Disclaimer: Owner: Marvel. Money: none. Suing: useless.
Rating: M. See the first chapter for summary and stuff.
Notes: Yay! Another chapter packed with fast-paced action! ducks to avoid flying produce

The Apologist
Chapter Eight -
Finding

Jean opened her eyes with a start and was greeted by the White Queen's unreadable scowl. Her nails had dug quick-deep crescents in the palm of her hands, and her whole brain was pounding like someone had been driving nails into her forehead.
Suddenly, Emma let go of her façade and started kneading her temples, eyes squeezed and face in a frown; droplets of sweat glistened on her upper lips and she was breathing open-mouthed, as if trying not to be sick.
Beast had leapt out of the Control Room and was cushioning Gambit's head with both paws to keep it from hitting the floor too hard; there was little else that could be done. The twitching of the long limbs under the crouching figure reminded Jean of a documentary about lions. There was a sound like greenwood creaking: Gambit's own teeth, gritting - and her own, clenched in sympathy.

"Henri? What happened?"

The twitching slowed and ended - apparently the worst part was over - and the doctor raised his head to look at her, baring his fangs in a nervous smile. "I hoped you would tell me," he said. "Emma lost contact with you for a while, and he started convulsing."

"Emma?"

The White Queen interrupted her ministrations like she had been caught involved in rude acts in public.

"Jean, honey, you were the one down there" she replied.

Jean bit back her remark: this was Emma's way of telling the truth, but the truth nonetheless. She was a bitch; not a ruthless bitch.

"I was too deep to catch... this"

Hank pushed a button on the Danger Room remote and an exercise droid appeared hauling a hospital stretcher.
"Help me put him on it" he ordered, forgoing his usually flourished directions. Brushing the headache aside, Jean used her telekinesis to lift Gambit's unconscious body - it was easier than a physical hoist and better for him, too. She followed Hank to the MedLab, with the stretcher tagging along like a cheap trick from a magician show. Emma reached them shortly after.

Henry wired Gambit to one of the intensive care units and checked his vital signs. All equipment, Jean noticed, seemed to have been switched on several hours in advance - and there were three IC units ready; Hank had prepared everything for a worst-case scenario. He lifted a hooded eyelid with a massive finger, revealing the thief's twilight eyes. The pupils seemed to shrink to the size of pinholes under the MedLab's powerful lamps and the Beast's vast shoulders dropped in relief. Equipment started to click and beep as the first routine tests were completed.
"All right, pulse fast but steady, blood pressure 170/80 and descending, brainwaves pattern normalizing" the doctor announced with a loud sigh. "Our cajoling Cajun is going to be all right... although he managed to give us a hell of a scare."

Gambit had bitten himself during the fit and a reddish froth marred his lips: the only trace of color on a ghastly pale face. Beast donned latex gloves and cleansed the smear, dropping the tissue in the incinerator bin.

"I should have thought of it" he admitted. "Truth is, what with his renowned shields and all, I thought you would be the one..."

Emma cut him short. "Did you find out what you were looking for?"

The usual ennui - but not the scorn - had disappeared from her voice, leaving a genuine curiosity tinted with suspicion. She had been hauled there all the way from Snow Valley to help put an X-Man out of order... there had to be a good reason for it. There had better be.

"Maybe. Or maybe I just found more questions."

Gambit finally inhaled deeply and gave a long moan, then he spoke, with a slumbering, dizzy voice. Instinctively, they all gathered closer to hear.
The words were so faint and slurred it took a while for them to understand that he was swearing. Emma burst out laughing, and left. Hank made a show of appearing completely engrossed in checking the instruments, but his spine seemed to unclench a few degrees, and in the end he went to crouch on the nearest bed; Jean took a chair. For a few minutes they stood by his bedside, exchanging embarrassed looks, while he conjured up blood-curdling curses in four languages without ever repeating himself.

"Is this normal or...?"

"I'm totally at a loss. I was unaware that humanity had conceived this many variations on coprolaly."

After a while, the stream of swearing dried up to a rill, the voice became a whisper, and the breathing went heavy and paced.

"He's falling asleep" Beast whispered. "I think he will be his old self by the morning, but I'll be right here keeping watch, just in case."

"No, you won't, Hank. Go to sleep - I am staying."

"You are staying indeed, Jean." Hank pointed at the back end of the MedLab. "There's a bed down there with your name on."

