Blind Leading the Blind

Part 4

Concern

The weekend seemed to go by in a flash to Remy; for all of Saturday and Sunday, he was her student, following her voice around hallways and across rooms, trying to gain more independence over his condition by learning to do things for himself. There were many other things she had to teach him, things he wouldn't have thought possible for a non-seeing person to do.

Brushing his teeth, now, thankfully not a two-man job. She taught him how to distinguish which toothbrush in the cup was his (she'd gone to lengths to damage his toothbrush by setting fire to the bottom of the handle so that it felt rough and misshapen – easy to identify). Getting the toothpaste on the brush was now easy that he understood he could hold his thumb against one side of the bristles to feel for where the minty scented gel was landing (if he missed, all he had to do was scrape it off his thumb.

There were other little tricks; getting shoes on the right feet the first time by running his fingers along the edge of the soles to feel for the shape of where the sole went inwards, letting him identify which shoe was which. He even now knew how to tell if his socks were inside out or not before putting them on...even how to tell if his underwear was inside out or not before pulling them on (feel for the seams, the side the seam stood out on was the inside).

Of course, the socks and underwear problem seemed rather unimportant, they served purpose whether inside out or not, but he did feel a sense of pride being able to tell now. And he couldn't help but be impressed by the little tricks she had shared with him.

What surprised him about most of the things she had taught him over the weekend, was that for the most part they had all been obvious. And yet, none of them had ever occurred to him to try to figure out for himself. He wondered if perhaps he might have figured all these things out if he had given himself a chance instead of lamenting over the fault of his condition.

When Monday morning came, he awakened a little later than he'd originally intended to. None of the usual morning noise from the students getting ready for school had even stirred him from a comfortable slumber – probably one of his best sleeps so far in the mansion.

After showering – ah, such bliss, being able to shower alone without supervision or someone hanging around on standby waiting in case he slipped or broke something – he carefully trailed what he decided to call 'the usual markers' to get downstairs. 'The Usual Markers' were flaws in the walls, the banisters, the floors, things Rogue had helped him discovered over the weekend. The little chip on the banister overlooking the foyer just before the staircase began, the way that there was a slight dip in the tiled floor just as he would approach the refrigerator in the kitchen. It was still a lot to remember, but he found that some of it – especially the more important things – were beginning to stick to his memory.

Just as he approached the bottom of the staircase – getting downstairs taking a lot less time than it used to – he heard the familiar sound of the motor on the Professor's custom built wheelchair as it approached him. Without missing a beat he said, "Bon matin, Professeur."

"Good morning to you too, Remy. You sound very...cheerful, today."

"Yeah," said Remy with a smirk, "first shower ever with no supervision or people hangin' around outside."

"Sounds like you're learning quickly."

"Wish I didn' have t' learn at all."

"Yes, well, unfortunately, what's done is done, and we cannot change that," said the Professor with a soft sigh.

"Have y' found anythin' out about a cure?"

"I've been researching, but before we can consider any kind of treatments we must wait for the inflammation and blistering on your eyes to heal so we can see the real extent of the damage."

"So far it doesn' sound very good," Remy confessed, hovering at the bottom of the stairs, shifting from foot to foot anxiously.

"Don't be discouraged. We will find a way."

"It's all easy t' say that...but findin' the way doesn' sound all that simple."

"Please, keep your chin up and try and take your mind off it for now."

It was odd, Remy thought. He'd come downstairs feeling in such a good mood but how it had suddenly switched to rather bad.

"It's kinda hard t' keep my mind off this when I can't find anythin' to do or somethin' t' distract me. Y' any idea how slow time can pass when y' sittin' in the dark?"

"Ah," Professor Xavier responded, he sounded thoughtful. "Perhaps we can search out some Audio books for you."

"No...I don' want t' listen t' stories. I want t' do somethin' constructive. This is hell. It's like bein' in a cage...I feel like I've been cooped up for months."

"You've barely been here a week."

"A week is long enough," Remy grumbled.

The week previous and the weekend that had just passed felt it had finally begun to take its toll on Rogue. On the drive to school, she had felt achy, a dull headache persisting while Kitty and Kurt both rambled on regarding some computing class they both shared (their talk had seemed nigh on gibberish which had only seemed to make the headache worse).

