CITY OF LIGHTS

Chapter 17

He awoke after a fitful sleep, to the grey light of another lonely morning.

Almost immediately he remembered the previous night, and he turned onto his side, saw Rogue still sleeping under the covers beside him, her brow clear.

He knew that the laudanum would probably not afford her the refreshing sleep he knew she needed, that she would awaken as sluggish as she had felt the evening before. Lord knew he had taken enough of the stuff in his time to know, in an effort to forget her, to gain back the sleep her memory had stolen from him. It had never worked.

He rose quietly from the bed, careful not to disturb her, and went to the en-suite to freshen up. He splashed water on his tired face and looked at himself in the mirror for a long time. His reflection grimaced back. Puzzle pieces were slowly falling into place… had been falling into place for a while now, but now he could no longer ignore them. There was something he had to do, something that he had hoped he wouldn't have to face.

Rogue was still sleeping when he went back into the bedroom, and so he dressed, pulled on his trench coat, put on his hat, and left.

-oOo-

He hadn't walked these streets in a long time, streets that he had once taken during less complicated times, to less complicated places.

He walked past Le Chat Noir, past memories of friends he had made, of booze and laughter and throwaway kisses. Now the pavements were mostly empty and quiet, as stark and morose as he felt inside. He stopped, lifted his eyes. The apartment building was as old and shabby as he remembered it. He entered, thinking how he hadn't been here in months and months; how much had happened since, how it seemed like a different world now. He clattered up the rickety stairs to the third floor, and when he got to the door he gave his customary knock. He didn't wait to be called in; he twisted the doorknob and slipped inside.

Jeanne was lounging in her pyjamas, reading a magazine, a gramophone playing a jaunty swing tune by her side.

"Remy," she greeted him with a wide smile. "It's been quite the while since you came to visit me. Is it business you're here for, or pleasure?"

He stared down on her from his position in the doorway, her looking for all the world as unconcerned as if nothing had happened.

"Business, chere," he said quietly. "Although I wish it was otherwise."

She looked a little surprised.

"Business? On a Saturday morning? How disappointing!" She looked back down at her magazine, turned a page. "But then I suppose you've been busy elsewhere. Robert mentioned that you were taking your 'duties' with the general's whore very seriously."

Remy said nothing. He moved across the room to the gramophone player and raised the needle off the record. The lively song cut out with a scratch.

"What are you doing?" she shot at him; but he ignored the question.

"You murdered the general," he said. "Didn't you."

The magazine lowered slightly in her hand. She fixed him with a stony-faced glare.

"That's quite the accusation, Gambit."

"It's the truth," he countered, knowing it was, simply from the look on her face. "You were the only one I told about the party that day."

"Pfft." She turned another page, irked by his suggestion. "I should think the whole of Paris knew when the wonderful general was having a party!"

"Robert saw a light in the fog," he continued over the end of her sentence. "He thought it was a flashlight. But it wasn't. It was your powers. Wasn't it."

She turned another page.

"You're really beginning to bore me now, Remy," she warned him airily. He stared at her. She was completely unconcerned, completely insouciant. Rage zigzagged through him. He snatched the magazine out of her hands and flung it aside, ignoring her squawk of protest.

"Why did you do it?" he shouted at her. "We needed the general!"

"Needed him?!" she yelled back, her eyes blazing like fire. "For what?! We already knew everything we needed to know from him! The moment I saw those people on those trains, I saw everything I'd needed to see! He was killing us! He was killing mutants! He deserved to die!"

Silence followed, prickling up between them, thick with tension. He could hardly believe it, though he'd known, and thought he'd known for a while now, that it had been her.

"You don't know what you've done," he growled through gritted teeth – and she threw her hands up in disgust.

"Yes, you must think I'm some silly little woman playing silly little games! But you don't want to admit that I did what needed to be done! Every night I lay down to sleep I saw the faces inside those cars! And no one said a thing! No one did a thing! Not even the Resistance! Because it was mutant lives at stake – not theirs! And you did nothing either!"

He shook his head, unable to believe what she was saying.

"It ain't as simple as that, chere," he said with quiet conviction; but she laughed coldly, indignantly.

"Yes, Remy. It is as simple as that."

