Chapter 5 - A View of Starlight from within a Bottomless Well

Antarctica ought to be nothing but a cold memory, but he couldn't let it go. The cold and dark and hunger were an inextricable part of him now. Remy rolled the lowball tumbler between his hands. Dark amber liquid sloshed against the walls of the glass in a lazy swirl. Mesmerised, he stared into the depths and wished the warm golden hue could spread beyond its confines. If wishes were horses…he breathed a long sigh torn from the very depths of his soul. He held the glass a moment longer, then tossed back the remaining bourbon. The liquor scarcely had the opportunity to pool on his tongue before it roared down the back of his throat with a familiar burn. He wanted to feel the fire. To feel anything other than the cold which tasted of despair.

Then again, it was as much about Antarctica as it was everything that led up to the trial and his subsequent abandonment. The reasons for the trial. It was about all the things for which he could never forgive himself. It was the guilt that lurked in the corners of his mind and clung to every thought in inky, tarry globules. Lies, secrets and half-truths. Morlocks, Marauders, and Sinister. Thieves, assassins, and exile. His life was a series of one mistake, one bad decision after another for which he could never atone. He didn't blame Rogue for leaving him behind. He deserved it. If it were possible, he would leave himself behind too. Unfortunately, life didn't work that way.

Remy shifted further into the solitary darkness of the back table he'd claimed for the evening. The shadows loomed deep in his corner of the world—both figuratively and literally. Most days he could push the majority of those memories into the deep, isolated corners of his brain and pretend to forget about them. He covered the rough edges with a devil may care attitude and a cheeky smile, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't forget. And, when the dams could no longer hold all those ugly feelings at bay, they crashed over the shaky, protective barriers and flooded his brain until he couldn't think of anything else. Usually he could predict those days. He'd see the cracks forming, the triggers that sent him spiralling, and he'd retreat.

But then, there were days like today. The ones that always caught him out of the blue. It wasn't an anniversary of one of his colossal mistakes. They hadn't lost a battle or a friend. No tangible ghosts from his past came back to haunt him. All in all, it had been a decent day. Heck, even Scott had refrained from lecturing anyone today (so, maybe that made it a bad day for Scott). Without an audience, Remy couldn't manage a smirk at the sardonic thought.

Setting the empty tumbler on the table, he wished he had another. He had already finished several, but that didn't stop him from wanting to keep drinking until his thoughts became as numb as the rest of him. Unfortunately, the energy it required to do that was more than he could summon at the moment.

With the liquor gone, Remy stared blankly into the middle distance. By sitting still, he all but disappeared into the darkness and away from the world of light and laughter that filled the rest of the room. With a free evening on their hands, the X-men had decided to head into town and stop in at Harry's Hideaway. Around him, the others were enjoying their night out. Though their faces matched the tones of the voices—carefree and jovial—their laughter sounded like a discordant jangle to his ears. Conversation buzzed in the background like a storm of angry bees, yet no one was angry. It was all wrong. He was all wrong. Cradling his head in his hands, he closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. He shouldn't be here. They were here to have a good time and his presence would just drag everyone down—if they even remembered he was here.

He sighed. The Remy they knew—the Gambit they expected—wouldn't be sulking in the corner. He should be harmlessly flirting with Betsy and Jean, schooling Kurt and Bobby in a game of pool, or futilely trying to drink Logan under the table. Instead, he was hiding at a secluded corner table watching everyone else enjoy themselves. All the while, hating himself to the very core of his being. He wasn't worth their friendship. His mistakes couldn't—shouldn't—be forgiven. He was a fraud. He didn't deserve to be among heroes.

That's what the voices in his head told him. They weren't literal voices, nor were they like the arguing psyches that Rogue dealt with on a daily basis. Rather, they were the dark parts of him that knew the truth. Some days, it was easier to believe those dark murmurings than the ones which told him differently.

The door opened with a chime and a gust of autumnal air. A rush of dried, curling leaves swept across the welcome mat and crunched underfoot as someone new entered the bar. He didn't need to look up or hear the friendly greetings to know who it was, he simply knew. He always knew when she was near.

It was the way she restrained her firm footsteps and cushioned each step so not to crush or damage anything with her strength. Her graceful, cautious movements as she wound through the gathering of friends, always holding a little bit of herself back. The way a stray draft carried the subtle, sweet scent of honey and magnolias when she turned her head. How her presence charged the air with a current that no one else ever noticed, but he always did. It was how every one of his keen senses were overwhelmed by her whenever she was near. He could breathe a little easier as the restrictive pressure in his chest eased slightly.

