Betrayal - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Valerie Jones
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 30

Remy stood in the darkness, watching Rogue sleep. She was wearing that same blue nightshirt-- ugly, threadbare, and always her favorite. The light blanket was piled on the floor, kicked off during the night. Rogue lay sprawled across the bed with carefree abandon, unaware and uncaring if anyone were watching. She could as easily have been fifteen as twenty-two. Sleep erased the marks of hard experience from her face, and left her with a sweet, childlike innocence.

Remy resisted the impulse to stroke her cheek. He wasn't wearing gloves, and she didn't sleep with the power suppressor around her neck. At least, not yet. The thought brought a flicker of a smile to his face that faded almost immediately. He had come seeking reassurance, not romance. And he had found a little of what he was looking for. He could see the gentle rise and fall of Rogue's breast and knew that she was alive and well. The silence of the darkened house no longer seemed so ominous.

Remy slipped back to the open window and perched on the sill. He felt only a little bit like an intruder, and his need to see her had been too great to ignore. Nightmares haunted him now, ever since he'd seen that mercenary. He remembered little of them, but his dreams were filled with such deep, wrenching pain that he woke to his own sobbing, with screams locked in his throat, and no idea what might have caused it. Tonight he had woken feeling lost and alone, like the entire world had been ripped away from him. Those feelings of loss were ebbing now. He could prove to himself that the things that were most important to him were still in their normal places-- that no devastating catastrophe had struck without his knowing.

A soft whisper of wind alerted him and he ducked the rest of the way out the window. Storm hovered level with his second story perch, the wind that supported her billowing her silk pajamas, and spreading her hair around her like a halo. Remy leapt from the window, landing lightly on the lawn. Storm touched down beside him. Her smile was both curious and friendly.

"Your relationship with Rogue is no secret, Remy. Would it not be easier to use the door?"

"I was tryin' not t' wake her."

Storm studied him with sudden concern. She always had had a knack for knowing when he was upset. Even when she was living as a child, unaware of her true identity.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Remy shrugged. "It's nothin', chere."

She stepped closer and cupped his cheek in her hand. "My friend, I know you better than that." And she did. She was, very easily, the best friend Remy had. Except for Rogue, perhaps, and that was different.

Remy sighed and stepped away from her. How could he explain? "There's jus'. . . . somet'ing wrong. . . " He waved an arm vaguely, unable to put his fears into words.

"Something is wrong here? At the mansion?"

Remy shook his head and laid one hand on his chest. "No, here. Wit' me."

Storm closed the distance between them again. "Many things have happened of late, and we do not yet understand their importance. That does not mean that there is anything wrong with you."

Remy didn't look at her. "Don' mean dere ain't, neither."

Storm was silent for several long moments. Remy snuck a glance at her, only to find her studying him, her expression guarded.

"Tell me, Remy, *do* you know anything else about the deaths of the X-men? Anything you have not said?" The question was neutral-- serious, but without accusation. It hurt nonetheless. Storm's trust was a precious gift, and he had always worked hard to live up to that expectation. Even a waver in her trust felt like a knife blade.

"Non," he finally answered her. "I don' *know* anyt'ing." He forced himself to meet her gaze, wishing that he could beg her to believe him. But he was too proud for that, and they both knew it.

Storm's expression didn't change. "Then why do you carry so much guilt?"

Remy stared at her, speechless. In the course of a few words, Storm had finally put a name to the fear that haunted him. He was no stranger to guilt-- he carried enough around to drown an elephant. But he hadn't been able to identify the gnawing ache inside him every time he thought about the X-men dying. Just knowing what it was gave him a small sense of relief, but that was quickly buried beneath new fears. *Why* would he feel guilty-- especially for something that hadn't happened yet? And especially when he hadn't *done* anything? He really hadn't done anything, had he? As rotten as his past was, he couldn't think of anything that would tie in to the X-men.

"Remy?" Storm's voice was low and full of concern.

Remy blinked and looked at her. He had no idea how long he had been standing there in silence, lost in his thoughts. When he spoke, it was difficult to force the words out through the tightness in his throat.

"I. . . . I have dis feelin' dat it's all my fault. Dat de X-men are gon' die because o' me."

"Why?"

"I. . . . . don' know, chere. . . . . I jus'. . . I t'ink I was dere. An' it's because o' somet'ing I did, or didn' do, maybe. . . ."

Storm cocked her head. "Remy, you are speaking in the past tense."

"Oui." That was the most frightening part of all. "I feel like it's already happened-- de X-men are already dead. We jus' haven' gotten dere yet."

Storm's eyebrows rose. "That is foolish." Her tone brooked no argument. "We know that the future is not pre-determined. Bishop's experiences in the alternate world of Apocalype have proven that. Or have you not been listening to Hank's occasional tirades on the subject?" Her expression lightened, and a slow smile encouraged him to share the joke. But he couldn't find a smile to give her.

Storm touched his cheek, solemn once more. "Perhaps you have a touch of prescience. That might explain any number of things."

"Maybe." It was something to consider, at least. Still, he'd never been able to guess the future before. If he had, he would have avoided a lot of the stupid mistakes he'd made.

Storm gave him a quick hug. She was not a demonstrative person, reaching out physically as a matter of choice and will rather than instinct, so the gesture meant a lot to Remy.

"T'anks, chere."

She smiled. "Talk to Professor Xavier. He may be able to explain what is happening to you."

Remy hesitated. "I'll t'ink about it."

The wind rose around them, billowing their clothing and laying the grass flat. Storm lifted off of the ground as if she weighed no more than a soap bubble. "Goodnight, then," she told him as she drifted higher.

"Goodnight," he called after her, and watched as she arced over the rooftop and dropped out of sight on the far side. Then he sighed. He had some thinking to do. Talking to the professor might be a good idea, but he had the feeling that he was going to have to be ready to lay down all of his cards before Xavier could be of much help. And that was a risk he wasn't sure he was ready to take.