Fic: Trials Unending (1-3/22)
Title: Trials Unending
Author: Faceted Mind
Summary: After his return from Antarctica, Remy's trials are far from over.
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Warnings: Slash, mention of child abuse and rape. Occasional medical/pseudoscientific info-blasts which despite researching may or may not be accurate; forgive me anyone who reads and shakes their heads in annoyance, I am no medic. Oh, and a little British spelling, which I'm sure you can forgive me for.
Notes: This is AU for how Remy gets back to the Mansion and in what state. No glowy green ladies here. A variety of Betas have worked on this fic; Cruel Illusion, Ross and "Point me at the coffee" as far as I remember, but I have done work on it since so all mistakes are my own. This was written in 2005/6, so I blame my youth for all rose-tinted-ness, the sequel (2008/9) is more cynical, jaded and tortuous. I've obviously hit my writing's teen-aged years.
Pairing: Future Logan/Remy, but not just yet ;)
Master Post . Chapters 1-3 . Chapters 4-6 . Chapters 7-9 . Chapters 10-12 . Chapters 13-15 . Chapters 16-18 . Chapters 19-22 . An End In Sight
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Chapter 1
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"Hello?" The voice on the telephone seemed distant and distorted in Hank's ear as he returned the greeting with his customary verboseness.
"Good afternoon, Sir. This is the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children. My name is Dr. Henry McCoy. How may I help you on this fine day?"
"Umm… I was hoping to speak to Professor Xavier himself, is that possible?"
"I'm afraid not. Could I enquire as to the nature of your call? I may be able to help you."
"My name is Dr. Stuart Patrick. I work at the McMurdo Airforce Base hospital in Antarctica…" Hank's breath caught, waiting for what he would say next. "We have a young man here with rather extraordinary eyes…"
-,., -
"A group of animal biologists were flying over the area and thought him untagged local wildlife. Needless to say as soon as they realised he was human they brought him back here. He's suffering from deep-skin frostbite in his hands and, to a lesser extent his feet, ears and nose. Serious pneumonia, though no longer life threatening - goodness knows what he was doing out there with no shirt on, he has yet to find consciousness long enough to tell us himself. He also seems to have a form of very severe snow-blindness. His rather unique eyes - the reason I contacted you, you see - seem to be very susceptible to such damage. They are obviously specialised for night-vision, I suspect even standard lighting is painfully bright to him. The glare from the snow has… well, possibly 'burnt' is the best adjective… it has burnt his cornea, or what passes for his cornea. My god, how to describe his eye-structure without inventing a whole new vocabulary…? He seems to have some form of external retina - the black scleral part of his eye. This has suffered extensive UVB damage, which I have treated as best as I can without knowing the precise nature of his optical physiology. As for the wonderful red glow… I can't even determine if that is damaged, let alone try to treat it." Hank would have liked to reassure the doctor that even with the man nearby for three years (give or take), he had still not been able to determine the nature of his red pupil. But he was talking too fast to get a word in edgeways. "He's on anti-inflammatories and pain medication for the frostbite. We put his hands and feet through the thawing process as soon as he arrived here, but the bite on his hands is severe enough to warrant daily debridement, which we have been following through with. At the moment he's resting, the affected areas are elevated with his hands splinted in the 'safe position' to restrict movement between the treatments."
"The safe position?" He finally managed to get in as the other man took a breath.
"The wrist is placed in 25° of dorsiflexion, the metacarpophalangeal joints in 75° of flexion, the interphalangeal joints are at neutral and the thumb is midway between radial and palmar abduction."
"Ah, thank you."
"This is necessary to avoid contractures of the joints that would lead to loss of mobility in the long term, you understand."
"Yes, of course. What is the risk of loss of the affected digits?"
"For now I will reserve judgement. In these cases no such extreme action is undertaken in the affected areas unless infection sets in. Amputation decisions should be left until at least four weeks, preferably two months after the incident to avoid damaging tissue that may recover in the long run or leaving behind tissue that would then have to be removed in further surgery."
They turned a corner and Hanks mind stalled, Dr. Patrick's voice drowned out by a sudden rush of blood to his brain. Remy LeBeau lay on white sheets - his own skin barely half a shade darker. His red hair lay lip about his head and a breathing tube masked most of his face. The ugly looking splints bound obviously damaged hands that were elevated on short platforms, and a heated blanket lay over his whole body. He looked… unreasonably small.
"The airway is a precaution, nothing more at this point. He hasn't regained full consciousness and with such damaging pneumonia we didn't want to take the risk of removing it." Hank's attention was drawn back to the other doctor, and he dragged his eyes from his friend's battered body.
"I understand. Has he shown any signs of consciousness?"
"He has been shifting about and at one point he spoke aloud, though he did not respond to external stimulus."
"May I ask what he said?" Hank pushed, half-fearing the answer.
"Dr. McCoy…" He hesitated. "I feel obliged at this point to ask what you know of the circumstances surrounding Remy's trip to Antarctica."
