Risque Chapter 18: Chapter18, a x-men fanfic

Way-hey!!! My first fic to hit triple figure reviews!!!!!!! Thank-you to everybody for those reviews! M'iko, xx

This chapter is dedicated to John Peel. (If you read the note at the end of my bio, you'll know why) A great, great man who'll be sorely missed...

Chapter. 18.

Ten miles south west of Khmel'nyts'yy, central Ukraine...

They walked in almost perfect silence along the grate flooring of the gangway. The three figures were in unintentionally synchronised step as slivers of harsh light slipped through the regular oblong gaps beneath them like a regimented dappling effect in reverse. It tallied with the general atmosphere of the cavernous building, with its straight lines and perfect symmetry, it left a distinctly militarised industrialism taste in the mouth; along with the chemicals; that unnatural, irritating scent. Whatever this place had once been used for, the general imprint of it, if not the actual physical artefacts it once housed, marked it like so many tattoos. It looked almost barren in fact, only the occasional group of young men and women, exceptionally young in some cases, roamed around the vacant floors below, all of which could be seen in the open plan of the main hall of what had surely been a factory of some sort; marching along in their dark grey uniforms, utterly regimented.

She had no idea where they were heading and frankly she cared little as to their destination. As long as this was over and done with swiftly and full payment afforded then she would be happy. The job had gone with surprising ease, she pondered idly to the continuing syncopated footfall of heavy army issue boots. Clunk, thud, clunk, thud...It was a comforting drone that kept her mind focused. And focused it needed to be until the very end. The very end. She'd been involved in enough dodgy scams and double crosses over the years to know that you never let your guard down until you're at least over the boarder, out of the country, preferably off the continent. Never trust anybody. That was her motto, etched on her heart so deep it was instinct now. Pure instinct.

As she progressed swiftly, professionally along the thoroughfare she had only exchanged the briefest of eye contact with the men at either side of her, their dulled Kalashnikovs clutched deceptively casually yet firmly across their broad chests with both hands. It had been enough for a mutual respect and not a word exchanged since; just an understanding, just enough. Their dark Slavic looks composed and utterly expressionless. They had the look of military about them, even the slight stench, like the fabric of this building but there was something that was...off. She could sense it. Not real soldiers, bona fide ex-Soviet block, but not quite rag-tag militia either. It was something she couldn't pin-point, something underneath the skin. Something regimented, burrowed deep.

Quietly, undetected she scanned them once more; animal yellow eyes going this way and that, trying to fill in the gaps. But she gleaned nothing more that make her feel comfortable with them, only the mutual respect that had been present from the beginning. Respect that passed from predator to predator; a weariness. But never trust. There was never trust. The thoughts quickly dissipated as the finally reached the end of the gangway that had to have been close to a mile in expanse, going right across the main space of the factory floor. One of the Slavic men doubled his step, so unconsciously that one wouldn't have noticed, just enough to get to the door and punch in a code at the panel on the right hand side of what looked like fairly heavy duty steel.

As it opened the three never broke their stride to proceed through. 263945. She noted the code without realising it. Another trick the predator had learned. Filing in, one behind the other, she clocked her surroundings instantly as the door shifted shut slowly, finally closing with a drawn-out clunk; the internal lock fixing tight.

The room was practically bare, its walls a hard clean metallic, refurbished in comparison to the what the rest of the building had been like, with its scars of industry written all over it. It had rows of strip lighting above and one row of metal framed chairs running along the wall to the left and that was all; no left-over smell pervaded in here, just a clinical cleanliness. With a barely perceptible movement the shorter guard motioned over to the chairs; only the clicking and rattling of his gun against the buckles of his dark grey uniform and the old creak of leather alerting their 'guest' to the gesture. Still without word she swiftly crossed over to them, taking the centre one as the echo of her footfall tapped from the white floor, pounced and bounced off the perfect walls, contained within the space. There were two doors, opposite the way they had entered and the two men left directly through the one closest to her, leaving alone in the bright white silence.

She waited. She listened. Her patience stretched for forty five minutes, at least. In all that time she hadn't moved, only her ever acutely observant eyes never stopped, always on the move. Assessing everything there was to assess. Eventually she was moved to action, the drone of the air conditioning and the lighting driving her to final distraction beneath the cool exterior. She made a swift movement from the fixed and stationary row of melded chairs over to one of the doors. It was not the door the two guards had exited silently through but the other that now held her interest. She'd clocked it long ago; a solid steel construct as were the others, keypad entry. Coming to the far door, with its flawless surface and no immediate point of access, her fingers instantly sort out the keypad to its left hand side. As she had with the first door she had clocked the code to the second; 263945. Security. It was always tight but always, always so dreadfully predictable. Oh well. With the neat clicking song of the keyboard, she punched the numbers in, fully expecting the satisfying sound of the door swooping open, letting out a cold electric blue light from its sanitary confines.

Without a second thought or backward glance, for she liked to live dangerously, she slipped into the cold electric room. And cold it was too. Literally. The first breath exhaled came out visibly, a white vapour. But that was the least of her concerns. Where outside, in the plain room, there had been no visual stimuli, this new room overwhelmed. Through the predominance of the dark electric Prussian blue that made the place feel like one would expect a morgue to look like, unimaginable amounts of wall fixed panels and work stations twinkled with a veritable firework display of colour, all with a purpose, but utterly meaningless to her. All she was truly aware of was how much worse that smell had become that chemical anti-sceptic stench. And as she progressed down the rows and rows of meaningless panels it became worse. Something was telling her that the clue to it lay behind the door at the far end of this technical blue room with its generator buzz and machine life.

