Chapter 14

An ordinary boy an ordinary name
But ordinary's just not good enough today

Our Lady of Peace, Superman's Dead

Friday night and he was holed up on the roof.

Which was, in every sense of the word, strange. Usually he had an over-abundance of dates or at the very least, clubs, to satisfy his insatiable appetite for entertainment, but tonight was an exception. It wasn't that he couldn't get a date; he just didn't feel up to the whole party scene. There didn't seem to be a point to going out and paying ridiculously large amounts of money for ridiculously small amounts of alcohol, nor did he want to fuck another pointless, nameless bimbo.

He had hoped to drown his mounting sexual desire in another night with Betsy, but she was MIA. Apparently, Sam Guthrie had his eye on the beautiful Brit and they had gone to the movies together. It seemed strange picturing the sophisticated Betsy Braddock in the same vicinity as the Kentuckian, but Remy had to admire the balls it took for the young man to ask her out. Especially to the movies. He shuddered and decided to make it his business to teach the boy how to pick appropriate dates. Betsy was more of a champagne girl, not a beer girl.

He probably should have felt jealous or spiteful that the girl he had been…seeing…had decided to go out with another man. And, in truth, it did sting a little; mostly it just pinched at his ego and gave him a bad case of blue balls, but it didn't bother him as much as it had a right to. Besides, it wasn't like he wanted a relationship with her…it had all just started as a meaningless fling…and he hadn't really been in any kind of rush to make it more than that. However, he was desperately in need of a sexual release and she was so good at meeting his needs.

Unfortunately, his needs were beginning to change shape and the realization behind that was unnerving him. And it didn't help that the shape of those changing needs had disappeared out the door with…Joseph. He swallowed the foul taste in his mouth and dragged out the cigarettes.

Which was another reason why, instead of going out on the town, he had decided to claim a small portion of the roof for a little soul-searching exercise.

He withdrew a cigarette from its pack and set it in between his lips. A light tap from his finger, and the paper caught, a small flame flashed outward before being dragged down into the tobacco. It was cold out and he pulled his trench coat tighter around him before jamming his hands into the too-full pockets. His face was completely exposed; with no sunglasses to protect them, his eyes stung against the winter wind. It was a bittersweet sort of triumph, he decided, to finally have them out in the open. There was no honor in hiding, but having one's shell ripped away was downright painful…and everyone had their shells…

He sighed, dragged a lazy thumb across an eyebrow and plopped the cigarette back in his mouth. She hadn't been afraid of him. She hadn't screamed at the sight of his eyes, hadn't swirled against their depths and declared him an unholy terror. She just told him not to cover them up. Don't hide. He snorted. And there she was covered from head to toe because she was afraid of her skin. He wasn't afraid of it.

He was afraid of her.

He was afraid of the way his hand tingled whenever they touched. He was afraid of the sweet lilt of her voice. He was afraid of the scent of her hair. She ripped at his shell like no other. She demanded nothing and yet, it was so much more than he was certain he could give. He didn't understand the lust he felt for her. Why did he want her like he did? How was it that he could hate her so much and not at all, all at the same time? It didn't make sense. But the more he thought of her, the more he ached, and the more he wished he'd kissed her during their sparring session. There was no way that having his consciousness sucked out of him could hurt more than the ache coursing through his entire body whenever she was near. No way.

He squashed his cigarette under a booted heel and scooted off the roof. Landing like a cat, he pushed through the balcony doors to his bedroom and shrugged off his coat. Friday night and the mansion was silent as a graveyard. He knew Betts and Guthrie were out; he rolled his eyes, trying once again to picture the two of them together but gave up. He'd seen Rogue leave with that gutless, silver-haired jerk on her arm. It sickened him to find that images of the two of them sprang almost instantly to his mind. Continuing his mental rundown of who was left at the mansion, he opened up his empathy for verification. It buzzed at the back of his brain. Someone was having a hard time of it.

Picking up a pack of playing cards from his bureau, he pushed through his door and followed the buzz through the corridor, into the elevator, and down to the sublevels. When the doors slid open, he was attacked. Emotions—anger, sadness, betrayal, and jealousy—barreled over him, knocking him to the floor. He shook his head, clearing out the emotional debris and clamping down his mental shields, before rolling into the hallway. He heard the wailing a second later.

Something was stuck in his throat and he swallowed it down. It returned almost instantly and he knew it must be his heart. It felt like it was breaking…only it wasn't…but someone else's most decidedly was. He continued down the corridor, stopping in front of an office; the door was ajar.