"A group of us were brought here against our wishes." Hank began hesitantly. He wanted to tell as much of the truth as he could, but knew that the exact nature of the event would not be taken well. "An as-yet-unidentified enemy held us until such time as we were able to attempt an escape. Remy was the only one to fail to make it back to our base of operations. Until you contacted me we had all thought him dead."
"He speaks of abandonment, in his restless sleep."
"I fear that was the case. One of our team said that she had seen him fall, we did not think to doubt her and time was of the essence. We had wounded."
Dr. Patrick sighed, nodding. "I understand. I had… feared that you might have left him intentionally, and that you had returned to make sure he said nothing of this to us. But there is too much pain in your eyes for me to accept that. He will need another week before he is fit to be transported. Then you may take him to your medical facility." He left Hank in the room with Remy, and a cold hard stone in his stomach.
-,., -
Remy woke slowly and the first thing he was aware of was the antiseptic smell. Waking in a lab was never a good sign, but a brief check in with his body told him that he was in no state to put up a fight. Pushing his body's complaints aside until he knew exactly how much trouble he was in, he reached out with his kinetic sense. There was a fan or some kind of ventilation system behind him that disturbed the air to his senses much as heat does the eyes and the slow audible chug of the fan was distracting. He pushed them both to the back of his mind. It was the work of a moment to determine that there was nothing alive in his immediate vicinity. Nothing to suggest anything… sinister to him. No pun intended. He turned his attention to the room itself. It was small - that in itself was reassuring. The baddies tended to like big open spaces for their torture. Determining he was safe for the time being, he turned his attention on himself.
The first matter that caught his attention was the tight blindfold that stopped him from using the usual senses to scope out the room. He moved both arms upwards slowly. A sharp pain in his left inner elbow stopped him and he lowered that arm back to the bed, cataloguing the IV in his mind. Continuing to his face with the other hand he found its progress stopped short as something soft touched his face but his hand did not.
Consciously going through the motions of checking on his hands he found that his wrists, tight and aching, were fixed in place with some form of splint and about half way across his palm all sensation stopped, his fingers and thumb completely numb within the bulky bandages. Pushing that discovery to one side he slid his arm across his face until his inner arm was rested against his face. Not as sensitive as his hands, but it would have to do. As his arm rested across his eyes it became obvious that what he thought had been a blindfold was in fact a bandage covering a wound as an intense pain shot through his head, intent on nailing his head to the pillow via his eyes. His automatic response was to rub at his eyes to get whatever was causing the pain out. Two large hands closed around his arms, pulling them away from his face even as he did so. He heard himself whimper and clamped down on his bottom lip with his teeth, breathing heavily to try and push away the pain. He slowly became aware of the voice talking to him as the all-encompassing pain started to subdue slightly.
"…restrain you. Really, I'm amazed you were able to avoid…"
"Henri?" He interrupted. There was a startled pause, which Remy proceeded to fill, coughing heavily as the liquid in his lungs fought for escape up his throat. He felt like he was being suffocated as the mucus shifted up and down his windpipe. A mask settled over his nose and mouth and the feeling eased a little as he breathed in the warm air deeply and brought the coughing under control.
"Remy?" The Beast's soft voice. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak further without coughing again. "My goodness, I had my doubts. You are the most mobile sleeper I have ever had the dubious pleasure of monitoring. Now that you are awake, I expect you to listen to my ramblings. You should not be touching your eyes right now. Every time you rub your eyes like that you make the tear ducts raw. They are bleeding again, I can see it through the bandages. I am going to have to change them, I will give you a sedative…"
"Non." The word was almost a cough its self, Remy's control over his rebelling lungs tenuous.
"Remy, I don't think you are aware how painful this will be. Your eyes were badly damaged. Any light at all is going to be agony, and I cannot change your bandages in the dark."
"Pas de stupéfiant."
"My friend. If you cannot talk to me in English I will be forced to take you as mentally altered and I will administer the sedative anyway." It was harsh, he knew, but he needed to know that Remy knew what he was asking.
"No drugs, Henri." The request was clear though it was followed by a heavy bout of coughing.
"Alright then. I will turn the lights as low as I can and still work. You would be well advised to keep your eyes shut during the procedure, but do not screw them up, as this will cause irritation. I have no idea how I am going to administer the eye drops without hurting you further." With those brief instructions in place, Hank continued with the hateful task of causing a friend immense pain.
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Chapter 2
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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. Literally.
It was almost four days after his awakening that he realised that there hadn't been any signs 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 mates… 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's not hungry, just going stir crazy.
"Good eventide, my Arcadian friend. I come bearing sustenance." Remy's lips quirked into a smile. He'll never 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 a scraping across the floor as Hank approaches with a stool. Metallic rattle as he places plate and contents down on a side-table.
It suddenly occurs to Remy just how vulnerable he is. 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's not sure whether he would die of the isolating loneliness first. After all… he's not really hungry.
