Warnings: Man sex later, graphic violence probably. It's Remy/Logan.

"Runnin' On Empty"

He couldn't help it. Well, he could, in a way, but that was a way that led to pain and self-destruction. And while he might be one to enjoy pain in the right situations, he tried to avoid it as best he could outside the bedroom.

Remy stared at the stars through the window of his room, slowly exhaling the smoke from his cigarette. If he closed his eyes and breathed in, he could almost smell the Quarter, dank and smoky with just a hint of freshness. His eyes stayed open though, not wanting to drift into hurtful territory.

He listened again, the sounds of laughter and happiness drifting on the night air. Jean and Scott, out on the grounds for a walk. The children in the den, playing games and laughing. It was as if the whole mansion were singing with joy, and he… he was watching it all. He was no partaker in the joy. He was an empath, and despite what most people thought of empaths, he didn't revel in emotions. He didn't want to feel anymore. He hadn't felt anything in years.

Disassociation, Xavier had told him when he had first arrived with Ororo. Had lectured him on the unhealthiness of the psychological issue. Remy had just laughed it off, his usual response to such things. Essex had told him that before as well. But what could one expect, really, out of an empath. Someone who felt every emotion of every other person they were around? He had become a watcher, a guard as it were.

He watched over the inhabitants of this house, helped them when they didn't even know it. He manipulated them pure and simple. Mostly for their own good, but sometimes for his own pleasures. Because what little he took pleasure in gave him the strength to keep going in the face of so much despair.

When he had come here, his shields had been well-erected, but not well enough to withstand the pure emotional rollercoaster that was the Mansion. He had felt, for the first time in ages, the joys and sorrows of the world through his own emotions. He had actually lived them, laughed in truth and cried in secret. But he was stronger than all that. He spent days in meditation building those walls around his battered psyche, mending the breaks that the indomitable cheer of the house brought.

He had survived for years in the streets, the guild, and the tunnels. Survived gangs and mutant-haters and hateful mutants. He had bedded his fair share of women, and even men when the urge struck. Or the opportunity was too good to pass up. But truthfully, when he started to 'date' Rogue, he was following her simple desire to vent. She was a lonely, angry little femme, and she needed someone to take it out on. Someone who wouldn't break from the stress. But he had taken that stress, and helped to relieve it, and now she had Joseph. She had her hatred of him, which he could taste even now with her out of the Mansion.

But it didn't bother him. It was only one of a thousand such feelings.

Warren hated him too, for reasons only Warren truly knew. But Remy guessed it had to do with the Marauders, long before anyone in the Mansion had learned of his involvement. But Warren needed someone to hate, because Warren had a lot of grief and sorrow in his head too, and it was easier to admit to hatred than to sorrow.

Remy was the friend of several of the younger members, Bobby seemed to follow him like a pup to a bitch. Remy could feel Bobby's youthful optimism, and his blind faith that drove his pranking. There was pain, but Bobby was very good at looking past it, looking to the future. Not to say he didn't have his moments, because more than once Remy became the crying shoulder for a breakup or a bad dream. But it was nothing unusual. He was the same for Ororo, and for Jubilee. For Scott he was a safe outlet for his anger and bitter disappointment, and now for his hatred. Jean simply stayed within her shields, and Remy could respect that. Perhaps it was for the best. With so many people leaning on him, unconsciously or not, he was starting to chink. His walls were crumbling under the onslaught.

His return from Antarctica had sparked more rage and hatred than even he could withstand. His shields were weak when he returned, and the hatred of his former teammates had done its job.

So here he was, back to staring at the sky. The gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to lay, filling with bitter tears. His demon-red eyes took in the scant moonlight, wondering how long he could stay.

Truthfully, he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay, even in the face of their mistrust. Even in the face of their hate and disappointment. But now, with things coming down around his ears, if he were to stay, he would break. Completely break. Sure, there were few in the Mansion who actively hated him, and mostly his former teammates put up a good front of "unity". But they didn't know he was an empath—that he could feel their feelings, could feel their secrets. They didn't realize that he controlled his charm, that he could control their own emotions to a point.

He could soothe the anger, bleed the resentment, or bolster the flagging happiness. He could help, but never would he share that. He was a loner, and that was how it would have to stay. He could see it, almost like a precog. He knew in his very soul that he was destined for no more than this. No more than hatred, no more than a superficial friendship. He deserved no more, either, for all the things he had done. He was a cold-hearted bastard, everyone knew that now. He was cold-hearted because he had to be. He had to have that ice, or he would go supernova with all the pent up despair and rage, the seething masses of anger and hurt. His was not a happy life. His was not the lot to be happy.

