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leafenclaw · 3 years

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For the “Ask questions about my WIPs!” game

@inkstainedfingers97 asked:

“Perchance would you be willing to send me a brief summary of the premises of "Gem" and "Fearful Symmetry" ?”

First of all, thank you for asking! ^^

Gem is actually one of my earliest Mentalist works, one of several character studies I wrote in preparation for another story called Visions (which I was supposed to go back to right after Chasing Storms, but then Kindred happened x3). The concept was quite simple, a long drabble in which Lisbon was pondering all the ways Jane reminds her of a diamond (the dazzling smiles, flashy tricks, cutting edges of his personality, the fatal flaw at heart, etc.). That said, 400-ish words in I realised I was pushing that metaphor just a little bit too far? XD So unless I recycle parts of it for Kindred at some point (perhaps for 2x09, with that subplot about a diamond Jane lost in the bullpen? ^^), it’ll probably never see the light of day and to be honest I’m pretty okay with that. x)

Fearful Symmetry is a different animal entirely. I don’t know if you remember 2x10 well, it’s the episode where Jane gets hit by a baseball and gets a concussion, so he spends the whole episode fainting and having intrusive memories of his father? And in one of those memories, you see him and his father conning an old lady and her dying granddaughter. For some reason as I was watching I started thinking on that kid, wondering what would happen to her if she survived after this. Would she think the crystal really saved her, or would she know it’s a con and resent the Janes for it? I followed those thoughts for a while, got mislaid by a few Shakespeare references, and ended up with a story in which Celia (the dying girl) is Red John, because the application of the crystal nearly killed her and she wants revenge on the boy who lied to her. x)

It’s not a happy story. Written in 2nd person from the POV of an extremely unreliable narrator, it’s meant to be an illustration of how a healthy mind can sink into really unhealthy thought patterns because of a single event, how holding onto hate and a desire for revenge usually ends up poisoning your own life, and (as the title implies) it was also meant to be a commentary on thematic parallels between Jane and Red John, how similar they are, how you just need to fill in a few blanks to realise they have the same nature.

Anyway. x) It was SUPER cathartic to write and I was all set to publish as soon as it was done... until a computer mishap ate half my progress (more than 5k gone, I had almost 12k by then), including a scene I struggled a lot on, so it never recovered. I’m still keeping that one on the back-burner though, it’s one of ten stories across all my fandoms that I definitely intend to come back to and complete.

Excerpt under cut. Trigger warnings for obsessive thoughts of hatred and revenge, graphic descriptions of pain, some internalised ableism, and violent rejection of morals and religion. (There may be other things, as I said it’s not a happy story.)

(Feel free to comment but please don’t reblog.)

*****

Fearful Symmetry

*****

"Breathe," says your grandmother softly.

And you do, one laborious inhalation after the other, even as the wet, squelching sound makes you shiver, and the pain tears you apart. You do, and you clutch the crystal against your chest – because it will help, won't it? It must. Your grandmother says so, and the Carney man at the fair said so, and the boy. The boy said so. The beautiful boy who cried for you, with the golden curls that makes you want to giggle and sigh and feel their softness under your fingers. He said so.

"Breathe," repeats your grandmother, and you do – again and again and again and why isn't it working?

"I'm sorry to tell you, ma'am. You were robbed," says the doctor, shaking his head. "Crystals aren't magic. They can't heal anything."

But neither you nor your grandmother will listen to those lies, because you saw it. You saw the blister on the boy's finger heal with your own two eyes. How is that not magic? So you breathe, and breathe again, and cough up phlegm until even your grandmother pales and shakes her head.

*****

"What if – " you ask, then cough some more. "What if it needs to be inside?"

"Direct application," whispers your grandmother, eyes feverish. "Yes! We could put it in your oxygen tank – that should work. It will work, Celia. I promise."

Of course, no doctor will allow her to put a foreign object in your oxygen tank, not even a magic healing crystal that could save you. You should have known. They never took you seriously, even in the beginning. That's why the cancer was allowed to spread so far.

But you and your grandmother know what you're doing. You've seen it work. And when it does, when you're healed, you will walk back to the county fair on your own feet and kiss that boy right on his generous mouth to thank him for everything he did.

One day. If you dare. You need to heal first, for that to happen.

So you and your grandmother talk about it, and come to a decision.

Forget about the doctors.

Trust in the crystal.

Trust in the boy.