It was a clear runway all the way down to the door that was actually further away than it appeared. All the while she held vigilance, listened constantly for an untoward footstep, a warning voice. But there was nothing. Only the buzz. The generator buzz. It slid effortlessly open as she approached it, letting her enter without breaking stride. The same work stations littered the walls, with abandoned and half pushed back chairs and cold mugs of coffee, half-eaten sandwiches, open books lying idle everywhere; a Mary Celeste scene. But this time, glass panels were fixed above the buttons and flashing or stationary lights. As she continued somewhat more tentatively into this new room, she gazed into those glass panels that protected small rooms behind them. Holding rooms, all of which were empty. They were brightly lit, casting out there acid sunlight in perfect blocks. But all were empty and no evidence of a former occupation could be detected, even by the detailed inspection she stopped to give the first one. But as she continued on, she noted something of greater curiosity, through the end booth on her left; its window to the world catching an object around its corner.

She made her way around, for the first time genuinely reticent, wary of what she may find, for she had, in truth, no real idea of the true object of her temporarily held 'cause'. All she knew for sure was that all the instruction she had received so far had been courtesy of a go-between, nothing more than an impostor of a boss, playing the 'Mr. Big'. She edged her way with these thoughts racing in her mind, her step slowing with each one. And as she came to a stop, at the foot of a sub-chamber to the one she was in a strange feeling of déjà vu overcame her. Paris. Back there, in the headquarters of X-Corps; mark uno, the experimental venture; Sean Cassidy's ill-fated venture that was to prove rather fruitful in the end, but only in the hands of Xavier and his own. Wasn't that always the case, she thought spitefully. They had no idea. No idea... But looking at it now...it was like seeing her half-sister there all over again. But in this vat, this time, she could barely recognise its content as a living breathing person. It was a thing. Suspended there in its waterlogged womb, tubes, needles, all manner of things attached, inserted. It was flesh but of what origin she could not discern. It floated. This huge pink mass, ruddy like a Tamworth. Lumpy thick skin, red-black welts, thick, coarse, clear hairs protruding. It drifted. Around it turned, the semblance of an arm crooked around, a protruding belly sprouting with that steel-hard clear hair. Around in the thick amniotic-esque fluid it turned.

She edged ever closer, not conscious of her feet moving. It was not until she was right up to the floor to ceiling tube that she realised; her hand slowly reaching up, her mouth unintentionally agape in captivation. The chunks of black gloved fingers reached up as the internal light of the fluid filled vat shone down onto her fascinated upturned face. A distant beep of life-support echoed in her ears as she gazed up, waiting, waiting with the turning... Its face. Eyes closed, eyes open. One large black-burned pearl... She couldn't stop the small grin of wonder.

"What the hell do you think you're doing in here?"

Mystique span around.

Westchester....

She had given it an hour or two. She had now finished her first classes, but all the time Jean Grey-Summers mind was not on the task in hand. Not at all. She was uncharacteristically unfocused throughout her Physic Awareness class; a little endeavour that Charles had put her and Emma, of all people, on to attempt to hone the budding telepaths abilities. It had been going fairly well, except for Frosts insistence on rather wayward intrusions on various celebrities' cerebral space. Apart from that everything was going well. Or as well as one could expect for two people who held an immeasurable contempt for one another. But all these other distractions aside, she had been unable to concentrate. The intrigue was too great. Far, far too great. She had to find Ororo and she had to find her now.

Picking up her papers as her twittering pupils filed out of the airy classroom, with its large panelled Victorian windows clutching their books, she thumped their bottom edges on the desk to straighten them and placed them in the red plastic holding tray. She knew that Ororo had headed for the greenhouse before she'd had the chance to catch up with her earlier that morning after Scott's meeting. But she doubted she'd still be there now, four hours later. The woman may have loved her small sanctuary, but even she had limits to the amount of time she would spend in there. Even after lengthy absences. She forewent the convenience of scanning for her whereabouts and decided instead for the much more conventional approach of simply looking. Sometimes the simplest things gave the greatest pleasure, the best sense of normality.

As Jean walked along, the halls were swarming; an ants nest, a bees hive, more than ever before. She still found it fairly odd, having so many bodies about the place, as, she suspected, did most that had been there for years, since the very beginning. Hank, Bobby, Warren and Scott; all having had this impossibly big house as their own, from such a relatively young age, younger than many of the pupils that now resided there. And despite their predicament, the things they had to endure, it still held fond memories for the redhead and her old compadres. She enjoyed wondering around, thoughtlessly, but with so much consideration. She hadn't done it in a long time, such a long time... The halls had emptied now as she walked wistfully along them. Back to their other classes or into the pupils' recreation room. Jean was now left in peace to ponder the past and look for her friend; the urgency and excitement growing as she ducked into the kitchen, then the old drawing room and then library, all in search of her. But in the end she found her in the most predictable place; maybe not the greenhouse but the next best thing as far as Ororo Munroe was concerned; the conservatory at the back of the west wing.

Padding along the deathly quiet hall that led there, Jean picked up on the most minute of psychic vibrations, enough to tell her that the Windrider was in there and so headed, in a beeline, to the destination.