He sighed and shut the window after charging the cigarette butt outside. He heard the soft boom as it exploded, and he let the anger wash over him for a split second.

Because he needed it, the anger. He needed it to fuel his strength for his next move. His things, what little he had, were packed in his duffel. His bo staff in it's holster, as always. He checked his cards and his knives, and then shrugged on his coat. Lastly, with a parting glance in the mirror, he slipped his shades back on. They were more than just a way to keep people from seeing his unsettling eyes, they were his last line of defense. When it all came down in Antarctica they never saw his abject pain, never saw his heartbreak in the face of their betrayal. Because behind those dark shades he had cried as they flew off. He had screamed after they were gone, letting his shields down, thinking himself dead already.

Remy tried to regain that feeling of utter emptiness. When he had lost his walls in the frozen plains, there had been nothing. Nothing for miles and miles and miles. He had reached to the farthest edges of his perceptions, but no one lives in that forsaken country. There had been nothing, and that had been the defining blow to his psyche. That was what had allowed him to live in this house, feeling the weight of everyone's emotions. The complete and utter loss of something so vital to him as air.

Because when he was in Antarctica, he had lived, had been made to feel his own emotions again. He had realized that he wasn't emotionless, that he could feel, despite what he had fooled even himself into thinking.

"Remy ain't nothin' but a bleedin' heart, non?"

He was a bleeding heart alright. And he felt each and every beat of that heart, felt the slow bleed of the wounds it had garnered over the years. But he was stronger than all that. He wasn't one to lie down and die. He wasn't one to let his circumstances overcome him. If he had been, he would have lain down and died so many years ago.

He strolled through the corridors, using his gifts to keep from notice. He laughed a little, knowing that it was this very gift that was slowly tearing him apart. He hadn't the strength, after his return, to deal with the harsh emotions of the team. So he had made sure they had forgotten about him. Had left him out of the loop until he had had enough time to fix his wards. He had slowly let them back into his life then. He had taken them for granted before, and while they might never even like him, he could live with it. Because their emotions were how he survived. Because—as he had made sure of this time—he would never feel anything unless he was around them.

He had completely sealed off his own emotions; letting only a scant bit through to make sure he was still alive. It was almost a visible thing, he was sure. Without the feelings, the emotions and desires behind his actions, he had stopped caring. He ate when prompted, and dressed for formalities sake. He practiced and only gave in to his exhaustion when he could go on no longer.

He had lost a lot of weight in his struggle to return to civilization. He was sure he was losing more, but he couldn't find anyone who cared enough to look at him and worry. So he drifted now, following orders and living through others.

"What a life, non? Stuck in time an' place because non want to know who y' are anymo'. If dey eva' did."

He watched the group around the table, felt the laughter and care and peace. Worries and rivalries put aside for a few precious moments. He waited. Waited for someone to look up into the shadows and see him. Looked to see if they would notice without his charm or his powers to guide them. Because, he told himself, tonight was the clincher. If even one of them looked up and asked him to join them, or even acknowledged his pitiful existence, he would stay. He would stay a part of the team, in as much as they would allow, and he would keep going.

If they didn't, well. He couldn't bring himself to care. He felt the hollow ache of sorrow, echoed in the little bit himself he hadn't cut off. He was near the end. He had survived, and he would continue to survive. But he would not survive here. There were places where he could be part of the fold once more. He was a Master Thief; he could go back to any of the Guilds and take a place in them again. It hurt, in a detached sort of way, that he could never return to New Orleans, but he supposed it was more than he deserved to still be alive.

He stared, unable to make himself turn and leave. His own desperate hopes were rooting him to the ground, making him suffer the few more minutes. He basked in the reflected glow of the table. His was only darkness and the ever-present chill he felt in his very soul nowadays.

Once, he almost felt a bit of hope as Hank look in his direction, but his eyes seemed to pass right over the Cajun, and with his hopes, he slowly slid to the floor. He wanted to think it was the lack of nutrition, that his body wasn't following orders—but he knew that a part of the wards around his heart had cracked, and that he was still reeling from the pain of his heartbreak.

"Imbécile! You knew this was the truth. You fool, you let yourself hope again. Merde, imbécile." He whispered harshly to himself as he crumpled into a corner of the hall. He heard laughter, and while he felt the warmth behind it, he imagined that they had known all along, that they had planned this. But it didn't work. He couldn't fool himself. He lashed out, uncontrolled for a moment, and he heard the collective gasp as he vented his pain.

"What was…"

"Scott, check the…"

"Professor! What did…"

Remy left his corner, defeated. He had tried to deny what he felt, and had tried to give up all that he had hoped for. But the heart dies a slow death, and apparently his had one moregreat shudder before it fell to the inevitable.