"No. It ain't. General Wagner will be replaced. He'll keep being replaced, until this whole fucking thing is torn down, until the war is ended."

She stared at him, unfazed, eyes burning cold fire.

"Then we keep killing. We keep fighting. We keep going until either they're dead, or we are."

The words were uncompromising. Whatever he said, she wouldn't yield. She was too young, too zealous. Life hadn't yet tempered her with disappointment, suffering, loss. It still owed her everything. She still expected everything from it.

Remy turned aside and ran his hand through his hair. He was suddenly exhausted. He didn't know what he had hoped to achieve in coming here, except to prove his own intuition right.

"There are people under suspicion now," he told her tiredly. "People who had nothing to do with his death, who are innocent."

"What?" There was concern in her voice now. "Surely not you, Remy?"

He shook his head.

"No."

"Then Madame Collins? Benoit, Robert, Emile, Theoren? Our friends?"

He looked back at her over his shoulder, saw that she was indeed worried. The irony of it all churned in his gut.

"No. None of them."

She heaved a visible sigh of relief.

"Then all is well."

God. If only. He rubbed the ridge of his brow, his eyes aching from lack of sleep, from all the anxiety of the past few hours.

"You should leave the city," he said in a low voice. "At least until all the fuss dies down."

She looked surprised.

"Why?"

"Why?" He laughed mirthlessly. "The gendarmerie is all over this case. The Nazi party has lost one of its war heroes. They'll want justice. If anything leads back to you… you'll be dead, Jeanne. D'ya hear me?"

It was his turn to be surprised, when a small smile lit her lips. With supreme indifference, she picked up her magazine and settled back into her seat.

"I'll not leave my home," she told him flatly.

"Jeanne…"

"The inspector is my brother," she said, leaning over to start the record player again. "He'll take care of me, should anything happen."

Another revelation. He was left stunned, as it all fell into place. The dark hair, the blue eyes, the elven looks. And he'd never once guessed.

"Goodbye, Remy," she said, as the music filled the room again. "See yourself out, won't you?"

-oOo-

Rogue was still fast asleep when he got back.

For the longest time he stood by her bed and simply gazed at her, her face untroubled, locked in peaceful repose.

Because of her he'd been unable to love again. Been unable to trust another woman with his heart. Been unable to trust himself with the simple joy two people could take in one another's companionship.

Because of her, love had been a revelation. It had also been a curse.

He knelt beside her chic little suitcase, still stowed beside the bed, and quietly unclipped it. Inside there were all the usual feminine articles – pretty clothes, silky underwear, perfume and creams and other toiletries… her work outfit. Interesting.

He slipped his hand into the side pocket of the case, and his fingers immediately touched a file. His heart beating fast now, he slid it out, looked at the name on the tab. WAGNER, KURT. When he opened it up, he saw a photo, of a handsome though careworn, lean-faced man with dark hair and light eyes. His eyes were the only feature of the general's that he appeared to have inherited.

There was another photo underneath that; and when he looked at it, he froze with genuine shock.

It was the picture of a demon, a beast, of all the things he'd once been called when people had seen his eyes. But this thing… this could have been devil himself, had Remy believed in such a thing.

Yet, the more he looked at that face, the more he saw that this was not a thing, but a man. The sad eyes, swollen from a beating that had left him within an inch of his life, were gentle, kind, shone with a keen intelligence. And Remy saw what Rogue saw. The face of someone who loved, and was loved in return. The face of someone she could not abandon.

He took in a breath and lifted up the photo to see the page underneath. It was a stat sheet, basic information – height, weight, eye colour. A large word had been stamped over top in stark red ink.

"UNTERMENSCH."

Even when spoken under his breath, the name sounded offensive to him. The irony did not escape him – that the celebrated war hero, General Karl Wagner, had spawned offspring such as this. A blow to his pride indeed – more so when the Nazis had come into power, and started persecuting mutants. To have had such flesh and blood… it must have been insupportable to the general.

A dark cloud crossed over Remy's face. He didn't kill for sport, and he definitely didn't kill without damn good reason, but… he was beginning to sympathise a little with Jeanne's insane decision-making after all. Just a little.

He snapped the file shut and that was when it caught his eye. A five-digit number, stamped onto the corner of the front cover, an arrangement he'd seen before.

