The fact that Rogue sat alone on the roof -- in the exact spot where Gambit tended to sit when he was troubled -- was not lost on Logan. She's troubled herself, he thought, over whatever went down between her an' Gumbo at the South Pole. She still wouldn't speak of it, but Logan had pinned Hank down to as many details as McCoy could give. Explanations from the Beast took far longer than Logan considered necessary. Hank's tendency to pepper his speech with five-dollar words and go off into tangents was responsible for that, but eventually the tale had been told.
Gambit had once worked for Sinister. While working for Sinister, Gambit had assembled the Marauders, who had then massacred the Morlocks. Logan felt a pang of rage and pain. Kitty had nearly died then, her phasing power out of control. Kurt, too, had been mortally wounded. Those two were, along with Mariko, damn near the foundation on which Logan had rested his sanity at the time. Losing them might well have sent him spiralling out of his mind. He remembered how helpless he'd felt. A feral growl escaped him, and Rogue looked down, hearing him, if not seeing him.
"Wolverine?" she called. She was wearing normal clothing -- for anyone else, anyway. Rogue's customary clothing covered as much of her skin as possible. Except when she was upset. Then her desire to be "normal" overrode her common sense, and she pranced around in as little as she could legally get away with wearing. This was one of those times. Despite the chill of the late winter and the snow on the ground, she wore a tank top bearing the letters STP. It came no lower than her third rib. All she had on besides that were a pair of sinfully short, sinfully tight cutoffs. She's cute enough, I suppose, if you go in for scrawny, busty and big-haired. Logan's taste usually ran to petite, demure and intelligent; or conversely, muscular and wild. Rogue had once fit the second category -- but it seemed that lately she'd lost her way, forgetting she used to be a sturdier specimen of an X-Man.
"Wolverine, are you there?" Rogue shouted again. She lifted a bare hand to shield her eyes, and peered into the darkness. Ah'm sure there's somebody out there, she thought to herself. An' Wolverine's the only one besides Storm -- her heart gave a sick lurch -- or Remy -- who'd ever been able to get near me without makin' a lot of noise. Remy....Remy ain't here. An' Storm? She ain't exactly given to growlin' like that.
Logan didn't answer. He wrestled down the feral side of his nature, and took deep breaths, using the techniques he'd learned in Japan to center himself again. Think, ya big dumb Canucklehead, he told himself. You may not like the Cajun, but he's always shot straight with the X-Men while he's been here. The measure of a man's heart is in his actions, eh? If he was really as much of a bastard as Rogue's makin' him out to be, I'd have known it sooner. LeBeau may have been able to keep the mind-peepers outta his head, but the nose knows.
The truth was that Wolverine and Gambit had fought when first he'd joined the team. They'd fought bitterly. Wolverine had been in a sadly weakened state at the time, and that had allowed the Cajun the upper hand. Logan remembered painfully well falling onto his back. He remembered as clearly as if it had happened not years, but moments ago, the Cajun's smile as he whispered, "Bang. You dead." He'd had the chance to kill me then, but he didn't. He could have.
Rogue called again, "Wolverine?" eyes searching the darkness.
Logan remained perched in the tree, almost at eye level with the troubled young woman. She hadn't spotted him yet. He didn't expect her to; neither did he intend her to see him until he was good and ready. He had a theory, Logan did -- and he was going to share it with Rogue once he had percolated it sufficiently in his head.
I'd have smelled treachery on him, Logan considered, nodding to himself. I'd have smelled lies, fear, sweat, adrenaline. I'd have smelled it all over him. Dark brows knitted in a frown over brown eyes intense with concentration . The man might've been dirty once -- but he's not now, an' that's for shit-sure. My memory may be for bugger all before I joined the X-Men but it's been pretty flamin' reliable while I have been part of the team. LeBeau may still be a thief and a flirt and a pain in the ass -- but he ain't walked with Sinister intentionally in quite some time. I'm sure of it. Logan smiled darkly.
"Rogue," Logan finally answered, after the girl in question had called his name a third time.
Rogue jumped, and made to stand up, backing away up the slant of the roof from him.
"Hold on there," Logan called, springing out of the trees. He landed with almost no sound at all on the roof, and extended a hand to Rogue. Now, let's just see how smart you are, runt...I don't think anyone's ever tried this with her before.
Rogue flinched, taking a step back.
"There's somethin' you oughta know, kid," Logan growled, and shot forward in a blur of motion. Before Rogue could move or react, he'd taken her wrist.
There was a flare of energy, signifying Rogue's power activating. Rogue gasped, and tried to pull away. Logan held fast. Rogue froze; she could free herself, but if she used her augmented strength to do so, she could hurt the diminutive Canadian. She realized, after a second or two of panic that Logan had chosen to touch her -- in fact, insisted.
Rogue's powers were strange that way; it was less traumatic for her and her "victim" if he was willing to share himself with her. No one had been so willing to let her touch them this way since Kitty had leaned her head against Rogue's face during a fight with Nimrod so long ago. Now Wolverine had taken her by the wrist. She couldn't help but ask "Why?" even as Logan's consciousness abandoned him and he sank to his knees, then collapsed in a heap at her feet.
Why indeed, Logan's voice said in her head. Rogue gave an internal jump, startled. This had never happened before! Logan was still in control of his consciousness even after touching her. She was not drowning in his psyche. He just stood on the mindscape with her, holding the wrist of her mental image just as he had in the waking world. Somethin' I wanna show you, girl.
Rogue balked, shaking her head. "Lemme alone," she protested aloud.
