A/N: Oh my God, can anyone believe it? A second chapter in under a week? I think that's a record for me. All I can say is winter break rocks.
On a somewhat serious note, I can't thank all of you enough for the positive feedback you've given this story. I wasn't sure how it would be received, because it is a little different than typical canon. I've gotten a few questions about which universe it takes place in, and the answer is this: I don't know. It's sort of an amalgamation of every avenue of X-Men I've experienced. I took pieces out of comics, cartoon, and movies, anything that I liked and that fit with how I wanted to write. I'll try to explain things a little better when and if Remy makes it to the X-Mansion.
In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. There's what I consider to be some dark moments coming up, so be prepared if you don't like things like that. As always, please let me know what you think.
The hotel they arrive at sometime later is not one of the more lavish in town, but neither is it by any means a dump. It is strictly a tourist spot, with the same over-the-top brightly coloured decorations that could be found all over the French Quarter. It is a two-leveled structure, shaped as an open-ended rectangle surrounding a small parking lot. The rooms themselves open up onto an outdoor walkway, with stairs leading up on each end of the building. The parking lot is sparsely populated with vehicles; the hotel is receiving little business so far from ripe tourist season. Come Mardi Gras, the place will be packed for months in advance.
The day is quickly approaching its hottest temperature, and even Remy, accustomed to the humid heat as only a local can be, is uncomfortable. Long rivulets of sweat run down his back, and tendrils of his chin length auburn hair are sticking to his forehead. He's hot, he's hungry, and he's tired, but he'll be damned if any of the people surrounding him will know that.
Slim leads him to a room at the far right end of the first floor. Sitting in front of the open door is an older, bald man confined to a wheelchair. Sharp features are softened by wrinkles and laugh lines, giving the impression of both a hard life, and a life filled with joy. He is wearing what is obviously, even to Remy's inexperienced eye, an expensive, well-tailoured suit, and despite the heat, he does not look uncomfortable. A warm smile comes to his face as Remy approaches with Slim, and he sees nothing but kindness, and strength in the man's blue eyes. Rather than providing reassurance and comfort, as it is assuredly intended, Remy is uneasy with the blatant display of emotion.
"This is Professor Charles Xavier. Professor, this is Remy." Scott makes the introductions with the air of a man used to that particular task. He waits until Remy takes an uneasy step closer before breaking away and joining Dr. Grey and Logan in front of the main office.
"Good morning, Remy." The Professor inclines his head in a polite greeting, but Remy does not respond. An uncomfortable silence stretches between the two, while both men eye the other warily, one more conspicuously than the other.
"Well, where are my manners?" the Professor says, after a long moment. "Please, do come inside. You have a beautiful city, but the heat is simply unbearable to one more accustomed to the Northern states."
Without waiting for acknowledgement, he backs his wheelchair up, and wheels himself into the dark room. With one last glance towards the direction they came from, Remy sighs softly, and enters the room.
He is unsurprised to see a standard hotel room, much like he suspects one could find all over the country. There is one double bed, flanked by two simple nightstands. Facing it is a medium sized television on a Formica stand. A door in the far right corner leads to what Remy assumes is a bathroom.
The Professor has wheeled himself over to the desk against the far wall, and is fiddling with something on its surface, out of Remy's sight.
"Forgive the colour palate," the older man says, speaking of the rather garish gold and turquoise motif. "It is hardly my taste, but on short notice, there is little that can be done."
While he is occupying himself, Remy steps forward, and tests the spring of the mattress with his hands. He straightens, pulls off his sweatshirt, and throws it over the back of the room's only chair.
"So…where do you wanna do dis? Is de chair okay?"
He's unsure of where to go from here, and despite what his instincts are telling him, he doesn't feel right asking the question. He starts to take his belt off, but it's too late now, because the Professor has turned around, and is now staring at him with a disgusted and yet thoroughly embarrassed expression on his face. His blue eyes flash from Remy's clenched fists and averted gaze, to his sweatshirt hanging over the back of the armchair.
"Oh, no," he whispers, so quietly Remy can almost not hear him. "No, my dear child, you misunderstood."
Remy does little but raise an eyebrow. He feels his heart beat a little faster in his chest /maybe this time will be different, maybe I won't have to do it/ but he is reluctant to get his hopes up.
"I didn't ask you hear for that," Xavier says, and though he appears mostly recovered from his apparent surprise, Remy senses he is still largely uncomfortable with the situation. "No, I only want to talk with you. That is all."
