- FOUR -

The static shock from the doorknob was enough to make Kurt almost drop the tray, but he managed to keep it balanced as he opened the door and walked in. Soon as he did, the electrical charge inside caused every strand of his hair and fur to rise. He looked down at himself in dismay.

Anyone who saw him right then would think he was the lovechild of Hellraiser and the Cookie Monster.

Sighing, he turned the light on and placed the tray on the dresser, pondering the risk of waking him. Kurt had gotten zapped earlier when he'd dropped off breakfast. He didn't feel like repeating the experience. Instead of nudging Ray's shoulder like last time, he chose to keep a safe distance as he said, "Dinner's here, Ray."

Nothing.

"Time to eat."

Still nothing.

"Sehr gut," he muttered, then raised his voice a bit. "Hey, wake up!"

But Ray slept like the dead. Even when Kurt was really yelling, it only earned a light snore in reply. Finding nothing in the room that could serve as a prod, Kurt ported to a tree outside, picked up the first twig he saw that looked long and sturdy enough to suit, then returned to Ray's room. He walked a few steps nearer the bed, using the twig for a cautious tap on the sleeping boy's arm.

Ray stirred. As he did, an electrical current shot out from his arm. Kurt quickly dropped the twig and jumped back.

"Oh, man!" He really wished Kitty had been left back instead. Her phasing powers would've been ideal for this, but the Professor had said since she was the same age as some of the recruits, she'd have a harder time getting them to listen to her. Kurt didn't believe that for a second. She'd probably bargained her way into the Morocco mission, used something that the Professor couldn't turn down, like promising never to play chauffeur to him again.

Ray let out another snore.

"Maybe later denn, okay?" Kurt said, backpedaling to the door slowly, keeping a careful eye out for any sign of blue currents. At the door, he switched the light off and used his tail to swing the door shut, then ported from the hall to the kitchen.

Where he stared for five minutes at the second tray waiting on the table for delivery.

Kitty wasn't there, but there were five able recruits in the house that he was technically in charge of and if he told one of them to take care of the tray, the order would have to be followed, right? Although maybe he'd have to scratch Jamie out on the list, because it just seemed wrong to send someone that small to deal with Rogue. And Sam seemed to get skittish around her for whatever reason, so that was out, too. So Bobby or 'Berto or Amara then. Except that Bobby and 'Berto were responsible for the prank that had flooded the girls' bathroom, and not enough time had passed to ease even Jean's grudge.

Okay. Amara. She'd been the one lately taking food up to Rogue anyway. Even returned from the task still reasonably chirpy and in one piece the first time she'd done it, which was why Kurt had left the task up to her since then. She was probably still resting after the Danger Room session she'd begged him to program (and that had been really weird), but what he'd set up hadn't been too hard, so she wouldn't take too long resting, right? And she wouldn't mind the chore…

Kurt slumped into a seat, swiping a hand over his face.

He was hiding behind a girl. What would his parents say?

It took another minute of squaring his shoulders and pretending he had nerves of steel before he could pick up the tray. "I can do this," he said, nodding firmly. "Ja."

Then ported to the hall, standing just outside the door to Rogue's room. He knocked, and when that didn't get a reply, he puffed out a breath and opened the door.

On the bright side, the room wasn't statically charged. It was quiet, darker than any of the other bedrooms thanks to the generous amounts of black that filled it. Black throw rug, black-lined curtains, black-framed prints and posters and pictures, black bed-sheets, black-and-white checkerboard comforter—and looking at the unmoving lump underneath it, Kurt found another bright side. Like Ray, Rogue was asleep.

He tiptoed to the table next to her bed and softly placed the tray there. He wouldn't try to wake this one up, so he flipped only the switch to the bedside lamp. Maybe he could send Amara later to check in. That wasn't hiding behind the girl anymore, right? Because he'd brought the tray in himself, hadn't he?

He was on the point of turning back to the door when the lump moved. Kurt's face fell when he saw the striped auburn head start to peek out from under the comforter, followed by a pair of bleary eyes.

Obviously, unlike Ray, Rogue was a light sleeper.