Hank's delaying, hesitating. It makes him wonder if he really wants to know the answer to his question. Is 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 rightly angry with him? It seemed as though the very bricks of the mansion held resentment.
His thoughts are rambling, strangely disjointed. He knows Hank is giving him no sedatives or narcotics, he respects Remy's wishes. There are only the pain killers, though even those are throwing him a little off kilter.
He wishes he could press the backs of his hands to his face like he always 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 that face in quick succession. Even with those unique eyes behind bandages Hank could read those emotions, as plain as day. What happened to that infallible poker face?
"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 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 their unacceptable breach of common civility. What we did was completely unjust, and was driven by all sorts of 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?"
"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. And 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."
-,., -
"Charles?"
"Ah, yes. Hank. You're here to update me on the condition of our 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…"
"Go on, my friend. I can do nothing if you cannot say what you need to."
"It is regarding Rogue…"
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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. Like he didn't want to influence their opinions of him.
He turned through the Iso-room doors to find Remy sat up and waiting for him. A grin quirks his features, and Hank finds himself wary of what might come next. He's not ready for Remy's restlessness today.
"Henri, I 'ad 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' 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 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 great. Rest now, we'll try again tomorrow." A hoarse laugh, and Remy was collapsing into the covers with relief.
"'morrow." He nodded.
-,., -
Seven hours non-stop on the road and his bike was beginning to sound a little hoarse. Making himself a mental reminder to give her an overhaul when he got back to the mansion, Wolverine pondered the brief and vague message he had received from the team while he was in Japan. All it had said was that Gambit was KIA, none of the whys or wherefores. He'd had a more verbose message when the Fearless Leader's team had won the superbowl. And he wasn't even a sports fan.
He wondered why the thought worried him so much. Remy had been a fellow smoker, bike-tinkerer, pool-and-poker night man. A friend for a loner was a rare thing. And it had hurt to know that they wouldn't share those things again. But a self-healing heart didn't usually ponder these things for so long. Especially one so old. He was getting used to the pattern - happiness leads to pain leads to healing resulting in loneliness. Eventually he would find another companion. And until then he would be a loner again.
The mansion came into view again, and he fought the twinge of pain he felt at the sight. Still healing, he reminded himself. Just let it heal, don't pick at it, and it will go away. No scar.
Ha, yeah right. The heart was the only place he *could* scar. And he held on to that knowledge with all the strength he could muster. His heart still showed the worth of his life.
-,., -
The door from the patio into the kitchen was open, bright early-morning light streaming onto the breakfast table. A waft of fresh coffee drifted out to his sensitive nose and he turned to investigate who was up at this hour of the morning. Probably Fearless himself, at least then he'd get some answers.
If there was one person he thought it near impossible to be there, it would have been the one sat in the seat closest to the door with his back to the sun. Remy LeBeau tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette, not turning to greet Logan as he stepped inside and dumped his dufflebag beside the door before pouring himself a coffee and taking a seat.
Logan watched as Remy sat back in his chair, pulling the dark sunglasses down his nose to rub at the bridge and pushing them back again in a single lazy gesture. He kept his eyes shut as he did so, and Logan wondered if it were to protect his light sensitive eyes from the early morning brightness that the kid rarely saw, or out of some long-ingrained need to hide his eyes from onlookers.
He was sporting a good inch of scrubby beard, and he wondered why he had let it grow. It didn't suit him, surely he could see that as well as anyone else could. He didn't feel like making conversation, though, so he didn't say anything. What ever the team thought had killed the Cajun obviously hadn't, and he was glad. A little weight over his heart lifted. There was nothing more to say. He relaxed into the comfortable silence that so often filled the space between them.
He looked curiously - he had never been one for tact - at the scars that decorated delicate fingers and the backs of slim hands as he stubbed out the cigarette on the make-shift ashtray. Scott would kill him if he found him using the china to collect the ash. That same hand closed around the side of the mug - not using the handle. He wondered if the scars were restricting the movement, and wondered what that would feel like. Perhaps that was why he hadn't shaved. A second hand came up to join the first, balancing the other side of the mug as he lifted it to his mouth, and this one was swathed in bandages. If the damage to one hand was already scarring over, the damage to the second must have been worse, or have had some kind of surgery.
His quiet contemplation - ignored by the object of his thoughts - was interrupted when Hank came charging into the kitchen, face like fury.
"Ya in trouble now, kid." He murmured, assuming correctly that he had escaped from the medi-lab, and was granted a smirk as Hank began ranting. The mug was placed carefully back on the table, and it didn't look like Remy was paying any more attention than Logan was to the medical info-blast coming from the large furry blue doctor.
"Hank." Logan spoke over the rant. His voice was level and calm, but it carried a power that would not be ignored. Hank stuttered to a stop as the kitchen's other inhabitant was acknowledged. "'m thinkin' the kid's taken enough grief from you the last few days, he got a right to a cigarette and a coffee."
