Title: Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit

Author: Bianca

(B_is_2die4@hotmail.com)

Archive: Take it if you want it, merci. I'm just flattered you'd want it. I only ask that you tell me where you've whisked it off to.

Disclaimer: Don't sue me, s'il vous plait. If I had anything of value, I wouldn't be spending my time depicting completely non-profit plots between characters owned by Marvel, now would I?

Rating: NC-17 (for slash sex, sooner or later… and graphic depictions of eating disorders that may disturb some people).

Category: Wolverine/Gambit (Logan/Remy). Slightly AU.

Feedback: I would like to thank anyone who reads this story. I do wish you would send me some feedback. I take praise as well as I accept constructive criticism. Please just let me know how I've done with this, my first story with borrowed characters. I will take the time and respond to anyone who takes the time to send some much appreciated feedback my way. Merci beaucoup.

Warning: My first warning is that I don't like regurgitating character traits or living up to other writers' plots, even the authors of Marvel Comics. That said, I will take many liberties with what happened (mostly in Antarctica) and what these characters are capable of (emotionally, physically, and with their powers), while trying to stay true to character. Bear with me, sometimes looking at things from a new angle can be a wonderful experience, non? And my second warning is that there will be a strong appearance of disordered eating. While the actions and thoughts may not be completely up to stereotype, I have dealt with these disorders for a better part of my life and this is simply how they work with in my daily life.

Comments: The POV will be from both Logan and Remy, and the story may switch from third to first person, sorry. Oh, and I'm taking Wolvie's appearance from the Movieverse where he is close to Remy's height. Okay, on with the story...



Quod Me Nutrit Me Destruit
by Bianca

Nightmares used to plague me, non-stop. And I mean those damn things just wouldn't leave me the hell alone. Drove me nuttier than Drake on Halloween, too. Now, I don't pretend to know a damn thing about the human mind, that's Chuck and Jeannie's department, but it doesn't take a telepath to know something's up with my nightmares. Mainly because they've suddenly stopped.

I've been having those fucking nightmares since before I can remember… Honest, `specially since I can only remember part of my considerable lifespan. And now, without warning, they've started leaving me the hell alone. Now, a body'd think that this old man would be happier than anything to have the nightly torture just up and leave… and I am, `cept for the fact that while the nightmares have stopped, the dreams have started. And dreams can be more disturbing than any nightmare. Fear… it's one of the base emotions we got as human beings. Rage, too. Those are the two things nightmares seem to play on, at least in my world. And those base emotions may knock you for a loop but they're basic, instinctual, simple. But dreams… they can feed on any stray thought or emotion they please. And these dreams are almost worse than the nightmares themselves because they are anything but simple.

I'd take violent, scary rage over confusion, unease… fucking sorrow any day, easy. These dreams feed off shit that's just better left alone; they keep diggin' around in the back of my head and draggin' up lost memories and feelings that needed to stay lost. Of all the times my damn memory has failed me, it picks now to come back with a vengeance, right? Fucking figures.

And what's now, ya ask? Now's me comin' "home" (I'm usin' that title real lightly nowadays) from a trip to Japan to find that all hell has broken loose. Only… it hadn't. When I walked in the front door, everything was as it should be. Jeannie was cooking. Ororo was gardening. Drake was fucking around. Hank was researching. Warren was bein' an ass. Rogue was brooding. And Cyke was off playing Fearless Leader somewhere. All was right in the House of Freaks.

Or, so I thought. There was something off in the air, though, something that I didn't understand or like. I know deal with a lot of shit `cause of feral beast inside me, but it does have it's advantages. Enhanced senses. Survivor's mentality. Animalistic wits. So when I walked in and saw everything so deceptively calm and "right," something inside told me this was the calm after the storm. And a bad storm, at that.

Seeking out the most responsible, level-headed person I could think of (without resorting to talkin' ta Slim), I stalked off to the kitchen to interrogate our resident red-head. She was busy stirring some real foul smelling stew, but offered up a half smile in my direction before speaking up. Jean's voice was passive and caring as ever, but there was a wavering lilt to it that even my hearing barely picked up.

"Logan, welcome back. How was Japan?"

"Fine," I grunted in response. "What's goin' on `round here?"

She blinked at me before setting the spoon down on the counter and turning her full attention towards me. "What do you mean, Logan?"

"I mean, Red, `xactly what I said. What's goin' on? Somethin' ain't right here and I wanna know what it is." Hey, I may have no patience but at least I'm not growlin' at her for trying to keep something from me. It's a start.

A sigh broke past her pink lips and she seemed to deflate a little, leaning back against the counters. "You're right, something is wrong."

Right when I was about to snap at her for beating around the bush, she snagged a mug and gestured to the table while she filled it with some strong coffee. "Take a seat, Logan." Hiding my confusion and dread with an indignant glare, I walked over and grabbed a chair, turning it around and straddling it. I watched her carefully, noticin' the stiff and tired way she was carrying herself. This was something she wasn't happy about and something she really didn't want to tell me.

"Alright, Jeannie. I'm sittin', now what the fuck is wrong wit' this picture?" I asked with a concerned tone, takin' the sting out of my question, one that was more demand than anything else.

Another damn sigh. This really wasn't gonna sit well, but I don't do suspense. "While you were gone, a lot happened. There was the mission to Antarctica, obviously, but that hardly went as planned. You know I wasn't there; this is a second person account from the others, so bear with me on the sketchy details. The trouble really didn't have all that much to do with the mission, it happened afterwards. And it all had to do with Gambit-"

"Gumbo?" I cut in, noticing the way she used his code name instead of his given name. What had the kid done now, flirted the fur off a polar bear?

"Yes, apparently our young Cajun friend had some nasty secrets pent up that he never bothered to tell any of the team, or the Professor."