Scott's office was wrecked. Filing cabinets were tipped over, their manila-foldered guts strewn across the carpet, smeared with bloody-pink highlighter marks. Chairs were overturned, tables upended; it looked like a battlefield where the home-team had taken some tough hits. In the middle of it all, clutching what looked like a splintered picture frame, sat Scott Summers. He was shaking, crying, and gripping the frame in white-knuckled hands.

And Remy knew that the home-team had indeed taken some major hits.

He cleared his throat; Scott's head shot up and pinned him in his spot with a wild look. A second later, and Remy shook it off, pushing the door open the rest of the way and entering the room. Wordlessly, he turned over a small table, swiping the paper dust off its top with the back of his hand. Next, he righted two chairs and set them on either side of the table. Stacks of papers were in the way, and he kicked them to the side so that the chairs sat flat against the floor. Dropping into one of the chairs, he pulled out his deck of cards and began shuffling.

All the while, Scott had been watching him, his usually stoic demeanor cracked under the strain of his emotions. Sighing, he hefted himself up from the floor and moved to the empty chair across from Remy. He set the broken picture frame on the table near him.

"Blackjack." And that was all he said.

Remy nodded, flipped out the cards, and studied his hand.

After a few silent hands, Scott sighed again. "Her picture fell."

Remy glanced at the cracked frame and saw a beautiful redhead smiling back at him through shattered glass. He swallowed. Jean had always smiled. He dropped his cards to the table. "Busted."

Scott flipped his over. "Nineteen."

The younger man nodded, gathered the cards, and shuffled again. "It's a good picture."

"Yeah." He was staring at it and his voice broke. "I miss her."

He nodded again, dealing the cards smoothly. There didn't seem to be any words that he could say without sounding condescending, so he didn't say anything.

"I killed her, you know…we all did."

Remy's head shot up at that and he stared into his friend's face. "Scott…"

"It's true!" The self-hate that had been boiling right below the surface was beginning to spill over as Scott pushed the cards on to the floor. "She died to save us! To save me! She got out of the Blackbird and used her powers to lift us to safety and she let herself die!" Tears streamed out from under his visor. "I let her die. I-I couldn't save her, Remy…I tried, but I couldn't save her. I let her die…" He broke down.

Remy licked his lips. "Non, you didn't, Scott. You remember her everyday. You honor her everyday. You haven't let her die. Jean—Jean wouldn't want you blamin' yourself like dis. She wanted you to live." He dragged a hand through his hair, completely aware of how utterly uncomfortable he was, how perfectly out of place he felt. There were no right words; no magic chants that he could say to help his friend. But he tried nevertheless. "Jean needs you to be all right. We need you to be all right. Your life is her gift." He was never any good at these kind of talks…where was the professor? Where was Hank? They knew how to help people, how to offer prolific words that uplifted people's spirits. Not him. He was just a thief. "Please, Scott. You have to be all right."

Scott swallowed and swiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, visibly pulling himself together. "I still miss her."

Remy nodded again. "I know."

"You missed the memorial."

"I'm sorry."

"The flowers were nice though; she would have liked them."

"She was an amazing woman, Scott."

He nodded, let out a small laugh. "She was a terrible cook, though." Tears flowed again; he wiped them away, forcing an unsteady laugh.

Remy licked his lips, cleared his throat. "Remember de time she tried to make gumbo?"

He laughed again; it was a little stronger. "Was that what that was?"

They laughed together. Scott blew out an uneasy breath and looked around his office. "Gawd, look at this mess. Guess we'd better clean it up."

"What's dis 'we' business? I didn't trash your office."

"Thanks a lot, buddy."

"Now hold on, we'll settle dis like real adults—"

"You wanna slug it out?"

"Haha. No," he pushed the deck of cards toward his friend. "If you get the high card, I'll help. If you don't, I'm getting a beer."

"You really are a saint, you know that?"

Remy nodded. "True. Draw."

Scott pulled a card from the pile and waited for his friend to do the same. Then he flipped his own over; it landed in front of Remy. "Queen of Clubs."

"You don' even give a man a chance, do you?"

"Well, what do you have?"

Remy palmed the deck and set his card at the bottom before shuffling them all together. "It's embarrassin'." He eyed the upturned room with a scowl. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Let's fix the filing cabinets and re-file all these papers. What was I thinking?" Scott groused, pushing away from the table.

