- EIGHT -
Four days after the attack, she found herself staring out the window, looking at bright blue skies and the clear sparkle of sunshine on a wide field of green that made sitting in the Professor's study feel like she was hiding out in a small, dark closet.
The virus was out of Rogue's system now. So were the sluggish bits of sleep that had lingered on, after she'd first woken up in the med bay on Monday night to find Logan sitting beside the bed.
"We won?" she'd asked groggily, as he pulled up nearer.
"Looks like."
"Everybody okay?"
"Concussions and sprains for the elf and Ray, but Hank says they'll be fine."
"Where's Lucas?"
Logan scowled. "Charles is bringing him someplace safe, quiet—and fully equipped and willing to deal with the little runt."
He'd gone on to tell her the rest of what she'd been too tired to ask about. His team had gotten back as quick as they could after they got the automatic distress call sent out by the mansion's alarms. They'd found everyone passed out in various places on the estate and gathered them all up in the med bay. Most had managed to avoid staying there, but Ray and Kurt's injuries kept them under monitor, and Rogue—well, along with some bruises and cuts was the tranq dart lodged in her arm, same as Lucas, so they'd been conked out for two nights straight.
Her then sleep-addled brain had only wanted the basics from Logan—the danger was gone, the mansion still stood, people were in one piece. And when she'd eased her mind on those worries, more sleep was all she wanted. He'd understood, had been on the point of leaving when she thought of one last thing.
"Whose tranq darts, Logan?"
He stopped. "What?"
"Who shot us?"
"You don't know?"
"Why would I?"
That had brought on a whole new round of questioning. And when Hank showed up, returning to sleep was put off for a time, as it came out that all her memories of everything after absorbing Lucas were gone. It was a slight case of amnesia that she'd learned was a symptom she shared with Sam, 'Berto, Amara, Lance, and Freddie.
Everyone whose heads Lucas had played in, one way or another.
Lucas throwing her into the woods after she'd used her powers on him was the last thing she remembered. Bobby's report apparently had her rejoining the fight. Todd of all people had had the fullest account of the battle, and backed up Bobby, Pietro, and Wanda when they pointed to Rogue as the last of them standing against Lucas.
Would've been flattering, if she only knew what the hell had happened after that.
Later, thinking on it with a clearer head, Rogue decided the mystery of the tranq darts would have to remain just that for now. Logan sniffed around for a little while around the estate, and by now he must've caught a few clues, but he was keeping quiet about them.
Seemed to her that if he wasn't sharing, it probably wasn't any big thing for everyone to dwell on, especially considering everything else they had to deal with, like figuring out just where it was that Lucas had wanted to take them and who the people were behind his attack. And, as always, monitoring Apocalypse's next move.
Soon enough, it was pretty much back to business as usual.
Coming home from school that afternoon, the Professor summoned her into the study, the first time since he came back from wherever he'd gone with Ororo to drop off Lucas. On her way to see him, Rogue had to remind herself that in the battle, she'd reportedly outlasted the others, so this meeting now—it couldn't possibly be about the Professor taking her off the team. Just—no.
God, she hoped it wasn't.
When she walked in, he was sitting behind his desk sorting through the mail there. He didn't look like he was about to kick her out. He just looked really beat. As she took a seat and tried not to stare, she remembered a few weeks ago when the Professor came home from Scotland, how he'd seemed so old to her. Old and tired.
Seeing him now, his head bent over the stack of envelopes, the lines of his face furrowed, the wrinkles on his hands showing clear as his fingers moved slowly—seeing him like this, he seemed worse. Old and tired and ill.
He caught her staring anyway, and said, "I'm sorry, Rogue. I don't mean to keep you waiting."
"No rush, Professor."
"Perhaps I placed it with the other stack…" he trailed off, opening a cabinet under the desk. "So I have."
He guided his hover chair to where she sat. "Here it is," he said, holding out a small, open envelope addressed to him. The handwriting on it was unfamiliar to Rogue—it was the name on the top left corner of the envelope that caught her eyes.
She scanned the postmark and couldn't help smiling ironically. "She sent this on Friday, same day I got all my packages back."
"Ms. Adler seems to have a remarkable sense of timing."
Rogue glanced at him. She'd never told anyone about one of the things she'd learned from the first time she'd gotten Mystique's memories—but the Professor probably had a few thoughts on the matter. He'd probably figured out Irene was a mutant even before Rogue knew.
"Why're you letting me read your mail, Professor?" she said, sliding the letter out.
"I thought you should know," he said quietly, as she read the few lines on the stationery. Again it was the unfamiliar script that marked the paper, but the words were Irene's.
When Rogue finished reading, she gave the letter back without a word.
"Rogue—"
"You wanted me to know," she said.
He looked away. "If you want, I'll write back to her, ask her to reconsider her request."
"No, it's fine. It's better this way." She stood. "You probably don't need to be bothered with it, though."
"It's no bother at all to me. Assuming guardianship over you is a privilege I welcome, Rogue. And one that I suspect Ms. Adler feels compelled to sacrifice for your own sake. Despite what it looks like right now, I believe she looks on you as family. She cares for you deeply."
She looked at him. "Those were his same exact words," she said absently.
"I'm sorry?"
"Lucas. 'It's no bother at all to me.' That's just what he said. Even kinda said it how you just did, only his words had a different meaning behind them." She squinted now, studying the Professor's features. Lucas had his nose. "Did you take him somewhere far away, Professor?"
He looked surprised. "You're safe from him, Rogue."
"Wasn't asking if I'm safe, but if he's far. Can you visit him when you want?"
"I…" And then he sighed. "Yes, I can visit him. I'm—allowed that."
"You plannin' to?"
"Yes."