Colour begins to infuse Remy's face as he realized how poorly he interpreted the situation. He grabs at his sweatshirt, and yanks it over his head so roughly he hears a stitch or two pop. The noise is like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room.
While it isn't exactly common for someone to make a request like that, it's even less often that Remy misreads the circumstances so thoroughly. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he doesn't feel anything from this man. To someone so accustomed to reading people in the way Remy does, to suddenly be denied it is like losing a sense integral to his very being.
He reluctantly looks back at Xavier, and is startled to see genuine, heart felt sadness displayed on his face. If that is not enough, he can feel it as though Xavier is transmitting his emotions across the space of the room. He files this little piece of information away in the back of his mind, wondering if maybe this strange man is more than what he seems.
Xavier opens and closes his mouth several times before he finds the words. "I am deeply sorry that the life you have experienced would lead you to believe I asked you here for…that. But I am not that kind of man."
Remy doubts that last comment very much; there are very few people he has met that were not "that kind of man." No one is that rigid. Given the right temptation, the right circumstance, and anyone can be that kind of man. But he doesn't question the statement. Few men like to be confronted with proof of their duplicity.
"Would you like to have a seat?"
Remy glances furtively at the door to his left. He shakes his head emphatically, and slips his hand into the back pocket of his jeans. He feels an inordinate amount of relief when his fingers brush against the laminated surface of a half deck of playing cards. He never goes anywhere without some kind of weapon, and in his experience playing cards are an ideal projectile, given his specific…gift. Remarkably easy to swipe from under someone's nose, and just as easy to conceal.
"Remy, I assure you I'm not going to hurt you. When I say I want to talk, I mean I want to talk." His expression looks sincere enough, but Remy is reluctant to believe it. At any rate, he wishes the old man would just tell him why he's here.
"That being said, you're free to leave at any time." His warm blue eyes flick to the closed door, as if daring the younger man to take the invitation. Remy takes a step towards the door, if for no other reason than to prove he can, then sighs softly and perches on the arm of the chair positioned next to him.
Xavier looks far from satisfied, but he doesn't otherwise remark. "I asked that you come to see me because I would like to help you."
Remy doesn't respond. People's definitions of help could be just about anything. He's not stupid, or naïve enough to think this man's sense of the word could benefit Remy at all. He's had people offer him help before, and found out it does little but bring more pain to his already dismal life.
"Would you like something to eat? There is a restaurant across the street that makes world famous gumbo, though I suspect you already knew that."
Remy's stomach flips over the mere mention of the spicy concoction that originated in his city. He has enough bad memories associated to nearly every variety of the food that he doubts he will ever eat it again. Gumbo in New Orleans is as common as…salt in the ocean, and one can hardly walk three paces without catching the scent of someone's burgeoning meal.
He shakes his head emphatically. "'M not hungry."
His body appears to obey for once, as his stomach manages not to growl at the mere thought of food. Xavier raises an eyebrow slightly, as if to say he doubts the veracity of Remy's claims. But he does not push the issue any further.
"All right. Perhaps I should just tell you why we're here."
Remy manages not to spurt out a sarcastic comment forming on the tip of his tongue; he knows better than to burn a bridge before he finds out what's on the other side. Instead he leans back a fraction on the armrest, feigning an interest he just doesn't feel.
"I'm a mutant, Remy. Much like yourself."
Taken aback from the boldness of Xavier's statement, Remy stands suddenly. /Speak for yourself/ He wants to shout, but finds that the words don't come. His throat has constricted uncomfortably, whether from fear, or a strange kind of hope, he doesn't know. And doesn't want to.
"It's all right," Xavier says softly. "I'm not going to hurt you, or brand you as different. As I mentioned earlier, I only wish to help you."
Remy hopes the statacco pulse beating so loudly in his temple is not actually audible in the small room. He has little doubt that Xavier's claims have truth to them. He has known for some time that he was different from most people, but had fervently avoided a label of any kind. He might not be the most up-to-date on current events, but he understands the plight of the mutant in modern day America. The fact that he is one only seems to add more to the odds stacked against him.
He nods stiffly, and is somewhat surprised to feel that he trusts this man. A brief five-minute meeting is not enough to undue seventeen years of abuse and mistreatment, however. He checks the pack of cards in his back pocket again before sitting back down.