Hush , said the Logan avatar in her head. Then slowly a trickle of memories and sensations came to her.
Is this what it's like t'be Logan? Ah'd damn near forgot, she thought, amazed. It's amazin'! She could smell the fireplace at the boathouse, where Maggott had retreated to give the "old timers" some space. Through Logan's sense of smell, Rogue could identify the salty, chemical tang of the cheezee-poofs Bobby and Jubilee were sharing in the house. She could smell the sharp aroma of Cecelia's beloved coffee -- a scent so strong she could almost taste it. She could hear the muted rumble of Sam's blast field as he circled the property picking up firewood. With Logan's ears, she could hear a rabbit -- or maybe a raccoon in the underbrush. Naw, definitely a raccoon. Rabbits ain't that big, she realized, mystified.
She'd only rarely been permitted to absorb a teammate's abilities and thoughts in a non-combat situation. This was wonderful. The world was so much more vivid for Logan than it was for anyone else. She nearly leaped from the roof to see if she could get close up on a deer in the woods.
If you're done gettin' over 'sucks to be me' syndrome, girl, you can start payin' attention any flamin' time now. Logan's voice in her head was as strong as before, though his body still rested comfortably at her feet. Rogue couldn't help but be astonished by the indomitable will that fueled his desire to make this not only an easy transition -- but a guided one.
Abashed, Rogue let her attention turn inward. What'd you wanna show me, sugah? She asked, almost afraid of the answer.
Logan didn't bother to speak again inside her; he just shared with her the memories he wanted her to see; there was no chaotic rush of thoughts, memories, emotions and sensations. Logan had permitted her to get used to his abilities so she would understand them.
Rogue whimpered and flinched as images of Gambit wafted past her.
Gambit, in costume, stood over a fallen Wolverine in the Danger Room. "Bang," he grinned, "You dead." Wolverine's awareness was as sharp as his claws; Gambit could've done away with him then and there. Logan had been weak and, at the time, outclassed. LeBeau had been content to prove his point.
Gambit flirted with Storm out by the pool, wearing nothing but hightops and a pair of bike shorts. Although she glowered at his insistence on calling her "Stormy," Wolverine was aware she was secretly amused. No one else had ever bothered to give her an informal, affectionate moniker. Wolverine was equally aware that Gambit knew Storm was amused despite her protestations.
Gambit stood nose-to-nose with Bishop, refusing to back away so much as a step, even though the larger man had him by the lapels of his ever-present trenchcoat. The timeslipped X-Man had accused the Cajun of being a traitor to the X-Men. Remy had denied it hotly, but Logan had smelled on him the sick fear, the uncertainty, the horror at considering whether Bishop's words had been true.
Gambit taunted Rogue to kiss him. Rogue had flung him over the pool table and across the room for teasing her. Logan had watched, unnoticed from the shadows. Remy had lain there, in pain, laughing. He'd picked splinters from his hair and his butt, and reeked of beer until they'd gotten home from the pub that night. Logan had smelled Rogue's anger and humiliation at Gambit's having plucked at a sore spot. He'd also scented, stronger than the thin American beer, the Cajun's deep and honest regret that a simple kiss was not possible. Sure, there were the standard hormones bouncing around in the atmosphere. Two young folks who were attracted to each other were going to give that off.
Gambit sat hunched on the stairs, his first day after being allowed out of the medbay. His head was in his hands. Logan had observed from a polite distance. Rogue had finally given into the desire to kiss him. (Ah thought ah was gonna die! Rogue protested against the memory Logan showed her.) The kiss had put LeBeau into a coma. Rogue had had some manner of cope failure with what she got from Remy's mind. The kiss had been willing enough on Gambit's part, but he hadn't wanted to fill her head with his life, his thoughts, his feelings. He hadn't wanted her to see the dark blotches on his past. He'd resisted, and so the transition had been painful for them both. And now, in this memory from Logan's perspective -- his resistance had cost him the woman he loved. The sadness seeped off his skin, cloying.
Gambit looked out the window as Rogue returned. The genuine joy was apparent in Gambit's scent to Logan. As was his genuine regret at having driven her away. Likewise, so was his fear of her having figured out all the Remy-information that had been auto-downloaded onto her psyche from his on the night of that fateful kiss.
Rogue blinked and suddenly she was alone in her own head again. The time limit on her contact-absorption had elapsed, leaving Logan to himself again -- and Rogue, alone in her own head.
Wolverine sat up, and regarded her in silence for several moments. Now let's see if she's quick enough on the uptake to figure it all the hell out. "Don't say I never gave you anythin', girl," he suggested, then jumped off the roof. He hit the ground running, made his way across the dead winter grass, and vanished into the woods.
And you, who profess to love him ...Storm's words came back to Rogue. You did not examine his thoughts and feelings closely?
"Oh, Remy," Rogue murmured, tears coming to her eyes.
It had taken most of the night for Gambit to tell Storm what had happened at the trial. His voice kept cracking and breaking. Partly, Ororo was certain, due to how close he'd come to death. He would still, in fact, be some time recovering. But the rest, she was equally sure, was due to the emotions he was feeling. She had stopped him several times to make him sip lukewarm herbal tea. The Cajun had been grateful of the pauses. They had given him time to collect his thoughts before continuing...and he was determined to continue.
"You hate me too?" Gambit asked after he'd finally told his tale. He turned his face, red-on-black eyes seeking hers, even though his vision had not entirely returned yet. He tensed. Momen' o' trut', LeBeau, he told himself. She eitha gon' f'give me, slap my face, or she gon' decide Rogue was right in de firs' place an' put a lightnin' bolt right square between my eyes, lettin' Rogue's deat' sentence stan'.
