Chapter 15

Remy stood in the darkness, watching Rogue sleep.  She was wearing that same blue nightshirt-- ugly, threadbare, and always her favorite.  The light blanket was piled on the floor, kicked off during the night.  Rogue lay sprawled across the bed with carefree abandon, unaware and uncaring if anyone were watching.  She could as easily have been fifteen as twenty-two.  Sleep erased the marks of hard experience from her face, and left her with a sweet, childlike innocence.

Remy resisted the impulse to stroke her cheek.  He wasn't wearing gloves, and she didn't sleep with the power suppressor around her neck.  At least, not yet.  The thought brought a flicker of a smile to his face that faded almost immediately.  He had come seeking reassurance, not romance.  He had found a little of what he was looking for.  He could see the gentle rise and fall of Rogue's breast and knew that she was alive and well.  The silence of the darkened house no longer seemed so ominous.

Remy slipped back to the open window and perched on the sill.  He felt only a little bit like an intruder. His need to see her had been too great to ignore.  Nightmares haunted him now, ever since he'd seen that mercenary.  He remembered little of them, but his dreams were filled with such deep, wrenching pain that he woke to his own sobbing, with screams locked in his throat and no idea what might have caused it.  Tonight he had awakened feeling lost and alone, like the entire world had been ripped away from him.  Those feelings of loss were ebbing now.  He could prove to himself that the things that were most important to him were still in their normal places-- that no devastating catastrophe had struck without his knowing.

A soft whisper of wind alerted him. He ducked the rest of the way out the window.  Storm hovered level with his second story perch, the wind that supported her billowing her silk pajamas, and spreading her hair around her like a halo.  Remy leapt from the window, landing lightly on the lawn.  Storm touched down beside him.  Her smile was both curious and friendly.

"Your relationship with Rogue is no secret, Remy.  Would it not be easier to use the door?"

"I was tryin' not t' wake her."

Storm studied him with sudden concern.  She always had had a knack for knowing when he was upset,even when she was living as a child, unaware of her true identity.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Remy shrugged.  "It's nothin', chere."

She stepped closer and cupped his cheek in her hand.  "My friend, I know you better than that."  She did.  She was, very easily, the best friend Remy had.  Except for Rogue, perhaps, and that was different.

Remy sighed and stepped away from her.  How could he explain?  "There's jus'... somet'ing wrong... " He waved an arm vaguely, unable to put his fears into words.

"Something is wrong here?  At the mansion?" 

Remy shook his head and laid one hand on his chest.  "No, here.  Wit' me."

Storm closed the distance between them again.  "Many things have happened of late, and we do not yet understand their importance.  That does not mean that there is anything wrong with you."

Remy didn't look at her.  "Don' mean dere ain't, neither."

Storm was silent for several long moments.  Remy snuck a glance at her, only to find her studying him, her expression guarded.

"Tell me, Remy, do you know anything else about the deaths of the X-Men?  Anything you have not said?"  The question was neutral-- serious, but without accusation.  It hurt nonetheless.  Storm's trust was a precious gift. He had always worked hard to live up to that expectation.  Even a waver in her trust felt like a knife blade.

"Non," he finally answered her.  "I don' know anyt'ing."  He forced himself to meet her gaze, wishing he could beg her to believe him.  But he was too proud for that, and they both knew it.

Storm's expression didn't change.  "Then why do you carry so much guilt?"

Remy stared at her, speechless.  In the course of a few words, Storm had finally put a name to the fear that haunted him.  He was no stranger to guilt-- he carried enough around to drown an elephant.  But he hadn't been able to identify the gnawing ache inside him every time he thought about the X-Men dying.  Just knowing what it was gave him a small sense of relief, but that was quickly buried beneath new fears.  Why would he feel guilty-- especially for something that hadn't happened yet?  And especially when he hadn't done anything?  He really hadn't done anything, had he?  As rotten as his past was, he couldn't think of anything that would tie in to the X-Men.

"Remy?"  Storm's voice was low and full of concern. 

Remy blinked and looked at her.  He had no idea how long he had been standing there in silence, lost in his thoughts.  When he spoke, it was difficult to force the words out through the tightness in his throat.

"I... I have dis feelin' dat it's all my fault.  Dat de X-Men are gon' die because o' me."

"Why?"

"I... don' know, chere... I jus'... I t'ink I was dere.  An' it's because o' somet'ing I did, or didn' do, maybe..."

Storm cocked her head.  "Remy, you are speaking in the past tense."

"Oui."  That was the most frightening part of all.  "I feel like it's already happened-- de X-Men are already dead.  We jus' haven' gotten dere yet."

Storm's eyebrows rose.  "That is foolish."  Her tone brooked no argument.  "We know that the future is not pre-determined.  Bishop's experiences in the alternate world of Apocalype have proven that.  Or have you not been listening to Hank's occasional tirades on the subject?"  Her expression lightened, and a slow smile encouraged him to share the joke.  But he couldn't find a smile to give her.

Storm touched his cheek, solemn once more.  "Perhaps you have a touch of prescience.  That might explain any number of things."

"Maybe."  It was something to consider, at least.  Still, he'd never been able to guess the future before.  If he had, he would have avoided a lot of the stupid mistakes he'd made.

Storm gave him a quick hug.  She was not a demonstrative person, reaching out physically as a matter of choice and will rather than instinct, so the gesture meant a lot to Remy.

"T'anks, chere."

She smiled.  "Talk to Professor Xavier.  He may be able to explain what is happening to you."