Fingering the leaves of the potted yucca on the window sill, the delicate hair underneath waxy white spikes brushing between her thumb and forefinger, Ororo stared into the middle distance. She sensed the shift in the atmosphere, the slightest stir alerting her to a bodily presence. At first she was hesitant to turn, but the lightness of step made her realise that it was her best friend had caught up with her at last. Letting the long stiff leaf spring back from her fingers Ororo turned around, taking off the dirt caked gardening glove from her right hand and laying it on the work tray with all her tools. "I was wondering when you'd catch up with me," she stated with a knowing smile.

Jean returned it as she came around the cherry tree and sat herself down on the pale wicker framed chaise lounge, leaning on its one arm rest. Her eye caught on the golden and ebony flash of a Swallow-Tail butterfly, imported from the greenhouse, fluttering gracefully by to gain purchase on the spinally fragile branches of the cherry tree. "Feeling rested?" she asked on a completely different note. Obviously, she was leading up to her true purpose, slowly.

"Yes, much better thank-you Jean." She wheeled the tool-tray over to its home, tucked in an unobtrusive corner of the conservatory. "But I have a feeling," she continued as she made her way back over to Jean, "that you did not come here to quiz me on the state of my health." Now the smile held a mischievous air.

"Well...no." As she tucked her feet under her on the chaise lounge; one of the most senior members of the X-Men looking for all the world like an overexcited fifteen year old; all glistening eyes and Cheshire cat looks. "So...you and Remy." The grin widened, "Remy and you." She cocked her head, waiting.

Ororo laughed softly as she reached for one the chairs from around the morning table and pulled it up closer to where Jean was, but she remained tight lipped, simply regarding her friend who by now looked fit to burst from curiosity.

And soon she did. "Come on 'Ro! Spill it!" she yelped as her feet flew back to the floor and she lent forwards in near salivating anticipation, red locks swinging this way and that. "What's going on?"

Ororo sighed, gazing in consideration at the heavens. "How to say...?" she whispered to herself almost, "Remy and I are..." she paused, agonisingly.

"Are what?" Jean prompted.

"Complicated," she said definitely. She glanced out the tall windows to their left, out over the afternoon peacefulness of Westchester. "Remy and I are complicated," she confirmed gravely with a nod.

They went silent for a short time, as if thinking this over. For Ororo it simply scratched the surface of what she had been trying to get her head around all morning; the sudden feeling that had gripped her in Remy's room. Fear? Doubt? She'd been out of the loop for so long she had no idea what it was she had felt. Everything had taken the velocity of the Tokyo bullet train and there seemed to be no getting off. Perhaps that was it, that was what irked her, terrified her even. The feeling of having no control over events. Was that it? Was that all? No. She'd only just scratched the surface...

"...I know you two have always been close," Jean's clear voice cut through Ororo's thoughts so precisely she wondered if she'd been talking the whole time and she'd simply phased it out, preoccupied as she was. "but...Remy?" the redhead remarked, suddenly seeming a little bemused as if the idea had finally sunk in, even though she'd had more of an inkling than most and longer to process the idea. "Remy and you!" she finally exclaimed again and clapped her hands together and held them before her mouth, but Ororo could still see that ruddy Cheshire grin present beneath. Letting them, still clasped, flop down into her lap she flustered, "He's just so..."

"Something of a roué?" she put to her, rather amused by Jean's reaction, but entirely expecting it. The redhead was about to utter something mildly appeasing, but Ororo got in there first. "I know, I know," she gestured, "I am perfectly aware of his faults Jean—as he is of mine, lest you forget." (Jean now looked positively apologetic for being so presumptuous.) "We are none of us without blots on our copy books."

"True," she said quietly, nodding absently in agreement. "I didn't mean anything by it, you know that 'Ro."

"I know, my friend. But I can see what you are trying to say and if I am honest with myself, truly honest then it is something that concerns me too...It is hard," she reluctantly admitted, "knowing his nature as intimately as I do." She looked dismayed for a second, glancing up at Jean from beneath a lowered brow, "Remember," she continued with a devilishly secretive tone in her words, "I am his closest friend. He always told me everything."

"Everything?" Jean ventured, her emerald eyes wide with sparkle and coy expectation.

Ororo pursed her lips, cringing to repeat it but doing so none-the-less, "Everything." Remy's ventures and conquests were legion and notorious throughout the mansion but only she had knowledge of there truth and detail, to an extent, he at least had some modesty. At the time she took in his tales with fond amusement as she lay half asleep, only half listening as she fluttered into a dream state, serving up half-hearted reproach when appropriate, soft laughs at the romantic scrapes and often humorous entanglements at others. But for all that there were only ever two women who truly entered that locked box of secrets, that place that no thief's gadget or pick could ever unlock for him and she had no clue. No clue what his heart truly held. Of course he'd spoken to her of both women, but not really, tripping around with abstract words, making sure it all stayed at arms length—from her and perhaps from himself too. On those true feelings, the ones that mattered, he remained as closed to her as he appeared completely to the outside world. The unknown was a frightening thing; the most terrifying thing of all. She didn't know everything then. She knew nothing. Nothing. The knowledge made her heart sink but she betrayed nothing of that to her friend, who continued oblivious.

"It's just that, for all your closeness, I don't think there's going to be anybody in the mansion who isn't going to be surprised by this."