"Had?" I interrupted again, with a slight growl. Why did I hate this conversation, already? The gloomy forbearing sense that I felt when I walked in doubled the second I realized she was using a past tense at every mention of Remy.

"Logan, please," she sighed again, asking me not to interrupt anymore. "Anyway, it apparently came out that Gambit was responsible for leading the Marauders and Sabertooth straight to the Morlocks." Her voice got sharp and there was an edge to her scent that hadn't been there earlier. "He was responsible for their deaths. The team was outraged, as you can imagine. Eric the Red held a trial, and one thing led to another…" Jean's voice trailed off and the disgust in her scent faded a little. "They left him there, in Antarctica."

I'd been silent as the grave during her whole drawn out, dramatic spiel. Hadn't said another word, just let her sit there and tell me… tell me that the righteous X-Men had left a teammate behind, willingly. Purposely. Suddenly, I snapped out of my own version of disgust. I was fucking outraged.

"They WHAT?" I roared, standing up with my hands resting on the table, looming over the daring red-head seated across the table from me.

She looked taken aback, her green eyes wide with shock as she looked at me. Guess Red didn't expect me to be pissed they left one of their own… our own out in some god forsaken waste land to die. Well, ain't that a comforting thought?

"Logan, I don't-" She stammered at me.

"Ya don't what, Jeannie? Don't know why I'm pissed? Don't think there's a problem wit' ya leavin' the Cajun out there by his self? Fuck that. I'm goin' ta go get him, and when I get back-"

She stopped my raging rant with one, softly spoken sentence, her eyes downcast at the lukewarm cup of coffee in her hands.

"He's dead, Logan."

And that's when the dreams began.



(Part 2)

The weather turned to shit around the time that I finally got up to my room and "settled." Meaning, throwing my shit against the farthest wall of my barely furnished room, growling and cussing my anger at absolutely nothing. And that was after I ripped up a few trees out in the woods, on the razor's edge of goin' feral. So the mansion is now minus a few ancient trees and my sanity. I think I'm doin' alright, considerin'. In my book, Red's lucky she still has a throat intact.

Because she wouldn't, if what she said hadn't stunned me enough to keep me on the human side of things. At least for a while. And she's only still alive at this very minute because I heard some remorse in her tone. `Cause, god help me, I woulda gutted her if she even so much as smiled about LeBeau's death. Lucky for her, she didn't. She was upset about it… she even smelled like grief.

They all did. It wasn't until I was kicking my bag into the closet that day that I recognized the overbearing sense of grief that was strangling the air in the mansion. It was what I noticed when I walked in. They were all fucking grieving over a fallen teammate, one they happily helped into the grave. Self righteous bastards, the lot of `em. Where did they get the nerve to grieve for someone they killed off, someone they didn't even acknowledge as alive `til he was dead?

The only thing they deserved to feel was overwhelming, crushing guilt. And even then, they all deserved to be out combing the baron Antarctic, naked, and not stopping until they found the Cajun and dragged his frozen ass home. It's far from a fittin' punishment for those hypocrites, but it's a start. And they are, hypocrites that is. They whine `bout X-Men not bein' killers every time I gut an enemy, but they turn around and kill a teammate. And they don't even have the decency to make it quick `n painless. Nah, where's the fun in that? Why not just leave him to turn into a Cajun-style popsicle.

That night, after I'd listed off every swear word I knew – plus, a few I made up for the occasion – and I'd cursed each and every one of the X-Men that had left Gumbo behind a hundred times over, I laid down to get some sleep. I was burning to get into one hell of a nightmare, something to fuel my animal rage, anything to keep the flames of anger burning. Because as soon as I slowed down, calmed down enough to think straight… I was gonna realize that all the yellin' and cussin' in the world wasn't gonna bring Remy back from the grave. And that's not a thought I plan on dealin' wit' anytime soon.

It was then, after I fell asleep thinkin' about not thinkin' bout Rem's death, that I had the first "dream." Weird shit, too. I don't have a real tight relationship wit' dreams or anything, since I'm either fightin' my demons in my nightmares or enjoyin' the dreamless sleep o' the dead, but these weren't normal dreams in the slightest. I dunno if I can even call them dreams; they were more like memories I didn't know I'd held onto. Especially the first one.

* The sun was actually shining in Westchester - for once – so we were all out trying to enjoy it instead of wasting it in the Danger Room or somethin' else just as pointless. Even Cyke was chillin' out – again, for once – on the back porch with Jeannie. They were talkin' about something, someone I think, but I was too busy to use my Superhero Hearin' to eavesdrop like usual. Tryin' to help Jubes on her martial arts takes all the concentration I can muster nowadays. And all the healing factor I can muster. Bein' a klutz is one thing… but bein' a klutz with pyrotechnics ain't all that easy on the teacher.

"I'm havin' a blast, Wolvie!" She was beaming and feelin' real damn good about herself and I was rubbing my sore abs, narrowing my eyes into slits.

"We're done fer today, Jubes."

"Aww! But Wolvie, I just wanna try-"

"Sorry, kid, but this ol' man jus' can't take it today. Maybe anotha time." I grunted at her before headin' over to the porch, to the less klutzy, less hyper-active bores.

"Hey Logan, having fun?" I glared at Scott and his annoyin' smirk at me lettin' myself get roped into training even on my day off. "You keep this up, and Jubilee will just be able to threaten people into giving her a ride to the mall."

"Funny, Slim. If ya ain't careful, I might jus' sick her on ya. She might suck, but she can whoop yer ass but good." I returned his glare with a lopsided grin and glanced over at a slightly smirking Jean. "Lookin' good today, Red."

She smirked a little, her delicate cheeks tinting a light pink when I winked and leered at her. This shit was too much fun. Got to hit on Jeannie and annoy O' Fearless all in one try. Talk `bout killin' two birds with one stone. Shaking her head, Jean went back to the conversation I'd interrupted.