Xavier continues as though he was never interrupted. "I am Headmaster of a school in upstate New York dedicated to the safety and education of young mutants such as yourself. With the help of a small staff, including Scott, Dr. Grey and Logan, and a few others, I strive to provide lost mutants with a safe haven from the perils of being different in today's society. We educate these children, both in the somewhat mundane subjects of math, English, and science, and in the control and maintenance of their mutant powers. Once they have reached the limits of what we can teach, they have the option of rejoining society as educated young people, or staying on, to assist in the education of a new generation of mutants in the same position they once were."
He pauses for a moment, and appears to collect his thoughts. "I believe we could help steer you onto a much less damaging path."
Remy interrupts the speech with a snort of sarcastic laughter. "You act like I chose dis life. You t'ink I'd be here, if dere was anyt'in' else?"
Xavier shakes his head sadly. "That's the point, my boy. I understand that in your position, there are very few options. I only wish to provide you with some."
Remy's eyes narrow, and he regards the Professor with the same amount of caution he might afford a cobra poised to strike. "In my experience, very few people give somet'in' for not'in'. What's de catch?"
"There is no catch. I simply wish to prove that mutants can be valuable members of society, if given the same opportunities available to everyone else."
"Ah. You wanna make a point."
Xavier is unable to suppress a gentle smile. "I never considered it in those terms, but yes, I suppose that is what it boils down to." He hesitates a moment, and the serious glint is back in his gray eyes. "I know this is a huge decision for you. And I'm not asking that you make it in the span of a few minutes. I'm willing to wait as long as it takes for you to decide."
Remy allows his highly tuned poker face to crack enough to raise his eyebrows incredulously. Does this man even know what he's offering? A golden ticket out of hell, and he acts like Remy has family, or friends, to consider. But even so, Xavier is largely an unknown. As much as he hates his life on the streets, he does find solace in the fact that it is a known element. He understands the dangers, the appeals, the benefits. If he decides to trust Xavier, he will have to learn a whole new set of rules, and a different way of life. He wonders if it's worth it.
Xavier is watching Remy consider carefully, his expectation barely hidden beneath a mask of indifference, but Remy is uncomfortable with the attention. He stands, pulls a cigarette out of his front pocket and sticks it between his lips, but does not light it.
"Lemme t'ink about it," he says finally, moving towards the door before he's even finished talking.
Xavier nods patiently, but Remy's practiced eye does not miss the subtle sagging of broad shoulders. He slips out the door without waiting for more to be said, and it's not until it's shut behind him that he realizes he failed to palm anything. /Well, guess there's a first time for everything./ He digs in his pocket for his Zippo, and lights the cancer stick hanging from his lips.
If at all possible, the day has gotten hotter while he has been inside the air-conditioned hotel room. He adjusts the sunglasses on his face, and pushes himself away from the door, to head back to town and find something cool to drink.
"So, how did it go?"
He feels the presence of Slim and his little harem before the older man speaks, and he turns to look as they near him on the walkway. They must've gone for ice cream, Remy thinks, if the half melted cone in Dr. Grey's hand is any indication.
He shrugs again. "He give dat speech often? Cause I was checkin' de room for tele-prompters."
Logan is the only one that responds, with a funny little half-smirk. "I hear ya there, kid. He always talks like he's got a speech writer hidden in the closet."
Dr. Grey favours her hairy companion with a sharp glance. "It's not like it seems, Remy. The Professor doesn't make this offer to many people. Only those he thinks truly deserve it. Please give him a chance. Think it through."
He wants to answer with sarcasm, and he thinks that if one of the men had spoken that piece, he might've done just that. But he can see the earnestness and sincerity in her face, and feel it in her words. Whatever this Xavier guy has done for her, she believes in him with her heart and soul. The question for Remy is, does he trust that belief?
He nods, and takes a long drag on his cigarette. "I will," he promises, and is sort of surprised to find he means it. It won't hurt him to at least consider the outlandish proposal. And it's not like he has a heavy social calendar that might take up all his time.
He waves good-bye, a funny little wiggle of his fingers, and then he's gone, heading back to his part of town to find something to drink.
Jean watches him go until his auburn head disappears among the throngs of people already populating the sidewalks. "Do you think he'll come back with us?"
When no reply is forthcoming, she turns around, and is startled to see she's alone. The door to the Professor's room stands open; she can hear murmurs of conversation coming from inside. She wonders how long she was watching Remy without realizing it.
The discussion is in full swing when she finally enters.
"Is he really going to go for it? Freedom's really important for a kid his age, and he'd be giving all of his up." Logan is reclined in the armchair to Jean's right, his feet already propped up on the corner of the bed. Scott's lip twists at the disregard for good housekeeping, but thankfully for all concerned, he doesn't say anything.