"Keep your eyes closed," whispers your grandmother, a handful of carefully grounded crystal in her palm. "I will blow it toward you. And when I say so, take a deep breath, as deep as you can. Are you ready?"

You nod.

"Now!"

You open your mouth wide and breathe, and cough, and open your eyes because it hurts so much, and dust flies in your eyes and your mouth is burning, your eyes are burning, your lungs, NO, burning scratching burning bleeding leaking painpainpain –

You scream.

*****

"What were you thinking!" bellows the doctor, somewhere on the other side of the door.

Your grandmother is crying, all hysterical sobs and blubbering mess, incoherent words of desolation falling out of her mouth like a waterfall. You want to tell her it's not her fault – it's not her fault, it's the boy's. The lying boy with his lying tears and those lying curls of shining gold you still want to feel under your fingers, except now you want to feel his lying throat bobbing up and down as you squeeze it just as much.

You want to tell her, but they hooked you up to your oxygen tank and you can't say a word, and you can't reach out to her either because you can't see with all those bandages covering your eyes.

Can’t, can’t, can’t do anything, anything at all.

"It's a miracle it didn't kill her on the spot!" yells the doctor again.

You can hear the angry breath he takes and releases, almost covering your grandmother's cries.

"Your crystal dust buried itself in the tissues, scarred her lungs and cornea," the doctor adds, so quietly you have to strain your ears to hear him speak. "If she was to live, it would be a miracle for her to escape pneumonia and infections. But as it is..."

You shouldn't be listening to this. But you do, you do even if you're not supposed to, even if you're supposed to be sleeping, and resting, and recovering. That's what they told you to do, anyway. Rest, and don't bother your pretty little head with grown-up talk.

Rest.

Rest in peace.

"Her last days will be painful," concludes the doctor. "Dying will be a kindness."

Your grandmother's wail covers every other sound.

The pang of shock in your mind covers every other thought.

Until shock turns to helplessness.

Then anger.

Then hate.

*****

You lie on your back, eyes closed as the priest anoints your forehead with oil, muttering blessings for your soul. Your grandmother cries softly by your bedside as you take one painful inhalation after the other. They've all given you for dead already, talking about you in past tense, hushed murmurs and sniffles in every corner of the room.

You don't care.

You're such a raw mass of unending pain. Nothing else matters but the burning in your lungs and the fever in your eyes and the pounding in your head that erases all ideas, all thoughts, all emotions.

Except one.

And the growing thirst for revenge sustains you in a way nothing else – no medicine, no prayer, no crystal – ever could.

*****

You never knew there was an emotion so powerful as to conjure up miracles – but if you had, you would have bet on love.

And you would have been wrong.

Love, in the end, wasn't enough to save you. Be it the love of God with its many prayers all through the night, or the love of Science on the altar of which you sacrificed your hair – both utterly failed you. Even the love of your grandmother only brought you worse suffering instead of the promised peace and relief.

Love wasn't enough.

But hate is.

Hate allows you to survive night after night until a full month passes. Hate allows you to hang on by a thread until breathing comes easier, until pain ceases. So slowly at first nobody notices you healing. So slowly at first you don't even notice it yourself.

Until you do.

Until they do.

"It's a miracle. Praises be to God," says the priest, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because there is no miracle, there is no God, there is only hate burning bright and hot inside you, turning the cancer to cinders and coal dust.

"It was the crystal. It gave her back her life," says your grandmother, and you want to tell her to shut up shut up shut up, because the crystal nearly killed you, the crystal scratched your eyes away and even hate couldn't give you back your sight.

"It was the treatment. In a few months, we may be able to graft her a new cornea," says the doctor, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because the medicine was never helpful to begin with, they didn't even bother treating your eye infection properly when they thought you were dying, and when you finally get out of here you will never trust a doctor again.

But you don't say a word – because you may be healed but you're still weak, and arguing over what exactly saved you would be a waste of time, a waste of energy. Instead you let hate eat away at any warm emotion you once felt, shield your mind with its cold, hard shell of frozen magma.

Who cares what they all think anyway? You know the truth, and at night you dream of a thousand humiliations and pains for the boy who grievously betrayed you.