"Hey," she said, scratchy-voiced.

"Hey," he replied, pointing to the tray. "Dinner time."

She started sitting up. As sleep wore off her face, Kurt could feel the tension seep into the room. "I'll be back in thirty minutes to pick that up," he said flatly, turning away.

"I know the Professor told you."

He was near the door, just a few more steps—short steps, but he didn't take them. Instead he clenched his jaw. He'd been expecting this from her. Now was a bad time, though, since he'd been raised to be kind to the sick. And getting into this now with Rogue was going to make him yell.

"Ja," he said, looking back. "So?"

A day after the incident at the cliffs, Kurt had found himself in the study facing Hank and the Professor, listening to their account of Rogue and Apocalypse's meeting in the Egyptian chamber. She remembered a few things about it, enough to give the Professor a sketchy report and let him take an even fuzzier probe. And she'd asked the Professor to clue Kurt in on some of it. The parts involving Mystique.

Reciprocal imprinting, the fancy term the two adults used for the power transfer between Apocalypse and Rogue. From what Kurt could make of it, Apocalypse's mutation was almost the same as hers, except his control and experience was just way, way beyond hers. So instead of canceling out each other's powers, a weaker Rogue had just ended up giving away all hers.

Some part of her must've resisted, though, because she'd picked up a few mental images from Apocalypse. The Professor hadn't gone into detail about most of them—they were vague, he'd said. And Kurt didn't need to hear him say that they were probably also very disturbing, and therefore confidential. Actually, so were the ones about Mystique, but Kurt was her son, so he was one of the people included on the need-to-know list, at least for that part of Rogue's report.

Mystique was in limbo somewhere, probably hurting, probably miserable. Probably mad. Because Rogue had shoved and broken into itty-bitty rocky pieces her one-way ticket out.

But at least she wasn't dead. And Rogue had known that when she watched the statue break.

She'd waited two weeks to bring this up. If Kurt weren't so disappointed and upset and confused and just plain pissed off, he would've cheered her. Two whole weeks, and Rogue was never the patient type. But then, he never would've expected her reaction that night on the cliffs, either. People could surprise you, a lesson he'd learned well ages ago. He shouldn't have been so naïve as to think that everything she'd been through would only make its momentary bruise, then go away to make Rogue Rogue again.

The wounds went deeper than surface. More than anything else—except maybe Mystique in limbo—it was the look on Rogue's face that night that really troubled him.

"So," she said now. "Get over it already."

He stared in disbelief. "What?"

"She ain't dead—"

"Oh, great! Let's have a nice family hug, then, huh? All is forgiven!"

She crossed her arms angrily and averted her face.

"You're right," he said, his voice calmer now. "She's not dead. I got over that. I understand that all you did was destroy any chance we had of getting her back from whatever trap Apocalypse put her in. All you did was make sure she's still out there somewhere, stuck. Maybe kind of how Mesmero kept you stuck in your own head."

She looked back at him.

"All you did was get revenge."

"Wasn't just about that," she protested hoarsely.

"Whatever it was—how much better did it make you feel, mein schwester?"

When she didn't say anything—just stared at the sheets—he figured he'd made his point. Then she glanced up, her head defiant, the gleam in her eyes vicious, as she spread her arms to either side. "This much…mein bruder."

Adjusting the lenses of his binoculars, Remy panned into the room where three boys were congregated, their blank faces focused on the big screen television. He took a quick glance at the TV and snorted. Baywatch. Of course.

He leapt from his perch on the stony wall and made his way across the grounds, stepping quick and light, careful to avoid tripping the sensors and tipping off the security cams. One of the benefits of working with Magneto had been the man's impressive ability to acquire the floor and security plans of places such as, say, the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. As Magneto had been pretty adamant in the Acolytes' study of this particular estate, Remy found himself moving now with ease and familiarity.

"Merci bien, Mags," he muttered, closing the distance to the mansion. "Wherever the hell you are."

He soon found himself looking into an empty foyer. Moving further down, he saw an empty kitchen…empty hall…empty den…empty garage.

Empty everywhere.