"I am sure you are right," Ororo pondered, thinking for the first time about outside factors. Not that they would have too much of an effect on what she and Remy decided to do. They had too much to clarify betwixt themselves before they thought of anything else.

"Don't get me wrong," Jean said quickly with a dismissive hand, "I'm not saying anyone's going to judge you, you're both adults. You can do what the hell you like. You're not exactly Paige and Warren." Both women laughed a little guiltily at that one. "But seriously, all I meant was, the two of you have been so close, such good friends for so long, I guess it's just a bit of a bolt from the blue that the two of you feel more for each other than that..." she trailed off, catching the look on Ororo's face, "what is it? What's wrong?" she asked as she shifted forwards to the edge of her seat.

Ororo looked conflicted, "Nothing," she said softly, "...and everything, I suppose." She sifted through the pieces raked up, tried to get them in order for her own understanding before she offered them up to Jean. "I have not had much time to put any of this in order, so forgive me if I cease to make sense...I think...if I am honest, truly honest, I am...scared." She spoke as if it were a revelation to herself, a word she'd plucked from nowhere, the darkest depths. "That's it," as if now it were the simplest, most obvious thing, "I am scared." And she hated to admit it personally and outwardly, for Ororo Munroe refused to be scared. Not anymore. Perhaps that was her biggest weakness, to admit to having a weakness, or the inability to. Her inner anger at her claustrophobia was testament enough to that. She did not like to be made to feel weak by anyone. Pride could be a terrible thing. And this whole situation had burst that open, wide open.

"Scared?" Jean asked, understanding but not at the same time, "what of?"

Ororo hitched her shoulders slightly, before stumbling into her reply, "I do not know...of—of losing everything I suppose."

"Losing..." Jean looked distant for a moment, one balled hand slowly rotating in the pale palm of the other, "I see," she said quietly as she returned to Ororo, "You're scared of risking everything you already have together," slowly she nodded as she glanced over green fields to her right, "I get it now."

The Windrider sighed forlornly as she grazed her fingers through the now shaggily growing hair at her temples, taking a moment to rub at the sensitive skin beneath. "It is all such a mess Jean," she admitted as she slumped back into her chair, "he does not know whether he is coming or going and looks to me to reassure him. But...but how can I when I am not even sure of myself."

"Does he love you?"

...Je t'aime...

She heard the declaration clearly, as if he were standing right there but the question from her friend was put so abruptly that it took Ororo a moment to order the words never mind process them and then discern an answer. All the time the warm roll of his voice trickled down her

...Je t'aime...

"I...do not," she absently rubbed a light finger across her bottom lip, her brow bent down like sand ripples, but then she steeled herself, "ye...," the confidant word stopped, "I think so."

"And do you love him?"

She smiled sweetly at that, her heart trembling in her chest as she thought of all the moments that had come to pass and the word was so simple, so light in comparison to trying to say it a moment before it ventured forth of its own accord, positively flowed...

"Yes."

"Then it's worth the risk, isn't it 'Ro?" she said earnestly, the question mark nothing more than rhetorical. "Yes, you may get hurt, but then again, you may not. We know more than most that nothing in this life is certain. How things, the people that we love can be snatched away from us at any given moment. 'Ro...are you content to sit back and let it just walk away from you...again?"

It was a truth that cut deep, but one she needed to hear, the one that had been tugging away at her heart the whole time. Sink or swim. It was her choice. Would she let the past repeat itself through her own insecurity? Was the risk worth the price? She loved him. He loved her. Put that way it seemed all too simple, as if it would drive itself to its own conclusion. But bitter experience had told her that it was not so, for either of them. Why, oh, why, couldn't it be that simple?

"It could be."

"Jean!" Ororo exclaimed, only half serious in her admonishment of her best friend. "What would the Professor say at you snooping on your friend's private thoughts?"

"In this case?" Jean hypothesized with mock gravity, "I'm sure he'd wholeheartedly agree that you needed a kick up the ass, using whatever methods available."

"Jean," she chuckled with dismay, "you are simply too incorrigible!"

"Ah! I'm sure you're right," she laughed, "But seriously sweetie, if you feel for him the way that I can sense you do—and believe me, being around the two of you for more than a couple of seconds is all it took to tell for sure—you should just...go for it!" Sometimes only the vernacular would do.

"I realise what you are trying to say," Ororo replied after she'd calmed down a bit, wiping the joyous moisture from her eyes, "and believe me, I wish I could simply throw caution to the wind—no pun intended," they chortled again, "but it is...hard. It is hard for me to break from the habit of a lifetime." Then with the look that could only be described as that of an urchin, that gleam sparking like the brightest star, she muttered, "...or at least it used to be."

"Oh Ororo, do tell!" Jean asked furtively, encouraging the liberated sense of self that was starting to exude from the usually restrained weather-witch.

"Incorrigible!" she repeated with a shake, her smile now beaming. In a funny way this was exactly what she needed---all the tension melted away from her shoulders and back like butter on hot toast.

"Ororo, I'm your best friend," she feigned the puppy-dog look, "You know you can tell me anything. In fact," she pulled up her back poker straight as if to demand sincerity, "it's your duty to tell me everything."

"Oh really," Ororo smirked, looking at the redhead through sly eyes.

"Yes! It certainly is," she insisted. She shifted or moreover shuffled along the chaise lounge, closer to Ororo's chair at its foot, leaning in almost conspiratorially, "So how, urr, close, did the two of you get, exactly?"

