By the way, if all goes as planned, this chapter should be the penultimate. Next chapter will hopefully be my grand finale.

Ch. 6 - Independence

Westchester:

        Logan was out of the Observation Room and on the emergency staircase down to the Danger Room before the explosion had even completed tearing the room apart. In a matter of moments, he was in front of sliding metal doors and, with a punch to the key pad, the doors opened. A somewhat smoky wall of heat instantly hit his body.

"Remy?," he called, stepping into the room and immediately feeling a rush of relief at being able to make out Remy - still crouched on the ground, his eyes closed and unmoving, looking exactly has he had a moment before the explosion. The floor, however, was another matter. Except for a small doughnut hole upon which Remy crouched, a circular crater about eight meters in diameter and two meters deep took up most of the room. The crater, in turn, was littered with chunks of the flooring. A small corner of Logan's mind that wasn't preoccupied with Remy's well being commented about how pissed Scott would be when the smoke cleared enough to give him a full view of the damage.

        Logan was about to scramble into the crater and make his way to the island, but he stopped as saw a trembling Remy slowly, stiffly get rise to a standing position. His face was down though, and he didn't look at Logan. Indeed, he dropped into the crater and scrambled up the other side without looking at him either.

        Remy'd just re-established himself on the floor level, still shaking slightly and eyes still downcast, and Logan was about to say something, when the doors slid open again and Scott charged in, looking in quite a state. "God, Remy, I'm so sorry, I didn't expect you to get that far, I was stupid . . . Fucking hell! The room didn't look half this bad from upstairs!"

        Remy was exhausted. He felt too tired to think or feel or remember, though he was doing all of those things anyway - but just barely. He definitely felt too tired to interact, but he forced himself to do it anyway. He was even too tired to stop his body from shaking as he came down off the adrenaline. He looked up and silently thanked whatever that he already had Logan's attention (Logan had resolutely decided to ignore Scott's entire outburst in favor of not succumbing to rage and being forced to kill him).

        "Translate please," Remy signed, though his hands shook.

        Logan nodded, and, without taking his eyes off the Cajun, growled at Scott to shut up. Remy's signals came short and forceful. "Remy says he's sorry, he forgot about not using abilities."

        Remy was out the door before he had even finished speaking. Logan paused briefly. "I think he forgot it was a simulation." Then his voice changed to a growl. "The only reason I'm not dismembering you right now is because I think Remy has, by accident, already delivered your deserved punishment. If you ever, ever . . . pull something like that again, I will fucking dismember you. Now, enjoy the room."

        With that he stalked out (leaving Scott in a state of shock over the room), bumping into Jean and Bobby on the way (who were coming to investigate the rather unmistakable sound of explosion) and followed Remy's sent upstairs, where he found Remy trembling faintly against the window sill of his room and a cigarette in his hand. Logan picked his way through their cumulative mess to him and leaned on the wall to the side of the window.

"You okay?" Remy nodded, but continued to stare out the window over the dusk lawn.

        There was a comfortable silence. They had spent so much time together at this point (and what with Remy not being able to speak and all) that both were able to feel as comfortable with silence in each other's presence as they had always been with the silence of solitude. Eventually Logan spoke again. "That was quite a stunt in the Danger Room. You weren't able to do that before, were you?"

        This time Remy turned to face him. Then he shook his head. "Not really," he signed. "Abilities went crazy after I left home, so got them blocked."

        Damn. I should of remembered that. Logan was slightly nervous now. This was the closest the two of them had ever come to talking about Sinister . . . and what had happened only three weeks ago. Did he want to take this opportunity to say something? Did he really want to rock the boat?

        "Are . . .," he started, but was forced to clear his throat embarrassingly. "Are you and the Professor dealing with it? What happened . . ."

        Was he being too vague? Remy's face was absolutely blank, suspiciously so, and Logan suddenly wondered if he remembered the rape. During the second week in particular, Remy's memory had returned to the point where he claimed to remember almost everything, though he professed a sort of detachment from it. And Logan knew he remembered his nightmares - they'd spoken of them before, though Remy would not give detail as to their content.

        "If you mean the cold place, then yes," Remy signed, sporting an unfeeling expression.

        "Antarctica - no, that's not what I was talking about. After." Logan knew that the Professor had talked to some of the members about their highly questionable down after the Trial.

        Remy had started signing even before Logan finished talking now, and his face was now beginning to show traces of strain. "Professor is not my head doctor. Don't talk about memories with him. Not his business. He knows there is nothing he can do for that. He is only training me to think and use abilities again. Memories are not the problem. Don't need to talk."