"Good." She walked to the door. "One family falls apart, another one starts mending. Evens out, see?"
She left.
Near the Acolyte base was a diner staffed by pretty waitresses and offering decent lunches. Remy had spent most of his time there in his last few months with the Acolytes, so when he walked in now and sat in his usual spot at one corner of the counter, a waitress came up to wink at him with a welcoming grin.
"Welcome back, stranger. The usual?"
"'Fraid not, Barb. I can't stay long. Seul un café noir, s'il vous plait."
"There you go with that fancy French again," she said, moving behind the counter to pour him a cup. "I've been brushing up on it while you were gone, you know. Le mari thinks I'm going mad, but just wait. He'll be taking me overseas soon, and while he's floundering like a fish, I'll be parlez-vous-ingwith the Parisians."
He smiled as he wrapped his hands around the warm mug. This was the first spot in this part of New York where he'd found people who seemed to understand the meaning of the word 'hospitality.' If the food were just a little bit spicier, the accents just a touch more lilting—he'd almost think he was back in the South.
Rogue would probably like this place.
He glanced out the window to the sunny streets outside and wondered if she'd woken up yet.
After he'd shot her, he knew he couldn't do anything more for anyone but keep watch until the other X-Men came. When they finally did, he'd brushed a light, deft touch across Rogue's cheek. "Sleep well, cherie."
And left with the intention of returning, both to check on her and to carry out his whole purpose in going to the mansion in the first place. His father still needed help, and Remy still needed to have that talk with Xavier.
He couldn't bring himself to go back, though, for whatever reason. It wasn't fear, or being lazy, or expecting a rejection. None of those were things he really worried about. Yet there was definitely something nagging him now. Keeping him from making a move. And while his trade had long ago fostered in him a wired kind of patience, still—he only had so much of that before it had to give.
He sighed into his mug, disturbed.
"Hey, bub."
Remy froze, staring at the coffee as a familiar form took the seat beside him.
"Afternoon, sir," Barb said. "How can I help you?"
"You got Molson?"
"Sure do. Which—"
"Canadian."
Barb nodded smoothly at the man's rudeness. "Be right back, then."
Remy put his mug down carefully, recovering enough at that point to glance at his neighbor.
Who glowered.
"Listen up, you little shit," Wolverine said. "Whatever you got planned, I'm watchin' you."
"C'est genial. But I'm plannin' on taking a leak in the next two minutes, so you oughtta rethink that strategy."
Wolverine's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I ain't makin' myself clear." He brought one hand to rest next to Remy's coffee and probably would've popped his claws into it in some kind of obvious show of pointless aggression—but Remy swiftly took the mug away and stood.
"Let's chat outside. No need to upset the patrons, oui?"
So it was that he somehow found himself standing in an alley facing Wolverine, who looked ready to throw him into one of the trash bins. Remy didn't care. He lit a cigarette casually, asking, "She up yet?"
"What, you care? You're the one that shot her."
"She asked me to," he said, taking a puff.
Logan's hand twitched. Remy expected his claws to unsheathe but surprisingly, the man only said, "Then what?"
Remy frowned. "Then she passed out." What was this—she'd woken up, right? "Why you askin' a question Rogue shoulda already answered?"
"Because," Wolverine said, growling. "She's missing some memories of the fight."
"A lot?"
"Enough."
"So you're here to grill me?"
"No. I think I can figure out how things went down, what role you played. That's why you're still standing."
"De rien, monsieur."
The glare on Wolverine's face was keen. "But I don't know your motives, and I don't intend to find out. Too much goin' on right now, kid, for any of us to be bothered. That's why you're gonna walk away, and stay away."
Remy bristled. "I make my own choices, homme."
"You make a stupid choice and cause trouble, you're gonna get hurt."
"I ain't caused no trouble, but it sure seems to me you people up on that lofty hill like to welcome it in your home. There's a maniac tryin' to take over the world, and you leave the pups alone—to deal with other maniacs beefin' against the X-Men. Tell me again who's makin' stupid choices?" Remy threw his cigarette down. "I figure if anyone walks away, it oughtta be people like Rogue. The ones who don't need to be caught up in all the mess."
"Rogue's one of us. No matter what kinda mess, we look for out for each other."
"Maybe you force her to stick around, non?"
"I got a good idea of how Buckethead ran the Acolytes, so you probably can't understand that Rogue stays because it's her choice. The day comes when she wants to roam, no one's gonna get in her way." Wolverine turned away now, walking off. "Meanwhile, you stay out of ours."
Remy kept silent as Wolverine turned the corner and disappeared. He hadn't run out of smart remarks—no chance in that, since short and hairy offered plenty of good fodder for insults—but an idea had just popped into his brain that made everything clear and explained the nagging in his head.
He didn't want to ask Xavier for help. He wanted to ask Rogue. And maybe in helping him, he'd help her. Away from Mystique, from the X-Men, she'd see that she could stand on her own two feet without people running her life.
Maybe now was a good time for Rogue to start roaming. Maybe someone only needed to point her in the right direction.
Maybe he was that someone.
Whistling to himself, Remy put out his cigarette on the ground and went back inside the diner. Coffee was probably cold by now, but Barb refilled it as he took his seat. He smiled at her efficiency.
"So," she said. "I got a bottle of Molson here and no boorish Canadian in sight to appreciate it."
"Sorry 'bout him. He was found at the age of twelve livin' with a family of baboons. Ain't grasped the finer skills of communication yet."
She shook her head. "You better watch yourself, son. He looked like one truly unreceptive papa. Don't you get yourself in over your head with the wrong kind of girl now."
"Why waste time with the wrong girls," he said, smirking. "When the right one's just ripe for the pluckin'?"
END