By second period, her throat felt scratchy and her eyes were watering so uncontrollably that she had to keep sweeping a tissue beneath her lower lids. Her makeup had become so smudged by lunchtime that she'd finally had to just wash it all off in the girl's bathroom. She'd tried to ignore the jeers of the cheerleading squad who tended to congregate in there to catch a smoke. Normally she was called many names like 'freak', 'mutie', and 'emo-wrist cutter'. Today, it was 'drag-queen', and she was asked in a sickly sweet voice by one of the blondes if perhaps she would like a knife or some kind of chisel to scrape off the incredibly thick makeup.

Normally, she had comebacks, better insults to throw back at them, but today, she was too tired, and she felt ill and so she forced herself to let it go and left the bathrooms with her bangs slightly damp but her face clean.

"You look terrible," remarked Kitty Pryde as Rogue took a seat at their usual table in the cafeteria. Rogue had to wince at this and let out a sigh.

"Ah feel terrible," she croaked.

"You sound terrible!" Kitty blinked.

"There's a flu going around," admitted Kurt, he sucked thoughtfully on the straw of his juice box. "You might have it."

"Right now, Ah don't think there's any might about it," Rogue sighed.

"Aren't you eating?" Kitty asked, noting no tray or plates of food. Only a can of diet Cherry Coke in front of Rogue.

"Ah'm not hungry. Ah just feel like hell," Rogue let her elbow rest against the table and propped her cheek up in her hand.

"Go see the nurse, maybe you'll get sent home," Kurt suggested.

Rogue considered this but shook her head, "Ah can't afford to take a day off right now. Ah'm so behind. Ah forgot to do my homework during the weekend. The Professor is gonna kill me when he finds out."

"Oh man," said Kurt.

"Ah got in so much trouble in English when Ah didn't hand in my Essay...instant F."

"Not good," Kitty sighed.

"Ah don't think the Professor realised when he asked me to help Gambit it might interfere with my homework. Ah have so many responsibilities already. Training, school, chores, drama club..." Rogue groaned, "helping a blind guy and keeping up with homework...it's just impossible to do it all."

"Maybe you should ask him for some help," Kurt shrugged.

"I, like, don't get why Hank can't help Gambit," Kitty stuck a fork in her salad like a hunter drives his knife into a fresh kill. "I mean, like, he's a doctor. Doesn't he have experience dealing with blind people?"

"Doctors diagnose and treat," Rogue reminded. "Ah'm sure he does know how to help Remy though...Ah'm sure him and the Prof both know how to help but...Ah'm the one who's really lived with a blind person and Ah know all of the little practical tricks to help Remy get by until they fix him."

"It's weird," Kitty said thoughtfully, she popped a cherry tomato into her mouth and chewed, "is it just me or are you on a first name basis with him now?"

"Yeah!" Kurt said suddenly, "since when do you call him by his first name?"

"Ah...don't know. It's just...it's easier..." Rogue shrugged.

"Right. So..." Kurt crumpled up his juice box, "does he know your name."

Rogue raised an eyebrow at him, "Y'know...Ah think maybe Ah will maybe go see the nurse."

Remy had gotten to know the layout of his room pretty well over the week. He still every now and then managed to trip on the rug, but it was becoming less and less as the days wore on. He knew where the window was (that lovely feel of cold glass as he would sometimes press his forehead against it), and the door, and the dresser.

To keep himself entertained, he'd decided to continue with his daily exercise regimen regardless of his vision loss. Luckily, he didn't need vision to do push-ups, crunches or pull-ups on the closet door frame. There didn't seem to be any telling in the future of when his vision would be restored, and the more Remy thought about it the more he realised that however long it took – six months? A year? - he shouldn't sit back and relax and let himself get out of shape. When his vision was restored, he would be ready to get his life back again and keeping in shape would ensure he was ready.