-

Logan came up the magnificent drive on his bike. It wasn't that late, so he didn't bother to be quiet. He parked the bike and, after removing the helmet, he heard the sounds of commotion. His hair bristled, and he scented for an enemy. But all he came up with was the warm night's air and a spicy musk. He dismounted and grabbed his pack, and headed towards the door. He stopped however, instinct dropping him into a crouch. He saw the movement again, and he narrowed his eyes.

He sniffed again, and was struck by surprise as he identified the figure.

"Gumbo?"

But Gambit didn't hear him, he just kept walking slowly away, almost reluctantly. Logan moved closer, and knew he was caught when the boy ahead stopped.

"Wolverine? Y'back? 's a nice night to return, homme. You been gon' too long. Jubie missed y' like mad. Bu' don' let me stop y' from goin' home. I see you 'round, non?"

Logan couldn't help the sudden increase in his heartbeats, nor the slight scent of fear he must have given at that hollow voice. Was this really the lively Cajun from all those months ago? Hadn't he died in the cold and ice, where Rogue had left him? He felt the pure thrill of joy that Gambit was alive, and he winced as he was almost knocked down by the smell of sorrow. It was everywhere in the drive, and suddenly as it started it stopped. He was left dazed momentarily, and by the time he had focused again, the boy was half-down the drive.

"Guess I'll see you later, huh bub?"

Logan felt a chill, and turned to look at the kid disappear before going up to the house.

-

Remy cursed his luck when he heard Logan's bike coming up the drive. He felt the excitement and the disappointment warring in the older man's mind. He could only guess that he was feeling a bit of both at coming 'home', and that the disappointment was mostly for leaving his wilderness behind. Remy had once upon a time entertained a few triple-x rated fantasies involving the two of them, but after finding no signs of interest from Logan, had given up those dreams. Logan had an ever-present sadness that drew Remy to him, though. Remy wanted to help fix it, to fill that sadness with something better.

But it wasn't his to have, and slowly he let those dreams be washed away by the pain of Antarctica.

When he had felt Logan stalking him, he had almost felt that same happiness he had once held for Logan, maybe that echo was the reason he had stopped and talked at all. But when he felt Logan's fear of him, when he felt the joy that hearing Jubilee's name brought, he had been overwhelmed with sadness. If only it could have been for him. If only Logan could have been the one to keep him here…

He shook his head, and never let the tears fall, even though he knew he was alone in the night.

-

Logan stepped into the house and was greeted by a small sort of panic. He dodged several youngsters, and went straight for Charles.

"What the devil is goin' on here Charles?"

"Logan, how wonderful for you to be back with us. We seem to have been attacked in a very unusual way. And by that I mean no one came to harm, but we are left wondering who would have done this."

Logan growled, "Done WHAT?"

"We were hit by a very powerful psychic. Nothing to worry about for us, we simply need to find the youngster responsible and see what happened. But I can't seem to trace them, and Jean's not having luck with Cerebro either…"

Logan stopped, that chilled feeling going through his again. Something was tickling his senses, something less-than-real.

"What was the attack? What did the psychic do?"

Charles looked pained for a moment, as though remembering hurt him. "He was in so much pain, Logan. I cannot believe that one of my students, one of my children here would be in so much pain. Perhaps it was strong enough to have come from town? I have talked with all of the telepaths here." He shook his head and put a hand to his temple. "I can almost hear it, but it's so faint now… I worry about that. Outbursts of this magnitude, of such strong emotions, they usually signify…" He stopped, that sad look coming again

"Signify what, Charles?"

He sighed, his answer for Logan's mind only as he said//Usually it is the burnout of a mutant coming into their powers. Or a death, an overload of emotions or sensations that leads to, well, a meltdown.//

Logan went still, hit suddenly with the remembered smell of despair. That was what had been plaguing his senses. He could still smell it, here in the very room. It was so faint…

"I don't think it's a new mutant Charles. I saw th' Cajun kid a few minutes ago, and he reeked of the same despair and sorrow I can still smell in here." He wasn't sure if he should have even mentioned it when he saw the look that spread across Charles Xavier's face.

"I never even… Why didn't it occur to me? Logan, when did you see him, and where was he headed? Bobby, go check his room, see if… if…" He couldn't bring himself to say it. How could he have let this happen?

"I saw him jus' before I came in th' door. He had a bag, didn't seem like he was comin' back. How is he still alive? I thought…"

Charles waved for Logan to follow him as he caught him up on what had happened since his departure right after the Trial.

"So, you're telling me that for the last two months, no one's given half a rat's ass to check on the kid? How could you let that happen Charles? You'd've treated Magneto with better care than that!"