Tugging a card at random from his deck, he flipped it across his fingers. The card wove up and over, down and under, and back again. Remy cracked an eyelid and the Queen of Hearts stared back at him. Of course she would make an appearance. His lady always knew when she was needed.

Mon Dieu, he missed her.

He missed the sweet scent of her hair. The honeyed drawl of her voice. The way she ran heedless into danger. He missed the feel of her gloved hands entangled with his. The clasp of her hand over his mouth as she kissed the back of her hand. He missed the push and pull. The intricate dance that defined their relationship. The relationship they were no longer in. She wasn't his. Not anymore.

But, she was why he was here. He needed to see her—even if it was only from a distance. Needed to hear her laugh, even if it was with someone else. To view the flick of her wild chestnut curls over her shoulder, even if he couldn't run his fingers through it. He closed his eyes and let every moment he ever memorised of their time spent together run across his mind's eye. He needed his Rogue, even if she was no longer his chère.

Expanding his kinesthetic sense, he tracked the circuit she made around the room. At the table opposite the door, she stopped to chat with Scott and Jean, but she didn't stay beyond the point dictated by polite small talk. Hank and Bobby were arguing about music selections beside the jukebox and called her over to settle the debate. She blew them off, suggesting some Queen Ida instead. Kurt dragged her towards the middle of the room, begging her to make a fourth at the table where he'd been made an uncomfortable third wheel as Kitty and Piotr awkwardly flirted. Though she commiserated with him for a moment, she didn't stay. She sent Illyana over instead. Passing the pool tables, she traded a few good natured barbs with Betsy, who was showing off for Warren. When Rogue finally ended up at the bar, she leaned on her elbows beside Logan. A low conversation passed between them before she placed her order with Harry.

Remy frowned. Something was off with the way she interacted with the others. While Rogue still shrugged off touch and fiercely maintained the integrity of her protective walls, she didn't eschew the company of the others the way she used to. She flirted and teased and sparked. They were all her friends. They all wanted a moment of her time, her opinions mattered, her help required. She didn't shy away from them like she did from him.

He ought to go. He didn't belong here. They didn't really want him. They didn't need him. Not like they wanted and needed her.

A clink of glasses proceeded the tread of her restrained footsteps as she resumed her circuit around the room. He remained still. If he didn't move, maybe she wouldn't notice him and he'd make his exit before he ruined her evening.

Quick, light footsteps intercepted hers. Probably the person she got the second drink for. Before Remy's heart could take a nose dive deeper into the darkness, he froze when she didn't greet the interloper warmly. Rather, she waved him off with a flick of her hand and annoyance in her voice, "Not now, sugah."

Surprised, Remy jerked his head out of his hands and stared at Rogue who was standing at the end of his table. His eyes smouldered dull and hazy in the low light as he gazed on the impossible—his Rogue singling him out and not spoiling for a fight. She smiled at him with that smile of hers that could replace the sun.

Rogue held a beer in one hand, a lowball of bourbon in the other. Her jacket was draped over her arm, giving him a clear view of her. Taking advantage of the evening off, she'd donned a comfortable casual outfit. She wore jeans and a pair of boots matched with a tank top the pale pink of peach blossoms and a pair of opera length gloves in a darker shade of the same. There should be something incongruous about the combination of casual clothes and formal gloves, but there wasn't. It suited her.

Like her, he'd forgone his uniform for the evening, though he still wore his duster. He wondered if she thought he was just making a fashion statement, or if she recognised it as the armour it was. Probably. She studied him—taking him in from head to toe. Remy's lips curled in a grin meant to keep her from seeing the truth through his mask. It didn't work. His cheek muscles strained at the forced movement, while he shuttered the emotions behind his eyes, leaving them expressionless, dark, and dull.

For a moment, her smile faltered. She bit the inside of her cheek and closed her eyes before Remy could read the shift in her expression. Reigning in whatever emotion she was trying to hide from him, she released a stifled breath in a rush. When she met his gaze again, the bright smile had returned to her disposition, though it didn't disguise the concern which lingered at the corners of her eyes.

She placed the drinks on the table and slid the tumbler of bourbon into his empty hands. Taking a seat beside him, she wrapped her hands around her beer. As though it were the most natural thing in the world, she scooted in close to him. Her hip nearly brushed his. As it was, he could feel the warmth radiating from her. He stiffened, barely allowing himself to feel.