That morning, Ororo Munro had approached him with the gift of a radio she had found in a storage room in the mansion. It was a particularly old radio. Older than he was, actually, and so, it had dials rather than the modern radios with their buttons and auto-search functions. He found this rather ideal, as the dials made it easy for him to tune into stations and find something to listen to, rather than awkwardly fumbling with buttons not sure what he was pressing. All he needed was an obvious on/off button, a tuning dial and a volume dial. He was content with this, for now.

What he had grown to love about the radio in the significantly short amount of time he'd had it was that the DJs frequently announced the date and time. It felt marvellous and despite feeling just a little silly that he found this such a boon, he was glad he would no longer have to keep wondering what time and date it was, and definitely wouldn't have to worry about asking people and feeling silly for it all the while. It was just one more temporary step in helping him gain some semblance of independence and normality again.

It was just after the 1pm news that he heard his bedroom door opening; the soft creak of the hinge gave it away followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. He stopped in the middle of a reverse crunch and inclined his head towards the door (now knowing exactly where it was) and asked, "Rogue?"

A pause, then a nervous laugh, "How'd you know it was me?"

"Y' wear heavy boots...but y' steps aren't as quite as heavy as Wolverine's," he answered.

"Oh," she replied, there was something awkward about her hovering that he could sense.

"What's wrong with y' voice?" he asked, standing up and sweeping his forearm across his sweaty brow.

"Ah think Ah'm comin' down with somethin'," Rogue replied, a sniffle followed and then he could hear the crumpling of a rather poor quality tissue. "Ah got sent home."

"No wonder y' home so early," he reasoned. He listened to her footsteps as she crossed the room. "Y' should be in bed..."

"Ah'll go in a little while..." she came back, he felt something hit his cheek and he caught it, the soft fluffy terrycloth fabric told him at once it was a towel. "Ah just wanted to check you were alright and didn't need any help or anything before Ah did."

"I'm fine," he promised, "even got a radio now. Stormy brought me it this mornin'."

He heard the mattress on his bed shift and slightly creak; she had sat down. He wiped his face off, slung the towel around his shoulders and went to sit beside her, hoping he wasn't about to land accidentally in her lap.

"Aren't you worried about getting sick?" she asked; when he sat down he felt his thigh press against hers.

"Y'know, at this stage, it's not like things could get much worse for me," Remy shrugged, "I mean...I'm already blind, so what's a little cold gonna do?"

"Make you feel worse if you catch it," she replied. "So you're workin' out now?"

"I don' wanna get my sight back and find out I'm totally out of shape..." he reasoned. "I gotta be prepared for the day my sight does get fixed...if it ever does, that is."

"It's good that you're tryin' to carry on as normal," Rogue admitted.

"Helps the time go by, I guess...it was a fast mornin'."

It surprised him when she took a hold of his left hand suddenly; at first he was confused until she turned his hand around and sighed, "You're bleeding."

"I am?" he asked.

"I think you've popped a few stitches."

"Fuck," he groaned.

"You need to be careful...this needs time to heal before you can go on as normal..."

"I felt a pull on it earlier but I figured it was jus' the bandages stuck t' the wound. Is it bad?"

"It's just a little...c'mon, I'll take you to Hank to get it fixed."

"You realise," said Hank, "that this is the third time I've had to stitch this wound up?"

Rogue watched Hank McCoy carefully stitching up Remy's wrist in the sickbay. She stood by the door, arms behind her back, one foot pressed against the wall. It had been someone fascinating to see Hank suturing up the wound the first time around – especially in such a rush. This time, she was fascinated by the slow careful precision and how neatly the wound was patched up.

"Did I burst all of 'em?" Remy asked, he was sitting topless on one of the hospital beds, his arm laid across a portable table.

"Only three," said Hank, "out of eight."

"Oh."

"Exercising isn't something I wouldn't have recommended with this type of wound. What type of exercises were you doing?"

"Crunches, pull-ups and push-ups," he replied with a shrug.

"Keep still!" Hank warned sounding momentarily concerned, "crunches are fine as long as you aren't straining your wrist. Pull-ups and push-ups are an absolute no-no. You can't do anything that will pull on the stitches..."

Remy groaned.

"I know you aren't fond of resting, but I do highly recommend it."

"Maybe y' should worry more about Rogue get'n' rest."

Rogue glared at Remy.