"I'm fine." Big fat lie, and he saw right through it; she was running on empty and fatigue would strike the moment she would stop. "And Emma Frost's waiting for the debriefing."

"That can wait until tomorrow."

Jean massaged her head, kneading the spot on the right temple where the mother queen of all migraines was gathering strenght for a massive attack. "Hank, I need to talk to him about what I've seen, and need to press on before he can come up with a put-on story. If we go by the book, we damn well lose him."

Hank was determined to hold his ground and straightened up with arm crossed. "I can't let you do that, I'm afraid."

"You'll damn better let me, Hank. You have no idea of what's in there. I still have no idea..."

He sighed and nodded towards the lying figure. "Have you considered that he might know this would happen?"

Jean felt a shiver crawl up her spine. She hadn't thought of it. She hadn't wanted to think of it... but now the thought was there in all its unpleasant actuality. Yes, words had come from Logan via Scott that stupid desperate men do stupid desperate things, but...

"...I can't believe he'd come to this."

"Jean, self-loathing is not uncommon among mutants. Even among the X-Men. You'd be amazed at knowing how many antidepressants I have to prescribe in here..." He paused, bringing a hand to his temple. "That tingling feeling at the base of my cranium has better not be you prying, Jean."

"Me? I'd never. When was the last time you checked for fleas?"

Beast ignored that. "I don't really know whether he was aware of the possibility - although I'd guess he was - but now I can't afford the risk of anyone tripping over his suicidal tendencies. Look at the White Queen. She's doing a good job at looking fine now, but I can tell a backlash when I see one. And you took the brunt of it. Do you think I appreciate the conversation of drooling vegetables? That I enjoy changing piss-bags?" he concluded waving a giant clawed finger under her nose.
"And I think he has slipped past your defenses as well, Phoenix."

"What?"

"What's the first thing you said when you awoke?"

She struggled to remember. Yeah, the Danger Room... the White Queen...
"Your name. I called you."

"You called me Henri, Jean. Is it normal that for a telepath to pick up speech patterns from your patient's mind?"


"Okay, since the damage's been done, we might as well talk about it." Emma put the cigarette holder on the table right as she was sitting down and the amateur shrink inside Hank suppressed a smile. Some people just couldn't help it. It might be a purse, a cell phone, a Swiss knife - but the message was always the same. Territorial dejections; my place, don't cross. However, when a platinum lighter appeared almost magically in Emma's hand, he drew the line and cleared his throat. "I feel compelled to remind you that smoking is disallowed on the premises..."

The lighter flickered and the acrid smell of burnt tobacco stung Henry's sensitive nose. Twice in a day, he considered. Well, he would take a constitutional walk in the woods that evening... and hope that Wolverine wasn't around with his pestilential cigars.

"So, where were we?" the White Queen asked.

"We hadn't started talking yet."

"Well. I'll say, Jeannie, if I'd had any idea, I wouldn't have agreed to this. What's the bloody point in the first place?"

Jean gritted her teeth almost imperceptibly. She was tired, frustrated, aching and only looked forward to seeing Emma out of the Mansion. No matter that the White Queen was batting for their team now, she still had no right to go holier-than-thou on them, not after what she had done in her better days.

"Shall we quit dancing around the ethical issue? Remy agreed to all this."

"Did he have any other opportunities, other than taking the probe or hitting the road? Jeez, and I thought the X-Men were the good guys."

She looked at them, first one, then the other. Hank, not the one for will contests, literally shrunk under her glare.

"You weren't there, so you couldn't know. Remy has admittedly tinkered with Betsy's mind..."

"...In defense of his private thoughts. You've done worse, Jean, remember?" God, wasn't she good at making them all feel lower than shit. Patiently, slowly, marking her words with a tap on the table, Jean explained again:

"That was the least of our concerns, Emma. But. He's been displaying unprecedented abilities. He's been reticent about them. He's attacked a teammate. And he's carefully covered his tracks. The words malicious intent spring to mind."

"Remy may not have been totally aware when he acted, and perhaps he thought it best to sweep the accident under the proverbial carpet, but that is hardly an excuse not to investigate. There is a horde of possible explanations, from evil twin to mind control" Hank offered.

"I get the point" the White Queen conceded. "What did you find out?"

"More than I was looking for." Jean linked to them both and broadcasted the images she had picked up. "At first, Psylocke's description made me think of a suppressed memory, but the matter's more complicated."