"That was a very difficult confession for you," was all Ororo said. To his surprise, her voice was full of compassion. Gambit hadn't been expecting that.
"You duckin' de question, Stormy," he murmured, closing his eyes. "So -- tell me straight? You gon' put my ass back where you foun' me an' let de devil t'aw me out?"
"Do not be foolish," Ororo replied in that cool, smooth tone that indicated she was thinking. "Of course I do not hate you, Remy. I have known there were dark places in your past since we met. This confession of yours beggars the question, 'why did not you tell us sooner?'"
"Why?" Remy's laugh was jagged at the edges, a painful sound. Dat easy. I was ashamed. "What you t'ink of your Gambit den, Stormy, if I tell you how bad I fuck up? Mebbe y'all not gimme a chance t'make up for what I done when I was young an' stupid."
"We gave Rogue that chance," Ororo pointed out, without rancor.
"Yeah, dis true," Gambit conceded, as the stasis field fell away. It apparently had been on a timer. With nothing to support him, LeBeau stumbled and ended up on hands and knees. It hurt like hell -- but the pain reminded him he hadn't frozen to death -- that he still lived. Some masochistic part of himself declared that the pain was no less than he deserved for hurting Rogue as he had.
"Dis true," he began again, "but it ain' like I know how y'all deal wit' folks back den. I din' even know dat Rogue have a dark pas' of her own 'til sometime later. An' by de time dis all come out, I hopin' y'all t'ink I prove myself a real X-Man -- an' dat what's pas' is pas' an' it don' matter 'cause dat de man I used to be...not de man I am now."
Ororo stood, waiting for Remy to rise on his own. In point of fact, her instincts urged her to help him to his feet. But LeBeau had been alone before he knew her, and his already battered ego would suffer more damage if he wasn't allowed to stand up by himself. "I can understand that," she said compassionately. You know I would not have come for you if I truly thought you the villain Rogue would have us believe you are.
Remy just slouched on the floor, waiting. Was she going to offer him a hand, or was Ororo just going to let him remain crumpled on the floor? C'mon, Stormy -- show me you ain' gave up on me dis easy....we been t'rough so much t'getha, neh? Then it dawned on him. She showin' me. She jus' ain' gonna let me sink into self pity an' despair.
Shakily, like a newborn colt, Remy stood. "Merci beaucoup," he whispered, testing his body by lifting one bare foot to take a step toward the last place he'd heard her voice. "Dat ...dat mean a lot to me, Stormy." He gasped; the pins and needles sensations in his skin were agonizing. Whatever Lila had put him in -- nutrient bath, recombinator, whatever -- it had pretty much left him tender everywhere. He felt like he was one big bruise from head to toe, inside and out.
C'mon, you not gon' let a li'l t'ing like nearly freezin t'deat' slow you down an' stop you from t'ankin' your bes' frien' in de world, are you? Remy gave a slow shake of his head in response to his own question, and took another shaky step toward Ororo.
Ororo smiled, holding her ground. Excellent. I feared this had crushed his spirit. But he remains as much a fighter as ever.
Damn. I like a baby. I ain' gon' be no good to de team like dis...if dey still have me. Stormy here, but I ain' hearin' nobody else. Remy felt a coldness curl around his spine. He swallowed hard at the thought of being barred from the X-Men. For all his devil-may-care bravado, the others had become family to him - from that uptight, strait-laced suckup Scott to the crazed runt Wolverine, to the perpetually innocent hayseed Guthrie; they'd all gotten under his skin, into his blood.
Another painful step.
Another.
...then, finally, Remy was close to Ororo. Close enough, he realized with a shock, that he could smell her scent -- something herbal and natural. His vision had failed him, but as a thief, his other senses were about as sharp as it was super-humanly possible to make them. He smiled, slowly and crookedly, and opened his arms. "C'mere, Stormy."
Storm swept him into her arms, the silky fabric of her cloak enveloping him as she closed him in a fierce embrace. Her heart pounded against his chest, and her smile was taut but sincere beneath his fingers. She held him in silence, stroking his hair. Remy could recall a night shortly after they'd met when he'd done the same. Little Stormy, only twelve, had awakened from a thunderstorm, and he'd cuddled her close to his heart until the terror abated enough for her to sleep.
With that memory came the realization that he, too, was was free of terror. Not to mention exhausted. "Stormy, I..." he started, but never managed another word. Sleep came for him with no more warning than that as his heart was relieved of the weight of knowing that Storm, at least, still had a place in her heart for him -- even after what he had done.
Jean looked down at the sleeping form of her husband. Scott's expression usually went relaxed and childlike in sleep like it never was when he was awake. But the pain of his injury had left his face pinched and uneasy. Oh, my love, she thought. I came too close to losing you this time. That frightening thought was probably why she had such insomnia.
It was late. Jean ran a cursory check of the house. Perhaps looking after the others would ease her racing thoughts. Storm had flown, after Gambit. Sam had bought sleeping bags for everyone, and was even now curled up in one, so tired that even the television Jubilee blared was not enough to keep him awake. Hank had fallen asleep working on his research for the Legacy Virus. Jean had telekinetically brought him a blanket. She permitted herself a warm glow of amusement and affection as she realized Cecelia had fallen asleep at his side, likewise hunched over the counter in their abbreviated medical lab. Bobby had constructed himself a bunk of ice and was draped unconscious over it. Maggott and his two little creatures were also asleep, out at the boathouse. That left Marrow unaccounted for. Jean suppressed a bilious disgust for the young mutant, but she'd been instrumental in saving Scott's life -- so she deserved the same regard any other X-Man got.