        The way Remy's eyes were fixed intensely on Logan, he got the impression the Cajun was almost daring him to bring the subject up. He also got the impression from the sudden extreme tension in Remy's body that the consequences of accepting such a dare probably wouldn't be pretty. He really didn't feel like upsetting Remy, not after the day he'd just had, so he settled for, "You sure Rems?"

        Remy's relaxed at that, and even offered a weak smile with his nod. His eyes finally stopped boring into Logan's as he let them shift outside. And he felt even more tired than he had a moment ago, if that was even possible. "You know what the worst thing about not being able to speak . . . Not being able to yell when I'm mad."

        Logan laughed at that, took a step towards Remy, and pulled him into a hug. God, he loved Remy so much it hurt. He wished it wasn't so difficult. When he pulled away, Remy was still smiling, but his sleepy eyes were questioning. "What you do that for?," he signed (having to hold his hands up awkwardly to do so due Logan's proximity).

        Logan smiled and shrugged. Then Remy leaned down and kissed him.

        For half a moment Logan almost responded, as he wanted to so dearly, as he had imagined all those times in the shower. But a rush of guilt forced him to jerk away. So much had happened - not only today, but in the last two months - and Remy was obviously on the verge of falling asleep; that Logan felt certain, suddenly, that it was not really Remy who had kissed him. Remy was gone, he'd died in that cell. This shell and whatever part of Remy was left in it simply hadn't the capacity to make decisions like, well, kissing.

        Logan knew he didn't really believe most of what he'd been thinking. Remy wasn't dead, he was there in front of him looking confused and backing away, but of one thing Logan was certain: he wouldn't take advantage of the young, damaged man. He was convinced that Remy hadn't the capacity to make the decision simply by the fact that he had. The 'old' Remy had never shown any romantic or sexual interest in him, so this was decidedly out of character (or so he decided). Remy had kissed him because. out of obligation, Logan's mind supplied. Or because he's been traumatized. Given what Logan knew about Remy's history (which was everything he could remember), neither possibility seemed at all unlikely.

        Remy confused expression turned to one of hurt as he lowered his empathic walls (something he had returned to doing very rarely) to gain a glimpse of understanding. Yes, the love was still there, but there was a strong feeling of guilt fused with it that had not been there before - at least not so noticeably. He almost gagged at the intensity of the emotion. No wonder Logan pulled away. For not the first time, Remy found frustration in the fact that an empathy and a telepath could sometimes take a reading of the same individual at the same time and still come away with completely different impression. Thoughts and emotions are both more and less intertwined than people usually think - why did Logan feel guilt? Remy could only think it was because he thought being in love with him was wrong. But again, why? Because he was a man? Because of the Massacre? Because he'd been a whore? Because he'd seen him being raped?

        Now Remy felt really ill and he decided that he didn't even want to know. God, he was tired. All he wanted to do was to go to sleep forever and never have to walk to this awful life. Even when it was getting better it sucked. He tried not care as he turned and made his way through the cramped room (what with two people living in it) to the door. Logan grabbed his elbow, but he shrugged it off.

"Remy . . ." Remy only turned around because he had never heard Logan beg before. "I'm sorry."

        After a slight pause, Remy nodded, then signed, "I will sleep in my room tonight."

"Remy!" But Remy stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. It had flashed across his mind to give Logan the finger, but he didn't want to risk prolonging interaction by provoking him. He walked across the hallway to his room, which he had yet to enter since his return. It had frightened him a little in the beginning, just knowing there was a room full of what he used to be. He was afraid he'd enter and feel out of place and that it would be the most telling proof of the fact that he'd lost some part of himself. But the fear had faded (aided today by extreme fatigue), and he found that he didn't even really care if the room felt foreign. It was just a room and he had generally been feeling stable and sturdy and (god forbid) "normal" enough the last several day that he figured whatever he'd lost couldn't have been too crucial. Any apprehension he felt was further killed by the sound of Logan opening the his door behind him.

        So he quickly punched in his key code (Logan had requested the lock fixed after also requesting that Jubilee blast it several weeks ago), entered his room, and locked the door securely behind him.

        He looked around and eventually smiled sadly. The room possessed a faintly comforting feeling of familiarity and belonging, but it's emptiness and order contrasted sharply with Logan's lively mess, and his own loneliness was underscored. He fell back on his bed, trying to milk his gratification at finally being back on a mattress in a bed instead of the floor.