"I don't know how it happened, Logan! It's almost as if he blocked himself off somehow. I've never been able to get a good reading on him, I knew he had to have some sort of telepathic abilities, but I never explored it further. Thinking of it now, perhaps that was his own doing. Maybe he can manipulate thoughts or feelings about himself. He never seemed to use it for more than that."

"He talked about that 'charm' o' his a few times. Mentioned it was right useful for getting the dames to do what he wanted." Logan almost smiled with the memory. They'd been pissed out of their skulls, walking back after a night at the bar.

"Th' kid's not bad. He's got a lot 'a baggage, but he's a decent kid."

Charles nodded, feeling worse and worse. "I don't know how it happened, but we need to find him and figure out what is wrong. Bobby, did you find anything?" Charles looked behind Logan to the doorway, where Bobby appeared a moment later.

"His stuff's gone Professor. Everything. Except a deck of his cards, but I can't see how he'd leave 'em, they were his favorite deck. He even brought 'em back after… you know." Bobby had the decency to look ashamed, and even a bit desperate.

"Charles, I'll go tail him. Ain't no one gonna find him faster than me. You keep trying with Cerebro. I'll use my nose." Logan thumbed his nose, and gave a wicked grin that had nothing to do with pleasure and all to do with the hunt.

"All right Logan. But be careful. We don't know what kind of state he's in…"

-

Remy LeBeau sat in the bar, allowing himself to take in the glum atmosphere. Here were all the old men, thinking too hard about wasted lives, chances, times. There were those few with happiness, but the overall theme was much gloomier. He tossed back another shot of bourbon, wincing as the harsh warmth hit his long-empty stomach. He motioned for the barkeep, and asked for a water to wash down the sticky taste.

"Use't' love bourbon. Whas' wrong in th' world when a man can't love his favorite drink?"

He took a long drink of his water, and when he set the glass down, he looked around. He was trying to find a mark, someone with keys and money. A bike was the best, but if he had to take a car, so be it. His red eyes moved fast behind his shaded, checking for tell-tale bulges in pockets and jackets. When he finally found someone who had the right jacket and keys to be a biker, he looked up at the face. He was started into complete shock as he took in the feral grin of the Wolverine.

"Mon dieu! You scare th' shit outta ole' Remy, Wolverine." He bared his teeth a little, hands itching for a card to charge. He moved carefully, standing up and going nose to nose with Logan. His heart physically hurt to know that this man, who had never been on more than passing friendly terms, had been the one to track him down.

"What you do here, homme? Why you come aftah po' Remy?"

Logan backed down just a bit, his low growl gone and the feral look leaving. He took in the sight of the kid, and he came up with more anger, mostly at the idiots at the Mansion who hadn't noticed this skeletally thin boy. But Remy only felt his anger, and so he buried the hurt he felt at the knowledge, and turned on his charm. He smiled beatifically and almost purred into Logan's ear.

"Come now, you don' wan' to hurt lil' ole' Remy, now do ya? We can take dis outside, just de two of us, oui?" He knew it was working, he could feel the anger melting to the background, and he gently pushed one long fingered hand against Logan's shoulder. The growl came back, but Logan followed the movement and led them out the door.

Remy turned up the charm, wanting this done quickly. He knew Logan would have his guts for garters—he paused to try to find the humor in that—and so he wanted as much head start as he could get. He felt Logan's lust start to rise, and it spoke to a part of him he thought he had buried long ago. He pushed past the faint recollection and slid his hand into the Wolverine's pants.

"Well, never thought I'd get dese hands on dat body. But y' know what dey say 'bout love an' war…" He got the keys and moved closer to Logan. He breathed in the scent of him, and he whispered softly enough that only Logan could have heard it at all. "Well, they were wrong, cher. Dere aint' notin fair 'bout either, and it hurts more each time. Mebbe we see you again, Logan," He breathed the name, the first time he'd ever said it to the man, "I hope dat you not wan' to kill me nex' time. I dun think I could ever wan' kill you…" He sighed, and with that he pulled back and turned his back to Logan. Remy knew he would be frozen with the charm for at least another minute, so he hopped on the bike and fired it up, sending Logan his feelings of sorrow. He hoped that Logan would forgive him, but since his hopes were hollow echoes of what they once were, he didn't put much on it.

He heard the growl and shout even over the roar of the bike and the wind, he could feel the burst of emotions as though he were standing right there. Anger… but there was almost a sense of forgiveness and sorrow to it.

"Y' make up tings to keep y' heart from bein' broke, dat all. Don' be fooled, Remy."

He gunned the engine, blocking off all of the incoming emotions, not wanting to feel anything anymore. He angled west, he could find a guild in LA, and start over.

He missed the sound of a following vehicle, and without his empathy in place, he missed the driver too until it was too late.