Remy smirked and pushed the cards into his back pocket, the ace he had drawn tucked firmly in the center of the deck. "You was t'inkin': how can I spend de evening wit' dat ever-charming Cajun?"

"Keep talking and I'll be thinking: where can I dump this body?"

X

"Ah, Remy, so good of you to join me."

He winced at the cheerful tone in the professor's voice and slid into the leather chair opposite the mahogany desk. "You're a hard man to ignore, what wit' you screamin' in my head ev'ry two minutes."

Xavier chuckled. "Yes, well, I did call for you over an hour ago."

"Yeah, at seven o'clock."

The older man didn't seem to understand as he just raised an eyebrow and searched his former pupil's face. "Yes," he answered at last, his shoulders shrugging slightly.

Remy decided to point out the obvious. "On a Sat'rday mornin'."

Realization sprung out over his features and he smiled, nodding his head. "Oh, yes, I see. Well, progress waits for no man and the like. It was urgent that I speak with you regarding your Danger Room schematics."

Red and black eyes narrowed. "Scotty put you up to dis?"

"Don't even try and blame me," Scott Summers pushed through the office door and plopped down in the chair beside his friend. "I was planning to sleep until noon after yesterday." He turned to the professor. "What's Gambit done now?"

Xavier pursed his lips together to keep from laughing at the evil eye currently being directed at his principal. "It is, in fact, very interesting. I have been recording the Danger Room sessions using a multitude of different programs. One is simply a regular recording, like one would watch on television. Another allows for us to witness the mutant bio-signature by utilizing the electromagnetic scale along with a couple other little technologies that Hank and I have come across. With this, I can see the energy being expended in mutants, their power's auras in a sense. That is the one that I find the most intriguing in your case, Remy."

"Great." He crossed his arms over his chest and slid down in the chair. "You woke me up for dis?"

Scott nodded. "I have to agree with him, professor. Couldn't this have waited until later? It certainly doesn't sound as urgent as you made it out."

Xavier ignored them. "Been experiencing any changes in your powers lately, Remy? Any uncontrollable issues arise? Perhaps with your empathy?"

Scott turned to face the younger man. "You're empathy has been off, hasn't it? Like you can't reel it in. That's why you attacked Joseph, because you were sensing Rogue's fear."

Remy didn't reply; his hands had become very interested in the hem of his t-shirt.

Clearing his throat, Xavier continued. "Any other subtle changes? Maybe tingles, little urges or fears that if you hold on too tight, you'll loose the kinetic energies?" Nothing. Not a single word. It was like conversing with a brick wall. "I want to show you something."

He pushed a concealed wooden slab up from the top of his desk. Below the little door was a number pad. Pressing in a code, he closed the panel; it clicked shut. A television screen lowered from the ceiling to his right. A second later, a recording from Remy's first Danger Room session was playing. The only thing that glowed in the room was Remy's figure. His body emitted a red fire, the color of a normal body temperature. Everything seemed perfectly normal to him, and he said so.

"Don' see what ya'll are worryin' 'bout. Looks like any old thermal video to me."

Scott agreed. "I'm not sure we understand, professor."

"Take a look at the first session with Ms. Braddock." Two figures appeared on the screen this time, each glowing the warm red of a normal body temperature. "I was curious to try and understand this phenomenon," Xavier explained, watching as the two bodies moved ever closer to each other. "I needed some sort of starting point for the way your powers are working. As you can see, at this point, energy is within the normal range of expenditure."

Again the panel slid open; again he ran his fingers over the keypad. Once again, Remy was by himself, standing in front of the Danger Room's doors. Xavier turned his brown eyes toward the two men, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "And this, as you say, is the pay-off. Watch closely." As the doors slid open, Remy's color changed, stretched out from the lines of his form, surrounding him in a sphere of dazzling, white-hot energy. A nanosecond later, another form—the typical red—barreled into him. They both fell to the ground—red arms and legs sprawled across a ball of white. The picture froze; Xavier was grinning.

It was downright spooky, Remy decided, dragging his gaze from Xavier's face to the monitor.

Scott exhaled rather loudly beside him, causing Remy to swivel in his chair and face his friend. "What happened, Professor?" He turned his visored gaze toward the young man seated to his left. "It's like Remy's powers went haywire."

"That's the beauty of it, Scott, I'm not entirely sure that they did go 'haywire.' In fact, I think they were creating a sort of cocoon to protect him."

"Protect him? From what?"

If Remy didn't think Xavier's grin could get any bigger, he was wrong. "From Rogue," came the triumphant reply and Scott's brow creased like a canyon.