"`Ro said she'd be here within the hour, they stopped to get something to eat in the city-"

"They?" I cut in, wonderin' what the hell it was they were talkin' about right in front of me. Jean opened her mouth to answer but Scott spoke up before she could, still glaring behind those ruby lenses.

"Yes, they. You'd know this stuff if you ever paid any attention in my meetings, Logan." Oh, Cyke. Lecturin' even on his day off. The poor repressed, closeted bastard.

"Nah, bub. Then I'd actually have ta be there." I smirked at his scowl and raised my eyebrow at Jean to get an answer, wit'out the "Be a Team Player" lecture.

"Ororo's bringing her friend to the mansion today." I cocked my head ta the side a little, listenin' and thinkin' that it sounded familiar. "He's going to be joining the team – remember?" Oh yeah, now I remember. The kid wit' card tricks – fan-fuckin'-tastic.

"Yea', I heard somethin' `bout that," I muttered, trying to remember what I could about the new addition. "Kinetic energy, or somethin', right?"

"Yes, that's right," she smiled and I grinned back, feelin' like I passed some kind of silent test. "And here they are now…" Damn telepaths, can pick up people comin' earlier than my senses. I don't like bein' out-sensed.

No matter though, I followed Jeannie and Cyke out around to the driveway all the same. Hey, I might have better things ta do then play twenty questions wit' the new guy, but I like ta know who I'm sharin' my den and missions wit'.

A yellow taxi was parked up close to the front door, and I watched the driver get out and open the trunk for the kid's luggage. As we walked over, Storm climbed out, her platinum hair blowing in the gentle breeze, and I realized the weather was nice because she was in a good mood. At least the kid can't be that bad; he's already got Storm smilin'. Not bad at all.

The other door of the cab opened while I was watchin' Jean and Scott hug Ororo, my arms crossed over my chest. What can I say, I ain't a hugger. A sudden, intense scent distracted me from thinkin' further `bout my defensive posture; smoke and spice. It was too strong to be from a smoky cigar or anything else in the distance… it had to be coming from the kid getting out of the car.

On second thought, "kid" ain't `xactly the right word. Don't get me wrong, the kid had to be well under legal age but there was nothing young or immature about the creature stepping out of the car. Long and lean, all length and strength. All angles and aesthetics. He had to be a good six feet, but he carried it easily. That was one of the first things I noticed about him: cat-like agility and grace.

He lazily strolled around the trunk to greet us, and I got my first look at his face. Porcelain skin. High cheekbones. Strong jaw. Full lips. Shiny, auburn hair that matched… his eyes. Holy fuck, those eyes. Red irises against jet black sclera. I caught the surprise in the Boring Duo when his dark sunglasses slid down the line of his perfect nose. They mighta been spooked by `em, hell most humans and mutants alike probably were… but since when am I like anyone else?

"My friends… meet the newest X-Man, Gambit." Storm announced wit' her standard, regal tone and flare. A slight smirk pulled at the corner of slightly reddened, full lips at the introduction and he nodded politely enough, tho' the look in his strange eyes was anythin' but proper and innocent.

"Nice to meet you." Jean spoke up in a friendly tone, watching with girly glee as he kissed the back of the hand she'd held out.

"Welcome to the team, Gambit," was all Scott could get out through his gritted teeth at the perceived threat this kid was on his relationship with Red. Damn, I knew I liked this kid. Feeling smug at Scott's discomfort, I held my hand out in rare greeting.

"Name's Logan, glad we got some new blood `round here." Now will ya look at that, that was almost friendly. I guess I can be human, when I got the right motivations. Like Cyke's anger and this kid's looks. He reached out to shake my hand with a firm grip and a slight smirk, greeting with a voice as smoky as his scent.

"Remy Etienne LeBeau, at ya' service, cher." *



(Part 3)

The morning after my first dream, I had just lain in bed for a few hours, lettin' the pre-dawn silence try and lull me back to sleep. I didn't have a damned clue why I'd be dreamin' about that kid, especially now. At first I'd thought it was just my anger riddled brain givin' me a break and lettin' me think `bout something more appealing than busting a few skulls, namely a nice day or the odd sense of family we'd all shared back then. But the longer the dream went on, I realized what the hell was goin' on.

It was weird, real weird, to be watchin' the whole scene over `gain, completely removed this time around. Memories and flashbacks I could deal with, dealt with `em as long as I can remember. No, the freaky part was that this time `round, I caught everythin'. Everythin' we missed the first time. They weren't kiddin' when they said that hindsight is a bitch and a half. Especially when it all hits ya after the kid's dead and gone. All the things my brain instinctually picked out didn't help me a damn bit, actually made it all worse. Pointin' out all the shit we failed to notice.

Like how the kid only had one bag wit' him; one measly duffle bag when he was supposed to be moving in for good. There are a lot of things wrong with that, right there. It obviously hinted that he'd had a hard life before he moved in, no one wit'out some serious life experience could survive with that lack of stuff, at that age. That, and he obviously didn't feel comfortable if that was all he was bringin' in with him. He wasn't "moving in," just stickin' `round and still ready to run, because he didn't trust us. But we never saw it, never tried to earn that trust. Never brought him, failed to bring him into the family. Make him one of the pack.

Failed.

That shit stings. And it ain't like thinkin' about him dyin' out in the ice and snow didn't make us all feel enough like failures, in one way or another. Now we were all startin' to see the other ways we'd failed LeBeau; the small failures that somehow lead to the worst one o' all. Why didn't anyone notice the way we turned him into an outsider from the very beginning? There are two god'damn telepaths in this house, three if you count Bets. Why was everyone so fuckin' blind? Why was I?