        Trying to stay away from painful thoughts of rejection, he wondered when Logan had become so important to him. He'd been a friend, before, and maybe there had even been an edge there - an edge that didn't exist in, say, his friendship with Storm. And he'd had Rogue back then (well, on and off), and she was had been his anchor; and then he'd been set adrift. It should have been alright, he did consider himself a drifter. But it wasn't an identity that came entirely naturally to him, rather it was a necessary and generally successful defence mechanism that had to be maintained. He had been so lost when he'd woken that night almost three weeks ago. He hadn't recognized anyone or himself or what was going on, and all he knew was that something horrible had happened. He'd been so frightened and alone and confused that he thought he might drown in the chaos of his mind and never return to sanity. Only Professor Xavier had realized how close he had come to not being able to find the path to recovery. It had been Logan that had allowed him to overcome the overwhelming panic and insanity. Logan loved him and wanted him to be safe and to recover, and Remy had been in such a state that his only choice was to accept his love and help or go mad. Logan was his lifeline and Remy had rebuilt his mind (with help from Xavier) around him. And now that lifeline had been pulled away.

        Pain pierced through his soul, making his chest feel tight and his breath come with difficulty. But it was what he needed to feel, he decided. Pain makes you tough. Love makes you weak. If only these lessons didn't have to be learned again. He was almost grateful for the pain, for the opportunity to be made stronger. Then finally sleep came to claim him.

        Remy dealt with his nightmare alone that night, and it was horrible, but he survived and even managed to wake before noon (feeling quite numb after yesterday's roller coaster) to prepare the team's lunch. A few days earlier he had offered to start taking cooking shifts again and this was his first - an easy day to begin too, as Storm, Rogue, and Warren (the three fliers) had left that morning on a scouting mission. So he picked through the clothes Logan had left in his closet after bringing most of them over to his own room, and dressed. He inspected himself in the mirror, an experience that found both disturbing and entertaining since the mind wipe - a result of the fact that he no longer identified with his body.

        In the kitchen he was mildly irritated to find Jean just beginning to prepare some coffee. He smiled in response to her cheerful greeting and tried to participate (mostly through nods and shakes of the head) in the conversation that provided. As he did so, he boiled rice and cut up tomatoes, pepperoni, carrots, lettuce, onions, and few other miscellaneous veggies. Where's the paprika? She spent ages joking about his demolition of the Danger Room the day before and how Scott was blaming himself. Finally she asked what he was making. When he couldn't respond (how does one communicate the word 'gumbo' without the aid of words or signs? couldn't she guess anyway? he used to make it frequently . . .), she forwarded an offer on an issue that had been on her mind.

        "We could, you know, try to have a telepathic conversation."

        Remy looked at her warily, an eyebrow elegantly arched. They hadn't tried since that disastrous attempt when he first woke - which he did remember. Even the Professor tiptoed around his mind when trying to help him normalize during their sessions, but the Professor's telepathy was quite different in nature to Jean's. Where Jean communicated telepathically, the Professor's telepathy gave him a quick (or prolonged, if he wished) taste of actually being that person. Because Remy generally (of late) understood his own thoughts, the Professor too could understand. But Jean was another matter.

        His gut reaction was to say no fucking way, but a more reasonable, yet slightly self-destructive part of himself wondered what permanent damage it could do. Pain meant little to him anymore and he trusted Jean not to root around (indeed, her telepathic capacity to root was limited anyway). But was it safe for Jean? He reached over to her and pointed to her head, then he withdrew the hand and made a strangled noise that successfully sounded like a mock moan of pain. Then he smiled apologetically for what an idiot he came across as.

        "I understand. But I think it'll be okay. I mean, don't you think before was just a one time thing?" Remy paused, then nodded. The Professor had also thought so, but had said that his mind was loaded with so many landmines that he could make no guarantees. Unbeknownst to him, the Professor had already agreed that she could try if Remy agreed.

        "So, what do you say? I promise not to pry. It would mean one more person you could talk to." It was the final comment that swayed him, as Jean knew it would. Remy was a social creature at heart and not being able to communicate had proved challenging to him - though it had provided him with a perfect way to avoid uncomfortable conversations (or even silences) with certain members of the team. So Remy gave her a wry smile and nodded, before turning back to the carrots he was chopping.

        "Excellent!" Physically, the only sign she gave that she was about to do something was place her cup on the counter (she didn't want to drop scalding coffee on herself if something did go wrong). She gently reached out her mind to his, and when he felt her caress his walls, he cautiously lowered them just enough to receive or broadcast thoughts. Chop, chop, chop.