"Pardon?"

"I've had these bio-signature video cameras installed in the Danger Room for quite some time. I haven't monitored them as properly as I should have it seems. The only reason I decided to check them now was at your and Ororo's insistence that something was wrong with Remy's empathic abilities. Because Remy is an energy-wielding mutant first, I hypothesized that if his more secondary powers were having problems, it was a safe estimate that his primary were also experiencing static. Apparently the cause of the static is Rogue.

"Rogue's powers, in crude terms, allow her to siphon the energies, memories, psyches of those she touches. Generally those energies, though powerful, are not experienced at a huge volume. When Remy comes in a close vicinity of Rogue, his powers—his energies—become supercharged. I was very surprised at this and decided to test my hypothesis by observing other trainees." He pressed his fingers across the pad once more. "This sparring session is between Rogue and Joseph. I thought that maybe the reaction is a more chemical attraction; that those physically attracted to Rogue would react with more energy."

Two figures battled. Both remained the normal level of red.

"I also considered the possibility that only energy-wielding mutants would respond this way toward Rogue's powers. This is a match between Rogue and Jubilee." Again, only red stared back at them.

Xavier's smile was deepening once again. "This is the session from a few days ago." Two distinctly feminine forms shone red in the center of the room. A third form approached. The closer he came to Rogue, the more his color shone white, the more it leaked away from his body encasing it in a type of energized shell. One of the women left, leaving the white-lighted man and a single red-lighted female alone. Presently, they began to spar. With every inch that they came closer, the shell glowed brighter. Whenever a touch, a connection was maintained, the brightness was amplified.

"You see, Remy," Xavier's voice seemed breathless, "I believe that you're powers increase as a way to protect you from the effects of Rogue's powers. In other words, your powers provide you with a sort of force-field." He leaned back in his chair. "Rogue might very well be able to touch…you."

Scott sat back in his chair, blowing a breath into his hair and turning to look at the silent Cajun to his left. "Well," was all he could manage.

"Of course, I'm not completely certain yet," Xavier clarified, smoothing the hidden panel back into his desk. "Hank has some tests he would like to run in order to determine whether or not this phenomenon would actually allow for skin to skin contact, but as of now, we believe that Remy could maintain physical contact with Rogue for a limited amount of time. We can't be sure how long just yet as we are not one hundred percent sure of how Rogue's powers will react to the energies created by Remy. But the possibility of finally understanding how and why Rogue's powers work the way they do is certainly exciting." Steepling his fingers together, Xavier nodded. "Come in, Hank."

A second later, the door to the office opened and in bounded the blue-furred geneticist and mansion doctor. He was grinning from ear to ear. Placing a hand on the youngest man's shoulder, he peered into a set of stony red and black eyes. "Oh my stars and garters, this is exciting! Do you have any idea what this finding could mean for our southern belle? And who would have thought that our little thief would have the key locked up in his own powers? Well," Hank allowed himself a chuckle, "a lock-pick at the very least."

X

Three hours later and Remy slammed the door to his room shut. His head, now full of the calculations, hypotheses, whimsies, and who knew what else, felt as if it was going to implode. He wanted nothing more than to stand under a hot stream of water and drown in a tall bourbon on the rocks before sliding into a nice bed with some nameless bimbo. Hell, she could even be faceless for all he cared at that moment because that would mean no attachment, no conscience, and no gawd-damn responsibility!

Not that it would matter, he conceded to himself, it wouldn't matter if he fucked all the girls within a hundred-mile radius; he would still be the only man alive that could touch the untouchable. It should have made him proud, should have made him puff out his chest, but it didn't. But not because he didn't want the job. He did. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to feel the plump of her lips under his own, wanted to run his fingers through her wind-blown curls, and gather them in his fists as his thumbs smoothed across her cheeks. He wanted to feel the softness of her cheek against his face. He closed his eyes, the pounding in his head winning over his stubbornness, and sank into his bed. Able to touch the untouchable, and she didn't want him.

He knew what he would do, knew what needed to be done, but it snarled in his stomach, an angry dog watching another chew on his bone. He would submit to the tests Hank had described, submit to the chance that she could very well drain his memories and powers. He would allow those pale, silken fingers to graze his own so that they could understand why her powers worked the way they did. He would help her find the control she so desperately wanted…no, needed. He would help her…so that she could finally touch…He would help her touch so that another man could have her. That was what sickened him the most, the knowledge that he had been created to touch her—the only one in the known world who could—and he was going to help her touch another. The thought of Joseph's stolen kiss accordioned in his mind—folding over and under itself through the torment of his migraine—making him want to retch out his heart.