Speakin' of telepaths, Jean really surprised me. Back then, even from the the first fuckin' minutes the kid was here… she'd warmed up. Jeannie never was a cold fish, mind ya, but somethin' in her sparked. Hope. Curiosity. Mother hen instincts. Dunno really, but it was something. She took an immediate interest in him, a platonic one – bet Cyke was glad for that shit, too. She hovered around him the first few days, when everyone else steered clear of the "new guy wit' the eyes." But even wit' the extra effort she put into it, they never clicked and they only ever held onto a shadow of the friendship that she'd offered at first. Now, that spark of warmth was gone; replaced by anger at his betrayal and grief at the loss. Jeannie's a smart woman, I know she knows that leavin' him ta die wasn't the only way we'd wronged Gambit. I'm sure she's fightin' some kind of mental thing, her pain at losin' the kid forever warrin' wit' her anger. It's a tough battle, one I been fightin' fer years. One day she'll realize that it's all for shit, that neither is ever gonna win. She'll realize that she's just got to give up and let go. But that day's a long time comin'. I almost feel bad for her, since I did love her once upon a time n' all, but I can't seem to care `bout any of them enough to help `em wit' their guilt. Hate to say it, but they deserve it this time.

We all do.

The next dream didn't come until a week after first, and I wasn't any more ready than I was the first time. But this time I knew what the hell was goin' on. Whoever deals with this shit was havin' fun tormentin' me with hidden memories and delightin' in showin' me every mistake we ever made, in person. Talk about relivin' hell.

* It was the first time we'd ever had the kid down to the Danger Room, a week or two after he came. Cyke was interested to see what Remy could do but Chuck wanted to let him get settled `fore we put him through trainin' hell. We both knew about the kid's skills as a thief, and his powers, but every X-Man needed some kind of fightin' skill. Not all of us grew up on the team and not all of us were born fighters, afta all. So Cyke decided we needed to find out how much work he needed, hand ta hand.

Figurin' that a program could wait until the kid was comfortable with the idea, he decided to let someone on the team test him out in a spar. Fer some reason, he picked Wings. Probably since he was the only one of the originals `round at the time, but probably not the best idea either.

"Okay, Warren. Take it easy, we just what to see how adept his defenses are," Scott instructed from the control room where we were waitin'. I sat in a chair, feet propped up on the consol and an unlit cigar clenched between my teeth. Somethin' about the kid's scent made me want a smoke real bad but Cyke'd have a spasm if I lit up in the lower levels. Grinnin' ferally, I kicked back and waited fer the show to start. It wasn't a secret that I didn't like Warren all that much so watchin' him have to work the kid through a few rounds in his free time sounded like an interestin' afternoon ta me. Plus, the kid wasn't too hard on the eyes.

Especially not in nothin' but black pants ridin' low on his hips and his hair pulled back, bangs all up in his face anyway. It really seemed to get on Slim's nerves that the kid might as well have come right after a nap for the way he was dressed. Ha, another reason to like the kid. He could push Scooter's buttons without even tryin'. Hell, maybe he was tryin', who the hell would rather dual barefoot and shirtless anyway? He'd even dropped his signature black coat off in the corner of the room.

"Yeah, Cyke, I got it. Just a few offensive moves." Warren answered back lazily, glancing at the smirking Cajun with contempt. "Wouldn't want to scare the brat." My sensitive hearin' barely picked up his muttered sneer and I sat up a little straighter, grinnin' from ear to ear and decidin' this was definitely worth the wait. They hadn't even started and Warren was bein' his cocky, condescending self.

Warren grabbed a long, wooden training staff and waited for the kid to grab the other. When he did little more than raise an eyebrow, Worthington just shrugged, grinned, and lunged. Now I may be a survivalist, someone that'll kill ya if you get in my way. I might even be a dirty fighter, wit' the claws and all, but that wasn't okay in my book. It was just a fuckin' trainin' session, the kid's first, and Warren surprised him before he'd even gotten his hands on a weapon. Scott didn't seem to care, probably thinking that he'd have to be used to this shit if he wanted to be on the team fer real.

But the kid surprised us all, smoothly vaultin' into a quick back flip at the last second and ending in a defensive crouch a few feet away, grinnin' at Warren.

"Well, well," Cyke muttered under his breath. "Looks like our new friend has a few surprises up his sleeve."

All I could do was think `what sleeve?' with a sneer and watch the scene unfoldin' down on the floor. Warren obviously didn't like the surprise, or the smirk on Gambit's face, and immediately forgot it was the kid's first training session. Gettin' his wits `bout him, he took a step back and waited for the kid to stand again. Spinnin' the staff, he circled Remy until their positions were reversed. Then in a bust of speed, he charged the Cajun with the stick held horizontally in front of him.

Not enough speed though, since Gambit grabbed onto the staff and used the force to propel him up and over Warren, droppin' into another crouch and effectively sweepin' Wings' legs out from under him. He stood enough to snatch the staff from the air, the one that Warren let go of in surprise, and held it to Warren's throat. All in one quick, smooth movement. Gotta admit, it was all Cyke and I could do but stare and wait for the next development. This shit was better than a car accident.

"Why you little…" Warren trailed off, watchin' Remy back off a step, keepin' the staff out in an offer to help him off the floor, where he'd fallen on his pretty boy face. That same smirk was back on the Cajun's face as Warren got up on his own, glarin' daggers at the new kid kickin' his ass.

"Dropped somethin', mon ami." The kid tossed the staff at Warren as the blue-skinned mutant got to his feet. Even from my seat in the control room, I could see a muscle in Worthington's jaw jump as it clenched way too tightly. Oh man, this just kept gettin' better and better.

"Don't test me, you swamp rat," he growled in warning. The Cajun's eyes narrowed and Cyke decided to step in and try ta ruin my fun.