"Oh?" asked Hank, turning his attention to her. Rogue wondered how it could be Hank hadn't noticed her watery eyes, her running nose and her scratchy throat. Of course, if she had spoken at all it might have been more obvious she realised.

"She comin' down wit' a cold or somethin'," Remy remarked, he smirked just a little.

"It did occur to me to ask why you're home so early from school," Hank admitted. "Did you go to the school nurse?" he asked. He finished with Remy's wrist, talking to her over his shoulder.

"Ah went but she wasn't there. Ah went to the principal...he wasn't there..."

"Probably together somewhere screwin'..." Remy reasoned.

"Remy!" admonished Hank.

"Ah spoke to one of the teachers, she told me just to go home."

"Probably in a closet...with the brooms and the mops...knockin' over buckets, makin' people turn their heads with the moans," Remy rambled.

"Remy!" Hank warned again.

Rogue smiled just a little and was glad that Remy was unable to see the amusement. She pursed her lips and watched while Hank finished bandaging up the newly mended wound.

"If you come over here, I'll take a look at that throat," said Hank, peeling off his surgical gloves and tossing them into the nearby bin.

Remy sat quietly, hands in lap as Rogue sat on the bed opposite, to let Hank roll his chair over to attend her with new surgical gloves on and a tongue depresser. As Hank examined her, checking her throat, feeling for swollen glands, checking her temperature, she glanced over his shoulder at Remy, who sat so idly despite he could have probably left and made his way back to his room fine.

"Your throat is very inflamed. How long has it been hurting?"

"Since this morning," she answered hoarsely. It seemed as time was progressing, she was losing her voice more and more. She could hear it in her own voice how much she sounded like a constipated frog.

"It's all the yellin' she been doin' at me," Remy teased, a grin on his sharp face.

"Yeah, well if you'd do things right, and listen," she remarked back coolly.

"You're running a little bit of a fever, not too much to worry about, but if you start to feel flushes or chills really bad, come see me," Hank said.

"I-" she began, and then the first true cough came. It started with just one, but followed with a troop of them, one after the other, chesty and rattling.

"I have some cough syrup that'll help with that," Hank got up and wandered over to the cabinets where all the medicines were behind locked doors.

"Go t' bed, chere. Remy bring y' a nice big glass of orange juice."

"Shut up," Rogue rolled her eyes, "You can't even get yourself orange juice," she remarked. Perhaps it was just a defence mechanism that had caused her to make it sound so harsh, for when she saw the strange look on the lower half of his face – the way his jaw tightened – she realised perhaps she shouldn't have been so quick to speak.

"I can get orange juice just fine," he said quietly, his posture changed, he sat more stiffly, his shoulders straight, his chin slightly up.

"Ah know..." she said quietly.

Hank returned over with a bottle of cough syrup. "Take this every four hours – don't go over the dosage."

She thanked him and accepted it. "C'mon, Remy. Ah'll take you upstairs."

"Way y' sound, chere, think maybe it's me who should take you."

It was painful, Remy thought, lying in the dark hearing Rogue's rattling cough down the hall. The sound seemed to echo across the whole of upstairs, and he wondered if anyone else could possibly be getting any sleep or if it was just him and his slightly more sensitive hearing (thanks to his blindness) that was being kept awake by it.

He tried listening to his radio but it didn't seem to block the sound out; when 1.35pm came (the DJ happened to announce this on the radio) he gave up and left his bedroom to follow the sound of her hacking all the way down the hall.

It wasn't hard to locate where her room was. Surprisingly, it was only four doors and across the hall away from his. He'd had no idea that her bedroom happened to be so close to his and it felt oddly comforting that she was so close.

He gave a soft knock, but since her coughing was continuing, he surmised she didn't hear and so he let himself in.

"Chere?"

After another minute of persistent coughing which he decided was more painful to hear than probably felt to her, she finally spoke.

"Yeah...what is it?" she asked; her voice a vague croak in the darkness that was barely like herself; it sounded as if she'd been swallowing glass and had completely ripped up her vocal chords.

"Y' okay?"

"Ah'm fine. Just can't stop coughing."