He could touch her. He could taste her. But, he wouldn't. Instead, he would bear the badge of responsibility. Because that's what X-Men did. They fought for others, not themselves. And deep down, no matter how much he hid it, that's what he was, that's what he wanted to be. A hero. He would help her so that another could…he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to imagine what they would do together. It would only serve to upset the howling animal in his gut, and he couldn't stand for that. If that animal got out, there'd be no reeling it back in…not even the X-Men would be able to handle that.

When he awoke, the January sun was dipping behind the horizon, signaling the end for the shortened winter days. His head had stopped aching at some point during his agitated nap, but damned if he knew when. He turned to look at his alarm clock and sighed. He'd slept away the day. Not the first time, sure, but normally he had considerably better company. He scratched his fingers through his hair, deciding whether or not he needed a little bit of the nightlife tonight or if he should just scrap the whole day and go back to sleep. A knock on his door and he closed his eyes before uttering a sleep-heavy "'S open!"

Betsy Braddock strode in, her long legs flashing in the fading light from his window. "Wake up, sleepyhead!" She sat next to him, crossing those silken stilts at the knee so that her short dress fell in a puddle high on her thighs. "Sorry I missed you last night, but I thought since it was our first Saturday at the Institute, we should celebrate by staying in." She leaned toward him, her lips immediately seizing his attention. "What do you say, luv?"

He smiled; it was slow, curling as he answered, "You read my mind, chére."

X

There was absolutely no reason not to fall in love with her. She was fun, intelligent, beautiful. Her conversation was clever, witty; she turned heads when they walked into a room. He could see the lust rise in heated clouds above the male population as she swiveled her hips, clung to his arm, and threw back her head with laughter. She played footsie under the table, even if there wasn't a tablecloth. She was brazen, proud, sure of herself. She was very much like him. Sexuality—breathless and hot—practically dripped from her olive skin; heaven knew it dripped from her body. Her lips were strawberries—luscious, sweet, plump—and he enjoyed them very much. The way they nipped at his own was sinful; he'd have to make confession the next time he was in the city…or not, since he planned to commit this sin again and again.

She was feverish with want, pulling him closer to her, wrapping her long legs about his waist, kissing him fervently, holding him to her. She whispered, purred, "Remy…" and lowered her eyelids over lusty violet eyes. Her fingers already working, slowly, agonizingly, trailing down his torso, as she undid his shirt's buttons. She kissed him, her tongue sweeping past his lips, and he moaned, letting her in.

There was absolutely no reason not to fall in love with her.

After discarding his shirt, she ran delicately manicured hands up his chest, her tongue involuntarily licking at her lips at the feel of his musculature. She leaned into him, her tongue trailing from the top of his pants up to his chest. She bit at him and grinned at his sharp intake of breath. Her fingers went to work loosening his belt, unbuttoning his pants.

There was absolutely no reason not to fall in love with her.

He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her toward him with ferocity, crushing her lips under his own, stopping the tantalizing business of her fingers. He kissed her hard, silencing her onslaught, turning her legs, her body to gel. She couldn't antagonize him any more; she was putty in his hands. She moaned into his mouth. Her eyes were closed; her fingers wove into his hair. She was beautiful. She was fun. She was everything he should want. And she wanted him. She wanted him.

There was absolutely no reason not to fall in love with her.

And yet, there was absolutely no reason he could.

X

He watched wordlessly as she gathered herself back into her dress. The material was so thin it was almost transparent. It hugged at her curves, molested her breasts, and all in all provided him with a visual smorgasbord. His hands itched to touch her, but he laced them together and placed them behind his head, his eyes watching her silently. She shimmied the dress past her hips, the length falling at her thighs, and caught his eye. Her smile was dazzling. "Well, luv," she breathed, sidling up to the bed and leaning over him so that he caught the full effect of her cleavage, "I had a great time."

He dipped his head, a small smile on his lips. "As always, chére, we make one helluva team."

She laughed. The tingle made his stomach drop. "That we do, Remy." She reached for him, her fingers lazily tracing circles on his chest. Her voice dropped, "I'd like to continue this partnership for a little while longer."

His heart seized; eyes like the green Mississippi shallows flashed through his mind. His face did not betray him. His shields did not fail him. "Let's," he said instead, his eyelids dropping as he studied her. He raised his hand to her face; his thumb traced her bottom lip. "But what about Sam?"

