It had been a month since the slaughterhouse disaster. The mission was generally considered as a complete failure. By the time fire and rescue teams had arrived, the entire complex had been incinerated. A search of the premises the next day only revealed that the man in the lab coat had done a good job of 'destroying evidence.' There were no clues, and no survivors.

The defeat hit the X-Men hard, who all felt responsible in some way. If only Logan had caught the guy before he made it to the booth. If only Scott hadn't been so hasty to move in. If only Hank had somehow known about the self-destruction program. They all found a way to feel guilty. Upon returning, Rogue had gone straight up to her room. She stayed there for twenty-six full hours, refusing to speak with anyone.

The only good thing that could be said (which the Professor made a point of illuminating) was that none of the X-Men had been seriously injured. Gambit and Rogue were the last out. Just as several team members were preparing to go back in after them, Rogue appeared from the cloud of scattering debris. She carried the fallen Cajun in tow. Remy spent a few days in the med-lab, suffering from smoke inhalation and minor cuts and bruises.

Though the physical damage was not great, the damage to his psyche was more than anyone had expected. The Professor had asked him for a detailed account of what he had seen; hoping in vain that it might provide some clues to whom was responsible. Gambit had related the events that had occurred in the holding chamber in unemotional flat tones. The children. Their pleas for help. The sanitary white consumed in the inferno. Xavier noted the pallor of his complexion and the flatness of his normally vivid red eyes.

Remy was off. No one could quite explain what it was. He had no witty remarks to offer. No embarrassing stories about teammates to report. He no longer flashed that characteristic grin at every opportunity. He began to spend marathon sessions in the danger room. He fought for hours at a time, pushing himself to the point of physical and mental exhaustion, until Cyclops was obliged to limit him to only scheduled danger room training. His emotions were so raw that it was becoming difficult for any of the resident telepaths to be in the same room as he was. It seemed he either wouldn't, or couldn't, put up the psi-walls that normally shielded his mind. Betsy and Jean were startled from sleep on more than one occasion, caught up in one of Gambit's nightmares.

It was after one such episode that Jean contacted Storm telepathically, *He had that dream again.*

*Where is he now?*

*He's awake... on the roof.*

*Thank you, Jean. I believe it's time I try and talk with him.*

*You're welcome... and Ro?*

*Yes, Jean?*

*Good luck.*

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Storm found Gambit right where Jean had said he would be. He sat with his wrists resting lightly on his knees. He stared off into space, barely noticing her approach until she landed next to him. His expression gave no clue to his mood, and though they were good friends, Storm worried that he might not be willing to talk.

"Evenin', Ro." Storm was a bit disquieted that he didn't refer to her as 'Stormy'. It was a term of endearment that most often annoyed her, but now that he didn't say it, she found she missed it. "What brings ya out here in da middle of da night?"

"Actually, I was looking for you."

"Right to business, neh?" he scoffed. "Well, I was jus' havin' a smoke, so dere ain't no reason ta worry yo'self."

Storm glanced at the smoke in question. A cigarette dangled from his long fingers. It looked like he hadn't touched it since it was lit, as was apparent by the long stem of ash reaching down to the filter. "Are you certain that it is you who is having the 'smoke,' and not the other way around?"

Gambit looked down at the wasted cigarette and laughed as he tossed it away. "Is dere anyway I can get out o' dis conversation?"

Storm smiled as his mood seemed to lighten. "Not likely, my friend."

"So what do ah need ta tell ya fo' you'll leave Remy alone?" Though his words were mocking, she knew that they held some truth. Remy never was one to talk things out.

"You could start by telling me about that nightmare you keep having."

"Why don't you jus' ask Jean, or Betsy? De been havin' it wit' me."

"They just get flashes of the emotions behind the dream, not the actual images. Besides, I'd rather hear about it from you." He hesitated, looking down and absently turning a silver lighter in his hands. "Remy... you know that you can trust me?"

"Yes." He didn't look up.

"And you know that I love you?"

"Yes." He caught her gaze for the first time in the conversation. "Love ya too, Stormy." She smiled at the endearment. "Jus' dat I ain't ready."

"I've got time." She smiled wryly.

"You're a pain in my ass, ya know dat?"

"I try."

Sighing, he finally relented, "In da dream I'm back in de Morlock tunnels."

"You still blame yourself for that?"

"Oui, I s'pose so." He looked away again, attempting to mask the pain of the memory. "Dere were jus' so many t'ings 'bout it dat were de same. De kids. De fire. An' I couldn't do not'ing ta stop it."

"Remy..." She moved closer and brushed the hair from his eyes in a maternal gesture. "What happened wasn't your fault."

"Which, chere? De slaughterhouse o' de Morlocks?"

"I don't blame you for either, Remy."

He only gritted his teeth and swallowed hard. Still refusing to look at her, he confessed, "Dere was dis lil' girl dere. A little girl wit' blond hair and brown eyes." Storm could tell he was fighting tears. She also knew he would never allow those tears to fall. "She begged me ta take her out o' dere. An' I promised her...."

Storm hushed him, knowing that he'd reached his breaking point. She pulled him into her arms. He did not resist, nor did he return the embrace. He simply allowed her to hold him. "You have so much pain locked inside you, my friend. Someday you will have to let it out."

"I know, Stormy." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Dat day jus' isn't today."

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Gasping, sweating, shaking, Gambit lurched forward in his bed. He glanced at the red glow of the clock to orientate himself. It had been several hours since he'd spoken with Storm on the roof. He ran his hand through his hair. It was soaked with sweat, as were his sheets. He tried to shake himself of the memory of the dream, but it hung over his shoulder like a ghost. He realized he was still shaking, and for the first time since the slaughterhouse, he was truly scared.

Relenting to what his heart told him was right, he succumbed to the urge he'd had since the first time he'd had the nightmare. Though he was already too warm for comfort, he rose from the bed and pulled a turtleneck sweater over his head. He also put on a long pair of dorm pants, socks, and gloves. Gliding quietly down the hall, he came to Rogue's door and gently pushed it open.

Rogue had been lying in bed awake. She had tossed and turned, finally resting on her side, facing away from the door. When she heard it being nudged open she knew who had come to call on her, and inexplicably, why he was here.

Remy crawled quietly into the bed. He laid on his side, curling his body to match her contours, but not daring to touch her. She did not say a word, but wriggled her body against his. When he wrapped his arm around her waste, she took his had and squeezed it gently. *Ah'm here, sugah,* she said silently. He buried his face between her shoulder blades. Through her cotton nightgown she could feel his breath as it cooled and warmed her skin with the rise and fall of his chest. *Ah'm here.*