>>nameless, baby.  Post-One Hundred Thousand Miles (Pictures, Not Mine, etc.)<<

"No, y'know what, no."

His right foot falls even harder on the wooden floor, even angrier, as both men in the room recognize that as sounding *just* like something Bobby would've said. He strides in-between the bed and the window, weaving a figure eight of cigarette smoke. The other man leans against the wall, watching him. He says quietly,

"You don't even know why yer angry."

Remy gestures gracefully, nods sharply. Takes another harsh drag from his fag.

You have to be able to understand peace in order to make it, and Pete doesn't. Having no reason to bite the inside of your cheek until it bleeds and doing it anyway are like breakfast cereal to him-- it's just there, and you see it more in the morning. He doesn't have the words to Remy's serenity, and it doesn't occur to him to find them. He stubs out his cigarette on the wall, and begins to unbutton his shirt.

Remy stops his pacing and looks at him. "I don' wanna have sex."

Pete shrugs and slips his shirt off anyway, throwing it on the bed. "Whatever." He walks over and stoops at the coffee-maker on the floor in the corner, pours himself a cup. Sits and drinks, and watches as Remy's pacing picks up and then slows again, stopping eventually at the window, looking out.

After a moment, Remy says, "Y'know de last team I was wit' before de X-Men?"

"Yer such a fucking diva, LeBeau."

"Do you?"

Pete snorts. "Greenpeace?"

Remy turns and looks at him hard. "De Marauders."

The humor falls off of Pete's face, and he sets his coffee down. "Yeah," he says, after a moment. "Yeh, I knew that."

"I was the founding member. Did y'know dat?"

"I'd heard as much."

"It was my job t'collect the other members. Recruit them. Sinister gave me the different catagories of skills he was lookin' for, said he needed at least five people. Some of de people I went after, I'd worked wit' dem before-- some I only heard of. Two of them, though, I knew. Sabretooth I met when he killed de woman I was sleepin' wit'. An' Grey Crow was my best friend."

"Grey Crow," said Pete, recalling. "Scalphunter, right?"

Remy nods.

"Yer best friend, huh? Didn't hear about that."

"Best blowjob in de western-most Greater Plains area."

Pete nods, and takes a long, slow sip from his coffee. He lets the too-hot liquid rest in his mouth for a moment, before swallowing it down. Then he says, "You sold him to Sinister." 

Remy says, "Dat's right."

The Kitty in him wants to ask why-- why, did you, are you here, are you telling me this, do you feel like, do you, did you-- but the Pete stands, pushes off the wall, and hands Remy a cigarette to replace the one that's smoldered away. Pete's never met a why he couldn't fuck, and they mean nothing. He knows that.

"I know how it goes, mate."

Remy takes the cigarette, lights it. He shoots Pete a dark, dark look, exhaling, and says, "I know y'do, Pete." Turns and looks out the window. "So you don' know why you're angry."