"As in...?"

"Well, at first I was thrown off by this... encasing thing. There is a distinct hiatus between the construct and the rest of his mindscape..."

She stopped; Emma was staring, transfixed, at the imagery from the vault and not paying attention anymore. Then she saw the last chamber and her mouth fell open. "Oh..." she muttered, for once at a loss for words.

"I know. I should've pulled out after I saw it, but he was still coping."

"In hindsight, not one of your best decisions," Hank said.

"Jean, this is the ugliest, biggest, fuckiest psychic scar ever. No wonder he mentioned 'knots'. I wonder how he can even think around that thing..."

"Possibly because even if he can't access those memories consciously, his other persona has a way of letting him in on them." Her thoughts went to the smashed handle. That had to mean something...

"Multiple personality?" Hank broke in. "That doesn't seem the..."

"No, not quite. It's like... Gambit went to great lengths to get rid of his past. Not only he suppressed his worst memories, he's also spending a lot of energy to keep them in check, both consciously and subconsciously. Only, he seems to be having second thoughts about it. This would explain the guardians... and why one helped me against the other."

"So it's like the portrait of Dorian Gray, only in his own mind...?" Emma scoffed.

"Hmm. Then what is your hypothesis about the scar? Gambit's power doesn't seem to work this way..."

"No, I don't think it's self-inflicted either."

"Perhaps if we could take a look at what he did to Psylocke?"

"Emma, I said it's not the same thing. If you want an excuse to rummage in to Betsy's mind, you'll have to try harder than this."

"Ladies, break. We all agree it looks bad" Hank broke out. "Being not the ultimate authority in matter of telepathy, I need to know from you which order of magnitude are we discussing here. What may have left such an aftermath?"

"Death" they answered immediately, in unison.

"Or something so akin that the difference doesn't matter" Jean added.

Hank's tranquil blue eyes focused on her briefly - she looked so intent, almost transfigured, lost in distant memories and lives. Someone else's lives, and demises - how many times had she experienced death by proxy?

They were still linked and for a split second they shared thought processes. Akin... She caught his wide gaze in the same moment as the idea flashed before his eyes.
So simple, so immediate.

"Rogue" he said. "It all started after he fell into a coma. Could this be a consequence?"

Before he'd even started saying the word, Emma had already tsked the idea. " What you would see with Rogue is a large chunk of the mindscape pulled out, not a bauty farm for zombies. Are there any signs of that?"

"Care to explain how in Hell you know about this, Emma?"

"You'd like me to, wouldn't you?"

"Ladies, ladies, please. " Beast interjected. "Anyone trying to resist the absorption are more likely to have their memory damaged. Rogue's had contact with almost everybody on the team and Carol Danvers is at one extreme, Remy at the very opposite. Consequences notwithstanding, he urged for that kiss."

"Then did you consider he might actually want to be... tested somehow?" Emma offered. "All things considered, it looks like you were talked into that."

"No" Beast replied with a shiver. "There are easier ways to achieve that, and less likely to result in permanent damage. If that's what he was aiming at, he should be removed from active service."


Scott descended the stairs slowly, swaying heavily with every step. Oh, how he hated to do this. But Jean had been adamant about it and she was right. He had been the one who had made the deal with Gambit and he would be the one breaking out the news to the rest of the team. That is, telling them an outright lie. And, as she had pointed out, it was nothing he hadn't done before.

He entered the dining hall, already full with soup smoke and chatter, and went to the roster affixed to the far wall.

It had been Hank's idea: all the X-Men had their own nametag, with the name etched in capitals. The colors and fonts were all customized and the board was a riot, but it helped the morale, made each one feel special. Without a word, Scott moved Gambit's tag from the "Blue Team" to the "Incapacitated" list.

The noise of conversation, cutlery and crockery stopped immediately as their collective sight focused on him: curious, concerned eyes trying to read into his nonchalant mask. Scott felt like a traitor. On the positive side, Rogue wasn't present. And neither was Joseph.

"Gambit's suffered an accident during an unscheduled Danger Room session" he explained. "He will be unavailable for active duty for a few days."

Silence fell as they absorbed the information. He went to the dining table, helped himself to the hotchpotch and sat down. The first volley of questions reminded him of the Kleinstock brothers¹:

"WhenhowdidcoulditHAPPENED?"

