A week back in New York, and it hadn't taken Remy long to work out that fighting Hank over his dinner being shovelled into his mouth left him with a warm and delicious smelling dinner inches away from his nose and no way to get it into his mouth. No amount of whining or complaining could change the fact that he couldn't lift a knife or fork with his hands mummified, and eating without utensils was out of the question too. He was just going to have to live with it. Still, it didn't stop him griping every time Hank used the phrase "Open wide" or let a little food drip on him. He fumed with hatred, anger, betrayal, though without any definite target save the one that cared for him every day. And regardless of what anyone thought of him, he was not going to bite the hand that fed him. Metaphorically or literally.

It was almost four days after his awakening that he realised that there hadn't been any sign of any of the other X-men around in all the time he had been conscious. Curious, and a little wary once again - he resolved to ask Henri about his team mates… ex-team mate's… strange absences the next time he came to feed him. The only other time he saw the blue doctor was the daily debridement that was still carried out. He would be stuffed full of pain medication and his damaged, aching hands were tenderly unwrapped - sending shooting pains through his whole forearm as the wounds were revealed. Then (and despite the pain medication, this was still one of the most painful things he had ever had to suffer through) his hands would be put into a small heated whirlpool bath and the dead, frost-bitten skin would be literally torn from the living. He'd snorted at Hank when he'd told him the first time that he shouldn't be ashamed to cry out.

"Remy's had worse." He'd said. He'd meant the heartache of Rogue's betrayal, the biting of the cold, (minus forty he had been informed), the mental anguish of being separated from the minds and emotions that kept him stable, kept him sane from day to day. Being nearly eviscerated by Creed came pretty high too.

He screamed every time, despite his denial. It never got any easier, the feeling of having his fingers sawn off at the point where the feeling stopped became the feeling of having his whole hand skinned and then plunged into boiling water. At least Hank had decided his feet were out of danger, all digits slowly regaining feeling with a biting, hacking pinning pain. But they would be fully healed soon. And Hank might consider letting him out of this bed. Letting him go back to his comfy room and the warmth of a radiator nearby. Why was it always so cold in the lab?

"Henri?" The sound of a hand on the doorknob became the door opening and the smell of dinner, finally. He was not hungry, just going stir crazy.

"Good eventide, my Arcadian friend. I come bearing sustenance." Remy's lips quirked into a smile. He has never been able to work out why the Doctor felt the need to speak like that.

"Know dey probably don' wanna see me, Henri. But where's ev'ryone else? S'not like y' lab t' be so quiet." The sound of scraping across the floor as Hank approached with a stool. A metallic rattle as Hank placed plate and contents down on a side-table.

It suddenly occurred to Remy just how vulnerable he was. Hank could leave now, and he would die of starvation before he found any way to eat the nourishing meal less than a foot away from him. He was not sure whether he would die of the isolating loneliness first. After all… he wasn't really hungry.

Hank delayed, hesitating. It made him wonder if he really wanted to know the answer to his question. Was his presence so distasteful that the X-men had refused to use the lab while he was here? Why had Hank brought him back to this place, so rightfully angry with him? It seemed as though the very bricks of the mansion held resentment.

His thoughts were rambling, strangely disjointed. He knew Hank was giving him no sedatives or narcotics, respecting his wishes. There were only the pain killers, though even those were throwing him a little off kilter.

He wished he could press the backs of his hands to his face as he used to when he was thinking, or trying to collect himself. He doesn't. It would hurt too much, and he doesn't want to bring his own attention to the bandages around his face.

"I have yet to inform our stalwart companions of your return, Remy. You are in an intensive care room, separated from the main lab. I fear your empathy would be hard-put to deal with the kind of emotions knowledge of your presence here would undoubtedly create within your colleagues." From the outside looking in, Hank watched confusion, fear and guilt flash across Remy's face in quick succession. Even with those unique eyes behind bandages Hank could read those emotions, as plain as day. What had happened to that infallible poker face? He pondered.

"Dat's good, Henri. Dey don' need t' be hassled. Soon as Remy's well, he'll be on 'is way, neh?" The reappearance of the classic disassociative behaviour did not escape Hank, though he made no comment.

"When you're well enough, Remy, I'm going to tell them you are here and they are going to come down here and apologise to you for an unacceptable breach of common civility. What we did was completely unjust, and was driven by several convoluted and for the most part wrong conclusions and opinions. It is unacceptable."

"Why'd she do it, Henri? Am I dat bad a person? What I did… was unforgivable. But I bin tryin' t' make it right." Hank spent a moment trying to understand Remy's question, but came up blank.

"Remy, I was under the impression that Rogue saw you fall and, thinking you dead and knowing that Warren had been hit by debris she…" Hank stopped to think. This had all seemed so plausible when Rogue had said it. But now… and why was Remy looking so tense.