"Okay, guys, that'll do. Gambit, I'm surprised…" Yea, and he was even more surprised when they both ignored the crap outta him and went back to stalking each other dangerously, both seriously itchin' for a little ass kickin'.

The two of `em circled each other, low and slow, turnin' their session into an ep of Wild America. Slim just fumed, mad they were ignorin' him. And I watched like it was goin' outta style.

One false moved from Warren and the kid's hand whipped behind him, pulling out somethin' silver that extended into a bo-staff almost as tall as him, held at ready in an instant. Not only was the kid skilled and acrobatic, he was quick as fuck, showin' off that cat-like grace of his.

"Impressive toy, thief. You steal that, too?" That got under the kid's skin and the fight started. It was a good ten minutes of staff's smackin' each other and no one gettin' a hit in before Warren staggered back, leaving Remy enough space between. Takin' the opportunity, he vaulted on his bo-staff, kickin' the wooden staff from Warren's grasp before spinnin' and extendin' his towards Wings, like before.

Only this time, the staff held against Worthington's throat was glowin' red and tippin' Warren's head back in predatory victory. Glarin', Remy answered Wings' earlier insult in a dangerous voice, knockin' Wings down a few pegs.

"Don' be talkin' `bout stuff you don' know nothin' `bout, homme." *



(Part 4)

These "dreams" I've been havin' are really startin' to make me hate the idea of hell, not that there was much to like in the first place. Thinkin' about relivin' yer mistakes in live over and over `gain for the rest of eternity bites, but the nasty truth of it gets stronger once ya live through something even close to it. And yea, if ya ask me, that's `xactly what I think I'm goin' through right now. But instead of relivin' ever kill I've ever made; I'm seein' every sign I ever missed, signs that might have saved the Cajun's life in the end. Maybe if we noticed shit early on, we coulda got to know him better. Maybe he would have told us `bout Sinister and the Massacre. Maybe.

I really hate that word, ya know? Maybe. It's the same fuckin' thing as `what if?'. It never gets ya anywhere and it just drives ya up the wall, knowin' all the shit that might have happened, all the shit that coulda been different. All of it just drives ya nuts. But no matter if I like it or not, I gotta live with maybe and `what if?' everyday. Sure, the dreams aren't all that frequent or nothin' but that doesn't mean I don't relive `em everyday, every time I see one of the others. And yea, it's all drivin' me just a little bit outta my head.

Not that I can really complain, since there's gotta be some reason behind this. My mind probably thinks that I deserve this somehow, and who am I to disagree, eh? I wasn't there when they let that joke of a trial condemn the kid and I wasn't there when he died, but that don't make me any less guilty when it comes to never gettin' to know the kid. I stuck to my own shit just as much as everyone else when the kid was obviously withdrawin' into his self. I razzed the kid about his playboy ways and attitude just as much as everyone else when there was nothin' funny `bout it. I watched the kid hide behind mask after mask without doin' a damn thing `bout it, just like everyone else.

That's all that they ever were, too. Masks; the many faces of Remy LeBeau. Tons o' masks for the stage production he was puttin' on, complete with a leadin' lady, dramatic plot twists, and comedic relief. He played the part for whatever ya needed, for anyone. There were only a few times when those masks slipped off. There were only a few times when we felt the pain beneath the shields. There were only a few times when we saw the real Remy, under the act. Like the day in the Danger Room, trainin' with Warren. There was nothin' fake or acted about the way he reacted towards Wings' insult `bout his days as a thief. Raw, unchecked venom seeped into his words and actions when Warren suggested he stole the bo-staff of his. The one he earned when he became a Master Thief in the Guild.

But then, there was barely ever anythin' between Worthington and LeBeau that wasn't pure venom. Now there are a few people in this mansion that could live without ever seein' the other again, but nothin' like what passed between the two of them. Warren never needs a reason to hate anyone, it's in his blood to be distrustful, and especially with someone he has no hope of ever understandin'. So LeBeau was a prime target `fore he ever opened his mouth. And Remy, after that day in trainin', never had a reason to trust or like Wings. Their relationship out of uniform was non-existent and neither really thought it was a cryin' shame.

And it really wasn't, as long as they could work as a team when they needed to, it didn't really matter that they couldn't stand hide nor hair of each other. But what happened in Antarctica was a shame. Its one thing to dislike a person, but it's another to turn on a teammate in his time of need. Warren's done a lot of the things over the years that don't sit well with me, but leavin' Gambit to defend himself in that trial is the worst yet. Somethin' that spoiled lil' brat should go to his grave regrettin'.

Oh, he's been miserable ever since they got back, but that ain't got nothin' to do with regret or remorse. He's been in one hellova bad mood since findin' out it was Remy that assembled the Marauders, the mutants responsible for him losin' his wings. It's like he thinks just hearin' `bout it again means he can sulk about it all over again. I know it had to suck, probably `bout as bad as someone installin' metal claws into yer arms, but that don't give him the right to throw a tantrum about it for weeks. Even Betsy refuses to deal with his shit, not that she's all that sane right now from all that Crimson Dawn crap. And it really don't give him the right to turn his back on Gambit, ever. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: X-Men take care of each other.

Another week passed, Jean tryin' to deal with everythin' and Warren throwin' ravin' fits `bout the Cajun deservin' every last cell in his body frozen for bein' responsible for losin' his wings. Another week I had to spend thinkin' `bout the man behind the mask of a smooth operator and the fear he had `bout showin' his full deck. Another week came and went, and the dreams returned.