"Sugah, whatchya doin' all the way back here by your lonesome?" Rogue drawled. She gestured out at the room full of their friends, teammates, and a handful of strangers. "Ah'm sure there's plenty of girls out there who'd love to keep ya company tonight."

Tension pulled his muscles taut and his head throbbed in a way that made him close his eyes to block out the light and movement. Hiding behind the glass, Remy sipped the bourbon and schooled his features. He grinned at her, all charm and charisma. A veneer of amiability that didn't reach his eyes. All outwards signs of his black mood slipping out of sight. He looped his arm around her, careful not to touch the bare skin of her upper arm. Instead he rested his fingers along her glove covered elbow.

I should have worn gloves, he berated himself. He had come for her and now that she was here, he couldn't even touch her. Not that she would let him, he didn't deserve such a privilege either.

"Don' tease, chère." His rich timbre wavered as he attempted a casual flirtation. "You know better than to suggest dat. Dere's only one woman I want by my side tonight an' she only just arrived."

He didn't know why he said that or why he thought he could hold her. It wasn't fair. Was he trying to get a rise out of her? Was he hoping to incite her temper? It would be easier to bear a Rogue yelling at him for overstepping boundaries, than to be on the receiving end of those pitying eyes.

Whatever his reasons, she didn't rise to the bait. Reaching for him, Rogue cupped his chin with her hand and directed his red-eyed gaze to her green one. "Remy LeBeau, why are ya lyin' to me?"

"Ain't lyin'," he muttered.

"Not with your words, Cajun. With your face." She tapped his lips with a covered finger and his facade faltered.

Of course she knew. She knew him better than anyone else. Knew more of his secrets than anyone save himself. Even if she hadn't been in his memories, taken on bits of his soul, she could see the truth. She saw beyond the mask of a debonair thief to the heart of the man cowering beneath. Despite knowing the truth—despite experiencing his darkness—she still loved him. He loved her. Always would, but she deserved better.

His hand slipped from her elbow. It would be so easy. A brush of her warm skin with his bare hand. Their faces were so close. Her hand still cupped his chin and he couldn't look away. It could be so easy. He could be free.

Leaning in, he found his voice ragged and weak. "A kiss, chère? Make all de bad dreams go away?"

Rogue didn't back down or give in. When she spoke, it wasn't with any of her usual acerbic bite. "It doesn' work that way, sugah. Ya know that."

He nodded stoically. As much as he wanted to slip into the sweet embrace of oblivion, to never again remember his past misdeeds, to never again wake screaming from the nightmares constructed from his worse memories, it wasn't anyone else's responsibility to relieve that burden from him.

If he kissed her, if he let her take his memories, he'd only be passing the guilt and shame onto her. And, that was where the problem fell. A damn catch-22. Damned if he kept his memories, even more damned if he gave them to her in hopes of blunting his own pain.

Shaking his head, he forced his thoughts to clear. He couldn't do that to her. Her touch wouldn't simply take his memories from him, it would force them on her. In the past, the darkness that lurked in his soul had almost destroyed her whenever she kissed him unprotected. And, he couldn't—wouldn't—do that to her again.

Remy pulled away from her and groped for his drink. There were other ways to seek oblivion. Ones that wouldn't hurt anyone else. Before he could lift the tumbler to his lips, she placed her hand over the top and snagged the drink away from him. He squawked in protest when she drained the glass.

Taking his hand, she stood. "C'mon swamp rat, let's get you out of here. Ah don' think ya need anymore to drink. Let's get some fresh air."

He allowed her to lead, following wordlessly in her wake. Closing his eyes, he tried to dampen the tingling sensation along the back of his neck that alerted him to the myriad of eyes tracking their progression across the room with open curiosity. With Rogue by his side, he never stumbled or misstepped. She was a bright star, illuminating his way through the night. Whenever his psyche sank into the growing darkness, when he was left wandering in the endless winter, she was his lodestar, guiding him home.

Releasing his hand, she shrugged on her jacket as they stepped out into the cool autumnal evening. While neither had moved more than a step or two onto the front sidewalk and they still stood side by side, without the reassuring presence of her hand in his, he felt lost. A lonely soul caught in a dense fog and set a drift on the sea. Despite the rush of wind, whipping around trees and the corner of the building, he didn't feel the chill which sent shivers up his spine and down his arms. He clenched his duster tighter around him to ward off the cold which came from within.