"She tol' you she 'saw me fall'?"

"Yes…?"

"She carried me outta dat buildin', Henri. Only one way t' 'fall' from dat position, hein?"

"She dropped you?"

"Y'd think dat if she'd jus' wanted Remy dead she'd a' let him stay in dere, neh? She wanted him t' suffer fo' his past."

"Oh my…"

o

"Charles?" The view screen clicked on, and Hank was reassured by the image of his long trusted friend and mentor.

"Ah, yes. Hank. You're here to update me on the condition of your guest…"

"Just briefly, yes. There's been no obvious sign of change in the condition of his eyes. The frostbite in his feet is healing nicely, the small affected areas on his face are already well healed. His hands are another matter. Both thumbs are back to normal although a little stiff. The smallest fingers are also all but healed. The other fingers are not responding to treatment and I'm currently battling with the onset of gangrene in his right index finger. If this does not improve quickly – say within the next three days – I will be forced to amputate to avoid the infection spreading further."

"And that's… essential?"

"To avoid the contamination of his blood, yes. A blood infection in his current condition would undoubtedly kill him, it's not worth taking the risk."

"Keep me informed."

"There was one other thing I wanted to discuss with you…" Hank trailed off, uncertain.

"Go on, my friend. I can do nothing if you cannot say what you need to."

"It is regarding Rogue…"

o

Feeling soothed, but no happier about his own role in the judgement of a life that had taken place, Hank pondered what he had been told. It seemed that during his self-imposed isolation Rogue had taken off. Whether to soothe her guilty conscience or to hide from the truth he could only guess, but Charles had been stunned and horrified when Hank had conveyed Remy's side of the story to him. Something would have to be done, this had spiralled out of what could be considered fair play in a lover's tiff. This was closer to murder, and it wasn't helping that nothing in Rogue's explanation for why she had turned away from her lover added up. Something in that equation was missing, and Hank wanted to know what it was. It was unlikely, though, with Rogue missing and Remy being as vague as ever about his own point of view. Sometimes it seemed that boy didn't think any more of himself than what others saw in him. As though he didn't want to influence or improve their opinions of him.

He turned through the Iso-room doors to find Remy sat up and waiting for him. A grin quirked his features, and Hank found himself wary of what might come next. He wasn't ready for Remy's restlessness today.

"Henri, I had an idea…"

"Yes Remy?" He asked, a little weary, but trying not to show it to his patient.

"Y' said a long time 'go dat m' chargin' powers caused th' blood t' flow faster in m' hands, s' why dey get red an' hot 'f I use dem too much."

"That's right." Hank confirmed, not making the connection.

"So… if I used m' powers would it help?" The connection made, thoughts were suddenly racing ten to the dozen through Hank's mind.

"Possibly. I would have to monitor… and…" The thoughts were flowing to quickly to vocalise them all, making a checklist of all the things he would have to do to make sure it was safe. "Do you think you can charge with only your little finger and thumb? Because the other fingers aren't going to want to carry charge until they are at least a little more recovered. And can you charge while under a local anaesthetic? It's likely to be as painful as the debridement is, if not more so."

"Can' charge if I can' feel m' hands. Don' have 'nough control t' stop it runnin' away wit' me."

"How can you be sure you would have control through the pain that you wouldn't have under the anaesthetic?"

"If I can feel it, I can control it." He said firmly.

"If you are sure, I will need to hook you up to a few monitors. I want to know if something is going wrong." A brusque nod. Remy's ready - ready and desperate to get out of here. Gentle hands - furred and padded - worked on the bandages, freeing the fingers on the left hand first. A familiar shape was placed in his palm, followed by two electrodes, one on each temple. He closed his fist over the card and tried not to flinch as he realised that only his thumb and smallest finger had responded. The other three were still too damaged in nerve and tissue to move under his command. He shifted the card with his thumb until it lay in a position that he could throw from.

"Ready, mon ami?"

"Just make sure you throw forwards, I will stand to your left, there is machinery to your right." A brief nod even as the card began to glow a weak pink. There was stress written all over his face, his mouth drawn into a thin line as he transferred the charge, forcing the blood through to his fingertips, dragging sensation back. A soft whimper was the first sign of pain, though Hank knew it was a delayed one. A cry pre-empted a clumsy throw as the half-charged card turned itself into streamers in the middle of the room. Both hands were shaking as the left was shoved towards him gingerly.

"'twor'?" He paused to translate. Did it work?

"Yes, Remy. You did wonderfully. Rest now, we'll try again tomorrow." A hoarse laugh, and Remy was collapsing into the covers with relief.

"'morrow." He nodded.

o

TBC

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