* The women were on their monthly retreat, again. I was still wonderin' when the word retreat came to mean shoppin' in the local mall for an entire weekend. But whatever, it gave the rest of us the chance to get the hell outta the mansion for a guy's night out. A night out without them worryin' `bout their girlfriends freakin' out and a night out to get lucky if they didn't have a woman already. A night out to get completely smashed and blow some cash at cards, pool, and on booze. Every man's dream, right? Even then, I still had to drag half of them out with brute force most of the time, namely Slim and Hank. But this time I got lucky, and everyone was standin' `round ready when I came downstairs.

It was a sign that we were all worked to the bone, with mission after mission and the school to run, too. The last few weeks had been nothin' but work work work, and it was definitely time to play. You know what they say… when the cats are out, the mice will play. And all work and no play makes Cyke a dull boy. Chucklin' at my own humor, I started the engine of my jeep and started for Harry's. `Cause so many of us were actually goin' this time, and voluntarily, I took Henry, Bobby, and Remy with me.

"So the woman let you outta yer cage this time, Cajun?" I asked with a smirk, glancin' at him in the backseat through the rear view mirror. A sheepish smirk pulled at his full lips and he shrugged a little.

"Oui, what she don' know, won' hurt her…" Grinnin' in response, I nodded my head in understandin'. I heard Bobby's laugh and saw the amusement in Hank's eyes, already glad this night was lookin' up. I really needed to blow off some steam and relax for a change. Everyone else needed to unwind a lil', too, especially the three in my jeep. Hank had been researchin' non stop `bout somethin' or another, barely even comin' outta the lab for food. Bobby had been gettin' more and more tense by the week, not that I had any clue what the hell that was all about. And the Cajun, well, he was always good for a night out, and had been lookin' a little worn out lately. Hell, I'd be worn out too if I had to tutor brats in French and deal with a woman like Rogue when I wasn't savin' the world over and over.

Pullin' up in front of Harry's, I cut the engine and grinned at the men unbucklin' their seat belts. "C'mon boys, it's time to get shit faced."

"Ah, my eloquent Canadian friend, where would we be without your lessons in moderation?" Hank shook his head, the ghost of a small, sarcastic smile on his blue lips. I opened the door as Bobby and Remy jumped out, glancin' over at Hank in the passenger's seat.

"Shove it, Blue." I smirked and answered, closin' the door and followin' the two kids inside. Halfway inside, I heard Hank's laugh and response, glad my mission to get `em all to relax a little was already workin'.

"I do love it so when you prove me right, Logan."

An hour and forty-odd bottles later, Hank and I were sittin' at a table in the back, watchin' Drake and LeBeau play a game of pool. Okay, so we watched Bobby stand by while Remy sank every ball on the table. Hank was leanin' heavily against the wall and the back of the booth, mumblin' somethin' I couldn't understand. And with my hearin', that means he was loaded and a half. Amused, I took another swig of my beer and turned my attention back to the kids, the ones that probably thought I was too outta it to hear every word they said.

"So you and Rogue, what's that like, man?" Bobby asked, standin' off to the side with both hands clasped over the top of the pool stick, lookin' younger than he was.

"Whatcha mean, homme?" Remy asked as he sunk a striped ball in the corner pocket, apparently just barely payin' attention to the buzzed Icecube.

"I meeeeean… what's it like bein' with a girl, you know, that you can't even touch?" He explained, watchin' with boredom as he lost horribly. Serves him right for playin' against someone named Gambit.

"Remy touch her plenty, mon ami," he answered with a fake leer and a smirk he was obviously forcin'. I thought I'd never get why that kid felt like he had to put on a show 24/7. But Bobby didn't seem to notice the forced attitude and I got my first real insight into it. He had to put on a show `cause everyone else expected him to.

"You know what I mean, Remy. What's it like to be in love with a girl you can't have sex with?" The forwardness of his question was probably because of the few beers he'd had earlier, but it snapped LeBeau out of his concentration.

"What's dis really `bout, Bobby?" He asked, from Cajun Playboy to Concerned Teammate in the drop of a hat. Somethin' I'll never understand, but I'll always envy and maybe one day appreciate. When he got a sigh from Drake, he straightened up and rested his hip against side of the table, coat swishin' in the air as his stick switched hands.

"I was just wondering… you know, if things were better without the sex. I mean, it's gotta be easier, right? No expectations, no complications, no…" He trailed off with another sigh and looked at Remy, suddenly the grown man instead of the clown. Remy seemed to consider this, eyebrow raised marginally underneath his black shades, takin' his time to phrase his answer.

"Oui… easier, mais-" Remy answered slowly, like he was talkin' `bout somethin' important, not Drake's sex life.

"But what? It's easier. So it's better, not to have the sex… because then no one can screw up the relationship, that way… there's no threat of it, you know, sucking and there's no threat that it'll all blow up in your face." Noddin' to himself, Bobby looked like he'd just figured out the meaning of life. Remy frowned and headed over towards Drake, fillin' the air with the smell of warm leather, slender thighs brushin' together through black leather pants.

Once he got to Bobby's side of the table, he leaned back against it, restin' a firm ass on its ledge and stretchin' out long legs. "Mebbe so, mais makin' love is a part of amour, non? You don' do it thinkin' ir'll blow up in ya face. You do it because you love da femme, `cause you wan' to. What's got you so worried, cher?" His voice dropped low, to keep the others from hearin' what they were talkin' `bout, but all hearin' LeBeau talk `bout "makin' love" in that Southern Comfort voice did was make me adjust myself.

"Every time I have sex with a woman, I ruin the relationship. It always blows up in my face. It's always one thing or another, but it always ends up with the same conversation. `Bobby, I had fun but, the fun's over.' `It was great and all, but it's gotta end.' `Oh it's not you, it's me.' `Thanks, but no thanks.' Every damn time." There was a sarcasm to Bobby's voice but a lil' desperation in his eyes, somethin' I'd never noticed.