"Logan, it's good to see you home safe as always. But please, leave my patient's care to me. How am I supposed to keep your presence from the rest of the household if you're sitting here just waiting for them to see you, Remy?" This just wasn't like the normally gentle and calm doctor. He looked close to physical violence, and Remy wasn't putting up any kind of fight.
"Hang on, wait a minute…" That rage was suddenly turned fully on him, and Logan snarled at the intrusion on his personal space. His peripheral vision caught sight of Remy's head dropping into his hands, his forehead creased. Pain… he was in pain. And they were angry. Both of them… Things clicked into place and he pushed past Hank and grabbed Remy by the back of the shirt, nearly dragging him across the ground before he got his feet under him and marched him out of the doors and across the grounds to the boathouse.
Remy flinched beneath his hand as he unsheathed a claw to take out the lock on the door, pushing him inside and not following. Remy paused in the open space he'd been shoved into, turning to search for Logan.
"Get ya shields together by the time I get back kid, you can't fuck with the doc. like that, whether you mean to or not." And he was gone, the door hanging open with the latch sliced in two.
Remy wanted to call out, shout, rail, anything. Instead he was fighting to breathe as panic washed over him. He was too reliant on his night-vision, he realised, standing there and trying to convince himself the floor wasn't moving. He'd never had to deal with darkness before, not real darkness. And now he was in an unknown place with no one and nothing to cling to for support and reassurance.
Trying to suppress the feeling of panic that was tightening his throat and threatening to throw him into a full blown panic attack, he reached out with a few hesitant steps and found a wall under his hand. It stabilised him a little, though still he felt as though he was standing on a precipice and all around him the blackness opened up ready to swallow him. His stomach swirled and he flinched, swallowing back bile. He put his back to the wall and slid down it, making himself as small as he could manage.
-,., -
It didn't take Logan long to explain his theory to Hank, or for Hank to calm down once he was out the influence of Remy's indiscriminate empathic flailing. It was obvious that Remy's tenuous control over a power he barely understood was slipping, and the cracks were beginning to show despite Hank's best attempts to keep him protected. Logan dismissed Hank as soon as was polite, assuring him he would have the Cajun back in his grasp when he was ready.
He found himself hurrying back towards the boathouse, knowing that what ever was going on with Remy, leaving him alone to fester in the emotions that were finding release through his powers was not the best idea. Something bad had happened to the kid, and he had no doubt it had something to do with his supposed death, and the fact that Hank was hiding him away from the other X-men. Half-listening to Hank's mind-boggling instructions, Logan had discovered nothing new about Remy's condition or how he had been hurt. He didn't even know why he hadn't announced his presence to the others. Did they still think he was dead? Or was he just keeping out of their way. Whatever the case, he was determined to find some answers, and there was only one place he knew he would get them. From the source.
The door hung open as he approached the boathouse, and he wondered if he would get a rant from Scott from over-reacting with the door. Shrugging it off - he could deal with Scott later - he stepped inside and wondered where Remy would have gone to collect his shields. He took another step inside and the stench of fear and panic hit him at about the same time as the emotional bombardment. He was on his knees with a strangled cry before he realised what had hit him.
"Remy." He managed to hiss through the overwhelming fear that was urging him just to curl up into a ball and give in to whatever might follow.
"'M sorry, so sorry." Came a muttered reply from his right. The sudden urge to take-grasp-hold-comfort caught him, and he grabbed hold of a hand that was outstretched towards him without even needing to look for it.
The fear plateaued, dropped, calmed…
"Shit, Remy. What the fuck was that?"
"Sorry." A breathless reply, silent tears streaking reddened cheeks.
"No, stop apologising and tell me what the fuck's going on. First you're mind-fucking the doc, then you're having a panic attack in the boathouse… what is this shit?"
"Had a shitty couple a' weeks. Empat'y's not caught up yet."
"Slim thought ya were dead. Told me ya were dead. I seen the damage to ya hands, what happened?" There was a slight flinch in the recovering poker face. He pushed his hands out in front of him, balancing his elbows on his knees to display them.
"Pretty, hein?" He flexed the not bandaged hand, showing Logan just how much the movement was restricted. He could barely touch his fingertips to his thumb. Logan flinched. "Not gonna be cheatin' 't cards fo' a while a'least." He joked. The master of deflection. Pain? Not here…
"What happened?"
"Know dat t'ing - 'no one gets lef' behin''? Don' believe it."
"Where?"
"Antarctica." A hiss of air through teeth.
"Frostbite then. You were lucky to keep ya fingers."
"Henri is reserving judgement."
"So… why the panic attack just now?" He pushed a little further. A hoarse laugh, clipped short.
"T'ink Remy migh' be 'fraid a' th' dark."
Master Post . Chapters 1-3 . Chapters 4-6 . Chapters 7-9 . Chapters 10-12 . Chapters 13-15 . Chapters 16-18 . Chapters 19-22 . An End In Sight
Author: Faceted Mind
Summary: After his return from Antarctica, Remy's trials are far from over.