He considered doubling back to the rec room. Even if the boys went brain dead during Baywatch, commercials might incite their brains to function again and lead to conversations that could possibly leak a few helpful hints for Remy to make use of. He needed to find out where the hell Xavier had gone.

He was on the verge of heading back when his earpiece amplifier caught the sound of muffled voices. He looked up and spotted a weak glow from an upstairs window. Hoisting himself up a nearby tree, he climbed to a high branch overlooking the room and peered in with his binoculars at two of the X-Men.

Finally.

It was Rogue and the blue one called Nightcrawler, and neither looked too happy with the other. He knew their history, their ties, guessed that he was witnessing a family spat. They were, after all, glaring at each other in that truly spiteful way only siblings could pull off. Put him in mind of his own fights with his brother.

"All you did was get revenge."

"Wasn't just about that—"

"Whatever it was—how much better did it make you feel, mein schwester?"

He focused on Rogue's bowed head, curious at how subdued she looked. Judging from what he'd seen of her (and this didn't include under-mind-control encounters), she seemed like the reactive type. Then his eyes went to the tray of soup and juice next to her bed, and back again to the face that was even more drawn than the last time he'd seen it.

In Egypt, after Apocalypse had left them all in varying degrees of pain and unconsciousness, it was Wolverine and Sabretooth with their higher recuperative abilities who'd tried to get everyone back on their feet again. Remy could remember resting against a column, waiting with Colossus for Creed to slap the awareness back into Pyro. As Wolverine carried Xavier to the hover chair, fixed courtesy of Magneto, the two leaders had started another discussion about their gaping failure, with shaky clusters of X-Men watching on anxiously.

Remy had made a joke then about everyone taking a Disneyworld vacation, earning a drab look from Colossus before the Russky turned his attention back to the old timers. Man lacked appreciation for humor, and Remy had rolled his eyes at this.

Doing so, he'd spotted the lone figure in the corner of the chamber: Rogue, crouched on the ground, bag-eyed and pinch-lipped, the expression on her face clearly toeing the fine line between sanity and hysteria.

She'd caught him staring, and the look had faded into a tired kind of blank.

It was the same look she wore now, as she sat slumped in her bed peering at her hands. Girl was different, of course—who wouldn't be who'd acted as the vessel for unleashing an ancient evil to plague the earth and all that jazz? But he couldn't help wondering how the X-Men would fare later on, when things got really ugly. Weak wouldn't cut it in life.

Then he saw her head snap up, the anger in her face—and his brow lifted in surprise.

"This much, mein bruder."

As her blatant hostility drove the boy out the door, the old adage about making assumptions floated through Remy's mind. He narrowed his gaze, murmuring, "You're one to watch, cherie."

So he stayed a little while longer on his tree perch, and it wasn't really about spying on the girl anymore because nothing was happening there except her preoccupation with the food tray. Anyway, he needed time to think up another plan now that the Xavier route was a bust.

A shame. He'd had such high hopes for an amicable professional agreement, involving his breaking-and-entering skills and Xavier's telepathy. He knew from Magneto that Xavier had an underground network, and what underground network wouldn't need a few more of the right kind of people to carry out some slightly shady errands? He knew—again from Magneto—about a little something called Cerebro that gave Xavier one hell of a telepathic boost. Remy was sure he and Xavier both would've more than lived up to each end of the deal.

That Xavier would be willing to deal in the first place was also a sure thing. The man made himself out to be mutantkind's answer to Mother Teresa, but Xavier being the world's biggest brain, his actions likely had more to do with superior reasoning skills than excessive kindness of heart. He took in Wolverine and trusted les enfants in his care, managed to recruit Rogue right from under Mystique's nose, offered compromises in the conflict with Magneto to avoid potential messiness, made efforts to welcome Avalanche during his short stint away from the Brotherhood.

All that didn't mean Xavier was Mother Teresa. It meant he was Margaret Thatcher dressed in Mother Teresa's robes.

"Rogue?"

Remy's attention turned to the room again. A girl's head popped in through the door. Thinking back to the file he'd read on the Institute's younger students, he placed her as Magma. The lava kid.