Marrow was in the basement, huddled in a corner, in pain. Near as Jean could determine, Marrow had attacked Jubilee without provocation and gotten what was, essentially, a faceful of napalm for her trouble. One of these days you will lose that combative attitude, Sarah -- but until then, you'll find picking fights with the X-Men is as painful as it is ill-advised.
Once she'd established the relative well-being of everyone in the house, looking for Charles seemed to be the best way for Jean to focus all her nervous energy. Jean rose telekinetically so as not to disturb Scott's rest with clumsy motions. Then she extended her consciousness outward. You're all right, Charles Francis Xavier, she declared fiercely. You're the heart of this team. You have to be all right. And I will find you.
She cast her awareness outward in ever-widening circles from the mansion. She found several, dozens, scores of minds troubled by the "mutant menace". She turned away from those with an unconscious shiver.
Try as she might, though, Jean found no trace, no psionic echo, no indication of Charles Xavier within 500 miles of the mansion. She grafted her awareness onto the back of an airline passenger's mind, and flew with it to the desert over Arizona. Jubilee had been held in the former Hulkbuster base. Perhaps Bastion had held Charles there as well. But no. There was no sign of the professor there either. She let the silvery thread she kept connected to her astral self snap back like an elastic, returning her to herself with a sigh.
Bemused, Jean found herself wishing Gambit were here. On examining the feeling a little more closely, she realized it was more than just affection -- although that, too, was part of her desire to see him again. Logic dictated that Gambit's underworld connections might well lead them to Charles where psychic searches for his astral presence failed. Given Bastion's paranoia, it was entirely likely that he had put Charles behind psionic baffles. Other than Storm, Jean was quite sure that Remy LeBeau could slip unnoticed under Bastion's watchful eye, thumbing his nose at the security of the now-defunct Operation Zero Tolerance. Come back soon, LeBeau. We miss you...well, most of us do. That last thought had a bit of a wry bittersweetness to it.
Even with the psi-shielding that now came naturally to her, Rogue's sudden 180-degree turn in her feelings for the Cajun thief were blaringly obvious to Jean. Worse, she wouldn't discuss what had happened, so there was a sort of psychic smog around Rogue that permeated the house, along with all the other mental residue from Bastion, and the tension of the X-Men's current situation.
Finally, curiosity and frustration got the better of Jean. She had been unable to help Charles when the authorities had come for him. She had been unable, for all her telepathic and telekinetic prowess, to do more than assist Cecelia Reyes in saving Scott's life. To assuage her feelings of anger and helplessness, Jean decided she would do what she could to help this situation.
It was a simple thing for her awareness to reach New York, where Warren Worthington was in his penthouse. It was late, but Warren was not asleep. For all that he looked like an angel, with wings like an eagle -- Warren was -- well, a night owl. He doesn't know about Scott's injury, anyway, she rationalized, giving herself an additional reason to contact him.
[~Warren? Am I interrupting?~] Warren was standing out on his balcony with the wind dancing through his feathers. Jean already knew that Betsy was asleep in the bedroom, but still -- it never hurt to be polite, and treat people like her psychic awareness did not give her so much information.
[~Never, Jeannie, love. How you and our fearless leader doing?~]
[~Scott's resting. The operation was a success. He'll be fine if he listens to Dr. Reyes and stays off his feet for the next little while.~] Unworthy of yourself, Jean Grey, she chided herself mentally for the flip, cavalier tone she'd used in her sending to Warren. She had resented, just slightly, that Warren had not persuaded Betsy Braddock to leave him behind rather than teleporting him directly to the penthouse after dropping off Rogue, Hank, and Trish. The house was a shambles. Scott was off his feet, and Bobby had brought three strangers with him. Rogue had declared Gambit no longer an X-Man, and Storm had gone after him without a second thought. She could have used Warren's serenity and stability.
[~Operation?! What operation, Jeannie? What's happened to Scott?~] Warren's mind-voice sharpened with alarm.
[~Dr. Reyes had to remove a -- foreign object from Scott's abdominal cavity,~] Jean explained. [~A bomb, actually.~]
She felt Warren's shock, covered quickly by relief. Jean had said Scott would be all right. [~Glad he'll be okay,~] Angel said with a sincerity that warmed the cockles of Jean's heart. [~Thanks for ...."calling."~]
[~I didn't actually call to stress you over Scott's condition,~] Jean confessed.
[~What, then?~] Warren asked. In her mind's eye, Jean could see him giving a tilt of his head that always made her think of a bewildered cockatoo.
[~I wanted to know ... what happened in Antarctica.~]
There was icy, roiling silence on the other end of the mind link for a long time.
[~You mean when Gambit's true colours were finally revealed?~] asked Warren, voice far too innocent; far too conversational. [~When we found out he was the reason we faced, fought, and nearly died against the Marauders in the Morlock tunnels? When we found out he was responsible for the massacre? For the loss of my wings? Is that what you mean, Jeannie?~]
[~Yes,~] Jean replied, unshakable as ever. [~Can you tell me what happened between Rogue and Gambit?~]
Warren related to Jean, through the bias of his anger and his grief. Jean didn't really need the words; once Warren began to think about Gambit's trial, everything Warren saw and remembered was laid out before her.