#inkstainedfingers97 #thank you for the ask! ^^#fandom: the mentalist #ship: teacup & handmade socks #ship: smiling tygers #writing #[my stuff]#watch me as I attempt not to panic about excerpts from my WIPs being released into the wild lmao

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thorne93 · 5 years

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12 Days of Christmas (Cuddling For Warmth - Remy Lebeau)

Prompt: December 22 - Cuddling for Warmth - Remy Lebeau

Word Count: 2725

Warnings: language… angst

Notes: For the Marvelous Christmas Challenge @until-theend-oftheline @like-a-bag-of-potatoes…. Beta’d by @like-a-bag-of-potatoes and @carryonmyswansong (thank you both, very much).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The mansion was alive with wonder, excitement, and children’s excited cries. As a student teacher at the mansion, you promised Professor X to stay during the holidays to help keep a handle on the kids who couldn’t go home. So far though, they were only having fun. Chasing each other around the grounds, ice skating on the pond, decorating each room. Storm had a class earlier this week for everyone to create their own ornaments or garland.

With only two days to go until Christmas, you were rather excited yourself. All the teachers had put their names in for Secret Santa. The students would get each get one gift. Charles put some back from each tuition to cover a gift of decent size. And each year, the children were asked to give a Christmas list. From that list, the teachers picked one gift.

This way, it ensured everyone got something under the tree, and it was usually a pretty magical time. This year, you’d pulled Scott’s name for Secret Santa. All you had to do was ask Jean to tell you what he really wanted. It was a piece of cake. He wanted a new bike helmet.

As for your secret Santa, you had no idea who was getting your gift. That was the whole point, but typically, every year, you had a hunch. This year, not so much. Which was absolutely okay.

It was getting a little late, around 10:00 pm. You could hear the kids screaming and running in the halls. Charles usually wouldn’t allow this behavior, but classes were out for the holidays, and it was only two days to Christmas, so he let the kids do as they please so long as no one got hurt. As for you, you were in pajamas in your bed, reading. In fact, you were about to go to sleep shortly, until a knock came at your door, then it cracked open.

“Y/N? You awake?” The drawl was unmistakable.

“Yeah, what’s up?” you asked, sitting up in the bed. You tried your best to look extra presentable for the charming Cajun. To say you had a soft spot for Remy would be putting it lightly. Being a southern belle yourself, you had instantly fallen for Mr. LeBeau, his accent, his charm, his mutation, and his ultimate compassion.

Remy was an instructor, but he didn’t teach classes. He was almost like a tutor. He was more there as a stand in for kids needing to understand their power or working on how to control it. He didn’t lecture, or teach History or English or Literature. He didn’t have a study plan. He was just a hands on instructor, who wanted to help the kids when they needed it. He was available before classes, during lunch, and after classes. His ability and extent of patience had made you swoon long ago.

“Saw your light was still on. Didn’t know if you might be up for gettin’ hot chocolate downstairs or maybe goin’ down to watch a Christmas movie with me and the kids?”

Just as you were about to contemplate the offers, the lights suddenly went out. Shrieks and cries went all throughout the mansion. Suddenly, Charles voice invaded everyone’s mind.

“Everyone remain calm, the storm must’ve knocked the power out. Please stay in the room you are in right now while Hank and I look at the fuse box.”

Remy and you peered at each other for a moment. “Well, you heard the man,” he stated as he stepped into your room, a cheeky grin on his face before he shut the door.

“And just what gives you the right to look yourself inside a lady’s bedroom at night?” you demanded jokingly.

“Professor said so. He does not want us out roamin’ the halls.” With that, he grabbed the chair from your desk and pulled it to sit at the end of your bed. “So who did you get for secret santa?”

“I am not tellin’ you that,” you chastised.

“Why? Is it moi?” he asked, teasing you. “That’s the only reason you wouldn’t tell me.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but no, it isn’t. The word ‘secret’ is in the name, Remy. I’m not gonna tell you who I got.”

“You take things too seriously,” he accused with a grin.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Maybe you don’t take things seriously enough.”

“Now that’s just mean,” he feigned, putting his hand over his chest.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and letting out a laugh. “Oh please, I couldn’t insult you if I tried. Your ego is impenetrable.”

With that, he smiled and straightened in his chair. “Why, thank you for noticin’. I work on it a lot.”

“Speaking of egos,” you began, “how is Reggie?”

Reggie was a young mutant, fifteen, who had a peculiar mutation that was a little hard to get ahold of. Rather close to that of Storm’s, Remy’s, or even Scott or Alex’s powers. Yet, for the last five years he kept assuring his parents he had it under control -- that was, until he took out a neighbor’s house one day. Thankfully, the neighbors weren’t home and no one was hurt. Reggie’s parents were loving, supportive, and concerned about they ordeal. They didn’t get mad, but they did put their foot down about him coming to the school. They trusted Reggie with his powers until this summer when they came by with him. They said they wanted him to learn how to properly handle them, because they were worried he might hurt himself or someone else and not mean it.