All in an instant two and two clicked together for him, and got to his feet, leaving the room with the file in his hand. He went right down to Millicent's office and picked the lock of her filing cabinet. He'd watched countless times exactly where she stored her papers, and he knew exactly where to look to find the documents he had stolen from the general all those weeks before. The lists of consignments were still there, pages and pages of them. He rifled through them, seeing it all now – so simple, so obvious. Rows and rows of five-digit numbers. People. All people. Hundreds of them.

Dieu. It had been so damn obvious, had been staring him in the face the whole time. And he'd never realised until this very moment.

Well.

He knew what he was going to do now.

-oOo-

Rogue awoke from a long and dreamless slumber to a room, to a bed, she didn't recognise.

In a flash she was sitting up, heart pumping, adrenaline setting in, ready to fight if she had to.

"Mornin', chere," came an impromptu greeting to her right. "Or should I say, afternoon."

She looked over to see Remy sitting on the rug cross-legged, a cigarette sleeping between his lips, rifling through a sheaf of papers. Even more papers were laid out in piles beside him.

"Remy," she breathed, the adrenaline spike in her fading. Her mind was still all hazy from the drug; but all too soon the previous evening came flooding back. At least, she hoped it had been the previous evening.

"How long was I asleep?" she asked him.

"Oh." He glanced over at the clock. "'Bout fifteen hours. You weren't kiddin' when you said you hadn't slept for three days."

"I told you that?" she asked, not remembering.

He glanced up at her, then back down again quickly.

"Oui," was all he said.

It was second nature for her to scan her surroundings, and so she did. She remembered him pointing out the panel by the fireplace the night before, and it instantly brought to mind her predicament.

"Did the inspector call?" she asked.

"Non, not yet. But he will, and soon." He raised his eyes and gave her a wry smile. "If he had called, I would'a shoved you in the panel, asleep or no. And all'a your stuff too."

She tried to smile in return, but one wouldn't come.

"I wouldn't have expected any less from ya, Cajun."

Slowly she got out of bed and found her robe. Her movements still felt woolly, yet stiff at the same time. She stood by the bed and tried to get her bearings.

"There's food on the dresser," he told her, still concentrating on whatever it was he was doing. "And coffee. 'S'probably cold now… can get you more if you want."

She was less interested in food, and more interested in what he was up to.

"What're you doin'?" she asked him.

He made no reply, simply lifted up a file that had been lying beside him, while he continued to scan the page in his hand. She went over and took it. When she saw what it was, she glared at him.

"You went through my things," she accused him. "Again."

"Sorry, chere, but I had to make sure you weren't packin' anythin' more dangerous than your pretty li'l self."

She set her jaw, feeling a flare of anger.

"This is none of your business."

"It is now," he told her matter-of-factly. "You come here askin' for favours like you did last night, your business is my business. Be thankful Millicent ain't pokin' her nose in."

Her hand was gripping the file so tight, she felt sure she might crush it.

"So lemme guess. I'm your problem now, somethin' for you to figure out."

The corner of his mouth twitched, an almost-smile.

"Somethin' like dat."

"I am not your problem, Remy LeBeau," she seethed bitterly. "Let me see to my own affairs, and I'll be outta your hair. I've suffered enough, humiliated myself enough for you, to know I never want t'be in your debt again. Let me walk away and end this between us for good. I don't need your help; and I don't need you."

He blinked at the fire in her voice; and where she thought he would've finally relinquished this hold he had over her, he did not.

"Well, damn," he retorted at last, taking the cigarette from his mouth and calmly tapping ash into an ashtray. "And I just spent more money and time figurin' out your problems than my better judgement told me to." He dipped into his trouser pocket and took out two slips of paper, held them out to her.

She snatched at them and saw that they were tickets.

One for a train, Paris to Le Havre.

The other for a boat, Le Havre to New York.

She let out a sharp breath at the sight of them.

"Departure's tomorrow," he explained, going back to his papers. "So you got one more night to settle things here, if y'need ta. Gotcha a place on a nice ship too. First class. Do yourself a favour and dye your hair though. That white streak is way too noticeable. Gonna get some fake papers comin' in for you too, dis evenin'. You'll be back in the States within four days. Back to your folks. Safe, I hope."