Rogue placed a hand on his shoulder, jarring him out of his thoughts. "Ya ready?"

"Hm?" He didn't know if she was asking if he was ready to leave with her or ready to leave her the hell alone or something in the vast expanse between the two options.

"Ah was askin' if ya were ready to head on up? Ah can help." She gestured at the roofline. Though she had every right be lose her patience with him, she had yet to yell at him or put him in his place. A part of him was grateful, afraid that his fragile psyche might crumble if she tore into him. "Ah know it ain't as high up as the Mansion, but we're here…and Ah know, well, ya like to brood up high." Rogue shrugged like it was nothing that she knew him better than anyone, that she could sense what he needed.

Remy gave an awkward jerk of his head as he tried to nod and shake his head at the same time. Yes to the rooftop, no to the help. His head might be muzzy, but he could still scale a wall. He took a step forward, swaying slightly with the effort. "I can make it."

"Sure ya can, sugah, but it's okay to accept help when it's offered." She held him in a steadying embrace until he managed to nod his assent.

Once settled near the apex of the roof, he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped an arm around his legs. Fishing a cigarette from a pocket, he clamped the smoke between his lips and lit the end with a small infusion of power. Steadily inhaling the tobacco and nicotine, his thoughts drifted towards nothing in particular, only lingering around the presence of Rogue at his side. She said nothing as he slowly smoked the cigarette down to a smouldering stub. Charging the spent end, he flicked it into the air where it disappeared in a miniature explosion of fuchsia and ash.

"Ya wanna talk about it, Cajun?" Rogue asked, breaking the silence that was both comfortable in their familiarity with each other and awkward with their recent distance.

"Non." Remy shook his head and shrugged. What was there to talk about? He was damaged goods, not worth the price of admission.

He leaned back on his elbows and allowed his head to loll back with its own weight. It was too much effort to force himself upright. Too much effort to pretend when it didn't fool her. The north wind tugged at his disheveled hair, which had grown shaggy and unkempt over his recent neglect. Maybe his dark night of the soul wasn't as sudden as he had thought. With dull, listless eyes, he traced constellations among the pinpricks of light in the deepening dark. Though still dimmed by light pollution, this far out of the city, the stars glimmered like diamonds in the night.

Rogue gave his hand a squeeze, reassuring him of her continued presence. "Ah'm here for ya swamp rat. Whenever ya need me."

"I know, chère. T'anks," Remy murmured, as much to himself as to her. He fought the urge to close his eyes and give into the sleep tugging at his heavy lids. Instead, he yawned. Pulling himself upright, he sagged against her side.

Rogue hesitated for half a moment, not because she was uncertain of herself, rather not wanting to push him. "Have ya been sleepin'?"

Remy wasn't certain the last time he had a decent night's sleep. It wasn't like he wasn't used to running on a minimal amount of rest. After all, he kept what Rogue had once jokingly referred to as 'thief's hours' while still managing to wake up for the early morning Danger Room sessions on a regular basis. Still the lack of sleep was obviously starting to take a toll. His already stark features were beginning to take on a gaunt appearance.

But, this was different. This round of not-sleeping wasn't intentional. Every night when he reached the point beyond exhaustion, he'd go to bed, only to find himself wide awake. He'd lay there, too weary to get out of bed, too awake to sleep. His eyes burned—dry and itchy and too heavy. In the morning, after he got out of bed, he would make his way through the day by forcing himself to participate, while pretending nothing was wrong. When the energy it took to pretend grew too thin and frayed, he'd disappear for a bit as he attempted to marshal his masks back into form. If the others noticed his disappearances, they didn't say anything. They simply assumed he was just being himself and pulling a Gambit—disappearing on a whim for whatever reckless behaviours that often drew him away from the relative safety and normalcy found within the Mansion walls.

On the nights when he managed to close his eyes for a minutes, his sleep was never easy. The dreams that haunted his sleep, made certain that he could never rest. He'd wake panting and clawing at his sheets in a near blind panic. The vivid, tecnicolour images lingered in his brain—not fading or disappearing like dreams ought—and left oily smears of unease tainting his consciousness. He hated sleep.

"Non," he replied at last, wondering if she even remembered the question.

"Ah'm sorry, sugah. Anythin' Ah can do to help?" She ran a hand through his hair, easing away at the tension budding under his skull.