Remy hesitated.  "I'll t'ink about it."

The wind rose around them, billowing their clothing and laying the grass flat.  Storm lifted off of the ground as if she weighed no more than a soap bubble.  "Goodnight, then," she told him as she drifted higher.

"Goodnight," he called after her. He watched as she arced over the rooftop and dropped out of sight on the far side.  Then he sighed.  He had some thinking to do.  Talking to the professor might be a good idea, but he had the feeling he was going to have to be ready to lay down all of his cards before Xavier could be of much help.  That was a risk he wasn't sure he was ready to take.

#

"So what's up, Chuck?"  Wolverine asked as he entered the room.  He nodded to several of the gathered X-Men then settled against the edge of Charles' desk, arms crossed.  The study was beginning to feel crowded, and there were a few yet to arrive.  Charles greeted Wolverine, but did not answer his question.  He would have to wait along with everyone else.

The conversations in the room were muted, as if no one were paying much attention to what they were saying.  It was a way to cover their curiosity.  They could all sense that something important was going to happen, but were too polite to speculate out loud.  Two people sat at the focus of that curiosity:  Gambit was curled up in one of the stuffed leather-bound chairs, looking more unhappy with every passing moment, and Emma Frost sat silently in a similar chair on the other side of the desk.  Charles had explained only sketchily when he had requested her presence, but her demeanor was as placid and aloof as always.  She lounged in her chair with complete confidence, utterly still except for the miniscule tapping of her booted foot.

Jean and Betsy arrived last.  They had been in another room, talking over their respective parts in the coming exercise.  At least, an "exercise" was how Charles was choosing to look at it.  What he was proposing to do could be quite dangerous.  Hopefully, the results would prove the risk well worth taking.  Jean nodded to him. The two women found places around the room.

Charles glanced briefly at Rogue.  He wasn't certain what Remy had told her, but she sat a little ways from him, her expression a mixture of frustration and worry.  He had gotten the impression she had tried to argue with him, but hadn't been able to raise any response.  Remy had grown very withdrawn, as if he were awaiting execution, almost.  Charles was startled by the sudden revelation.  Though he didn't know why, he now realized that the young man was indeed waiting for his life to end-- figuratively, if not literally. 

Charles cleared his throat.  "Thank you all for your swift arrival.  I know you are curious as to why I've summoned you."  A few nods followed his words, but no one spoke.

"As you are all aware, a number of events throughout the past few months have placed a great deal of emphasis on the possibility that the X-Men will be betrayed and killed at some point in the future.  This is the future history of which Bishop warned us when he first arrived here."  Bishop leaned forward in his chair, his expression both surprised and intense.

"These events also seem to revolve around Gambit's presence with the X-Men, though the reasons for this are unclear."  Charles gestured toward Remy, who did not acknowledge him.  He stared steadily at a point in space, apparently oblivious to everything around him.  Charles doubted that, but did not see the need to disturb him at this point.

"Remy and I have spoken about this at great length, and he is willing to allow me to probe his memories for anything that may shed light on the mystery."  Expressions of surprise were mirrored around the room at the pronouncement.  Some were disbelieving.  Not that Charles could blame them.  He'd been shocked when Remy had proposed the idea to him, and from their conversation had gotten the distinct impression that Remy had reasons other than his crippled telepathic skills for wanting to keep his thoughts private.  But there was a heavy measure of desperation in the young Cajun.  He, at least, was convinced he was responsible for the deaths of the X-Men, though he continued to vehemently deny any knowledge of those deaths. 

Charles shook off his thoughts and continued his explanation.  "Because of the unknown nature of Remy's telepathic abilities, there is a fair amount of danger associated with a mind probe.  Not only to those of us involved, but quite possibly to anyone in the vicinity.  Therefore, Jean will be acting as my backup so she can shield me if necessary and vice versa.  I have asked Emma to join us as well. She and Elizabeth will be ready to act if there is any risk to all of you.  If you wish, you can simply leave the grounds.  Distance should provide sufficient protection.  I would suggest that you take yourselves a fair distance away, however-- into town, at the very least."

"Isn't this a little extreme?"  Scott's attention was split between his wife and Charles.

Charles nodded.  "Probably.  But I would rather be prepared for any contingency."

Wolverine was watching Remy intently, his customary scowl in place.  "You really o.k. with this, Cajun?" he asked gruffly.  Those who knew him well could see that his roughness masked a deep concern.  Of all of the X-Men, Charles thought, Wolverine probably understood Gambit better than anyone else.  He was certainly the closest male friend Remy had among them.

"It was my idea, Logan."  Remy's answer was faint.  He didn't move, nor did his empty gaze change.  Rogue chewed on her lip, as if resisting the impulse to say something. Her eyes on Wolverine were full of mute appeal.

Wolverine shrugged as if the answer were good enough for him.

Charles took a deep breath and surveyed the room.  Unsurprisingly, no one was gathering himself to leave.  He had figured that curiosity would keep them all present.  Not just because of the possibility of exposing the betrayal, but because they might unravel some of the mystery of Gambit himself.

"Very well," Charles said.  "Jean, are you ready?"

Jean nodded and brought a chair over to sit beside him.  Charles looked at Betsy and Emma, and received their nods in return.

"Remy?"

The red eyes flicked to him, filled with apprehension.  But as Charles opened his mind, he could feel the walls that surrounded Remy's thoughts being dismantled, piece by piece, as the young man struggled to allow him access.  He felt Jean's presence join his, and together they stepped inside.