The revelation of Gambit's involvement with the Marauders had come as quite a shock. Warren had not especially liked LeBeau in the first place. But this news could not possibly have been worse for him. Losing his wings had been, Jean imagined, the single most devastating experience of Warren's life. Candy Sothern's death hadn't hurt him so deeply. The betrayal of his once-friend Cameron Hodge had not left so grievous a wound on his heart, on his soul. His wings had defined him. From the moment they'd sprung from his back that night in finishing school, Warren had gloried in the feathered crest that gifted him with flight. He was one of the few mutants who regarded himself thus -- gifted, rather than freakish. If not for the loss of his wings, he might never have ended up in the embrace of Apocalypse.
And if not for the loss of Belladonna, Jean considered, Gambit would probably not have ended up working for that depraved maniac Sinister. [~Grief makes you do very strange things, Warren. Or did you forget your time as Apocalypse's Death? Gambit has made his way back, hasn't he? As you did. He is renouncing the time when he was Fallen, and embracing the light -- just as you did. Your natural wings only needed time to heal, and you have them back. Would you hold it against Scott if he'd sunk into the darkness after he lost me? ~] Losing Jean the first time -- when she had allegedly died on the moon -- had nearly wrecked Scott beyond all repair. It was only meeting up with Madelyne Pryor -- that's another one I owe you, Sinister -- that saved him from falling headlong to a place where he might never have surfaced from again.
Warren fell silent again. When he finally responded, his voice was softer, contrite. [~Damn it, Red -- why do you always have to make so much sense?~]
Jean gave Warren the warm sensation of being hugged. [~One of us has to, Wings,~] she retorted affectionately.
Warmth. Blessed, beautiful, life-giving warmth. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Remy LeBeau was warm again! T'ank you, he thought -- although he was uncertain to whom he was grateful. God? He'd never been an exactly religious man. He knew he owed a life debt to Stormy, to Lila, and to Mickey. Them, at least, he could show he was grateful to. He stretched, and swore in fluent musical Creole as his still-healing body protested the movement.
"Well," said Ororo's voice beyond his eyelids. "Look who's awake." She sounded pleased. And relieved.
The bed was comfortable and huge. Even spreading wide his arms, he could not feel either edge. The blankets coccooned his body warmly, softer than silk. He couldn't recall comfort like this. It seemed uncharacteristic for Storm, but Remy didn't protest. Maybe she thought he deserved a little bit of babying while he recuperated. The tone of Storm's voice resonated oddly off Gambit's ears, and he turned to her.
"Stormy? How long Gambit been sleepin'?" he asked, suddenly feeling a bit uneasy.
"It is hard to say precisely, Remy," Ororo answered. He could hear, eyes still closed, that she was no longer in uniform. The telltale whisper of her cloak was gone. "I would estimate something like -- three days."
" T'ree days?! " Gambit repeated, incredulous. "I been sleepin' for t'ree days?"
"You did nearly freeze to death," Ororo chided gently. "And before that, did I not hear you say that you had recently returned from Shi'ar space, having fought to help Lilandra Neramani? I believe the rest was earned. Do not deride yourself. If you are feeling strong enough, after breakfast we can go for a walk."
Breakfast! The very word set Remy's stomach to growling. Food. He couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten. It had been since before Nanny. Since before the inhibitor collars and -- Don' go dere, Remy warned himself. Don' t'ink about dat. It had been the last time he'd seen Rogue under good terms. When she'd still loved him. She'd found his deck of cards and pulled out the Queen of Hearts to represent herself. He felt his composure crumpling, grief replacing his hunger. "I not hungry, Stormy," he murmured.
"Yes, you are," Ororo insisted gently. "Even if you do not believe you are, you must eat something."
A few moments later, his nose found the aroma of -- pancakes. His stomach responded, overriding his emotions. Remy opened his eyes, and found that his vision was much clearer -- almost back to normal. "Dey smell great, Stormy. T'anks. You bein' too good t'me. More'n I deserve." Moreover, Storm looked -- beautiful. She wore a long white sarong which flowed in the gentle tropical breeze coming in from the balcony. Her hair was likewise lifted and whirled by the playful breeze. My angel of mercy, he thought.
Poor Remy -- he is still berating himself over Rogue's reaction, Ororo thought. She carried the plate over to him, and he accepted, wordlessly. By the movements of his eyes, following her, Ororo deduced that he was sighted once more. She lifted her fingers to his cheeks and tilted his head forward to kiss his forehead gently. "I am very pleased to see that you are recovering."
Remy blushed at the touch of her lips, and Ororo actually laughed. The laughter brightened her mood even more, and succeeded in banishing the dull ache inside her. Lila had not come back for them yet. Lila's home on the Dyson sphere was extremely well stocked. They would not go hungry. The weather was balmy and comfortable -- a perfect environment in which to allow Remy time to recover. The foliage was lush and healthy, reminding Storm of her native Africa. But, for all these amenities and comforts -- it was not Earth . Her body knew it, and suffered from a separation withdrawal that was definitely more than merely psychological. "Eat," she encouraged him, voice carefully modulated to conceal the pain her vigil was causing her.
Remy ate. Ororo sat beside him on the bed, also eating. She had brought a rolling caddy table to the bedside. It was laden with fruit, juice, and fresh-baked bread. Remy supposed that with him out like a light for three days, she had had time to be domestic. He wondered if Mickey and Lila had taken a shift sitting up watching him. He didn't hear them now, nor see them. As far as he could determine, he was alone with Storm. He glanced out off the balcony and gasped -- the view was nothing short of spectacular. Without thinking, he threw aside the bedclothes and stood, shakily. Once he was certain of his footing, he walked tentatively to the balcony and leaned on the railing. Blue blue sky soared above him, with clouds like cotton. Below him was a tropical oasis. He could see birds darting in and out of the palm leaves, hear frogs singing to each other in the shadows. Paradise , he thought. It was some moments before the thought echoed in his head -- I wish Rogue was here t'see dis . Then he turned to glance over his shoulder and smiled at Storm, who watched him silently, also smiling. But I still got me some fine comp'ny to appreciate it wit'.