"Hey, Amara."

"Oh, you have it already—I wasn't sure if Kurt brought up the tray. Just came to check." She gave a cheery smile as her head started to disappear.

"Wait," Rogue called, and that was another small shock to Remy. Amara, too, from the look on her face. "Um…any word from the others?"

"Well," Amara said, walking into the room now. "Kurt said Logan thinks they'll be back early tomorrow. And I got to talk to Kitty when she called for the update. She said they should be in by tomorrow night."

"What's she up to?"

"Not much. Hank and the Professor are locked away in that curator's office. Kitty and Jean were sort of mad at first about being left out, but then—"

"They remembered they're in Morocco," Rogue said.

"Right. So they went sightseeing a little. And shopping." Amara's smile faltered a bit. "Wish I was there."

"You and me both."

"It's so boring here!" Amara burst out, plopping on the edge of Rogue's bed.

"Where're the other fellas?"

"Except Sam, they're all downstairs drooling at the TV."

"Baywatch marathon?"

"Yeah, and that show's so stupid, but I would've watched with them, except they said I was too noisy and kicked me out! So now I've finished all my homework and even got Kurt to program a training session for me—and then I washed the dishes! Vicky called and asked if I wanted to go to the mall, but I can't because Logan and Miss Monroe left orders that we shouldn't leave the Institute unless it's an emergency!"

"Nervous breakdowns count, right?"

"Not funny!" But the younger girl was smiling again.

Remy himself couldn't help the half-grin that came to his lips. Only a few minutes ago he'd seen Rogue seemingly pissed to the limit, and now she was making wry cracks to get one of the tweenies to feel better? Either she must've been pretty bored herself or she was just one highly unpredictable fille. Probably both. In his experience, there was nothing more volatile than a bored fille.

"Ooh! Hey, can I borrow this?" Amara picked up a book with a title that he couldn't make out. It was massive and hardcover, not the kind of reading he'd have figured for a kid her age.

"Sure. They got the movie downstairs, case you'd rather watch it."

"I know, I've seen it six times. Twice in one sitting once. I've read the book three times, too. Did you know there's a sequel?"

"That you read twice already?"

"No, just once. It's not the same when the original author dies and a total poser comes along to ruin the vision, you know? I can read this over and over and never get tired, but the sequel? Well—" And here Amara made a dramatic face. "'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!'" And, clutching the book tight, stormed out of the room in long strides before slamming the door. A second later, her head popped back in. "Thanks, Rogue." Then she was gone for real.

He saw Rogue shake her head over the younger girl's antics before, seconds later, an actual honest-to-God smile spread over her face—the first of its kind that Remy had ever seen on her.

It suited her, and he was leaning in for a closer look when an owl appeared out of nowhere, making all kinds of flapping noise and landing on Remy's perch to stare with accusing eyes. He cursed it quietly, hoping it hadn't attracted Rogue's notice.

When he looked in again, she was getting to her feet. "Damn," he muttered, glaring at the owl that only blinked back. He scampered back, preparing to jump down, but stopped when he saw that Rogue was standing, yes, and slowly walking in the direction of the window, yes, but she wasn't looking at the window.

She stopped near her bookshelf, staring down at the small monkey sitting there. Furtively, her face turned to the closed door, and he knew the expression she wore for exactly what it was.

Embarrassment.

When she snagged the monkey and stumbled back to the bed quick as she could, hiding her friend under her pillow, he swallowed a laugh.

The brooding tough girl who'd taken out the X-Men, the Brotherhood, and the Acolytes in one fell swoop was a secret stuffed-animal lover?

Seemed so ridiculous it was almost appealing.

That little grab-and-run seemed to wear her out. Minutes later, her eyes drifted shut. Once they did, Remy turned his away. On his tante's list of things that proper gentlemen never did (a list she'd made sure Remy and his brother were well acquainted with) was one about always respecting the privacy entitled to a lady.

Thief that he was, Remy still tried to follow that rule to the letter. And maybe she didn't fit the typical mold of a lady, but Rogue was alone and asleep—nothing more private than that.