She looked down on him, still working on his papers, utterly speechless. She had no doubt he'd procured these tickets on the black market, probably for a pretty penny too. But the speed and efficiency with which he'd managed to sort all this out for her told her something else. He did want her gone, the sooner the better. Of course he did. She was a liability. It was reasonable, sensible to have her out as soon as possible… But it still smarted. And it was still another debt she couldn't repay.

"Thank you," she finally managed to say, not sure whether to project gratitude or resentment. He waved a hand, making light of it. There were obviously other things on his mind.

She knelt down beside him slowly.

"What're you doin'?" she asked again, this time more softly. He looked up at her, gauging, she thought, just how much he could trust her with whatever he was going to say. Or perhaps just how ready she was to hear it.

"I'm trackin' that fella of yours," he said at last. "Kurt."

"Trackin'?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "Y'see all these papers? They're the ones I stole from the general. We thought they were inventories for shipments of equipment, factory parts, materials – whatever. But they ain't, Rogue. They're personal identifiers. For incarcerated mutants."

She was stunned. Grabbing at the nearest paper, she scanned it frantically. Dates. Times. Routes. Lists of five-digit numbers. Pages of them.

"The general never showed me these… …"

"O' course not." Remy snorted. "He had no cause to share any o'dis stuff wit' you. Especially since you was a mutant y'self. Ya think he'd wanna risk ya meddlin'?" He picked up Kurt's file again, tapped the front of it. "Here. Dat's his number, right there. I can guarantee you all the files have one." He put down the file, picked up a sheet of paper he'd set aside. He'd circled a number on the page – it matched Kurt's one perfectly. "Dis was when he came in to Verrière."

She snatced the paper and looked at it. The shipment had come in last May.

"Last May!" she exclaimed. "But that was months ago!"

"Oui." He nodded. "He ain't there no more. Hasn't been for ages, if'n I had ta guess."

She chewed on her lips, anxious.

"And you're lookin' for—"

"Yeah. I'm lookin' for when they shipped him out. No luck yet though. Still got several hundred numbers to get through."

He'd just finished speaking when a bell in the corner of the room began ringing shrilly.

"Merde!"

At the sound he'd jerked into a frenzy of movement, gathering up the papers and hurrying over to the panel in the wall.

"What?!" she cried.

"The Inspector! Dat's Millicent's warnin' signal! Get your things and get inta the hidin' space, Rogue. We'll talk about dis later!"

Fearful now, Rogue gathered the single case where everything that belonged to her was kept. When she turned back, the panel was open, and Remy was beckoning her over. It was a tiny space, and, of course, not designed for comfort. Rogue clambered in, case and Remy's papers following close behind. The panel closed over behind her, and she was enveloped in darkness, but for a pinpoint of light glowing through a tiny hole in the panel. She put her eye to the chink of light, and was greeted – not to her surprise, considering Remy's resourcefulness – with a very good view of the room.

Remy busied himself getting the space in order – smoothing out the rumpled bedsheets, turning on the gramophone, pouring himself a drink, and snapping on the nullifying bracelet. He picked up an unopened newspaper he'd left on the side table and went over to the armchair. Knowing instinctively Rogue was watching him, he threw her a tight smile and a quick thumbs up, threw himself into the chair, opened up the newspaper, and began to read.

Two minutes or so later, there was a rap at the door.

The inspector didn't have to wait for long before it opened up.

"Inspector." Marceaux looked startled. "This is unexpected. Is there anything I can help you with?"

The inspector peered over Marceaux's shoulder and into the room beyond. There was, of course, no immediate sign of anything suspicious.

"Good day, Monsieur Marceaux," he said. "I'm sorry to say we're in rather a spot of trouble. Fraulein Darkhölme has disappeared. Since she had, ah, an association with you, I'm afraid we have to check your room. I hope you don't mind."

Marceaux's expression was perfectly correct – surprise mixed with confusion.

"Check my room for her, you mean?" He held open the door wider. "You can, but I'm afraid you won't find her in here."