"Where we at, chere?" Gambit asked, looking down. It was only then that he realized he had on -- absolutely nothing. He felt a blush creep over his face again. Storm had never, to his recollection, seen him in the altogether. Not that she had any prudish notions about nudity. She showered in her own private rainstorm each morning. "Sout' America?" he asked, recovering nicely from his momentary twinkle of surprise. "Someplace in Australia? Africa? It beautiful here -- we at one of Lila's summer homes someplace?"
Ororo savored the pole-axed expression on Remy's face when she replied, "Neither." He did not speak again, mouth dropped open in astonishment. She raised a brow. LeBeau knew Lila was a thief par excellence, as was he -- and at one time, Ororo herself. Was it possible he did not know her mutant ability? No, of course not. She had been the one to take the X-Men into Shi'Ar space shortly after Gambit had joined the team. If he did not remember now, it was probably just disorientation from his ordeal. He also gave no sign of realizing what it was costing Ororo to be up here with him. Not that she would've traded it for the world. The Dyson sphere was comfortable, and she had gone too long without truly resting. She made a mental note that Lila should bring the rest of the X-Men here for a vacation sometime. But for now -- LeBeau needed the serenity most -- to recover.
"Ororo," Remy whispered, "...where are we?"
Ororo, noted Ororo. Not 'Stormy.' Bright Lady be praised, but I do believe that is the first time I have ever seen him caught entirely speechless. Ororo enjoyed the moment before Gambit's plaintive expression behooved her to answer his question.
"We are in outer space somewhere," Storm replied with an airy gesture. "To be more precise, we are in a Dyson sphere, which is currently in the possession of Lila Cheney. She had the best equipment, most easily reached, to give you the medical attention you required. And it is quiet here, so you may recover undisturbed."
LeBeau looked nonplussed for all of three seconds, then grinned. Ororo gave him credit for his quick recovery. "Okay," he said, all smiles. "So when you gon' give me de nickel tour, Stormy?"
Ororo tilted her head and pinned him with her blue-eyed gaze. "Anytime you feel up to it, you lazy thing," she teased.
"Hey! Gambit never felt better in his life!" he crowed, and to prove it, pelted full-tilt in a lap around the enormous bedroom. His body had other ideas. By the time he came back to Ororo's side on the bed, he was breathing hard.
"Perhaps you should take things a little slower," Ororo suggested, stroking Remy's sweat-dampened hair back from his face. "We have time, you know."
Rogue scanned the newspapers in the New York Public Library. Nothing in the Daily News , nor in the Daily Bugle . She found nothing in the Star . There was nothing in the New York Times . She even checked the Examiner and the Enquirer.
There were no obituaries describing a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man freezing to death. Storm reached him in time, somehow, Rogue thought, relieved. Remy is alive!
Heart lightened with this certainty, Rogue flew back to the mansion to help Sam, Joseph and Mr. Brewster rebuilding the mansion.
The man once known as Nathaniel Essex frowned. Something was not going according to plan. Although he was emotionless in the classical sense, having his plans thwarted brought him as close to unthinking, blind rage as it possibly could. I could not have made such an amateurish error, he thought, checking his readings again. It is patently impossible.
The readings did not change. One of his agents was gone from his control grid. Not out of range -- there was no such thing on earth. Not incommunicado. The tracking devices were installed subcuteneously. His quarry could not be dead; the tracking device would have discovered that too.
"Where...is....LeBeau?" Sinister demanded of the hollow, echoing laboratory around him.
No matter, he thought, and turned to one of his cryogenic storage units. He manipulated the retrieval unit and pulled forth the biological matter he needed to create another. One will do as well as another. And the original one's usefulness was at an end at any rate. Scott Summers will recover without LeBeau, and I can place an agent to observe him and his mate wherever they go. The other Summers, however, is another story. This disturbing alliance he has with the other McCoy...
Sinister lapsed into thought after that.
Sam sneezed, turning away politely.
"Bless you," Jubilee and Cecelia chorused over the kitchen table where the former ate another bowl of Apple Jacks and the latter sucked down coffee beside Hank McCoy. The Beast had his bespectacled nose in a medical journal, poring over it voraciously. Cecelia had a similar journal spread out before her. Sam was amused to notice that there was not one drop of coffee staining the pristine white pages either. That woman sure does love her coffee.
Hank looked up and said, "Geshundeit," in a distracted voice before going back to his medical journals. That man sure is dedicated to his cause. He's gonna find the way to beat the legacy virus or die trying.
"Thank y'kindly," Sam replied, washing off his hands before making himself a modest breakfast of oatmeal and a corn muffin.
Jubilee sneezed, holding up a napkin before her face.
"Bless you," chorused Cecelia, Sam, and Logan, who had just walked in.
"Thanks," Jubilee replied, going back to her breakfast. "All the dust from the construction is just getting to us, I guess."
"We'll see about that," Cecelia said in a tone that indicated Jubilee had better report for a checkup as soon as possible.
Jubilee gave Cecelia her patented 'yeah, right' look, and continued to eat.
"Morning JuJu-Bee," Marrow rasped, popping out of the basement long enough to nab a couple of lemon-poppy seed muffins and vanish again. She moved so quickly, she missed Jubilee very casually flipping the bird after her back.