"Jean, I do not think that is really—."

"Oh come on!" she laughed at Ororo, the only X-man to wilfully flaunt her 'birthday suite' without a hint of shame, playing the prude that she knew quite well that she certainly was not, "I'm not asking for the gory details Missy, just...you know? How serious did things get out there?" Jean raised a playfully salacious eyebrow as she swayed backwards for effect, hands coyly splayed over her knees. "You can tell me." She gazed at her expectantly.

"Do not tell me to 'come on' Jean, we are not teenagers." She felt a little better at the return of her decorum. "We are grown women, I hope above the idle 'tittle-tattle' of our students."

"Oro—ro," Jean said in a sing-song voice, mischievous as an urchin herself as she urged her to confess. "Don't play coy. I mean, you've heard me ramble about Scott enough times—the good and the bad."

Ororo shook her head and stood from her chair, tying to suppress a grin that was desperate to break-out. "I have things to attend to," she said as she started towards the doorway. She stopped briefly at the outer ledge, crammed with rough terracotta pots, to cull one or two dead petals from a rapidly fading pink veronica, leaving the perished appendages to decay naturally in the swarthy dirt. But as she went about the task, she casually called back to Jean, "Let us just say that the rumours of a mole...," she looked back over her shoulder, sapphire glinting, "are true.(#)" Equally as laidback as her words Storm exited the tepid conservatory, leaving her now open-jawed Mrs. Grey-Summers to contemplate that little gem alone.

The Medi-lab...

It had taken hours but finally the tests were complete. Scanning, poking, prodding; Remy felt more sore and intruded upon than he had before as he slipped off the solid plinth, barefooted to the icy cold ground. He looked quickly about his sterile surroundings as he did up the buttons on his sleeveless shirt, covertly trying to listen in as Hank and Annie muttered between each other in the adjoining room; the rush of the tap and the cleaning up of medical instruments, enough music to obscure what they were saying from the Cajun's eager ears. Unthinkingly he rubbed at the bruised nook of his left arm as he rammed his feet into his still laced-up trainers and crept closer to the small room where the mansions finest medical minds were mulling things over.

"Well, am I clear, or am I clear?"

Hank and Annie turned quickly to look over their shoulders, a little shocked by the loud interruption of the rough drawl but not surprised to see Remy standing there as bold as brass, fiddling with his last button as he lent on the door jamb.

"Well?" he prompted.

"To all intents and purposes Remy, yes," Hank said as he turned and came towards him; sharp feline eyes running over the sheet on the clip board he held before him. He pushed his tiny glasses back up his snout and looked up, "You have a more-or-less completely clean bill of health. Although you could stand to cut down on that unsavoury habit of yours—or better still, give up completely?"

"Yeah, yeah mon ami," he said dismissively as they both went back into the larger room, "If I wanna smoke, den I'll damn well smoke! Remy been nagged 'bout dat one enough t'anks."

"Obviously not quite enough," Hank insisted.

Remy was about to say something in retort when a more pressing task came to his attention; Annie walking past them both, both hands steady on a tray of blood samples she was taking to the other lab for the tests Henry insisted she run on them.

"Ma chère," he caught her at the elbow to bring her to a halt, "can I jus' say s'excuser, from de bottom o' mah heart," he offered, prying one of her hands, that was utterly reluctant to let go, from the tray. Bending down to it as he brought it to his lips, "mah behaviour wuz appallin'—t' be so grossier t' a femme is unforgivable." He finally laid the kiss on the back of he hand, winking up at her entirely bemused face.

"O-kay," Annie said, looking down at the man as if he were certifiably insane and then scuttling out of the room as fast as her precarious load would allow. "Apology accepted." Her words were quieted by the swift closing of the door.

"Don't worry you'll get used to it," Hank called after her as her steps rushed down the hall. "Pure sociopath," he muttered with a sigh from behind him.

Remy looked back at his compadre with his lop-sided smile, "Hey, who says I don' mean it?" he said with a cryptic look before he started towards where the school nurse had left, "If dat's all Chewbacca, I won' trouble you no more an' be on mah way."

Hank quickly held up a hand, again his eyes intent on the reels of information, scratched down in a near illegible hand that only he could understand, "Not just yet Monsieur LeBeau."

"What is it now?" he groaned as he stopped in his tracks and reluctantly turned.

"First of all, I entirely reject to being compared to an illiterate humanoid with a complete inability to articulate," he rebuked jokingly, "I only want to discuss a couple of things with you Remy," he motioned to his desk in the corner but remained focused on the clip board, "It won't take long, I assure you."

"Yeah," Remy said sarcastically as he made his way over to the waiting chair anyway, "Dat's what you said t'ree hours ago, mon ami."

Hank was completely oblivious by now, gesturing toward the vacant chair once again in that professional-doctor-with-his-patient way he sometimes unwittingly had about him. Remy duly plonked himself down, his increasing desperation for a cigarette imploring him to drum his fingers on the arm of his chair as he hooked the ankle of his right leg up onto his left knee, holding it there with his non-drumming hand. "If dere ain't nuhddin wrong, den what's de problem?"

Finally Hank put the board down, "Oh, it's not a problem," he twisted his mouth in a strange way, as if considering something, "...not a direct problem, as such. Just some odd readings, that's all. Nothing detrimental you understand. But never-the-less..."

