many innocents, shred their existences beyond repair, scatter their essential humanity to the cosmos. Remy had made a conscious decision to bear the consequences of his actions, however horrific they may be, but he wouldn't ask that of anyone else. No one had that right.

Closure, maybe? There's no such thing as closure, he scoffed. Anyone who thought that there was a finite end to each episode of pain and suffering inherent in life was either naïve or just plain foolish. Every ache, every tear stayed with you always, inexorably bound into your soul, forever changing who you were and how you faced life in the future. That never ended. He'd like to meet the glib huckster who'd introduced that ridiculous word to the language and help him stick it where the sun didn't shine.

Remy breathed a quiet sigh and deliberately mastered his building anger.

Maybe dat's my fate, den, he concluded. To watch while other people celebrate and suffer an' mebbe carry some o' dere pain f'dem. Mebbe my hurtin' be good f'somet'ing, somewhere.

Listen t'me
, he jeered inwardly, de t'eif wit' de heart o' gold. A tiny smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he mentally ticked off the few things he could do to ensure that Jock Doucet and his young family would at least have some way to start a new life. Professor X could see to it that Ti Jock found a job wherever he eventually decided to settle without Doucet knowing that the Professor or Remy had been involved. Charles owed him that much, at least. The Thieves' Guild also would be made aware that the welfare of the Doucet family was of particular interest to a certain heir presumptive and current X-Man. Their financial comfort, if not actual wealth, would be assured.

No amount of planning for the future would ease Ti Jock's sore heart, though. Time, he knew, and plenty of it was the only balm for wounds this grievous. Remy gripped the other man's forearm and willed him to look into his eyes. He opened his mind to his friend and stoically accepted the crushing tide of despair and anguish that broke over him, threatening to overwhelm him in its blackness. In return Remy sent back reflections of the all-encompassing love that Rosie had borne for her husband and children. In his mind's eye he could see Jock reaching towards the love and pulling it to him with all his prodigious strength. The will to live was still strong and Jock was never one to give up easily. Impulsively Remy let Jock share the feelings of enduring friendship and camaraderie that the two shared and was pleasantly surprised to feel a thread of that love fighting its way back towards him.

Remy smiled through the suffocating weight of the anguish that he had assumed. Ti Jock would be all right.

The exchange had taken only a fraction of a second but Jock had a new look about him. A small light now shone in his eyes, where once there had only been a bottomless abyss. His back, bowed from the weight of his burden, was a little straighter now.

"Y'know, Remy," he offered somewhat tentatively, "I t'ink, I t'ink mebbe I'm gonna be okay. Really."

"I know you will, Jock," Remy affirmed. "Mais, I got me a powerful envie for a po' boy or two. T'ink we can still make it over to Dooky Chase before closing time?" That was a challenge the big man never could have turned down in the old days.

A grin split Jock's face from ear to ear and for a second he was a carefree teenager once again.

"I be finished b'fore you even get dere, LeBeau. Y'always was a slow one, Remy."

Remy's heart lightened. Everything really was okay.



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