Rogue, however, did not, catching the rude gesture as Marrow departed back to the basement. "Ah declare, Logan. You are corruptin' her."
Logan just grinned over his steak and eggs. "She was like that when I found her, honest." His tone was unrepentantly mirthful. Jubilee looked up and gave Logan an adoring smile. Logan returned the smile with an affectionate ruffle of Jubilee's hair.
Sam was pleased to note that Jubilee, in fact all the residents of the mansion were in better spirits. They hadn't even been angry with him for getting Cheryl and Tommy Brewster's father to help rebuild the house.
Rogue sneezed.
"Bless you," Jubilee grinned, just ahead of Cecelia, Hank, and Logan.
"Yup, dust," Jubilee declared.
"You're still not getting out of a checkup," Reyes said flatly.
Jubilee stuck her tongue out at the doctor but Logan said, "Don't give the doc a hard time, Lee," in a gentle voice that only served to hide the worry in his eyes a little.
Jubilee had been mindgamed badly by Bastion, near as any of them were able to tell. They had offered to listen if Jubilee had wanted to talk about it, but the plucky teenager said she was fine. She woke up screaming at least one night a week, as far as Sam knew, screaming how she would never betray Wolverine. She was in diminished spirits when Logan was not nearby, and worst of all -- the experience had made her a bit harder. This life forces kids to grow up too darn fast, he sighed regretfully. She should be out thinkin' about boys an' proms an' school. An' instead she's recoverin' from bein' tortured.
Jubilee complained and griped, but she'd go for the checkup; for Logan's sake if for no other reason. No tellin' what Bastion mighta done to her if he stuck a bomb in Scott's chest, for cryin' out loud! Sam shook his head and finished his meal. "Ah'm goin' up topside to help Mr. Brewster with the roof. Catch y'all later." He turned, stuck his dishes in the dishwasher, and headed out, whistling Chumbawamba's "Tubthumping."
Jubilee picked up the tune, but chose to sing instead. "I get knocked down! But I get up again!" Sheesh, you'd think Chumbawamba knew us personally! Jubilee thought over her enthusiastic wailing of the lyrics.
"You ready to hit the City?" Cecelia asked of Hank. "If you want to restock the lab, we should go early. We'll miss the delivery if we're not out of here by seven."
"I am prepared to undertake an excursion to the concrete jungle, Doctor Reyes," Hank replied with exaggerated gravity to his baritone voice. He licked his fingertips and slicked back his eyebrows in a playful mockery of "getting ready." He went serious again, though, turning to regard the young Puerto Rican woman solemnly. "There is one small consideration you may desire to excogitate, however, before putting your final agreement upon our mutual travel to the appointed location."
"What's that?" asked Cecelia, finishing up her coffee.
Hank's response was a low mumble too soft to carry.
"Come again?" Cecelia demanded. "Loud. From the diaphragm." She was making a joke? The tension level was dropping!
"With all of our more sophisticated equipment gone, Cecelia," Hank began again, voice still very low, "I have no image inducer." He regarded her silently for a moment; it dawned on him that she hadn't the slightest idea what he was talking about. "Permit me to elaborate. The lack of availability of such a device for my utilization, Cecelia -- means I shall have to accompany you in my native appearance." He shrugged, looking away. Locked and loaded, Dr. McCoy. Brace for impact.
Cecelia blinked, taking a moment to wade through Hank's vocabulary. Though easily as learned as McCoy, Cecelia chose expedient, brief words over Hank's more elaborate mode of speech. Her simple speech pattern was a habit that came of working at O-MOM in the Bronx; not everyone there had an MD -- many had not gotten to finish high school. "So," Cecelia began slowly, pouring herself a second cup of coffee since Hank had not even moved to rise from the kitchen table. "You're saying this is a come as you are party?"
"Essentially," Hank replied, sotto voce. "I will be the same bouncing blue ball of fur -- although impeccably attired in my best Versace suit, and suitably coiffed so as not to ...." He trailed off, smile freezing on his face. He was unable to hold up the joke any longer -- the words he would have chosen to end the sentence were close to ringing painfully true: so as not to embarrass you.
Jubilee looked from Cecelia to Hank, and dragged Logan by the elbow. "C'mon, Wolvie -- what say you take me shopping at the mall, hey? I could use a good long fall into the Gap."
Logan, perceptive enough to take the hint, nodded. He put his dishes into the dishwasher and followed Jubilee out of the kitchen. Rogue, also not missing the gravity of the moment, mumbled something about needing to check the morning papers, and took to the air, flying out the open kitchen window. A chorus of catcalls and whistles from Brewster's Construction greeted her as she cleared the concealing hedgerows.
Cecelia drank her coffee, letting the silence drag on. Oh, come on, she thought, indignantly. I know I'm not especially thrilled about bein' a mutant myself -- but does this bunch really think I'm that bad? She cast a glance at the basement door.
Marrow's damn creepy, but that's at least 75% her bad attitude, Cecelia considered.
Maggott walked in, "G'morning all," he called. He noted Hank's hunched shoulders as he returned his attention to his book, and Cecelia's almost militant pose as she leaned on the counter. He didn't speak another word. He grabbed an apple off the counter for himself, and departed. After he was clear of the kitchen door, Cecelia could hear him promising his "girls" leftovers from the construction site for brekkies if they liked.
And then there's Maggott, Cecelia conceded. But that's at least 75% that he's got two giant leech-bug-things dogging his steps!
She turned to Hank and snapped, "Earth to McCoy! Earth to McCoy! Are you coming with me or what? I said we need to be on the road by seven if we're going to make it in time for their morning delivery!"