Saluting the owl, he bounded down the tree and away from the building, satisfied with the information gleaned from the eavesdropping session.

Xavier was away. Xavier would be back. The plan was still solid. Rogue was a strange girl.

That last bit really had nothing at all to do with anything, except maybe ease the disdain he felt for the kids who called themselves X-Men. What kind of sorry name was that, anyway? But at least now he knew there was someone on the team who could stand up to a few of life's knuckle punches. Made the thought of associating himself with them easier to take and…

And what the hell was that? Remy stopped mid-step, eyeing a streak of something in the night sky. Too distant, too small to make out, but he knew it wasn't a bird, a plane, or Superman. No. It was something else. Something his gut knew instinctively.

A snag.

Before he could track its movement, the streak suddenly faded from view.

Definitely a snag.

If he kept his gaze to the stars, he could almost pretend he was back in Kentucky, lying on that huge old flat slab of stone that was so fitting for stargazing—but only for one person. Made for many a squabble among the Guthrie clan, because after the first time Sam was caught napping there one warm and quiet summer night, each and every one of his little brothers and sisters just had to follow suit and stake a claim on the rock.

He wondered which of them now had taken over his spot. Paige, probably, since after him she'd spent the most time there. He hadn't minded that too much. She was small enough to share, and didn't yawn or fidget when he pointed out the constellations and told the stories behind them.

Her favorites were Orion and Scorpio—because they were Sam's favorites, too. Papa had told him the story when he was nine, about the mighty hunter running from a little ol' scorpion, and Sam had kept it in his head because it was the only story he'd heard then where the good guy didn't win. When Papa showed him in the course of that year how the chase played out in the night sky, Sam's interest grew into a hobby. The summer after that, he slept his first night on the rock.

He closed his eyes now, imagined he was there. Freshly mowed grass pricked his neck and arms (nothing at all like that cool smooth stone), but it was quiet enough and not so cold that he couldn't fool himself.

If he were back in Kentucky right now, dinner would be over and Mama'd be resting in the living room with the others tending to the table clearing and dishwashing. Then they'd go out to the barn to settle things for the night—except Jeb. He'd probably be skipping pebbles on the lake, trying to break Sam's skip-record of fourteen.

Sighing, Sam opened his eyes and sat up.

So he was homesick. Nothing new there, since so was every other body in that mansion, far as he reckoned. It didn't mean he really agreed with some of the things 'Berto said.

None of the X-Men could turn back now. The world knew them for mutants, they couldn't just go home. And maybe Jamie or Amara or the other kids would have it okay if they took a break—but they chose to stay, and their parents weren't complaining. Neither were Sam's. It wasn't their style to avoid the rough patches. Sometimes you needed to get through them to find the nicer clearing waiting just ahead.

Right now, rough patch meant keeping a low-profile. It didn't mean hiding. The Morlocks were hiding, and that was just putting off public reaction, because how long would they really be able to stay under? If it was gonna be hard no matter what, might as well get it over with sooner rather than later.

The X-Men were doing something different from the Morlocks. Sure, they were all mutants in one big mansion and they tried to keep their powers secret for a while, but they lived alongside regular humans. They tried to make it as normal folks. So it was different…wasn't it?

He puffed out a breath in frustration. Gotta accept the gray in life, Papa liked to say.

Standing, brushing the grass off his pants, Sam decided this was one of those grays. And more thinking wouldn't suddenly change it into black or white.

He started to make his way back through the grounds. It was a long walk—he'd wandered pretty far to find a place empty and wide enough to make for decent stargazing. He could use his powers to make the trip shorter, but he wasn't up to that just then. Plus, walking usually cleared his head, the times when it was full enough to need clearing.

"Fine night for a walk, anyway," came the voice just behind.

Whirling, he saw a man approach. The look on his face was bland—and Sam wasn't about to wait for an evil smile or scowl to form. He launched into the air. Fifteen seconds tops to get to the mansion from here—

And he was somewhere around five before something somehow dragged him back.

"Stay for a chat, will you?"

"Let go!"

"As you say," the man said, then closed his eyes. "Just give me a minute…"

Sam passed out.