Remy, was his tutor. He saw him twice a week after his daily classes. Being a teenager, and rebellious, he hated the idea of needing any special attention.

“Ah, he’s still a little spitfire, but I think I’m gettin’ through to him. When I started to show him that having the ultimate, precision and control over his powers was pretty cool, he started to receive my message better. How’s your classes goin’?” he wondered, putting his boot on the foot of your bed, his hands behind his head, and leaning back.

“Rather splendid,” you commented. You did have a study plan though, one that Jean and Charles oversaw. They reviewed your itinerary every week and it had to be approved, and it always was. Your area lied in defense against mutation attacks and computer information systems. It was two separate classes, but you taught every day of the week. “Yeah, yeah. Julie has finally picked up a lot better combat. Aaron helped Jason fix a hard drive this week, so I was very proud of them.”

“That’s great to hear,” he complimented genuinely. “How come you didn’t go home for the holidays?”

“The kids need me here… Well, Charles and Hank need me here,” you corrected with a smile and slight laugh. “My family understands that this is important to me, and encouraged me to be here for the kids, and Charles.”

“Very kind of you, and your family.”

“What about you, cajun? Why aren’t you down South?” you wondered.

He huffed out some air. “Oh, same as you, I s’pose. Thought the staff might need a little help with some of the youngins stickin’ around.”

“Always a noble cause, eh, Remy?” you slightly teased with a coy smile. You peered at him with a sad smile. “You never have found your parents, have you?”

He shook his head, a pensive, but sorrow filled smile on his face. You could tell he was trying to hide the pain, disguise it as charm and wit, but not all that deep down you knew Remy was missing a family. He knew some thieves and friends down in New Orleans, certainly someone he could spend a holiday with. Somehow, you felt, that he’d found a new family though, here, and maybe that’s why he stayed during the holidays.

“Nah, but I figure maybe it’s all for the best. They don’t want me... Been too long, and I am… me.”

You frowned. “Remy, how could they not want you? You’re spectacular.”

“I grew up with thieves and cheats, Y/N,” he retorted with disdain. “I’m not exactly a model citizen.”

“You can’t help what the LeBeau clan did to you…”

“No, but I got these eyes.. That’s why they abandon me, mon cher,” he informed with a slight sadness in his voice.

“Then they are the most stupid people in this world,” you stated with confidence. “Anyone willing to give you up has to be the biggest fool I’ve ever met.”

A gentle smile tugged at his handsome lips before he let himself fall from leaning back in the chair. “It’s gettin’ cold as hell out here. Move over, I’m comin’ in,” he said before he stood up and took his boots off.

It was clear he was changing the subject, but for the past thirty minutes, the temperature had dropped to icy due to the lack of power and heat. You scooted over to the left on your bed and before you knew it, Remy had burrowed himself in the blankets beside you. This, wasn’t unusual. He was your closest friend at the mansion and sometimes you two wound up sleeping on the couch together, or snuggling up to watch a movie in your room on Sunday afternoons, usually slipping into a nap.

“Better?” you inquired once you settled down beside him.

“At least I ain’t g’ttn frostbite,” he retorted, putting his hands on his face and rubbing them backwards. “When is the damn power g’n be back on?”

Shaking your head, you answered, “No idea.”

The two of you lied in comfortable silence for a few minutes before he spoke again, curiosity in his voice. “Did ah eva tell you that I was engaged once b’fore?”

You frowned, turning just your head to face him. “What? No? When? How?” You couldn’t help the little green eyed monster that creeped up inside you.

He kept his face aimed at your high, dark ceiling, sighing. “Long… long ago. It was to a girl named Bella Donna. It was actually an arranged marriage.”

“Wow. Really? What was the gain?”

“Settlin’ a feud between two of the bands of criminals.” He let out a huff of air. “But her brother was against it, and he challenged me to a duel.”

A gasped escaped without your permission. The thought of Remy doing something so… dangerous, made your heart still in your chest.

“Well, so what happened?” you urged when he didn’t continue, your face turned back towards the ceiling.

“After the wedding…when Julien had challenged me, I agreed. Bein’ raised as ah was, it wasn’t taken lightly. So I agreed to his terms. Only when we got there, the bastard was such a terrible shot…” He stopped, trying to collect his thoughts, you supposed. “His shot breezed past my shoulder and by pure reflex, I shot back, hit him square in the chest.”