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http://logan-remy.50megs.com/slash_stories_2.htm
Warnings: Slash, mention of child abuse and rape. Occasional medical/pseudoscientific info-blasts which despite researching may or may not be accurate; forgive me anyone who reads and shakes their heads in annoyance, I am no medic. Oh, and a little British spelling, which I'm sure you can forgive me for.
Notes: This is AU for how Remy gets back to the Mansion and in what state. No glowy green ladies here. A variety of Betas have worked on this fic; Cruel Illusion, Ross and "Point me at the coffee" as far as I remember, but I have done work on it since so all mistakes are my own. This was written in 2005/6, so I blame my youth for all rose-tinted-ness, the sequel (2008/9) is more cynical, jaded and tortuous. I've obviously hit my writing's teen-aged years.
Pairing: Future Logan/Remy, but not just yet ;)
Master Post . Chapters 1-3 . Chapters 4-6 . Chapters 7-9 . Chapters 10-12 . Chapters 13-15 . Chapters 16-18 . Chapters 19-22 . An End In Sight
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Chapter 1
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"Hello?" The voice on the telephone seemed distant and distorted in Hank's ear as he returned the greeting with his customary verboseness.
"Good afternoon, Sir. This is the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children. My name is Dr. Henry McCoy. How may I help you on this fine day?"
"Umm… I was hoping to speak to Professor Xavier himself, is that possible?"
"I'm afraid not. Could I enquire as to the nature of your call? I may be able to help you."
"My name is Dr. Stuart Patrick. I work at the McMurdo Airforce Base hospital in Antarctica…" Hank's breath caught, waiting for what he would say next. "We have a young man here with rather extraordinary eyes…"
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"A group of animal biologists were flying over the area and thought him untagged local wildlife. Needless to say as soon as they realised he was human they brought him back here. He's suffering from deep-skin frostbite in his hands and, to a lesser extent his feet, ears and nose. Serious pneumonia, though no longer life threatening - goodness knows what he was doing out there with no shirt on, he has yet to find consciousness long enough to tell us himself. He also seems to have a form of very severe snow-blindness. His rather unique eyes - the reason I contacted you, you see - seem to be very susceptible to such damage. They are obviously specialised for night-vision, I suspect even standard lighting is painfully bright to him. The glare from the snow has… well, possibly 'burnt' is the best adjective… it has burnt his cornea, or what passes for his cornea. My god, how to describe his eye-structure without inventing a whole new vocabulary…? He seems to have some form of external retina - the black scleral part of his eye. This has suffered extensive UVB damage, which I have treated as best as I can without knowing the precise nature of his optical physiology. As for the wonderful red glow… I can't even determine if that is damaged, let alone try to treat it." Hank would have liked to reassure the doctor that even with the man nearby for three years (give or take), he had still not been able to determine the nature of his red pupil. But he was talking too fast to get a word in edgeways. "He's on anti-inflammatories and pain medication for the frostbite. We put his hands and feet through the thawing process as soon as he arrived here, but the bite on his hands is severe enough to warrant daily debridement, which we have been following through with. At the moment he's resting, the affected areas are elevated with his hands splinted in the 'safe position' to restrict movement between the treatments."
"The safe position?" He finally managed to get in as the other man took a breath.
"The wrist is placed in 25° of dorsiflexion, the metacarpophalangeal joints in 75° of flexion, the interphalangeal joints are at neutral and the thumb is midway between radial and palmar abduction."
"Ah, thank you."
"This is necessary to avoid contractures of the joints that would lead to loss of mobility in the long term, you understand."
"Yes, of course. What is the risk of loss of the affected digits?"
"For now I will reserve judgement. In these cases no such extreme action is undertaken in the affected areas unless infection sets in. Amputation decisions should be left until at least four weeks, preferably two months after the incident to avoid damaging tissue that may recover in the long run or leaving behind tissue that would then have to be removed in further surgery."
They turned a corner and Hanks mind stalled, Dr. Patrick's voice drowned out by a sudden rush of blood to his brain. Remy LeBeau lay on white sheets - his own skin barely half a shade darker. His red hair lay lip about his head and a breathing tube masked most of his face. The ugly looking splints bound obviously damaged hands that were elevated on short platforms, and a heated blanket lay over his whole body. He looked… unreasonably small.
"The airway is a precaution, nothing more at this point. He hasn't regained full consciousness and with such damaging pneumonia we didn't want to take the risk of removing it." Hank's attention was drawn back to the other doctor, and he dragged his eyes from his friend's battered body.
"I understand. Has he shown any signs of consciousness?"
"He has been shifting about and at one point he spoke aloud, though he did not respond to external stimulus."
"May I ask what he said?" Hank pushed, half-fearing the answer.
"Dr. McCoy…" He hesitated. "I feel obliged at this point to ask what you know of the circumstances surrounding Remy's trip to Antarctica."