Cecelia found, to her surprise, that the wide smile Hank gave her brightened the whole room. "I'll meet you out front in ten minutes. And Hank? Just wear Levi's or something, huh?"
Remy sat in bed, frowning. The bed was made up tight enough to bounce quarters off. For all that he gave off the imperession of being slovenly and lazy, he was actually quite the neat housekeeper. Some of the Thieves' Guild believed that the sloppier one's domain was, the harder it would be to find anything. Remy didn't believe that. Besides, his father had raised him to be almost militaristically neat.
He'd found a top hat somewhere, and had retrieved a red-backed and a blue-backed deck of playing cards from his trenchcoat. He was attempting to pitch the cards into his hat. But missing. Six times out of ten! Six times out of ten! Aw, merde, he thought grimly. My han's....
His hands, in point of fact, were shaking. They'd had a little shake to them since he'd gotten up and around. It wasn't noticeable if he were doing something like eating, dressing, or doing housekeeping. Dat remin' me. I gotta take a turn or two at de cookin'. Stormy make decen' breakfas', but she don' know de firs' t'ing about spices. You t'ink somebody who grow a garden would know somet'ing about herbs.
Remy sighed, Face it, LeBeau. You scared you ordeal ruin you skills.
He went back to flipping cards into the hat. Deuce of clubs -- into the hat. The trey of diamonds went into the hat. With the eight of spades, Remy missed. Remy missed again with the ten of diamonds. The Jack of Diamonds went in, but his brother, the Jack of Spades missed. The deuce of hearts, the ace of hearts, and the King of Clubs all missed. By chance, he glanced down at the next card. Aww, damn. The Queen of Hearts.
Without looking, Remy closed his eyes and gave the card a careless fling. It hit the rim of the hat, bounced once, went in...and exploded in a shower of kinetic sparks. Remy opened his eyes and blinked. The hat was on fire! Merde! He leaped up and stomped on the hat, singeing the soles of his feet and the hem of the sweatpants he wore. The hat remained serviceable, so he sat back down on the bed and began again.
The next card went into the hat. So did the one after that. The one after that went into the hat as well. Remy counted; the next seventy-four cards Remy threw at the hat went in fine, and the shake to his hands was gone. He raised one brow thoughtfully. Well ain' dat a kick in de pants.
He was still pitching cards when Storm returned from her flight. "Welcome back, chere," he greeted her with his best roguish smile. "When you gon' take me flyin' an' show me 'roun dis place, neh?"
Storm chuckled. "When you can keep up with me again on the ground," she repliled with unflappable good cheer. She went to step down off the railing, but her footing slipped. She did not scream, only went over the railing backward without a sound. And did not rise up again on a conjured air current.
" STORMY! " LeBeau was on his feet in a heartbeat, four cards lit in his left hand. His right reached for one of the twining vines climbing the wall beside the balcony. He swung his left hand against the vine. The kinetic explosion freed the vine. He looped the vine about his wrist and ankle; then, without a second thought, he dove off the balcony.
Storm fell like a ghost, limp. Remy's head gave a nauseous twinge; it was a long way to the ground. A mile or so easy. If he missed, Stormy had a long way to go before she hit -- and if she hit, she was not returning. Oh no you don', Stormy he thought grimly, plastering his hands to his sides to make the fall faster. You not leavin' me.
Storm could feel the air rushing past her face. But her concentration was gone. So were her powers for the moment. Her body was rebelling against being separated from the earth. She could command the winds mentally but her weather abilities were not responding to her wishes. She could only hope LeBeau had seen and that his reflexes were sufficiently recovered and sharp enough for him to come after her.
She heard her name called, then the flicker of orange at the balcony gave her her answer. Bright Lady be praised. Gambit's kinetic powers were working. And the silhouetted figure at the railing leapt after her, trailing a vine like a rope. Her consciousness failed her after that and she knew nothing else.
C'mon, LeBeau -- STRETCH your fuckin' arm! He reached for Ororo's arm, his fingertips brushing her elbow. Dis gon' hurt, chere. I sorry. His fingers found her elbow again and closed around it, tight. He curled his leg and used the vine to brake their fall. Ororo hung limp from his arm. The vine quivered along with the muscles in Remy's arm. Let go an' we bot' dead, homme. You gotta hang in dere. He gave a whispered murmur of thanks to whatever was watching over fools, little children, and mutants named LeBeau -- there was an outcropping from the wall of the tower. It was wide enough for him to straddle with Storm between him and the wall. There was no way he could manage something as elaborate as a crude elevator, but he could make a harness out of the strong, corded vine. That way he could carry her on his back with both hands free. Up or down, he considered. It was a shorter distance to the balcony. And now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he could see the wall was built perfect for a thief -- hand and footholds were abundant since the tower was a huge stone carving. Bless you, Lila.
Remy climbed, wincing inwardly at the protest of his muscles. C'mon -- it on'y been t'ree days since I get all fucked up...I ain' all flabby yet!
It felt like years before they reached the top of the balcony again. He was pale, sweating, and shaking when he climbed gratefully over the railing and carried Storm to the bed. He felt for a pulse and gave a brief sigh of relief that it was strong. She was breathing as well -- but was unconscious.
"Dat was not funny, Stormy," Gambit declared in a low voice. "Joke over. We prove I still can move if I gotta. Okay, so dere no Danga' Room up here. You coulda' warn' me firs'."
But she didn't reply. Remy took a closer look and realized her complexion was a bit ashen. Merde, he thought again.
Or