"Yeah, dis is great, an' I'd be happy t' listen t' you babble till de cows come home jus' as much as de next man," he said shortly, "bu' could you jus' get t' de point?"

"As you wish," Hank acquiesced. "It's something I noticed when we ran the endurance tests when you activated your powers. A fluctuation, of a sort. The way your body processed the kinetic energy was much different."

"Mebbe it jus' 'cause mah powers are back t' what dey were 'fore Sinister tinkered wit' dem?" Remy offered, not too perturbed.

But Hank shook his head as he leant forwards on his desk, his elbows resting on several bulging files that were strewn in disarray over it, "No, no. I thought about that and compared the readings with the results of one of your team medicals before Sinister altered them. They were radically different." He sat back in thought for a moment, rapidly tapping his forefingers together, or the parts of his paws that passed for fore fingers; the thin claws 'tinking' shrilly, "Is there anything else you can think of that happened that you've neglected to tell me? No matter how small or inconsequential it may seem."

"No homme," Remy shrugged, "Remy tol' you ev'ryt'in' 'e can remember. T'ings went a bit hazy, know what I mean? Draggin' you're ass t'rough de Amazon half dead can do dat."

"There's no need to be facetious, my friend. That's my job," Hank jested, "But are you absolutely sure? All you can remember is the surge that hit you when you touch the box that contained the object. Nothing else?"

"Oui, oui," he answered quickly, "how you mean, a fluctuation?" he asked, referring back.

"It is difficult to explain—."

"Well try."

Hank sat back, pushing the spring rest backwards, "The nature of your ability puts your body under a great deal of stress" he began to explain, "—especially your cardiovascular system—."

"In laymen's, Hank. In laymen's," Remy interrupted before a spout of technical jargon that he wouldn't understand a word of assaulted his ears for the next ten minutes straight.

"Your heart and your blood vessels," he obligingly clarified before continuing, "the explosive kinetic energy drains on every cell in your body, putting everything into over-drive each and every time you use it. It's like a—a battery, of sorts," Hank simplified. "Luckily your body can recharge, reenergise, allowing you to utilise it over and over again. If it didn't you'd have drained yourself completely the first time you ever put your powers into use."

"You mean, I'd 'ave killed mahself?"

"In a word; yes," Hank exhaled heavily, "But your body obviously adapted to the process, that's part and parcel of your mutation. But..."

"Dere's always a 'but'," Remy uttered wearily as the drumming of his fingers fell into a steady thump.

"But, your body isn't processing or dealing with the strain of them in quite the same way as it was, as rapidly as it was. I detected fluctuations in your cardio—heart—that seemed febrile, and at times they went way off the chart."

Remy laughed, shortly, without humour, "An' you call dat a 'clean bill o' health'?" He slouched forwards, swinging his raised leg back down and clasping his hands loosely between his knees, "I'd hate t' t'ink what you'd tell someone if it wuz terminal."

"I know it sounds bad Remy, but believe me, I'd have you lying in that sick bay, completely hooked up if I thought it was that serious." He got up from his chair and went to the water cooler that stood just behind him, putting a small white plastic cup into the dispenser. As the water flowed down he continued his reassurance, "All I'm saying is your body is no longer used to the pressure that it once sustained. You were out of commission for quite some time and I just think your cells are simply finding new ways to cope with its sudden and abrupt return." He offered the cup out to Remy but when he refused with a curt shake of the head the Beast took a sip of the cool liquid as he perched his large frame on a clear corner of his desk, "It might even be connected to a secondary mutation, who knows?," he continued, "My research on the matter is so preliminary that I've only just begun to scratch the surface."

Remy remained quiet, considering all this at the same time as allowing himself to be convinced that it wasn't all that bad after-all. He rubbed his hand over his mouth and cleared the gruff feeling in his throat and then asked, "So what you sayin', jus' take it easy wit' de powers fo' a while? 'Till I get use' t' dem again?"

Hank nodded as he took a larger gulp from the cup that looked so dainty in his massive paw, "Basically, that is what I would recommend." There was more, but he was eager to have time to study the tests results in greater detail, time to work out what was shaping up to be an intriguing puzzle, from a scientific point of view at least. "It's a shame that the thing was destroyed, it would have been fascinating to find out its secret—what powered it, what allowed it to kick start your bio-kinetic signature, though I have my theories."

"Yeah, shame," he mumbled dryly. He couldn't care less, he was just glad to have seen the back of it. If indeed they had.

"It must have been comprised of some kind of modified atomic structure," Hank carried on regardless, lost in his own hypothesis, "Something about it must have corresponded to the intrinsic signature of your mutant make up—like some kind of 'supernatural'-battery. And this said battery had been sitting on a charger for hundreds of years, the charger in this case being the volcano. This is all speculation of course," he said cursorily, "but it's the best I can come up with for a plausible reason for why it restored your powers. You are an energy converter. Think of it as using jump leads on a car. The object not only shocked your dormant volatile kinetic abilities awake again but it also used you as its transistor. I'm sure on that basis and the fact that it had absolutely no effect on Ororo that, say, Scott or Alex would have experienced a similar reaction to handling it—your respective genetic-structures, in terms of your mutations, being so similar."

Remy nodded to all of this but his mind seemed far off, his demeanour quite vacant.

