Chapter 7

Charles Xavier woke with a start.  He had been dozing, chin propped in hand.  Rogue glanced up at him.  Her eyes were reddened and puffy from lack of sleep.

Not even the proverbial wild horses, he thought as he looked at her.  She was at least taking this better than Gambit's kiss-induced coma earlier that year, though that was unsurprising.  She sat next to the bed with Gambit's hand wrapped in her two, waiting.

Charles rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work the kinks out.  The clock on the wall read a few minutes after ten. It was morning again, three days after Gambit's collapse.

"Rogue, you really ought to get some sleep," he told her.  "You can bring a couch in here if you want.  I don't think Hank would mind, and I certainly don't."

She smiled wanly.  "Thanks, Professuh.  But ah think ah'd rather just--" She broke off, eyes narrowing.  "Ya got some nerve, comin' in here," she said to the woman who entered the room.

Charles sighed inwardly.  He had felt Psylocke approaching.  Now she stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on Archangel.  One silvered wing wrapped protectively around her.

"You should not be out of bed, Elizabeth."  She had been conscious for nearly a day, but was still recuperating.  And you cerainly shouldn't be here.  But he kept that thought to himself.  At the moment, she was avoiding telepathic contact, which he was inclined to agree with for the sake of her mental health.

Elizabeth glanced at the figure on the bed, eyes shadowed.  "I just wanted to tell you that you can go in a little ways-- without doing any damage."  She looked down at the floor. Charles could feel the hot bite of her shame.  "His defenses will slam into place, but you can at least make contact."

"You knew he was a telepath?" Charles couldn't help the accusation in his tone.

"I.... suspected."  She continued to stare at the floor.

"Y'all suspected?!  An' ya just attacked him?  Ya couldn'ta said somethin' first an' given him a chance ta explain?"  Rogue hovered a few feet off of the floor.  Her hands were balled into fists, and she looked very ready for a fight.

Betsy looked up at her and then quickly away.  Her silence was answer enough.  Warren's wings were partially unfurled in the tight space, and Charles could see the gleaming tips of flechettes ready to launch.  And there he was, sitting squarely in the middle of it all, which was probably why the situation had not yet dissolved into violence.

"Rogue!  Warren!  I want you both to calm down, understood?"  He pinned each of them in turn with his sternest professorial stare.  The silver wings twitched, lowered a fraction.  Rogue shifted to a less aggressive stance.  It wasn't much, but Charles supposed it would have to do.

"Now, Elizabeth, please explain yourself."  All eyes turned toward the bent head.

She did not look up.  "It was just after-- after Israel."  Rogue's eyes widened at the reference.  "When Gambit first woke up.  He was hardly conscious-- just staggering through the house looking for Rogue.  I felt his presence just before he destroyed the door to the danger room, but at that instant I didn't know it was him.  I felt desperation, and pain and fear, but also something much darker-- colder.

"Several hours later, while he was sleeping, I... probed him."  She winced as if she could feel Charles' anger at her admission.  "There was something very dark inside him, Charles.  I don't know what, but it was obvious from his mindscape.  That was about when he noticed me, so I withdrew.  I never tried to enter his mind again.

"But with everything that has happened recently, I thought it was too important to know the truth.  I'm sorry."

"The truth!"  Rogue was up in arms again.  "Was it worth his life?" 

"Was it worth his love?" Elizabeth retorted. She stared directly at Rogue.  "That's why you broke up, isn't it?  Because he wouldn't tell you the truth?"

Rogue jerked as if she'd been shot.  The two women stared at each other in angry silence.

"Elizabeth, you should return to bed."  Charles stated it as a request, but it was clearly an order.  "We can talk more later."  It would be wise to separate Psylocke and Rogue before the argument escalated.  They would only hurt each other further.  And if Gambit was at all sensitive to what was going on around him, he didn't need that either.

Warren urged Betsy out into the hall, talking quietly to her.  She seemed willing enough to go with him.  When they were gone, Rogue sank to the floor.  Her boot heels clicked hollowly on the metal floor as she landed.  Charles could tell she was trying not to cry.   

He sent out a mental call, and was immediately answered.  A few minutes later, Logan walked in.

"C'mon, darlin'."  He caught Rogue's elbow, and gently tried to draw her toward the door.  "You need some fresh air."

She shook her head stubbornly, resisting his pull.  "Ah ain't goin' t' leave him, Logan."

"Who said anything 'bout leavin'?  We'll just go sit out on the porch for a while.  Chuck here'll call ya if anything changes.  Fast as you c'n fly, you'll be here in a couple a seconds."

Rogue was unconvinced. 

"Rogue, you are highly distraught. If Remy were to wake right now, that would probably upset him, and that is the last thing he needs.  The best thing you can do for him right now is to go with Logan.  Get some food, some rest--" Charles smiled.  "And some fresh air."

