Long after Wolverine had cried himself out and fallen asleep with his head in Gambit�s lap, Gambit sat thinking, stroking the other�s hair thoughtfully.
There had been a time, before the accident, when he had been able to take away other�s pain, to draw it from them, into himself. He�d assumed that the gift was tied to his empathy, lost when he lost that power, but he�d never explicitly attempted to draw pain since the accident.
What if he still could? Wolverine�s injuries clearly had an emotional base and since Gambit would be invulnerable to them, the chance was he could vastly speed the process of Logan�s healing.
Gambit�s hand on Wolverine�s head stilled. Cautiously he reached out with his mind, as he hadn�t done in months, searching for Wolverine�s mind and the painful memories it contained.
Through his fingertips he could feel himself brush the edges of Wolverine�s consciousness, not as strongly as he had been able to before the accident, but still undeniable. Slowly he reached in a bit deeper�.
The pain slammed into him. It felt as though his skull was being torn apart. Without a sound Gambit collapsed limply on the floor.
In his lap Wolverine stirred. He prodded the captor a little, and sniffed him to see if he was dead. It was difficult to tell. Keeping an alert eye on the still form in the corner, he edged around the room and headed towards the kitchen to find something to eat.
********************************************
Remy came to consciousness two days later, stiff and bruised from laying on the floor, his head pounding so badly he lay on there for several minutes gaining to strength to open his eyes.
�Jesus� He said. �Not going to try that again.�
He cracked his eyes. Wolverine was crouched on the other side of the room observing him narrowly.
�Still here? I suppose I should thank you for not eating me while I was out.�
The room was in shambles. Once again food covered every flat surface. Most of it had been trampled into the cabin�s floor boards.
Remy stumbled into the bathroom and collapsed under the shower. He lay there, letting the water rush over him until it began to get cold. Then he stumbled out and fell into the new bed. It smelled vaguely of something, not unpleasant, but like something he should remember��
He slept all that day and through the night. By the next morning he was beginning to feel almost human again.
�What the hell was that?� he wondered. �I just thought that it wouldn�t work, not-� but he couldn�t think of a way to describe the pain.
He cleaned the cabin, chatting amiably to Wolverine, who moved from one corner to another to avoid the broom, but always kept Gambit in sight and showed no sign of further violence.
�Which is good, since we have to go into town to get more food and I don�t know that I would be able to handle you in a mood right now.�
He got them both showered and into a rough approximation of clean clothes. The second trip into town went much better than the first. Wolverine didn�t snarl, he didn�t lunge at anyone, he only broke one thing, and that accidentally. Mostly he just seemed curious, walking around sniffing all the bright packages experimentally, and, once, a bemused shop girl.
�Your friend�s not from around here is he?� she asked.
Still Gambit was relieved when they had gotten back to cabin. He opened a couple cans of stew, too tired to begin thinking about cooking and far too hungry to be picky. By the time he lifted the pot off the stove his hands were shaking. Wolverine watched quietly, waiting to be fed.
*****************************************
It took Gambit five more days to recover completely from the black out. During that time Wolverine remained quiet, not human certainly, but tame at least. They struck up a routine. Chores in the morning, an afternoon hike through the woods, dinner, Gambit would read aloud, then bed.
One night they sat down to dinner and Wolverine picked up his fork, ready to be served. �Here I am doing the Helen Keller thing again.� Gambit muttered. Wolverine grunted. �What was that?�
�Annie Sullivan.� The voice was raspy and slurred. Gambit could barely pick out the words. �Annie Sullivan. Helen Keller was the blind girl.�
�Oh.� Gambit was at a loss for words.
After that night Wolverine showed little inclination to speak again. Gambit continued reading aloud by the fire in the evening. Wolverine would pace and fret about the cabin, or sit quietly watching the flames. It was during those nights that he began to come back to himself, little by little, listening to the sound of a human voice telling stories of love and hatred, despair and the occasional happy ending.
Gambit had brought plenty of books but he stuck mostly with novels, and old ones at that, E. M. Forrester, Henry James, Jane Austen, a little Steinbeck when he wanted more drama, or Orwell if he wanted essays.
Slowly Wolverine began to recover, help with the cooking, do the dishes. He began to speak more, but as he came into a greater awareness of himself and his surroundings he spoke less, aware that conversation with Gambit was largely superfluous.
Listening to the boy as night after night as Gambit mouthed the words of emotion, subtle and understated or overdrawn, trying to get his mind around the concept, trying in some ill defined way to get a handle on what he had lost, Logan began to understand what had been done to Remy, more than he ever had before, more than Remy even understood it himself. Logan knew he�d been a fool, been so busy being angry, too busy to look and see the genuine suffering before him, the suffering that was all the greater because it was not really suffering at all.
One night he stood in the door of the den, watching the Cajun, who had fallen asleep on the couch.
Gambit had brought him back, against all odds, long past the point where anyone with any capacity for frustration or despair would have given up.
The smooth auburn hair brushed Gambit�s cheek as he rolled over murmuring in his sleep. He looked so perfect, smooth and beautiful as always. Standing in the doorway Logan could pretend that nothing was wrong, that any minute Remy would open his eyes and stretch out a hand, smiling for Logan to join him.
But the moment did not come. Instead Logan went over and sat down beside Gambit, stroking his face softly. The red eyes opened. �You need something cher?�
�Yes.� Logan bent his head and softly brushed the Cajun�s mouth with his own. Pleasure washed over him, heightened by the feeling of the Cajun responding to his kiss. Logan reached out and pulled the boy in closer, feeling he had come home at last.
It was Gambit who broke away first and Logan pulled back slowly, unwilling to meet the flat red eyes, to shatter the illusion of having his kid back again.
Gambit ran a hand slowly down Logan�s cheek. �I don�t want to hurt you.�
�Believe me,� said Logan softly. �I think that�s inevitable.� He reached out and pulled Gambit closer to him, telling himself that he could be satisfied with the illusion, that for tonight at any rate, the illusion would be enough.
It almost was.
But in the morning he felt dirty, as if he had violated Remy somehow, or the memory of Remy, Taking advantage of this person that couldn�t really understand what Logan wanted from his embrace, although Gambit was as agile in bed as ever.
Really, thought Logan in disgust, it was a form of necrophilia. He rose early and began packing up the truck. In a few hours Gambit came out to help.
It was time to go home.