"A group of us were brought here against our wishes." Hank began hesitantly. He wanted to tell as much of the truth as he could, but knew that the exact nature of the event would not be taken well. "An as-yet-unidentified enemy held us until such time as we were able to attempt an escape. Remy was the only one to fail to make it back to our base of operations. Until you contacted me we had all thought him dead."
"He speaks of abandonment, in his restless sleep."
"I fear that was the case. One of our team said that she had seen him fall, we did not think to doubt her and time was of the essence. We had wounded."
Dr. Patrick sighed, nodding. "I understand. I had… feared that you might have left him intentionally, and that you had returned to make sure he said nothing of this to us. But there is too much pain in your eyes for me to accept that. He will need another week before he is fit to be transported. Then you may take him to your medical facility." He left Hank in the room with Remy, and a cold hard stone in his stomach.
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Remy woke slowly and the first thing he was aware of was the antiseptic smell. Waking in a lab was never a good sign, but a brief check in with his body told him that he was in no state to put up a fight. Pushing his body's complaints aside until he knew exactly how much trouble he was in, he reached out with his kinetic sense. There was a fan or some kind of ventilation system behind him that disturbed the air to his senses much as heat does the eyes and the slow audible chug of the fan was distracting. He pushed them both to the back of his mind. It was the work of a moment to determine that there was nothing alive in his immediate vicinity. Nothing to suggest anything… sinister to him. No pun intended. He turned his attention to the room itself. It was small - that in itself was reassuring. The baddies tended to like big open spaces for their torture. Determining he was safe for the time being, he turned his attention on himself.
The first matter that caught his attention was the tight blindfold that stopped him from using the usual senses to scope out the room. He moved both arms upwards slowly. A sharp pain in his left inner elbow stopped him and he lowered that arm back to the bed, cataloguing the IV in his mind. Continuing to his face with the other hand he found its progress stopped short as something soft touched his face but his hand did not.
Consciously going through the motions of checking on his hands he found that his wrists, tight and aching, were fixed in place with some form of splint and about half way across his palm all sensation stopped, his fingers and thumb completely numb within the bulky bandages. Pushing that discovery to one side he slid his arm across his face until his inner arm was rested against his face. Not as sensitive as his hands, but it would have to do. As his arm rested across his eyes it became obvious that what he thought had been a blindfold was in fact a bandage covering a wound as an intense pain shot through his head, intent on nailing his head to the pillow via his eyes. His automatic response was to rub at his eyes to get whatever was causing the pain out. Two large hands closed around his arms, pulling them away from his face even as he did so. He heard himself whimper and clamped down on his bottom lip with his teeth, breathing heavily to try and push away the pain. He slowly became aware of the voice talking to him as the all-encompassing pain started to subdue slightly.
"…restrain you. Really, I'm amazed you were able to avoid…"
"Henri?" He interrupted. There was a startled pause, which Remy proceeded to fill, coughing heavily as the liquid in his lungs fought for escape up his throat. He felt like he was being suffocated as the mucus shifted up and down his windpipe. A mask settled over his nose and mouth and the feeling eased a little as he breathed in the warm air deeply and brought the coughing under control.
"Remy?" The Beast's soft voice. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak further without coughing again. "My goodness, I had my doubts. You are the most mobile sleeper I have ever had the dubious pleasure of monitoring. Now that you are awake, I expect you to listen to my ramblings. You should not be touching your eyes right now. Every time you rub your eyes like that you make the tear ducts raw. They are bleeding again, I can see it through the bandages. I am going to have to change them, I will give you a sedative…"
"Non." The word was almost a cough its self, Remy's control over his rebelling lungs tenuous.
"Remy, I don't think you are aware how painful this will be. Your eyes were badly damaged. Any light at all is going to be agony, and I cannot change your bandages in the dark."
"Pas de stupéfiant."
"My friend. If you cannot talk to me in English I will be forced to take you as mentally altered and I will administer the sedative anyway." It was harsh, he knew, but he needed to know that Remy knew what he was asking.
"No drugs, Henri." The request was clear though it was followed by a heavy bout of coughing.
"Alright then. I will turn the lights as low as I can and still work. You would be well advised to keep your eyes shut during the procedure, but do not screw them up, as this will cause irritation. I have no idea how I am going to administer the eye drops without hurting you further." With those brief instructions in place, Hank continued with the hateful task of causing a friend immense pain.
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Chapter 2
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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. Literally.
It was almost four days after his awakening that he realised that there hadn't been any signs 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 mates… 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's not hungry, just going stir crazy.
"Good eventide, my Arcadian friend. I come bearing sustenance." Remy's lips quirked into a smile. He'll never 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 a scraping across the floor as Hank approaches with a stool. Metallic rattle as he places plate and contents down on a side-table.
It suddenly occurs to Remy just how vulnerable he is. 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's not sure whether he would die of the isolating loneliness first. After all… he's not really hungry.