*Remy?* He looked up from the onions he was now dicing and smiled at her in acknowledgement, trying to convey his thoughts.

        Jean frown slightly. His mind was mess. Instead of using words it was using images as well as what he could only assume was some made up form of language (if one could call it that) that Remy's mind had concocted to allow him to think. Remy, I'm having problems understanding. *You're not thinking in a way I can recognize. Could you try to maybe think the way you sign?*

        Hmmm. this would be a bit challenging. He forced his thoughts to contract, trying to allow them to find structure and coherence (he had completely stopped his chopping now). It was frustrating because they would coalesce to the point of almost being 'normal' thought patterns then suddenly fan out again. The same thing happened four times before the frustration got the better of him and he let out an irritated sigh. *Merde.*

*Remy? Remy! I heard that you bastard!* Jean laughed out loud and scampered over to the surprised Cajun and gave him a generous hug. *Of course shit would be the first thought out of your mind. Only you!*

        "Now . . . can you say it?," Jean asked mischievously, as though daring him to speak.

        He tried, he really did, but the word slipped away from him and he was unable. He had already tried, successfully, with both Hank and Logan, to imitate words that they spoke, but it didn't matter, because as soon as it was no longer an imitation, as soon as he had to recall the word himself and actually say something, then the word was gone and only emptiness was left on the tip of his tongue. Finally he gave up and shook his head with resignation. Jean, however, was not discouraged and claimed that it was a start.

        Lunch was fantastic. He could tell because everyone who was there ate it, despite the fact that it was hot enough to make you cry - Jean, in fact, did unwilling cry for most of the meal. Scott managed to cope by drinking a total of six glasses of milk in an effort to not to neutralize the burning in his mouth. Bobby coped surprisingly well by simply complaining and hyperventilating with every mouthful. Even Hank looked slightly off color as he greedily devoured the thick, spicy gumbo. Only Storm and Remy were able to consume the meal unphased. Still, no one forwent eating it favor of leftovers or a sandwich.

        Logan was supposed to be on cleanup duty, but as he hadn't shown for lunch and Remy felt a bizarre sense of responsibility, Remy ended up picking up and washing dishes. He didn't really mind though. It felt like ages since he'd done useful. Standing there, washing up, he came a decision. He wasn't going to lose one of the only friends he had just because of a stupid kiss. In fact, he managed to work up quite a bit of anger to direct at himself. Whatever his empathy had told him, he should have known better. His own relationship with sex was ambiguous at best - why had he been so eager to introduce into his and Logan's relationship? He must have been giddy with fatigue. Yes, he'd wanted to kiss the Canadian, but he knew better.

        So, that evening he came to Logan with a peace offering. He didn't care if it was embarrassing - he considered himself shameless anyway, and he'd rather lose a friend knowing he'd done all he could not too than to have any excuse whatsoever to blame himself. He had more than enough guilt to deal with it as it was, even if he was somewhat detached from it. The detachment almost made it worse, for he felt exceedingly guilty for not being in pieces over what had happened in the Morlock tunnels. Bizarrely enough, it felt more like he was responsible for the one who had led the Marauders to the Morlocks than that he actually was that individual.

        Knock, knock, knock. After a moment, Logan opened the door. He'd avoided Remy all day because he was absolute crap with words and hadn't a clue how to deal with the situation without making it worse. He was lucky that Remy's social skills were one of his many fortes. He'd spent too many years appeasing people not to know how to diffuse almost any situation - though there were, of course, a few exceptions.

        "Want to share my first drink?," Remy signed awkwardly with one hand, a bottle of whisky and a six pack in the other. He'd avoided drinking since waking three weeks ago. His mind was more than fuzzy enough on its own, thank you. But after a long day of coping by himself (quite a challenge given that he'd been spending an average of twenty hours a day with Logan since waking), there was nothing more he wanted to do than to forget his troubles with some fine whisky and Logan's comforting company.

        Logan was surprised to see Remy there in front of his doorway; he was also somewhat concerned about Remy decision to drink, but his relief that an attempt at reconciliation was being made far outweighed any other feelings. Remy's grin got impossibly, impishly wide at feeling the other man's relief wash over him. Logan still wanted to be friends! So he shoved the six pack into Logan's and motioned with a jerk of his head, indicating a desire to head to the staircase. Logan guessed Remy wanted to go to the back porch - their old drinking haunt from . . . months and months ago.