"For an opportunity for a steady means of nutrition? A warm bed? Clean clothes and running water? I should think so." The Professor is running his fingers absently along the armrest of his wheel chair. Even without the obvious tell, Jean would've recognized the tight lines around his mouth and eyes. He seems to have aged a year in a matter of ten minutes.
Logan snorts, then he and Scott say together, "You'd be surprised."
Their eyes meet across the room, ruby quartz against clear blue. Scott's lip twists again, Logan smirks and shakes his head, and Jean rolls her eyes. Never before had she met two people so diametrically opposed to each other. Heaven forbid they should discover they have the same opinion about something.
"I think he's going to come with us," Jean speaks up, in part in an effort to bolster the Professor's confidence, and in part to interrupt the uncomfortable silence resulting from Logan and Scott's harmonizing.
The Professor catches her gaze from the across the room, as she sits down on the bed, and smiles gratefully at her. She can see that something about this boy has affected him, and she wonders what's different about him than all the other young mutants in the country that could've used their help. .
"Were you able to learn anything about his mutation?"
"Make that plural," Logan says. "Kid seems to have a grab bag of superhuman powers."
Jean takes the cue and continues on. "The most obvious are his eyes. Black sclera, red pupils. They seem to almost glow, but without getting a closer look, I can't be sure. Also, we think his main power has something to do with energy conversion. When we first…met… him, he panicked, tried to run. He grabbed a piece of silver off a table, held it in his hand for a second or two, then threw it on the ground. It exploded while he ran."
"Has to have some kind of enhanced agility, too." Scott, pacing away nervous energy along the front of the room, does not pause as he contributes to the conversation. "You should've seen him climb that fence." He flattens his hand, moves it in a diagonal motion to demonstrate how quick the boy moved. "He made it over in no time flat. Like a cat, or something."
"So in all likelihood, we might be dealing with an Omega-class mutant."
Jean's mouth opens to question that statement, but Logan beats her to it. "Wait a minute. I thought you said you felt him through Cerebro."
The Professor nods reluctantly. "I did. But the boy has remarkable psychic shielding. I've never seen this kind of strength in a non-telepath. It was impossible for me to be entirely sure of anything."
Logan throws his arms into the air in frustration, and flies out of the chair to join Scott in pacing the room. "So we don't know anything about this kid for sure? Nothing concrete? And I'm not talking about assumptions based on something one of us saw. I think in our lives, we can all agree that just ain't good enough. Are you sure we should be inviting him to live with us?"
"I agree," Scott adds, and remarkably, the world fails to stop spinning when Logan and Scott agree with each other twice in ten minutes. "We're going into a situation without knowing everything. It could've been a lot worse today. We should find out what he's capable of before bringing him back with us. ."
"It doesn't matter what his powers are!" The Professor nearly shouts, seemingly without provocation, and suddenly all eyes are wide in disbelief and fixed unwaveringly on him. The look on Scott's face might've been comical if not for the seriousness of the situation. Charles very rarely loses his temper, and he never, ever raises his voice. This display of anger only further proves to Jean that there is something about this boy that they aren't being told.
The Professor takes a breath, visibly calms himself, and begins again in a much softer voice. "It doesn't matter how powerful he is. He needs our help. And he is going to get it, regardless of any personal reservations." He glances at each of them in turn, as if daring them to speak against him.
"I understand your misgivings given the circumstances. But he is a seventeen-year old boy, living the life not even a grown man should handle. I would feel no different about wanting to help him even if he was not afflicted by the X-gene."
Again, he seeks to catch each of their eyes, although this time it is for a largely different reason. He is looking for support, searching in his co-workers faces for some indication that they might feel as he does. Although he has all but stated out loud that he will do anything to help this boy, he would much rather do it with these three people standing with him.
Jean looks across the room to her husband, who was ceased pacing and now simply stands with his arms crossed tightly against his chest. Logan is using the room's dresser as a leaning post, his ankles crossed on the floor in front of him, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his worn jeans. Both men are frowning, and both appear to be in deep thought. Feeling her attention on him, Logan looks up. Scott does the same, and for a half-minute, the three exchange glances between each other. Jean has known both of them long enough to be able to read the expressions on their faces without having to ask questions, as they can also do with her. They will remain where they have always been; at this man's side, watching his back and offering their support.
She smiles to herself, to her husband, and to her best friend, then turns to the Professor. "What do you want us to do?"
...to be continued...