Author: Curt Kenobi
Fandom: X-Men (draws from X-Men: The End, Heroes and Martyrs)
Summary: Remy’s early years are vague at best. But everyone has a mother. And, even when forgotten or unknown, everyone has a beginning to their story.
Disclaimer: Remy and all recognisable characters involved with him are all Marvel’s (but damn, I’d like to have Remy LeBeau – not for profit, just for some fun ;) ) Only one that belongs to me is his maman Alix/Roxanne.
A/N: I have it on my computer and it needs to get out. I know there's other stories of mine left about, and this one's a new one and the pace seems a bit manic to me, but it satisfies that Remy-itch and the want to have a fleshed backstory for him.
Her name was Alexandrie Renée Delacroix. She preferred just simply “Alix.” She hadn’t lived a glamorous life by anyone’s means, but she did what she needed to live…for however short a time it was. She never expected the turns it would take, especially near the end.
Her name was Alexandrie Renée Delacroix. She preferred just simply “Alix.” Last names had no importance here. Given names – even chosen names – didn’t; names were just a label for the body.
She’d lived the streets for over half her life. She didn’t remember what life with her family – just her mother – had been like. It didn’t matter, she supposed. If it did, she wouldn’t have been living this one.
She was told – quite often – she was “stunning.” …“Beautiful.” …“Perfect.” Perhaps she was, with her thick, flaming auburn hair and crystalline hazel eyes – her porcelain skin and delicate features that belied her strength. All the same, though, she’d laugh it off and reply, “So just what do you want done this night, monsieur?” It was all part of the job, the flattery and dance. She knew every note.
In February, she met him. She thought it was something routine, if slightly offbeat. She’d been courted and had courted oh-so-many times. He – his name was Nathaniel, he said – was not like other men, she noted that from the off. She didn’t feel that tingle of excitability and anticipation that brushed her senses with her other clients. He hadn’t gone off to a room with her that very night she first approached him. No, he instead had bantered with her, though he did appraise her. All men did. But she from then on set her sights on this shadowy man, and all the while thought she held the reigns.
Nathaniel was tall and broad, dark and foreboding. His voice was sharp, dark – it sunk into her every time he spoke, even while the toning slid over her like oil. His accent was so very classically British.
He’d intrigued her. So she had spun her magic. She didn’t ever once contemplate that she may have been in danger. She’d become too over-confident and irresponsible in her twenty-four years.
But to be honest, she never stood a chance.
“You possess a magnificent body, mademoiselle Alexandrie,” he lavished upon her, night after night, in the corner of the club that became habitually left alone just for them. He’d offer her fine red wine. He told her that her preferred nickname didn’t do her justice or dignity, and said her real one with perfect pronunciation. “Il est” – his dark eyes bore into her after raking over her immodestly – “…très…magnifique.”
“Oui, Monsieur. I bet you say that to all the pretty maidens. Especially the ladies – and the whores. So tell me what you really want,” she spat back, time and again. But nevertheless, there was still a slight preening to her presence, a silent offer contradicting her curt words. Subtly, she’d reach out with that extra sense, trying to gauge him, though she never picked up anything conclusive. And the stranger – M. Essex – just persisted. He understood her standoffish come-hithers were not dismissals, but crude affection – he also felt her searching and knew it for what it was…and he wouldn’t have given up to begin with.
Near the end of the month, she finally gave into fancy. His flattery and darkness, his refinery and dangerous edge, were simply too intriguing.
“So, ma magnifique mademoiselle, will you yet relent to me?” he lightly chided as she sauntered over. He offered her his hand. With a gracious incline of her head, auburn waves sliding over her face, she accepted and they walked out into the cool Parisian night.
“I do believe I will, Monsieur Essex. You’ve been très persistent and a mademoiselle such as myself would be a fool to ignore your attentions.”
“A fool,” he said meditatively. Then, after a moment, he stopped and pulled her before him. She looked up over her shoulder, trying to catch his eyes, somewhat caught off-guard by the sudden manoeuvre, but not unfamiliar with the position. It made her feel somewhere between excited and unnerved. He leant down and kissed her, after a breathless moment on her end. She was surprised at how cool his lips were, even as her own heated.
“I do mean what I say, mademoiselle,” he said, his chill hand curved about her throat while the other kept her back pinned to him. His voice was a dark growl. Her breathing hitched. His hand twitched where it was about her neck, fingers tightening ever so slightly. His sharp thumbnail dug into the sensitive flesh where her jaw and neck met. “I will have your body, madam.”
She should have listened to her haywire senses, her internal alarms going off like klaxons. But she didn’t. Leave the sixth senses and foresight to Grand-mère. She had decided long ago to ignore her “inklings” when she could, though ever since she had met Nathaniel, she’d acknowledged them more than ever.
Instead, she conceded, forcing a flippant air: “Certainement, monsieur.”
His short chuckle at that made her panic. Without words, it told her that she had horribly misunderstood him.
Her next moment was blackness.
Unknowingly, she’d just sold her soul and body to the Devil, or as close as she’d come to meeting him.
...And it was in something quite akin to Hell she awoke.
(The lyric in the page break is from "Fascination Street" by the Cure.)
-->Next: Part One