He stepped aside, allowing the inspector to enter. He did so, perusing the room briefly. There was nothing at face value to suggest anything out of the ordinary about it. The bed was perhaps rather dishevelled – but then Marceaux didn't seem like the kind of man who was overly particular about things. The inspector checked all the obvious places where someone might hide – in the wardrobe, behind the curtains, under the bed – he even peered up the old, Victorian fireplace. All were empty. There weren't many places to hide anyhow.

He walked back over to the bed and paused.

He'd caught a whiff of something, a feminine scent, that had quickly passed. He moved slightly, trying to catch it again, but it was gone.

"Do you usually bring women to this room, Monsieur Marceaux?" he asked curiously.

"Non."

He turned back to him, ready to question; but Marceaux had a small smile on his face said:

"But since you mention it, there was a woman in my bed last night." He picked up the cigarette from the ashtray nearby and took a puff. "Madame doesn't know. I hope there's no need to let her know."

He gave the inspector a meaningful look.

"You can be assured of my discretion, Monsieur Marceaux," he said seriously.

"Then I trust everything's in order?"

Inspector Beaubier ran his eyes over the room one more time. He was satisfied, for the time being, that his quarry was nowhere to be found in here at least.

"As far as the lady in question being in this room, yes," he replied. "But I would like to ask you a few questions, if I may. Would you mind very much turning the music off?"

Marceaux moved across the room to oblige him, retrieving his drink as he did so. Inspector Beaubier took one of the two seats in the room, declining the drink that Marceaux offered him. He watched intently as the other man took his own seat.

"You are a fortunate man," he said, opening the conversation with flattery. Marceaux sipped his drink, looking amused at the remark.

"I'm sitting here, being questioned by the police in a murder investigation. Fortunate is not how I'd describe my circumstances."

"I meant your more general circumstances, Monsieur Marceaux," Inspector Beaubier replied dryly. "You have a very comfortable set-up here in Madame Collins' house, wouldn't you say?"

"Ah." Marceaux's expression lifted. "Well, when you put it that way. Yes. I do."

"You rely on her goodwill a great deal."

"Perhaps I do."

"And what were her thoughts, when she discovered your… relationship with Fraulein Darkhölme?"

Marceaux smirked, hid it unsuccessfully by sipping from his glass.

"Madame is a generous woman. As long as I'm at her service when needed, she doesn't begrudge me pleasing myself elsewhere."

The inspector was unsmiling, disapproving, Remy thought, which made him smile a little wider.

"How long had you known Fraulein Darkhölme for?" he asked.

"A few months. I met her the same day I met the general – at the welcoming party Madame Collins held for him. I believe that was two days after they first arrived in Paris."

"And how long would you say it was before your relationship with her became… intimate?"

Marceaux thought about it.

"A few weeks, perhaps. I don't know exactly."

"And how close were you?"

Again, Marceaux smiled that lackadaisical little smile.

"Well, that depends on what you mean by 'close'… …"

"I mean did you ever talk to her of things out of the common, conversational way," the inspector persisted flatly, trying to curb his impatience. "Did she ever speak to you of her background, of her life with the general?"

"Well, Inspector, I would say we hardly spoke to one another at all," came the glib reply. This young man, Inspector Beaubier thought, was beginning to be really quite infuriating!

"Then she said nothing at all?" he asked sharply. "Nothing at all to you, of any importance?"

Marceaux thought about it.

"Perhaps we did speak, now and then. I asked her once what it was like to be the companion of a great war hero. She told me it was like being a nursemaid. He had a bad leg, from an old war wound. I think she mentioned he used to take some sort of opiate to dull the pain." He paused, looking back at the inspector, now completely serious. "Nothing else she said really sticks out to me. If there was anything unusual, I would've remembered it."

The inspector nodded. That, at least, was helpful information, and tallied with what he already knew.

"If she was in trouble," he spoke at last. "Do you think she would come to you? To seek out help?"

Marceaux frowned, pondering the question – but he didn't look perturbed by it, which the inspector had been looking out for.

"She could do," he replied doubtfully. "But it isn't likely."

"And what makes you say that?"

"Inspector," Marceaux almost looked pained to say it. "We were not lovers. My relationship with Fraulein Darkhölme, such as it was, was entirely throw-away. I am certain she had the same feeling about the whole affair that I did."