"Remy?" he called with a hint of concern, emerging from his own cerebral world, "I can assure you, there's nothing to overly concern yourself with, my friend. Let's just think of the most positive aspects, at least until I can study the results in more detail. And of course, the outcome of the blood samples Annie took for analysis."

"Whatevah," he said as he quickly got up, "I jus' need t' get outta here, de lights are startin' t' give me a headache. I need some fresh air."

Hank watched him go at first but soon hopped down from his desk, crushing and discarding his empty cup into the wire waste paper basket, "Wait a minute," he requested to the hastily retreating back, "I think I'll join you. It can get rather trying down here after so long." It was an excuse of course; being clearly obvious that Remy shouldn't be on his own right now, Hank decided it best that he impose his own company upon him. Remy didn't object.

After a brief sojourn to the kitchen for a couple of cold beers, the two X-Men went out onto the front lawn that was fairly peaceful now that classes in the mansion had resumed after the lunch break. Under the shade of the slowly malting poplars that clustered close to the east side of the house, the pair sat quietly in the gazebo that was already beginning to collect discarded leaves about its white-washed fixed furniture and eaves as if it were a magnet for them. They ruffled and scuffled about the worn back paleness of the decking as the afternoon wore on; one patiently waiting for the other, more than content to. Half the bottles of amber nectar gratefully drained in placid meditation as they watched nothing in particular, lost in their own concerns.

"You can talk about it if you wish," Hank said evenly; eyes restfully closed, his head turned up to the shaft of early autumn sun that peaked from beneath the octagonal slopping roof of the aged gazebo.

"Hmm?" Remy uttered as if genuinely disrupted from some heavy rumination, looking over at his companion through glare guarded eyes made small. "Don' worry 'bout it mon ami, it ain't yaw problem," he told him, believing that would be the end of it, idly twitching his feet back and forth as they rested up on the central table, crossed at the ankle. He took a deep breath as he drew an arm around to the back of his head in lieu of a pillow and supped from the hand-warmed brown glass, the beer inside now a little flat, but no matter.

After a few moments Hank continued, as if it were of no consequence, "Wouldn't be anything to do with a certain leggy, white-haired goddess, would it?" He sipped his drink, not giving so much as a sideways glance, though he now felt the ebony eyes most definitely on him, devil-red pupils burning like a laser.

"Ain't none of yaw—."

"Knock it off Remy," he sighed without pretence or artifice, "I'm not a stranger, I'm your friend." Now the big blue giant faced him fully, pouting expectantly, "If you can't talk to any of us, who can you confide in?"

He swept his hand back through his uncombed auburn hair; the man had a point. When he thought about all the times in the past where he had needed the confidence of somebody, had needed the compassion, the understanding, it had always been her. Her... His...The full force of this change, this transition hit him, his breath almost knocked from his lungs. She had always been his this, his that. His best friend, his confidant, his Stormy—a claim of possession had always lain between them. Some ownership, some link, some connection and consideration deeper than the everyday interaction of persons. But there had never before been that hint there, that spark of romantic connection, what passed between them had always seemed more...earthy, more profound. Though now he found himself hankering after her, in the most surreal of situations yes, but in reality its truth shinned through. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. He found himself having to repeat it again and again, each time a new thrill, a bright discovery; a discovery that terrified and delighted him in equal measure; her performance earlier not doing the least to sedate his fears. That's what they were. Fears. The type of which he'd only felt twice before, enough to tell him that his feelings were true. They were real. It was real. She. She was real, for perhaps, the first time. It was only a matter of time before Hank asked or Jean caught up with him. He should really have felt it a relief... "Where do I start?"

"The beginning is always the best, Remy," the fuzzy blue giant informed deceptively lackadaisically, pushing his glasses down against the glare of the lazy sun.

"De story would be too long an' too borin', trus' me."

"I'm sure not," he countered.

Remy considered for a moment, his hand pressed to his beer-moist lips. "Somet'in'...'appened," he said brokenly, "somet'in' between us changed...fo' de bedduh?...I don' know." He paused... "It jus' changed."

"How?" he asked simply.

"I don' know," he repeated, looking non-plus. "I only know dat t'ings 'ave changed, Remy be feelin' dat...'e loves her..." he screwed his mouth up, not daring to look over, "...at leas' 'e t'inks 'e does. He certainly wants t' believe 'e does. It's all 'appened so fast mah heads still fuckin' spinnin' homme."

Hank scratched at the shaggy tufts of fur at the side of his face, thinking all this over and having absolutely no idea what to say. Always a man of science, affairs of the heart, he was now convinced after his recent experience with Trish, were not his forte. In fact, he wanted to think of them as seldom as he could. It would be better to let Remy talk at him, so he remained silent and the Cajun duly obliged. Though he stagnated for a time, not sure of what to say or how to explain but simply feeling the overbearing need to talk, to offer something up. It had always been her in the past that had heard all he had to say or as much as he was willing to give. And she had listened, even when he had been unwilling himself to let her truly know, truly say what he wanted to say. Speaking to another party now of such things made him feel awkward, treacherous almost. Too late he realised the sublime confidence he had given up and it made him feel adrift in a sea. A sea of dead calm, deceptive calm, nobody on the raft but him. Carefully he unpicked the words from the jumble of thoughts as if unravelling a tapestry, at pains to select each one before they all tumbled, uncontrolled, out of him... "mebbe it wuz inevitable, ya know? It wuz only a madduh o' time befo'e we ended up in de sack t'gether." At first he tried to reason with himself, going through the process. Close feelings plus sexual need equalled a misguided love affair—no, not a love affair, a fuck. Confusing loss, need, compassion for something more than it was...but even as he sifted through these reasons that had made more sense since the events of that morning, in his bedroom, he knew each to be a lie. The type of lie he was used to telling himself as a form of protection, so much it had almost become truth. His form of truth anyway. Truth had not much currency in his world. That was the problem... "Ah'm jus' kiddin' mahself, I know...Ah'm jus' sick o' dis shit," he said, exhausted with everything.

