Fractals

Fractals Chapter Fifty Five (NC-17)
Disclaimers Apply

A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta… I think we got your cold weather by mistake… *hordes it, lol * InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink and Dracena are loverly and wondermous for archiving/hosting. :) ProPhile: Patience, grasshopper… Morgan: *poke * Readers/Reviewers: Thanks!

Some days, he really wondered if it was all worth it. He could just chuck it all in, he thought, striding through the frost-covered grass, go to Canada, fight for money again… He missed it sometimes. Especially on days like this. How much time had he wasted, he wondered, before realizing she was gone? Not hiding, not having second thoughts, but gone. He stopped just short of the door and closed his eyes, marshalling his thoughts and temper. There would be no good way to do this. There’s never a good time, really, for panic. His eyes snapped open as the door creaked wide. “Astrid? What’re you doing opening the door?”
“Would you rather just stand on the porch all day?” she demanded tartly, standing on her toes to look past him and around him. “Scheisse.”
He raised a brow. “Sorry to disappoint.” He eased past her into the warm foyer and waited until she shut the door before asking, “What’s going on? It’s quiet as the grave.”
Astrid chewed her lower lip thoughtfully for a moment, then sighed. “Long story short, we’re going to rescue my son and his friends. Long story longer,” she sighed and switched to German, finding it much easier to explain without having to mentally translate everything first.
Logan’s eyes grew infinitesimally wider as Astrid wound down. “No. Just… no.” He shook his head vehemently. “There’s no way I’m letting you put your neck out like this. I’ll take Jono and try and round up Warren and Betsy and we’ll go. You stay here.”
“Logan,” she said in a low, tight voice. “My son is in trouble. You do *not * get between a mother and her child. You will draw back a bloody nub if you try to stop me.”
Something in her tone of voice and the flash of her eyes made him believe her. “Astrid,” he tried one last time, “I can’t protect you and do this at the same time. You can’t go up against these people without…”
She made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “Logan, are you being anti-norm? Are you saying that you think I’m lesser than you?” She fisted her hands on her hips and for a moment, he thought he saw humor in her eyes. “I’m ashamed of you!”
Logan gritted his teeth. “And just who’s gonna keep an eye on the rest of the kids here then?”
Astrid smiled as the doorbell rang. “Her.”

Remy scowled and kicked idly at the table leg. “Pere,” he finally burst, like a petulant child being told he could not have his favorite toy, “pour quoi? C’est ridicule!”1
“Ah, maintenant, tu parles francais…2” Jean Luc rolled his eyes and smiled slightly, folding his newspaper in half.
“Je parle Acadien, mais dat beside de point,” Remy switched fluidly. “Tante Mattie were clear as day. I ain’t gonna sit here…”
“You gonna sit here long as I tell you to sit here,” Jean Luc snapped in a velvet tone. Remy would not have known it to be anger if he had not known the man his entire life. “Maintenant, no use runnin’ off like chickens on Sunday, eh?”3
Remy gritted his teeth and flopped back in the chair, gripping the arms. He had to get out, even if it was just to call, to make sure everyone was alright… He shifted restlessly and glanced at the noisily ticking clock. “Merde.” He was on his feet and halfway to the door before the red haired maid and her sharp knife stepped between him and his goal silently. “Move,” he growled, reaching for her arms.
She smiled sweetly and in a movement so quick he could barely register it, her wrist flicked and then returned to her side. “Non,” she chirped. “M’sieur, your guest is here,” she sing-songed, stepping past Remy and heading back towards the kitchens.
Remy stared at his hand. A deep, long gash marred the palm of his right hand, his dominant hand. “That little…” He winced. This would make leger de main difficult, as well as more mundane tasks.
“You ask for it, son. You try to leave widdout permission.” He had the audacity to wink at Remy before taking his outstretched palm and wrapping a clean silk handkerchief around his hand. “She didn’t cut you deep. She knows her job an’ she knows how not to harm beyond repair if I ask her to.” He glanced up and smiled. “Ah, bienvenue,” he said smoothly to someone behind Remy, coming up from the kitchen.
“Caliban?” Remy was astounded. “What…”
“It is unusual for me to be so far from home,” he cut Remy off. “But for this, I understand the necessity. Jean Luc made arrangements. My…companions…await our arrival below. We do not have much time. Things are happening already and they are soon to be beyond the point of no return.”
“What?” Remy stared at the pale, slightly misshapen Morlock. His gaze shifted to his father. “What is going on? I don’t like games.” His red gaze narrowed and his fingers curled over his bandaged palm. “What sort of tricks are you up to, Pere? Dis ain’t some fun to have wid de guilds. Dis de lives of mes amis…”
“Je sais, fils,” Jean Luc sighed. “Caliban is the best way to get dere widdout being noticed, d’accord?
Caliban titled his head slightly to one side, considering Remy. “This is beyond the bounds of what I would normally do for anyone, Remy. We Morlocks know persecution. We understand it. We breathe it, live it, eat it. We do not wish it on anyone. Not even the worst of us would truly want the rest of mutankind to know the pain we live every single day.” His gaze became slightly hazy and his breath hitched once. “We do not have a lot of time. They’re already so close… so very, very close…”
Remy felt his heart lurch. “D’accord. Vas-y…”
Caliban relaxed just slightly. “We leave here via the subterranean passageways. We meet our transport north of the city in Mandeville, on the other side of the lake.”
Jean Luc nodded, tucking something into his jacket pocket from the sideboard. “Excellent.”
“Wait…” Remy raised a brow. “You’re coming?” He folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “I ain’t gonna deal wid your riddles an’ games, Pere.”
The older man grinned. “Den what else is dere to life, fils? Vas-y, let’s go…”

1 Father, why? It’s ridiculous!
2 Ah, now you speak French…
3 Traditionally, chicken was eaten on Sunday in parts of the South because it was special and sort of a treat since food was scarce or expensive for a while there due to the whole Civil War thing… and the whole being poor thing…