"And do you think she would kill the general?" Inspector Beaubier finally came straight to the point. Marceaux looked shocked.

"A woman like that, so elegant, so refined? I should say not – absolutely not. And she was fond of the general, from what I could tell. Why she should want to kill him is beyond me. I don't think it could be possible."

The inspector gave a faint smile. His responses had all been exactly as he had expected. Yet the Fraulein had run away, and was now nowhere to be seen. That was not the act of an innocent woman.

He picked up his hat and stood.

"Well, Monsieur Marceaux, I think I've got all the information I needed to get from you today."

"You're done?"

"Yes. And for what it's worth… I tend to agree with your assessment."

"Oh?"

Again, the inspector gave a little smile.

"Fraulein Darkhölme was left a great deal of money in the general's will, it seems. In fact, she was his sole beneficiary. His entire estate goes to her. And I am hardly inclined to believe that a murderess would run away from such a fortune." He turned, picking up his briefcase. "Good day, Monsieur Marceaux."

-oOo-

As soon as the inspector's footsteps had retreated, Remy went back to the panel and opened it up.

"Well, well, well," he declared wryly. "Looks like the general left you everythin', chere."

Rogue stepped out of the hiding place, slapping the sheafs of paper into Remy's arms.

"I don't want any of it."

He shot her a lop-sided smile.

"Good. 'Cos it's bait." She looked at him questioningly, and he continued: "The inspector figures I'll go runnin' straight to you t'give ya the good news. Figures it'll flush you outta hidin'. He's a shrewd one, I'll give him dat."

"He's too damn suspicious, that's what he is," she huffed, throwing her case on the bed and snapping it open. "I don't know why he has to suspect there was anything more between us than the physical."

Remy was silent at that – too silent. It made her nervous. She took a fresh outfit out of her case and shot him a look.

"Look away, Remy. Some place ya can't see me in the mirror, if ya please," she added witheringly, when she saw how he'd angled himself. He grinned, put his hands up, and headed over to the window. Glowering sardonically at his back, Rogue began to change. While she appreciated still being desirable to this man, the idea of inviting anything more intimate between them right now somehow seemed wrong.

"You handled yourself well back there, Cajun," she said appreciatively, letting him some sort of concession from her.

"Why, thank you," he replied, humorously modest.

She wanted to ask him whether he did bring women back here, but that didn't feel appropriate either. She wondered whether he considered his relationship with her just as throwaway as Marceaux apparently did… not that she had any right to expect anything else.

"I suppose I should thank you," she said quietly. "For so skilfully trying to put him off my scent with that silver tongue of yours."

He was still looking out the window, presumably watching the inspector take his leave outside.

"Don't mention it. And speakin' of your scent, he nearly caught it. Pity he don't have a nose for women's perfume. He'd spent any time in your room at all, he would'a recognised it was yours straight away."

She quirked a wry smile at that.

"Maybe he just hasn't had the chance to smell my perfume as much as you have, Cajun." She paused, smoothing the stockings up her leg. "You can look now."

He turned, quick enough to see the silky curve of her thigh before she lowered her leg and tugged her skirt back down – which, of course, she had intended.

And suddenly the chemistry flared between them again, a flame perhaps too hot to touch. It flickered for a few brief moments, before he looked aside, clearing his throat and short-circuiting the charge.

"You got some things t'do before you leave, chere, I suggest you do them now," he said. "You'll be leavin' in the mornin'."

She let out a breath, feeling disappointed that this was how things were going to remain between them, yet embarrassed for teasing him when everything between them was so fraught and complicated, and always would be.

"There's nothin' I have left to do except leave," she replied quietly. "And anyway, you and I both know steppin' outside of here right now is a huge risk. I'd rather help you look for Kurt."

There was hesitation on his face at her suggestion; but the look she gave him was fierce, intending to communicate that she would brook no opposition. All he could do was relent. Kurt was her business after all, not his. He had no right to deny her.

"A'right," he said. He held out a sheaf of papers to her. "Saves time if there's two of us leastways, neh?"

Together they worked, mostly in silence, as the afternoon lengthened slowly towards the evening. With every sheet discarded Rogue felt the weight of the time she had left here press in on her. She thought of Kurt's face… How he'd pressed the trench lighter into her hand before they'd cruelly ripped him away, the words he'd whispered to her from his cracked and bloody mouth.