She leaned into his palm before sighing and moving toward the door. "I'm going out with him later," she cooed, her eyes sharp behind those sooty lashes, "Don't tell me your jealous. Let's consider this more of a business arrangement. After all, I'm not the object of your true desire, am I? Too bad she's hands-off." An obnoxious smirk graced her features and she wriggled her fingers at him before closing the door behind her.

"Bitch," he said to himself, before rolling to his side and covering his head with a pillow. "Damn telepaths." And he punched the mattress.

He lay there for a while, the darkness allowing his mind to work overtime. Rogue was seeing Joseph; she had made that abundantly clear. She had skipped out on duties to go on a date with him; she'd gone out with him the night before…it was obvious that there was an interest there. But it wasn't in him.

Truth be told, it pissed him off a little. He growled into the darkness, throwing the pillow to the floor. He could touch her. He wanted to touch her. And maybe something more. Maybe, he wanted more than just a physical relationship…maybe he wanted… What the hell did it matter if he could touch her? She didn't want him anywhere near her! Not really. Not as more than…friends. Stop thinking about her as anything more!

He heard a light knock on his door and he drew in a shaky breath, thankful for any distraction. "'S open."

Not a sound.

"Come on in!"

Still nothing.

"Oh for…" he slid off the bed, muttering a few choice obscenities in French, and stomped toward the door. "What de hell do you want?" And he threw it open. Standing before him, her pale skin glowing with an otherworldly light stood Rogue. She had her head down and she looked up at him from under lowered lids. Her long hair was swept back in a ponytail, but the stubborn white locks that framed her face fell against her cheeks.

He found couldn't breathe.

Finally he inhaled enough oxygen that his vocal cords began to work. "R-Rogue. D-Di'n't know it was you." He followed the lowering of her gaze to his boxers and sucked in a breath. "Sorry." And he dropped back into his room, leaving the door open, an invitation to enter. "Di'n't expect company." He explained, pulling a t-shirt over his chest and giving a quick once-over of his room.

She followed him in and he instantly felt self-conscious of his living quarters. Dirty piles of clothes littered the room and he winced when he realized she was gazing at the rumpled bed. Quickly, muttering an apology that he wasn't sure she heard, he tugged on the blankets, smoothing their wrinkles and fluffing the pillows. The sickeningly sweet smell of sex floated up from the sheets and he gritted his teeth, embarrassed that she would smell his offenses toward her, even if she didn't want him.

She stood at his desk, and he caught her green eyes from the corners of his own. "Ah—Ah talked to the professor and Hank."

He stopped trying to kick a pile of dirty clothes under the bed and looked at her. His red eyes glittered, "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She pulled out the chair and sat down. "Just wanted to say 'thank you' in advance for…you know."

He nodded. "No problem. Dat's what…friends do." He smiled; it faltered. "What does…Joe…t'ink 'bout all dis?" The name was poison on his tongue.

She shrugged. "Ah haven't told him yet. But we're supposed to go out to dinner again tonight," she added. "Ah guess Ah'll tell 'im then."

He nodded again, his stomach churning at the thought of Joe's lips on hers. "He'll be excited."

"Yeah." She stood up, pushing the chair back into its place behind the desk, and offered a tight smile. "Ah'm glad we're…friends now."

He matched her smile. "J'aussi. (Me too.)"

He watched as she left his room. A heartbeat later and he was dusting plaster from bloody knuckles.

I want to thank all of those who reviewed: Naemis, Jedi Ditz, homeric, Ludi, Lindsey, TaraFish, Rogue151, vinh, RayneXX, BizarreLemon, IvyZoe, willa. j, Alecto's Muse, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, Leash, musagirl15, Lucia de' Medici, and Ishandahalf.

I also want to thank those of you who added Broken Road as a favorite!

I know that this chapter was abnormally one-sided, but bear with me. There's a method to my madness...sometimes...but really in this case there is! 'Course now I have all of these questions! What will Remy do with Betsy? Will Rogue's seemingly budding relationship with Joe drive him over the edge? What is it that he really wants? Can he be friends with someone that he's attracted to? Will he spend more time with Scott now that he sees how truly damaged his friend is? Where was JP through all of this? What will come of Hank and Xavier's investigations? Will Rogue and Remy ever be truly able to touch?

Oh, and yeah, in other news...looks like it's gonna be a little Rogue, not a little Remy. :)

Anamarie