"Y' take more of that stuff?" he came in, soft quiet steps so as not to alert anyone he was up and in someone else's room after lights out (he was sure the instructors would definitely object) and closed the door behind himself.

"Yeah. Makes me drowsy though," she sighed; he heard her shift on the bed and he approached slowly, wondering if it was acceptable for him to sit down near her or not.

"How y' feel?"

"Lousy." He heard her shifting a little more in her bed, he heard a soft sweeping sound and at first he wasn't sure what it might be but if he had to guess, he thought it might be that she'd swept her fingers through her hair.

"Y' need anything?"

"Ah'm fine..." she coughed a few times more, she was stifling it into her hand, or a tissue, or something, because it came out very muffled.

"I'm capable, y'know...if y' want me t' go get you a drink or somethin' t' ease y' throat."

"It's fine, really," she sighed.

His hand found the footboard of her bed, he leaned against it, hovering, awkward, not sure if he should go or stay. He wouldn't sleep now, knowing he'd be listening to the coughing for the rest of the night regardless. And it seemed so terribly wrong to leave her alone in such a condition.

Not only did he feel awkward, but he could tell she did too. There was something about the still way she remained there for several moments, as if she were waiting for something, for him to say something or do something.

"In...in all the time I know y'...followed y'...don' think I ever see y' sick."

She sniffed, "yeah. Ah don't really get sick a whole lot."

"Y' let y' self get run down from all y' do around here. School, trainin', homework, y' do chores and y' takin' care of me. It no wonder y' body givin' in t' illness."

"How much did you follow me?" she suddenly croaked.

He walked around the footboard, trailing his fingers along it to locate where he was exactly. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bottom of the bed, guiding himself with his hands. "Months. At least three straight months...then on and off for months after. Not jus' you. All of y'."

She coughed before asking, "why?"

"T' look for y' weaknesses. T' evaluate y'...figure out how y' all worked together...how y' were in real life..."

"Didn't it get borin'?"

"Not really. Was like...watchin' a livin' soap opera...all the drama goes on between y' X-Men."

"How come Logan didn't know you were spyin' on us?"

"Did a lot of it from afar," he admitted. "When I was close by, was usually when y' were at school...or at the mall...places Logan didn' usually go..." Remy explained. "I know how t' keep outta sight...it's one of the first things y' learn when y' train t' be a thief."

"So...what kind of things did you learn?" she asked in a husky tone, she cleared her throat a little; he imagined her sitting there in bed with her legs pulled up to her knees so she was a safe distance from him.

"About you?"

"Mmm," she answered.

"Y' read vampire stories."

"Everyone knows that."

"Do they know y' like them not 'cause of the romance and glamour of them but 'cause y' relate t' bein' someone who can't get close t' others 'cause of what y' are...?" he asked.

She said nothing, and he wondered about the expression on her face at that moment. What was she thinking? Had he gone too far?

"Y' wear a ring on every finger under y' gloves except y' left hand ring finger."

"Is that important?" she asked as casually as she could with a sore throat.

"Means y' waitin' for someone t' put a ring on that finger. Y' traditional...even if y' give off the impression that y' not."

"Ah just haven't found a ring that Ah like on that finger."

"Y' listen t' music that's loud and obnoxious when y' friends are around but when y' alone y' listen t' Billie Holiday."

She let out a strange breath that seemed to sound oddly uncomfortable with his knowledge.

"I can even tell y' the song y' listened t' the most by her."

"And what's that?"

"Lover Man," he answered simply.

"How..." she began, she cleared her throat, "How do you know that?"

"Found y' MP3 player in the library one day when y' had been there. Who y' think handed it in t' the lost and found so y' could get it back?" he pointed out. "It was the most played track on it."

She sighed, "so you think you know me just 'cause you know Ah listen to Billie Holiday and read vampire books?"

"I know y' enough t' make me wan' t' know y' better."

A strange pause. He could tell she didn't know what to make of this comment. It had come as quite a surprise to her, although he wondered why it had.

"I...better get back t' bed before someone does a bed check and finds me not in mine. If y' need me for anything...call me."

Somehow, he knew she wouldn't and yet...as he left the room, quietly pulling the door closed, he couldn't help wish that she would.