You know what to do.

Yes. She knew.

Sacrifice one life, for the life of many.

But it had been a ball and chain. Even one life had been too many. Especially his.

Even if, in her heart of hearts, she knew he must be dead.

She glanced over at Remy, lost in whatever thoughts consumed him. Did he feel it as she did? The knowledge that what stolen time they had together was drawing to a close? Was there the same resignation she felt, the same regret? What they had shared these past few weeks… well, it had been both a joy and a source of great pain. Nothing they experienced together now could be had except but with regret. There was a time she had imagined that she could move away from him emotionally, that time would allow her that comfort. Meeting him again had put paid to that hope. She knew now she would always regret what they could not have. She would do so for the rest of her days.

After tomorrow, she would never see him again, except in her heart.

"Remy," she said softly, sadness making her venture to break the silence where she would not have done so before.

"Hmm?"

"Who is it you're really workin' for?"

He half-paused setting aside a piece of paper, obviously taken off guard by her question. She sensed him thinking about it, weighing the risk inherent in letting her know details so sensitive. On the one hand she would be gone soon, back over the Atlantic and far away from the war. On the other hand… why he should trust her with anything was a moot point.

He fished in his pocket for his cigarettes, lighting one up with a deft flick of his fingernail against the tip.

"MI-6," he answered, after a good, long moment of internal debate. She gaped, astonished.

"The Brits?!"

"Yeah." He sucked on his cigarette, settling back to observe her surprise through the cigarette smoke. "Wasn't strictly by choice," he added with a self-deprecating smile. "I was travellin' through Europe back t'de States, tryin' ta outrun dis fuckin' war. I got ratted out by some good-fer-nuthin', low-feedin' bastard I was runnin' wit'. Those damn spooks confiscated my haul. S'currently sittin' God-knows-where, bein' held t'ransom at His Majesty's pleasure."

The fact troubled him. She could tell by the way he quickly turned away from her and picked up the next sheet on the paper from the pile.

"Your haul matters to you that much?" she asked quietly.

He still didn't look at her.

"That, and my freedom. Yeah. They matter, chere."

She snorted softly.

"What'd'ya steal? The Koh-I-Noor or somethin'?"

"No, chere." He shook his head. "Not dat."

He didn't seem to want to elaborate, and she sensed she wouldn't get any more from him, so she didn't push. She busied herself with the task in hand too.

"And who do you work for, chere?" he asked her after a moment of silence. "Y'said you were workin' for some organisation of people like us. Mutants."

"Yes," she replied in a low tone, meeting his honesty with some of her own. "Mutants."

"And how many of you are there?"

"Twelve of us. That I know of leastways. There may be more I ain't never met yet."

He stopped, looking at her fully.

"They powerful people, chere? People who said they could get you control?"

She stiffened at the words, at everything they implied, all the horrors they brought rushing back.

"No. We're just… people. People who want to make a difference, who want to do good with our powers." She lowered her voice. "Instead of bad."

"Hm." He went back to the papers. "Good and bad are pretty subjective things most'a de time, neh?"

"Sometimes," she conceded. "Sometimes not." She glanced over at him. "Maybe… if ya ever make it back to the States one day… you might wanna consider joinin' us…"

He laughed wryly.

"Me and idealism don't mix. B'sides, I ain't a team player. Most I go for is a team o' two, and I don't even do much o' dat nowadays. Ain't no one a body can trust more than hisself."

She made no reply, sensing how the words were carefully pitched jibes at her.

"I understand," she said sadly instead.

She looked back down at the paper in her hand. And almost immediately she saw it.

"I've found it," she cried. "He's here!"

Remy leaned over, looking at the number she was pointing to. He didn't have to look long. It was a complete match.

Together they scoured the paper, parsing out the details.

"Looks like he was sorted quickly," Remy noted. "He got shipped outta Verrière at the beginning of June last year."

Something in Rogue sank. It had been so long ago. She knew the odds of his survival were slim. She knew what the Party did to people they labelled sub-human. Once they were in the camps, life expectancy was barely a few weeks, let alone months.