Hank suddenly shifted, "Wait a minute—did you just say you've already slept with her?" It took him a little time to catch up.

Remy looked across at him as if he were the most naïve humanoid being he'd ever met, but then he opted for the better part of valour, appreciating that some members of the team didn't see the world in the colours that he and his 'Roro did...and that thought alone was enough to perk his spirits. It brought back to him the uniqueness of their union, their connection. "Yep, the deed is done an' dusted," he teased sardonically.

"Remy!" Hank rose to the goad, then instantly felt foolish for having done so.

Remy chuckled and took a sip of his beer, letting the gap grow. Eventually he said, "Look, I don' wanna mess de girl around homme, I got no intention o' lovin' an' leavin'. She mean too much t' me," he said sincerely, "Way too much."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he replied soberly, the brown bottle close to his lips, "I jus' wish I could convince her o' dat." He took a large swig, letting the rim pop from his mouth when sated. "Don' really care too much if no-one else 'ere believes me or no'...as long as she does, Remy be happy."

Hank ruffled his chin once more, then inclined his head to look over at the other man; him, staring resolutely ahead. "I presume you've told her all this?"

He paused for thought, but not for long, nestling his bottle down in his lap, held steady between long linked fingers as he said, "In a manner o' speakin'...yeah."

"In a manner?" Hank posed sceptically.

"I tol' her I loved her, what mo'e she want?" He suddenly took on a peevish look, his brow creased with all the worry of the world it seemed, its annoyance too; remembering his confession and what felt her rejection of it.

"And you think that was enough to convince her?" Hank sounded slightly incredulous, "I thought you knew women, Remy," he added smugly as he joined his companion in slouching down lazily into his chair, feeling the afternoons sun baking his thick coat, uncomfortable in such conditions. "Pure sociopath," he added under his breath, repeating his earlier statement, simply to rile.

"V'ry funny," Remy said back wearily, dismissing the jibe. "You don' understand de way me an 'Roro work---she know me bedduh dan dat--." He stopped short, wondering for the first time, through the myriad of possibilities that had spun around his mind in the past couple of weeks, if he had that right at all. Did he think too much of their connection to presume her complete trust? But then everything that had happened between them told him that she must have known, she must. She must. But still, perhaps she had the right to doubt him... "I do love her though," he said in complete clarity as if it were the first time, the first true time. "I may be a gambler by nature, bu' I wouldn' risk dat much...I wouldn' risk what I 'ave wit' 'Ro fo' nuhddin."

"I can see that my friend, you don't have to convince me," he said, "But maybe there is someone you do have to convince, because it sounds to me that Ororo isn't quite so sure about this as you are."

Remy sighed as he fished a cigarette out of his pocket, "I know she ain't," he said bleakly as he brought it to his mouth and lit it. Taking a swift drag, he continued, "I realise dat now...I wuz a fool fo' t'inkin' uddahwise." He had been genuinely confused by Ororo's sudden reticence earlier, but now it all made sense because he was willing to admit it, to see it for the first time. If he was in her position would he trust himself? There was no way he would. So why should he expect it automatically of her? He had been a fool, a pure blind fool.

"I'm afraid with out dear Windrider it will take more than meaningless phrases and a few nights of passion," Hank said after the silence with his tongue firmly in cheek.

"Don' even start," Remy laughed half-heartedly. He'd never hurt her, not like that.

"It's quite simple, Hank said after a time, "you've got to be one-hundred percent honest with her—about everything. That's the only way for a woman like Storm to trust you with her heart and you know it Remy."

Remy gave a tepid grin before continuing to smoke contentedly on his cigarette; his outer self in complete contrast to his inner self. "Quite de 'sage' ain't ya," he commented drolly, but his appreciation for Hank hearing him out was clear, his uneasiness at sharing so intimate thoughts with some-one who despite being a friend for a good amount of time now, was still an outsider to him and his naturally cautious nature, was overcome, albeit temporarily. It was a nature few had ever managed to penetrate, and it was the greatest irony and misery for him that the one who was the closest right now was also the one furthest away.... But honesty. Honesty was what it all boiled down to he guessed. Had he the guts to truly lay it all on the line for her? For he recognised the absolute truth in his rotund friends words. That really was the price, the price for everything. If he wanted her, he had to let himself be completely vulnerable. Completely, resolutely, absolutely. That terrified him more than anything else. But the spirit was willing and that was enough. And so he relaxed, with his friend and his beer and his smoke and watched the quiet world of Westchester go by. And soon, he'd see her and he'd convince her that he'd meant every single word. There was no way he'd let another slip through his fingers as he had in the past.

No way.

Remy turned to Hank, making a show of finishing the last of his beer And then suggested, "I t'ink it's time we started de bourbon."

-TBC-