Hank's delaying, hesitating. It makes him wonder if he really wants to know the answer to his question. Is 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 rightly angry with him? It seemed as though the very bricks of the mansion held resentment.
His thoughts are rambling, strangely disjointed. He knows Hank is giving him no sedatives or narcotics, he respects Remy's wishes. There are only the pain killers, though even those are throwing him a little off kilter.
He wishes he could press the backs of his hands to his face like he always 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 that face in quick succession. Even with those unique eyes behind bandages Hank could read those emotions, as plain as day. What happened to that infallible poker face?
"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 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 their unacceptable breach of common civility. What we did was completely unjust, and was driven by all sorts of 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?"
"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. And 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."
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"Charles?"
"Ah, yes. Hank. You're here to update me on the condition of our 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…"
"Go on, my friend. I can do nothing if you cannot say what you need to."
"It is regarding Rogue…"
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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. Like he didn't want to influence their opinions of him.
He turned through the Iso-room doors to find Remy sat up and waiting for him. A grin quirks his features, and Hank finds himself wary of what might come next. He's not ready for Remy's restlessness today.
"Henri, I 'ad 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' 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 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 great. Rest now, we'll try again tomorrow." A hoarse laugh, and Remy was collapsing into the covers with relief.
"'morrow." He nodded.
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Seven hours non-stop on the road and his bike was beginning to sound a little hoarse. Making himself a mental reminder to give her an overhaul when he got back to the mansion, Wolverine pondered the brief and vague message he had received from the team while he was in Japan. All it had said was that Gambit was KIA, none of the whys or wherefores. He'd had a more verbose message when the Fearless Leader's team had won the superbowl. And he wasn't even a sports fan.
He wondered why the thought worried him so much. Remy had been a fellow smoker, bike-tinkerer, pool-and-poker night man. A friend for a loner was a rare thing. And it had hurt to know that they wouldn't share those things again. But a self-healing heart didn't usually ponder these things for so long. Especially one so old. He was getting used to the pattern - happiness leads to pain leads to healing resulting in loneliness. Eventually he would find another companion. And until then he would be a loner again.
The mansion came into view again, and he fought the twinge of pain he felt at the sight. Still healing, he reminded himself. Just let it heal, don't pick at it, and it will go away. No scar.
Ha, yeah right. The heart was the only place he *could* scar. And he held on to that knowledge with all the strength he could muster. His heart still showed the worth of his life.
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The door from the patio into the kitchen was open, bright early-morning light streaming onto the breakfast table. A waft of fresh coffee drifted out to his sensitive nose and he turned to investigate who was up at this hour of the morning. Probably Fearless himself, at least then he'd get some answers.
If there was one person he thought it near impossible to be there, it would have been the one sat in the seat closest to the door with his back to the sun. Remy LeBeau tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette, not turning to greet Logan as he stepped inside and dumped his dufflebag beside the door before pouring himself a coffee and taking a seat.
Logan watched as Remy sat back in his chair, pulling the dark sunglasses down his nose to rub at the bridge and pushing them back again in a single lazy gesture. He kept his eyes shut as he did so, and Logan wondered if it were to protect his light sensitive eyes from the early morning brightness that the kid rarely saw, or out of some long-ingrained need to hide his eyes from onlookers.
He was sporting a good inch of scrubby beard, and he wondered why he had let it grow. It didn't suit him, surely he could see that as well as anyone else could. He didn't feel like making conversation, though, so he didn't say anything. What ever the team thought had killed the Cajun obviously hadn't, and he was glad. A little weight over his heart lifted. There was nothing more to say. He relaxed into the comfortable silence that so often filled the space between them.
He looked curiously - he had never been one for tact - at the scars that decorated delicate fingers and the backs of slim hands as he stubbed out the cigarette on the make-shift ashtray. Scott would kill him if he found him using the china to collect the ash. That same hand closed around the side of the mug - not using the handle. He wondered if the scars were restricting the movement, and wondered what that would feel like. Perhaps that was why he hadn't shaved. A second hand came up to join the first, balancing the other side of the mug as he lifted it to his mouth, and this one was swathed in bandages. If the damage to one hand was already scarring over, the damage to the second must have been worse, or have had some kind of surgery.
His quiet contemplation - ignored by the object of his thoughts - was interrupted when Hank came charging into the kitchen, face like fury.
"Ya in trouble now, kid." He murmured, assuming correctly that he had escaped from the medi-lab, and was granted a smirk as Hank began ranting. The mug was placed carefully back on the table, and it didn't look like Remy was paying any more attention than Logan was to the medical info-blast coming from the large furry blue doctor.
"Hank." Logan spoke over the rant. His voice was level and calm, but it carried a power that would not be ignored. Hank stuttered to a stop as the kitchen's other inhabitant was acknowledged. "'m thinkin' the kid's taken enough grief from you the last few days, he got a right to a cigarette and a coffee."