You frowned. You knew Gambit had a terribly sad upbringing, another thing that had made you fall easily in love with him. Someone born from so much sorrow brought so much joy into the world. He was so… good, and pure, his dark past was in no way a reflection of him now.

“That’s so sad… How… how did your wife take it?”

“Uh, actually, I didn’t really know. They banished me from N’awlins for a long time. Til Bella Donna needed my help with somethin’. Professor let me take the X-Men back down to help her, but when we all got to an astral plane… I don’ know, somethan happened and Bella Donna died... “

A full second passed before you grabbed his hand under the blankets. All you wanted to do with the action was comfort him, show your support.

“I’m so sorry that happened. Do you miss her?”

“I did. But it turns out she’s alive, livin’ down in N’awlins.”

This took you aback. Gambit had a wife, but he didn’t… miss her? Sure it was arranged but…

“So… you don’t miss her?”

He let out a breath. “Well… I did, at first. We sort of grew up together. She was my first love. But after her family banished me, and I sort of got out on my own, well, there wasn’t much to miss. Then when I found out she was alive, I just wanted her to be happy. I got no desire to be with her.”

“Are you still married to her?”

“No, no. We took care of that years ago. Cut ties. Now, we don’t talk, but it’s alright. She’s got her life, I got mine.”

A blip of silence fell over you two. “I’m so sorry all of that happened to you, Remy,” you suddenly offered, your voice sad, laced with sincerity. You wanted nothing more than to hug him and make any pain or guilt go away.

“Did you really mean what you said, about the… uh... about my parents not wantin’ me?” he asked, not seeming to want to address his past directly.

You turned your head to face him, keeping your head settled on the pillow. “Of course. Remy, I think you’re wonderful. It’s a privilege to know you.”

“You’re not just sayin’ that, are you?”

“No, no. There’s a reason you’re my best friend. I like you. You’re a good person. In fact, I’m rather jealous of this Bella Donna lady. Anyone who gets to be your wife is one hell of a lucky woman.”

Now, it was his turn to face you.

“You really mean that? You think… you think it’s lucky to be my betrothed?”

“I think she hit the jackpot if she got you. Arranged or otherwise.”

He stared at you for just a few moments more, making your cheeks heat to a million degrees.

“Uh, Remy, what’re you staring at?” you wondered.

“Does it bother you?”

“Only because I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinkin’ you are the sweetest, most kind, most compassionate, most powerful, person I’ve ever met. I’m thinkin’ you make me laugh when I don’t wanna. You never let my past represent me. You look past all my flaws. I’m thinkin’ you’re just about damned perfect, Y/N and I’d like nothin’ more than to kiss you right now.”

“Then what are you waitin’ for?” you asked in a soft voice and before you could blink, he let go of your hand to wrap you in a tight embrace. Fingers danced through your hair with skill, making you shiver from his touch. His face slowly got closer to yours, as you helped close the gap from your side as well. Before you knew it, you two finally connected, igniting your body like a Christmas tree. His lips were surprisingly softer than you expected, but firm and plump. Surprising you, his hand slid down your side, around your waist, where he pulled you closer to him, pressing you against his body. The sensation made you yearn to run your hands into his long hair, hold him close, stay in his arms forever.

Suddenly, the power came back on, lights flooded your room, your bedside clock turned on, your TV regained power, and the mystique that had bewitched the room, was now slowly receding.

The two of you broke apart and stared at each other, unsure what to say. His arm was still around your waist, and your arm was still on his back, but neither of you spoke.

“Wow… That was…” You breathed, slightly laughing.

“Yeah… That… uh… was….” he agreed.

The next thing was Charles back in everyone’s head. “Alright everyone, it’s late. Go to bed. You’re free to leave the rooms you’re in.”

The two of you came back out of the informative thought, peering at one another.

“Do… you wanna leave?” you tentatively asked him, wondering where you two stood now.

“Not at all, unless you want me to go?” he questioned, slightly worried about another rejection.

You brought your hand up, your fingertips stroking his face. “I never want you to go anywhere, Remy. I want you right here, in my arms. So long as you’ll have me.”

An adoring smile touched his face as he pulled you closer again. “I’ll never want anything, or anyone but you, Y/F/N.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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#cuddling for warmth with remy lebeau #remy lebeau x reader #remy lebeau fic #gambit x reader #gambit fic #gambit #remy lebeau

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