        Sitting there on the porch, conversation attempts were somewhat strained, though the silences were comfortable enough. The topic of their kiss the previous night was avoided - indeed, Logan doubted they had had a succh an impersonal conversation in ages; and he was sorry to recognize some of the defensive distancing tactics he knew Remy tended to employ in his interactions with the rest of the team. They stuck primarily to drinking and hunting/thieving stories, though they'd all been told before. God, what men they were. Logan occasionally pointed out to constellations and Remy tried to tell a few jokes that lost almost all their humor in their conversion into sign language, but the drunker they got the more difficult signing (and understanding signs) became. Remy in particular was getting absolutely sloshed. By the time Logan went inside to retrieve a second six pack, Remy had already drunken about half the bottle (and it was really expensive stuff too) and second half was not too far on its heals.

        Now Logan had such high tolerance to alcohol that it was practically impossible for him to get beyond being tipsy (and even that was quite a drinking challenge) - his healing factor was able to successfully recognize the booze for what it is, poison. Given that he did not have a healing factor, Remy also had a phenomenally high tolerance (or, as he used to prefer to say, he knew how to drink), but on this night he far outdid himself and Logan began get worried that the kid would poison himself. But there weren't any obvious ill effects, though by the time the bottle was empty, the Cajun had become deathly still (except for periodic drags on a cigarette), hunched in his chair, and strange but intense frown on his face. Logan tried to get his attention, to make his snap out of it, but each attempt was met with only brief acknowledgement before returning to his stupor. Finally, after having his offer to help Remy up to his room was refused, Logan went to bed, feeling noticeably unsatisfied with the evening, feeling that, if anything, the distance between them was greater than it had been before the drinking.

        The problem had been, of course, that as soon as Remy was drunk enough, he became petulant (though not obviously) and morose, and lost all will power to smooth over the hitch in their relationship. He'd much rather bask in the numbness of a drunken stupor than bother to steer the relationship in a direction he didn't even want it to go. He felt so tired of what always seemed to be the same old shit. In some ways, though, it was a comforting feeling giving evidence of continuity between his life before and after the mind wipe. At least some things never change.

        Two more weeks passed, making it eight weeks since having his mind wiped and five since waking. Remy and Logan's relationship remained awkward and strained, both entirely unsatisfied with not being more than friends - with not being as close as they had been just weeks before. Logan was growing increasingly frustrated, but Remy was growing increasingly depressed (though, as always, he hid in superbly). Logan, however, was not the only reason, and perhaps not even the main reason. Though he spent long hours in the Danger Room filled with a growing jealousy of those on missions (those with something purposeful to do), his participation in a mission was out of the question. After all, he could barely communicate - and there doubts about his stability anyway. Jean had taken over for Hank and, together with the professor, was helping Remy think and speak in words. But progress was agonizingly slow and the sheer boredom and meaninglessness was increasingly grating on him. He had to fucking do something besides spending endless hours in his room. All the solitude wasn't helping, but communication was often so labored that often he couldn't even be bothered to interact - and he could only imagine that others felt the same way.

        Furthermore, a certain day was looming nearer and nearer and with its proximity, his nightmares became more intense (though it hardly seemed possible). He didn't tell anyone, but he wasn't sure if he would be able to cope with being here on that day. On the other hand, it would almost be worse if he did. Inevitably, he began to think of leaving again. He was irritated at himself for so frequently wanting to run away from his problems, but then again, there seemed little reason to stay. He was only a burden. Maybe he could return later, when he was no longer handicapped - if such a day was even on the horizon.

        So he packed a small bag of clothes and his most precious belongings - pictures, mostly, but also some highly specialized thieving equipment. It was, however, several days before he could leave, as it took him an excruciatingly long time (and no small amount of effort) to compose a good- bye note. He knew Logan loved him, and he wouldn't hurt the man by simply disappearing. He did, however, suspect that Logan might want him to leave simply so that his problematic feelings could be allowed to dissipate (but his only proof was the awkwardness of their increasingly infrequent interaction).

        The morning after Remy left the Mansion on his beloved bike, Logan woke to find a simple, heartbreaking note. The handwriting was almost perfect, as Remy had copied and copied it until his hands grew accustomed to the movement of writing. The language was another matter, but it was the best he could do.

Logan.

I must leave, but maybe I will someday return. Give my good-byes to others for me. Thank you for everything. I am sorry to hurt you, but I think it would be better for both of us of I leave.

Remy

        Damn. Damn. Damn. Logan hadn't been expecting this, though in retrospect he didn't know why not. There had been some warning - the isolation, the awkwardness between them, the increasingly horrible nightmares that Logan was forced to listen to from across the hall without being able to provide comfort. Did the kid really think Logan was better off without him? Damn, damn, damn.