"Logan, it's good to see you home safe as always. But please, leave my patient's care to me. How am I supposed to keep your presence from the rest of the household if you're sitting here just waiting for them to see you, Remy?" This just wasn't like the normally gentle and calm doctor. He looked close to physical violence, and Remy wasn't putting up any kind of fight.
"Hang on, wait a minute…" That rage was suddenly turned fully on him, and Logan snarled at the intrusion on his personal space. His peripheral vision caught sight of Remy's head dropping into his hands, his forehead creased. Pain… he was in pain. And they were angry. Both of them… Things clicked into place and he pushed past Hank and grabbed Remy by the back of the shirt, nearly dragging him across the ground before he got his feet under him and marched him out of the doors and across the grounds to the boathouse.
Remy flinched beneath his hand as he unsheathed a claw to take out the lock on the door, pushing him inside and not following. Remy paused in the open space he'd been shoved into, turning to search for Logan.
"Get ya shields together by the time I get back kid, you can't fuck with the doc. like that, whether you mean to or not." And he was gone, the door hanging open with the latch sliced in two.
Remy wanted to call out, shout, rail, anything. Instead he was fighting to breathe as panic washed over him. He was too reliant on his night-vision, he realised, standing there and trying to convince himself the floor wasn't moving. He'd never had to deal with darkness before, not real darkness. And now he was in an unknown place with no one and nothing to cling to for support and reassurance.
Trying to suppress the feeling of panic that was tightening his throat and threatening to throw him into a full blown panic attack, he reached out with a few hesitant steps and found a wall under his hand. It stabilised him a little, though still he felt as though he was standing on a precipice and all around him the blackness opened up ready to swallow him. His stomach swirled and he flinched, swallowing back bile. He put his back to the wall and slid down it, making himself as small as he could manage.
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It didn't take Logan long to explain his theory to Hank, or for Hank to calm down once he was out the influence of Remy's indiscriminate empathic flailing. It was obvious that Remy's tenuous control over a power he barely understood was slipping, and the cracks were beginning to show despite Hank's best attempts to keep him protected. Logan dismissed Hank as soon as was polite, assuring him he would have the Cajun back in his grasp when he was ready.
He found himself hurrying back towards the boathouse, knowing that what ever was going on with Remy, leaving him alone to fester in the emotions that were finding release through his powers was not the best idea. Something bad had happened to the kid, and he had no doubt it had something to do with his supposed death, and the fact that Hank was hiding him away from the other X-men. Half-listening to Hank's mind-boggling instructions, Logan had discovered nothing new about Remy's condition or how he had been hurt. He didn't even know why he hadn't announced his presence to the others. Did they still think he was dead? Or was he just keeping out of their way. Whatever the case, he was determined to find some answers, and there was only one place he knew he would get them. From the source.
The door hung open as he approached the boathouse, and he wondered if he would get a rant from Scott from over-reacting with the door. Shrugging it off - he could deal with Scott later - he stepped inside and wondered where Remy would have gone to collect his shields. He took another step inside and the stench of fear and panic hit him at about the same time as the emotional bombardment. He was on his knees with a strangled cry before he realised what had hit him.
"Remy." He managed to hiss through the overwhelming fear that was urging him just to curl up into a ball and give in to whatever might follow.
"'M sorry, so sorry." Came a muttered reply from his right. The sudden urge to take-grasp-hold-comfort caught him, and he grabbed hold of a hand that was outstretched towards him without even needing to look for it.
The fear plateaued, dropped, calmed…
"Shit, Remy. What the fuck was that?"
"Sorry." A breathless reply, silent tears streaking reddened cheeks.
"No, stop apologising and tell me what the fuck's going on. First you're mind-fucking the doc, then you're having a panic attack in the boathouse… what is this shit?"
"Had a shitty couple a' weeks. Empat'y's not caught up yet."
"Slim thought ya were dead. Told me ya were dead. I seen the damage to ya hands, what happened?" There was a slight flinch in the recovering poker face. He pushed his hands out in front of him, balancing his elbows on his knees to display them.
"Pretty, hein?" He flexed the not bandaged hand, showing Logan just how much the movement was restricted. He could barely touch his fingertips to his thumb. Logan flinched. "Not gonna be cheatin' 't cards fo' a while a'least." He joked. The master of deflection. Pain? Not here…
"What happened?"
"Know dat t'ing - 'no one gets lef' behin''? Don' believe it."
"Where?"
"Antarctica." A hiss of air through teeth.
"Frostbite then. You were lucky to keep ya fingers."
"Henri is reserving judgement."
"So… why the panic attack just now?" He pushed a little further. A hoarse laugh, clipped short.
"T'ink Remy migh' be 'fraid a' th' dark."
Master Post . Chapters 1-3 . Chapters 4-6 . Chapters 7-9 . Chapters 10-12 . Chapters 13-15 . Chapters 16-18 . Chapters 19-22 . An End In Sight