"Telepathic surge. Out of the blue. Hank's positive that he'll wake up in a matter of hours."

"Was it Betsy?"

"No. Jean." Scott cast a sidelong glance at Logan, thankful that his eyes were concealed. The Canadian had that 'I don't buy it' frown on his face, but only an exercised eye could discern it from his default 'life sucks' frown, and at least, he was keeping his thoughts to himself. Scott relaxed.

"But they're not teamed together" Warren pointed out. There was just a hint of suspicion in his voice, but just enough for Scott to desire the conversation to end.

"I arranged the session. What with Joseph joining and Bobby on leave, I'm thinking of reshuffling the teams."

Ororo stood up.

"I'll go and visit Remy, and see that Hank remembers to eat something" she said as she left, and thankfully the conversation found another subject.


Emma marched along the corridor and into the entrance hall, not bothering with her usual sensual gait, only interested in putting as many steps as she could between herself and that Phoenix bitch. She made a mental vow to stay away from the Mansion as long as possible - forever if she could. The X-Men had gone round the bend; there was no other explanation.
This was downright paranoia, a purge of Stalinian proportions. That was intolerable. That was unthinkable. What was in store next, re-education camps? The final solution?

She was so lost in her thoughts that young Guthrie caught her completely by surprise. He was descending the stairs, one hand on the banister, a book in the other. He straightened up as he recognized her, and greeted her coolly in a barely audible mutter.

"'lo, Miss Frost."

She stashed away the frown and the hurry as fast as she could, and by the time she replied "Hello, Samuel", her expression was nothing short of amiable.
A thought dawned in her mind, and she slowed down and turned, pulling out her best canary-eating smile. "Paige misses you a lot, you know. She speaks of you in the most wonderful terms."

She felt his brain flaring up. Guilt and pride, always a powerful combination. "Er... "

"So, are you coming to Snow Valley anytime soon?"

He straightened so hastily that his spine creaked. "Ah... think Ah'd call her."

Her smile never faded as she inwardly cursed the air blue. Too blunt. That's okay, she thought. Never reinforce defeat. Be cool. Be casual.
"Is Bobby Drake in?"

Sam's reply was even cooler. "Not at the present moment he isn't, ma'am."

"Oh, well. See you, Sam."

"Goodbye, Miss Frost."

She walked away and out in the brisk afternoon. Her silver limousine was waiting, the Rolls Royce engine already purring in anticipation of the ride at hand; Mr. Bumpkin² took off his beret and opened the door for her.

"Which destination, ma'am?"

"Massachusetts Academy, of course" she answered, fastening her seat belt. The limo left in a soft crush of gravel, and Emma pursed her lips as she watched the large house disappear behind the trees. Whatever the cost, she would take Samuel out of there, spare him from this insanity. Charles was a psychologist before a mindreader - he ought to have seen this coming along for ages. Although of course, the Good Professor was too busy becoming insane to bother... Christonachrisler, he had left them to deal with a handful.

It did not make any sense. Why should Gambit attempt a psychic suicide-by-cop in the way it was less likely to succeed?

Unless, of course, his intentions weren't that suicidal after all... Emma leaned back against the leather of the seats, trying to sort things out. Her subconscious must've worked out the facts before her rational mind, because her memories drifted to the serene days of her childhood; before the voices, before the whole mess. The old tales, and the Georgian drawl of Bonnie, the housemaid³, playing Bre'er Rabbit: "Anythin', anythin', but please don't throw me in the briar patch!"

Fucking Cajun. What was he up to?

They had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. And she had followed along.

She considered telling the X-Men, but dismissed that thought. Even so, what would they do? Probably nothing, like most of the times. Or made things worse, like the rest of the times. Just look at the wretch they had turned the Iceman into. At least the little crook had a functioning brain, and an agenda in it, which was more than could be said for most of them. She laughed aloud, hard enough that Mr. B looked at her through the rear-view mirror, puzzled.

"Is everythin' okay, ma'am?"

"Yes. More than okay. Let's just go home. I need to wash this sanctimonious stench off my clothes."


Next: And that's how my troubles began.
--
¹Of Acolytes fame.
²Emma's green-skinned, nose-lacking chauffeur. Don't ask me how I remember these things.
³I don't know whether Emma actually had a Georgian housemaid named Bonnie. If anyone knows about her childhood from the miniseries, please LMK so I can work that in.