"Bobby, dat ain't ya fault. Jus' because you sleep wit' a femme den break up, don' mean dat you ruined da relationship. It jus' means dat all dose femmes weren't right for you. You been worryin' `bout dis for far too long, mon ami. You gotta let go of dis guilt. It's eatin' you `live, cher."

Remy rested his hand against Bobby's shoulder and Drake looked down at the floor, shufflin' his feet a little, but noddin' just the same. It took a minute to notice, in my slightly drunken state, but I realized with a start that LeBeau knew all along. That he got in the car with us tonight, that he offered to play a game of pool with Icecube, that he went to all that trouble just to draw this out of Bobby, to help him when no one else even knew there was a problem.

Later that night, on the drive home, I glanced over at Remy in the driver's seat. From my place leanin' against the passenger side door, I could see Hank and Bobby passed out in the back seat. The radio was playin' somethin' real quiet and LeBeau was humming along under his breath.

"That was a good thing ya did, back there, kid." I praised, leanin' my head against the cold glass and watchin' him outta the corner of my eye.

"Que?" He stalled, tryin' to pretend he didn't mastermind a plot to help a teammate that barely spoke to him on a regular basis.

"Don't play dumb with me, Cajun. I know damn well what you did for Drake. Yer a good man, LeBeau."

Even in the dark, I could see the blush that tinted his high cheekbones. He was silent for a minute or two, still watchin' the road, before answerin' me in a grateful tone that I'd never heard before, not even with Rogue. A real tone, one that proved what a puzzle Remy LeBeau is and always will be.

"Merci, Logan." *



(Part 5)

Actin' has always been a weird idea to me. Just a bunch of pretentious bastards struttin' `round on stage whinin' and pretendin' to be people they ain't. Just a bunch of shit is more like it. I guess I can admit I never liked it `cause I never got it. Never got why the hell a body would wanna spend their time tryin' to be someone else. Never got it until I met a real actor. Course, I didn't know him for what he was, but that's the point… ain't it? I never knew how good of an actor the Cajun was until it was too late for applause. Not until after his final bow.

I guess you could call what the kid did, `lyin' in a way, but I ain't so sure it was on purpose. I know now that the kid musta had a hard life before he ever got involved with us. I know from first hand experience that playin' along and puttin' up fronts are natural defense mechanisms. People can't hurt you and betray yer trust if they don't know you, if they don't have any trust to betray. So I for one shoulda noticed the act the kid was puttin' on from the second he set foot in the mansion.

But o' course, it wasn't all that obvious either. LeBeau was a master at what he did, whether he did it consciously or not. He could easily play who ever he wanted to; he played everyone in the mansion. He knew `xactly how to keep everyone at a distance, in a friendly way. Kid showed up late for every morning training session, nonchalant and smug as fuck, but he was there whenever Slim really needed him for a mission. He refused all the help offered to him, be it workin' on his shields (which he didn't need, it turns out) or with his tutorin', but he always found a way to make Red feel needed, like helpin' out makin' dinner. He turned away any and all medical attention, even when he really needed it, but LeBeau always made sure Hank ate and slept when he was workin' on experiments. The Cajun put on a smug and defiant ere that got on everyone's last nerve, but he saved Wings' ass enough times to build some kinda workin' trust. He flirted with everythin' on two legs and flaunted his grace and sensuality, but he never once cheated on Rogue, on a break or not. He kept his past to his self and never confided in anyone, but he let Ororo pretend to know, let her call him `brother' when she didn't know the meanin' of the word. Kid kept everyone at a safe distance, never lettin' carin' in or info out, but he was a friendly ear when Bobby needed one.

But I never saw it; no one did. It was one of them things that you don't notice until it's over and done with, and by then, it never really seemed all that big of a deal. Like that night in the bar, I thought it was weird how the Cajun broke down his defenses and let Drake in, and didn't realize until later that even tho' the kid had been there for Bobby, he never let anythin' personal enter the realm of their conversation. He helped the kid out without ever revealin' any of his own personal truths or demons. But it had helped and from then on out, Drake went to Remy to talk about most of his problems. Normal thing to do, I guess, but Bobby never seemed to notice that the friendship was completely one sided.

Now all that growin' friendship did was confuse Drake. I could see it in his eyes, whenever he had the nerve to look at me, proper like. Everyone that was on that plane when they left Remy behind knew how I felt and kept their distance. Only thing was that Drake knew all too well how I felt… and he seemed to agree in some way.

Remy never got close enough to anyone to let them see the cracks in his mask. Oh, and there sure were some cracks in that boy's façade. None more obvious than the demons still hauntin' him in his sleep, in the dreams he couldn't quite keep as secret as the rest of his life. O' course he didn't let just anyone know what was goin' on, no matter how many students or teammates heard the kid screamin' in the middle of the night. A horrible screamin' it was too, somethin' that reminded me all too well of my own nightly visitors. At least the kid never attacked no one when he woke up; he had that much goin' for him. Another thing he had goin' for him was Ro and her attachment to him.

I can't count the number o' times that I woke up ta Gumbo's screamin' and Ro's sisterly, comfortin' sounds. She loved him like a brother, alright, but the woman never really had a clue `bout what was really goin' on up in that pretty head o' his. No matter how close they seemed or how often she comforted him after the damn things, he never told her a damn thing about the real fuckin' fear in his hauntin' eyes. I saw it tho', I understood all too well. Nightmares may not be the real deal, but that don't mean they ain't any easier ta deal with than the real shit. The kid lived that truth, I did too, but Ro' never had a clue about it, never saw the desperation creepin' inta the boy's sharp features when the visions got especially bad. That never happened all that often, but often enough, too often for no one ta notice.