He could see her resistance wilting.  With a last look at Gambit, she allowed Logan to escort her from the room.

Charles allowed himself a drawn-out sigh.  As soon as Jean arrived, he would try to contact Gambit.  The monitor by the bed showed Remy's brainwave pattern to be strong, if irregular.  He simply hadn't been willing to take the risk before.  But with Elizabeth's experiences in mind, it seemed a careful probe might be successful.  He suppressed his anger at her actions.  That was something he would have to deal with later.  Gambit would need him to be as calm, and as gentle, as possible.

#

Jean gave Charles' hand an encouraging squeeze.  He returned it as they waited for the disorientation to pass.  There was always a little bit-- the imperfect mesh of several minds as they tried to adjust to a foreign thought process.  Jean gasped as they "arrived" and were immediately drenched in icy rain.  Charles wiped the water out of his eyes.  They had agreed not to meddle any more than absolutely necessary, so he forbore creating protection for them from the rain.  For now, at least.  It was cold.

"Does it get this cold in New Orleans?" Jean asked, looking around.  She had her arms folded up with her hands tucked up into her armpits. The city around them was dark and silent, though there were lights off in the distance.

"Sometimes.  In the winter.  The temperature really isn't all that low.  It's just the rain that makes it seem cold."  Charles, too, studied the narrow street on which they found themselves.  A lamp burned at the end of the street, but the illumination seemed to huddle around the tall iron post.  It did not reach them.  The other end of the street disappeared into shadow.  The storefront windows yawned like empty mouths all around them.

"Which way?"

"I suppose we should assume the worst."  Charles indicated the shadows.  Instinct told him they would not find Gambit among the lights and jazz bands, if such existed in this version of the city.  Together they walked down the street.  Their feet thumped dully on the cobblestones.

As they walked, Charles became aware of other sounds.  A hollow whisper of wind around the corners.  The rattle of the rain on the roofs.  A dog barking in the distance.  He found their presences reassuring.  This place was dark and cold, but not unusually so for a rainy night.  It seemed more and more to be just a normal cityscape.  He took it to be an encouraging sign.

They walked for a long time through the narrow streets.  As always, Charles' astral self was unencumbered by his physical handicap.  They met nothing living, and Charles was beginning to wonder if he had not chosen the wrong direction, after all.  Either that, or his deeper fears were realized and Remy was in far more trouble than he had hoped.

"Hey!"  The sudden exclamation from Jean startled him.

"What is it?"

She approached a ragged staircase that gave access to a door approximately four feet above the level of the street.  "I'd swear we've passed this door before.  But I know this is a new street."  The door was made of gray metal and sat flush with the side of the building.

"Hmm.  Well, perhaps we are supposed to go in."  Charles carefully climbed the stairs, which slanted at a horrible angle, and tried the door handle.  It was locked.  He stepped back a short pace and studied the door, hands on hips. 

"I hate to think we're expected to pick the lock," he observed.  In the midst of his words he heard a tiny sound.  It had come from beneath him.  Looking down, he saw a flicker of motion through the cracks between the boards where he stood. 

He turned to catch Jean's attention, pointed down.  Her eyebrows rose.  She squatted where she was, and peered under the staircase.  Pressed back into the darkest corner was a small child.  Jean blinked in surprise.  She couldn't make out any of its features, but the huddled form simply couldn't be anything else.

"Hi," she said quietly.  The child didn't move.

"My name's Jean.  What's yours?"  Jean could see a spot of brightness as the little light reflected from his-- her?-- eyes.

She slowly extended her hand.  "Come here, little one.  I won't hurt you."  She tried to use her most coaxing tone.  After a moment, she heard a distinctive child's snuffle, and the little figure began to climb out of the tight morass of lumber.  It was a boy, she saw as he emerged, perhaps four or five years old.  He was soaking wet and shivering, dressed in the ragged remains of a blue sleeper.  With a sob, he launched himself into her arms, clinging with desperate strength.

She held him tightly for a while, then settled him in her lap with his head tucked against her shoulder.  Charles came down the stairs and approached them.  The boy's sobs were easing. Jean took the moment to tilt his head back and wipe the tears away, murmuring soft comforts.  Bright blue eyes stared at her, framed by unruly red hair.  It took only a moment for her to recognize him.

She looked up at Charles.  "It's Remy."

The boy's eyes widened at his name.

Charles was not surprised.  Finding a child version of an injured psyche was not unusual.  "Hello, Remy," he said, hunkering down beside them.  "Do you know who I am?"

The boy shook his head.  "I want to go home," he said.  Charles stared at him in stunned surprise, ignoring Jean's puzzled look.  He had spoken in perfect Shi'ar.