"That code up there," Remy said, "for the site he was taken to… that's the code for Natzweiler-Struthof."

"In Alsace," she whispered. "Near the border."

"Oui."

She stared down at the sheet in her hands. The words and numbers were dancing before her eyes, blurring into a tangle of black and white.

"So he's there then," she whispered. Remy made no reply. He knew as well as she did the likelihood of his survival was slim.

"Okay," she said, putting the page down. She stood and went for her cigarette case. When she lit the smoke up, her hands trembled. "I haveta go there," she muttered.

"Non," Remy said flatly. "It's way too damn risky for you to be runnin' round the country right now. You leave France tomorrow, Rogue. No ifs, no buts. You get arrested, you get sent to one of those camps and you'll be dead before the fuckin' year is out."

His words made sense… but she didn't want to hear it. She swung round, brimming with rage and despair.

"Somebody has t' get him outta there!" she yelled.

"Yeah," he agreed, getting to his feet, his eyes bleeding fire. "Me. Not you. And don't tell me it's not my fuckin' business! You've made it mine!"

She floundered, taken aback.

"This is not your job to do," she told him, her voice wavering with anger, willing him to back down. He didn't.

"Bullshit! Ain't no one else gonna do it! Tomorrow you're outta the fuckin' country, where you need t'be."

She didn't understand why he was being so insistent about this. She balled her fists tight, almost crushing the cigarette between her fingers.

"This is my mess t'sort out, Cajun," she fumed. "Mine! You don't understand!"

He laughed coldly.

"Ha! Yeah, I understand all right, chere. No more killin', no more death, not on your account. You just don't wanna face the truth! Dat it's already prob'ly too late! Dat he's prob'ly already dead!"

"Stop!"

She slammed her fist into the antique dresser, making the polished wood crack and splinter underneath her raw strength. Tears were burning in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. It did the trick at least. It got him to shut up.

She said nothing, unable to speak lest she lose control completely.

"Rogue," he said, softer now. "Y'can't do dis. Weigh the risk, chere. You're a wanted woman. You're really gonna risk yourself for what might be nothin'? Dat's insanity, chere. You know it is."

There was a cajoling note to his voice, an almost pleading lilt that told her he feared her going after Kurt. His softness slammed up against the tidal wave of frustration in her; the knowledge that he didn't want to lose her broke it. For a few seconds she allowed the soothing cadence of his words to lull her into a sense of calm she didn't really feel.

"You're right," she breathed at last. "You're right."

She sank into the nearest chair, her eyes smarting. Everything. Everything she had come here to do had crumbled around her. She'd lost every single thing. Even her partner – her friend.

"I'm sorry," Remy murmured. "I'm sorry, Rogue."

She didn't know whether he meant it or not. She dropped her head into one hand, lifted the cigarette to her lips with the other. She pulled on it shakily. Bitterness and self-loathing sank into her. Maybe this was simply her lot in life. Maybe she was just born to fail. To seek fruitlessly for meaning. To repent endlessly for her sins. To wander aimlessly, looking for control. For her to be broken every time she found any kind of love.

It was what she deserved, after all.

She looked up, at Remy.

"You promise me you'll go there?" she said. "You promise me you'll find him?"

She could tell, from the look in his eyes, that he didn't believe that Kurt was alive. But he nodded.

"I promise, chere."

And he meant it. She knew he did. He knew what this meant to her, even if he owed her nothing. He would do it because he was a good man. He knew what it was to suffer.

She'd lost all taste for her cigarette. She stood, put it out.

"I believe I'll have a bath," she murmured. "Do you mind?"

He looked relieved she was no longer fighting him.

"Sure." He nodded in the direction of the en-suite.

"Thank you."

She went to run the bath, and when she returned to gather her nightclothes and toiletries together, she saw him putting his coat and hat on.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To get your fake papers," he replied. "Ya won't be able t'go anywhere wit'out them."

Oh. Yet another favour she'd never be able to square. Again, she was hit by the sense that he was going above and beyond for her.

"Thank you," she said again.

He put the hat on his head, felt for his wallet.

"It's nothin'," he replied. And maybe it wasn't. It really didn't matter anymore.

She watched on wordlessly as he hurried out.

-oOo-