Oui, he thought, though he didn't voice his thoughts. He didn't want to return to an empty bed with only the ghosts of his past to fill the void. If only there was someone who could hold him while he slept, someone to keep the haunting spectres at bay. But, that was a line they had scarcely crossed even when they were together. And now, he had no right to ask. The only problem with this scenario was the fact that there was no one else to fill that role. No one else he wanted to hold him close. So, he would remain alone.

In the end, he simply shook his head. "Non, chère."

She frowned, knowing he was keeping something back.

"Jus' sit wit' me for a bit. Please." There was a note of desperation in his plea.

"Of course."

They sat in silence, watching the stars. He breathed in her scent—magnolias and honey, sweet and warm as a summer afternoon spent along the banks of the Mississippi. What he wouldn't give to spend a lazy day with her along the banks of the river which connected the homes of their youth.

The weight of the world still sat heavy on his shoulders. A dark miasma still clung to his brain, seeping from the dark corners and tainting every thought. But for this moment, he found a little sunshine. A little hope. She might not want to be his chère anymore, but she was still his friend.

Wasn't she? The idea blindsided him with an edge that cut through the burgeoning calm. He could tell she was keeping something from him, but he didn't know what it was. The possibilities terrified him. What if she was only here at the request of the others? Before approaching him, she had talked to them all. What if they had thought she was the only one with whom he might open up, so they sent her to figure out was wrong with their resident Cajun. If that was true, did that mean she was only here out of duty and not friendship? The prospect that he might have lost her completely sent waves of panic over him that nearly suffocated him and coated his psyche with a grimy, oily sheen. His heart raced, thundering in his ears, while his breath caught in his chest, escaping in ragged pants.

"Remy?" Rogue was there, by his side. Not leaving as he floundered in the darkness.

After a series of eternal moments, Remy calmed the tide of panic enough to look up and meet her eyes. Her expression was soft and compassionate. And, genuine. She held his hands in both of hers, her grip crushing his hands until they hurt. The pain broke through the numbness.

"Are we still friends, chère?" Remy asked before he could stop himself. Though he feared what the answer might be, he needed to know.

Tears and unaffected grief glistened in the corner of her eyes. Rogue brusquely ran the back of a gloved hand across her face, drying the tears. The pained expression remained, though now it was laden with a fierce determination. When her hands returned to his, she held him tighter. Bruises formed under her grasp. He held on for dear life. She was a lifeline cast out to keep a drowning man from going under.

"Sugah, don' ya talk like that. No one, not even yaself, is allowed to disparage mah Remy." The thicker the emotion in her voice, the thicker her dialect grew. "Surely ya gotta know this by now, Ah don' think Ah know how to not be your friend anymore."

"Quoi?" His head was muddled in more ways than one, but he was pretty sure that was only half of what was confusing him. He cracked an eye and cast a glance at her with his peripheral vision. "Dat was nearly de worse mangling of de English language I've heard in a long while. An' dat's sayin' somet'in' comin' from me."

Rogue checked him with her hip and laughed. There was a buoyancy to her laughter, almost contagious. Though he didn't have a good view of her face from this angle, he knew she was smiling, her eyes lit with the twinkling of stars. He knew all her expressions and movements, her bluffs and tells, as well as he knew his own. So, when she settled back against him, the shadow returning to her expression, he wasn't surprised by the waves of concern that swelled from her and seeped into him. He had to bite back every instinctual impulse to believe that her concern wasn't for him, because he couldn't deny that every iota of her body language proved that impulse false.

"Remy." When she said his name, it was like music from her lips, a gentle caress.

"Hmm?"

"Of course we're friends, swamp rat." She wrapped her arm around his back and rested her head on his shoulder. "Ah love ya Remy, Ah always will. No matter what else comes between us, you're my best friend and Ah can' imagine my life without ya in it."

"Bien." He closed his eyes and leaned into her. His cheek rested against the top of her head. She didn't say anything, only tightened her embrace around him and rubbed soothing circles on his back. His breathing fell in line with hers as tension seeped from his muscles. Being with her was like being with the other half of his soul. Complete. Whole. The shroud of darkness lifted a minuscule amount. He was by no means better. This would probably be a battle he fought for the rest of his life. But, in this time and place, in her arms, he was safe. "Bien."

Because, even if this was all they would ever be, at this moment, it was—good.