Rogue felt terrible that next morning; it took her all her time to pull herself out of bed to get ready for school only to be warned she couldn't go to school and to go back to bed and rest.

Although she certainly tried to rest, by nine-thirty am, she couldn't stand laying in bed with nothing to do; she tried her homework but found it incredibly hard to concentrate – it was certainly hard to write neatly while coughing chronically all over her paper.

It didn't surprise her when Remy LeBeau knocked on her bedroom door a little after eleven and poked his head in through the door. Although he couldn't see her, Rogue had the strangest sense that he could sense exactly where she was, exactly how she looked, and probably even knew exactly what she was wearing. It sent a strange chill through her.

"How y' feelin'?"

"Shitty," she croaked, crumpling up the history paper she'd been working on and tossing it to the waste paper basket near her desk (it narrowly missed). "Ah didn't sleep much last night...but then Ah guess you knew that."

"Yeah," he let himself in but left the door open this time; it struck Rogue as strange that he deliberately did so.

"Why are you leaving the door open like that?" she put her book aside.

"Storm's orders."

Rogue wondered what in the world Ororo – or anyone for that matter – thought that Remy would be capable of doing with a girl who couldn't touch people. "That's...yeah, okay," she blinked.

Remy folded his arms comfortably as he stood hovering at the bottom of her bed, "She don' trust me."

"Can you blame her?" Rogue asked. "You won't even tell us who you were working for."

He gave a long pause, his face so serious, his mouth so tight that she could almost imagine his lips glued together. Finally, he responded with, "Told y'...it's policy. Y' don' reveal who y' clients are in my line of work."

She coughed into a tissue, "what if he was gonna use those chemicals in a bomb...Ah mean...he could be a terrorist for all we know."

"They weren' for a bomb," Remy replied, something about the way he said it left Rogue wondering more about who Remy had been working for, and what the plans had been for those chemicals had there not been an accident leaving Remy blinded.

"Sounds like you knew what they were for," Rogue pointed out.

He was uncomfortable, and she could see he was uncomfortable. Rogue wouldn't have thought it possible to make Rmey LeBeau uncomfortable but there he was, shifting almost nervously, not wanting to give straight answers. "I'm not a scientist...I dunno what they were..."

"That wasn't what Ah asked. Ah didn't ask what the chemicals were. Ah asked what they were for."

"Look, I was jus' under orders. Sometimes this job is ask no questions. Less y' know, the better. "

"That's bullshit," she grunted, "this guy...he could be buildin' some huge nuclear weapon that could make us all glow in the dark...or plannin' chemical warfare on Bayville, and you're sittin' there goin' about ask no questions..." she griped.

"Y' always expect the worse of people?"

"If this guy wasn't gonna use these chemicals for some kind of illegal activity, he'd have never stolen them, he'd have purchased them legitimately. Hasn't that crossed that stupid dumb swamp-filled mind of yours?"

"For all y' know...he was gonna do some good with it," Remy reasoned, the lower half of his face quite grim.

She sat straighter, frowning at him, "But you don't know that! Like you said!" she mimicked his voice, "less y' know, the better."

He stood up slowly, "why y' always gotta be bustin' my balls?"

"Because Ah don't trust what you were doin' at that chemical plant, Remy," she wheezed.

"If y' don' trust me, that's your problem, chere."

"How can you expect me to trust you, Remy? You openly admitted to stalkin' me and my friends."

"It wasn't personal..." he replied, his expression grim again. "I mean really, chere. Is there a difference between me followin' you around and you followin' Cyclops around like a little lost puppy?" he asked after reaching the door.

"Ah loved Scott," she shot angrily in a deep and painful throaty tone. She regretted admitting it even if it was old news.

"Yeah...okay," he sighed. He left the room as quietly as he'd entered; the door closed behind him.

Angrily, she grabbed her history book and threw it at the door so that it thudded off. She was sure even from the hall he would have heard that.

End of Part Four

Thanks to everyone who keeps adding me to their favourites and for the awesome reviews! I love reading them and it makes my day seeing new ones coming in!

Sorry this installment took so long to get added - been working on the next two parts :)