* In the middle of the night, after one real long and painful – only a pain in the ass for me, thanks ta the healin' factor and all – mission, my ears twitched and my nose scented the air, instinctively. Somethin' had woken me up for no good reason at all and if Mags wasn't tryin' to break in or some other megalomaniacal shit, I was gonna kill whoever woke me up but good. I know I ain't the prettiest hen in the house but damn, a body needs his beauty sleep. Maybe more than anyone else in this damn place.

Stalkin' down tha hall towards the continued sounds o' whimpers and shushs. They weren't all that loud or nothin' but with my senses, I had no choice but ta hear every little sound comin' outta… Remy's room? Raisin' my brow in silent question, I headed for the partly open door. I prolly shoulda kept ta my self and left it well enough alone, but the door was open in a way that said whoever opened it was in a hurry. Plus, the sounds of a teammate, `specially a grown man, whimperin' and carryin' on in tha middle o' the night are hard to ignore. Try it sometime, and tell me ya wouldn'ta stopped too.

Pushin' the door open part way, quiet even tho' I didn't really feel like I was breakin' any law or shit, I poked my head in a bit ta see what the hell was goin' on. But I said nothing', maybe I just felt like protectin' their privacy… but maybe I just couldn't, not after what I saw. It was darker than my room at night, but my eyes had no problem scopin' out the two huddled figures layin' on the bed.

Ro' was curled around a long, lanky body, rockin' back and forth a lil' like some crazed spinster, murmurin' shit to the body she was protectively curved `round. Trust me, I'm the one with pack instincts here, and I know protective when I see it with my own two eyes. Her voice and her movements were soft, like she was tryin' to calm a scared animal, but her grip was tight and her body was tense, kinda how it gets when we're all in a tight spot, somethin' ta do with her fear of small places. Ro' was scared. That not bein' somethin' we see on the regal goddess much, I was a lil' worried. Whatever managed to ruffle Storm, and ruffle her good, was somethin' I wasn't sure I wanted ta know about. But I'd already come this far, no use in turnin' my back on shit now.

Takin' a deep breath and holdin' it, whether for stealth or for steelin' my own self, I dunno. I pushed tha door open a lil' bit more and took a silent step into the tense, moody room, careful ta keep my self in tha doorway in case somethin' were ta happen. With my new position, I could clearly see that Ro' really was guardin' Gambit, probably one of the few people in tha damn mansion that didn't need any help when it came down ta shit like that. But that wasn't all that true apparently, `cause… well… Gambit wasn't there, layin' on the bed with Ro', wrapped up in her arms… Remy was, and Remy needed the protectin'.

His face was like a twisted parody of what it usually looks like. Tear tracks outlined tha strong curve of his jaw, dark circles highlighted his tightly clenched eyes, deep red flush showed of tha scarily gaunt cheeks and tha razor edged cheekbones. Full lips were white wit' tha pressure he was bitin' `em shut with. Hitchin' breaths shook the lean, powerful body in her smooth, dark arms. Night sweats mussed his auburn hair, plasterin' it to his usually elegant head. In short, tha boy was a mess, and I couldn't stop starin' at the two o' `em. It was like watchin' people try ta clean up a train wreck, tha sick fascination and hint o' disbelief that keeps ya from steppin' in, offerin' a hand, runnin' while ya can…

"Shh, brother. It'll be alright." Ororo murmured near the shell o' his ear, talkin' nonstop, tryin' to calm him further or get his attention, I couldn't tell. "It was only a dream. You'll be alright." Now I know she was just tryin' to help, and she was tha only one o' us that even got that far as far as Remy was concerned, but it was painfully obvious that the women didn't know what she was talkin' `bout. Her concern was cloudin' her judgment, tellin' her to make him feel better instead'a helpin' him out.

"You're safe now."

A deeper, more guttural sob broke through his façade of silent pain, soundin' like his throat was dry and cracked, soundin' more like a wounded animal than I ever wanted ta think `bout. That's when it hit me, tha sickness of this whole sad scene. Shook me outta my stupor, I guess ya could say. I understand nightmares, I've had `em all o' the life I can remember. I know what it's like to be shaken by shit that happened in the past, to wake up in a cold sweat because yer own mind his hauntin' ya. I know what it's like, and this ain't it. This nightmare, his pain, wasn't `bout tha past, tha shit that happened back when he was a kid, this wasn't `bout his life, this was `bout him, this was `bout now.

"Everything is alright, brother. You're safe. I'm here. Everything will be okay now."

"Non…" His voice was rough and sounded painful, `specially ta my ears.

"Yes, Remy. Everything's okay. Whatever it was, it's over. You're safe now."

"Stormy…"

"Shh, brother. Please try and get some sleep, you'll feel better when you wake up."

He let out another hitching breath and I saw a tear trail slowly down her cheek, her eyes bright and glitterin' in tha near pitch black darkness. She couldn't help him, she knew it, and it was tearin' her up inside but good. With a slight squeeze, her eyes shut and she buried her face in his damp hair, tryin' to be a silent comfort, tryin' to be somethin' she could never understand. Wit' her desperation and his still visible pain, tha room fell inta silence and I was left starin' at the bitter truth under tha poker mask, beneath tha regal exterior, behind tha close sibling relationship they shared. Ro' loved him, and he cherished her, but even that couldn't save them, not from life, not from themselves.

In tha suffocatin' darkness, two red orbs opened and stared straight at me, inta my eyes, and right through me. There was a hard truth there, a pained and quiet acceptance in those eyes, that made me, tha Wolverine, wanna shiver. We stared at each other for a good minute, no words needed, before his eyes resolutely closed and I walked outta his room, closin' tha door quietly behind me. Even tho' I shoulda left well enough alone, at least this time, I couldn't make my feet move at all. I spent the rest of the night guardin' tha door, guardin' tha two o' them and their fragile connection, guardin' the scared kid under all the masks and the actin'.*



END PART 5