Comments; I know little of the comicverse; my knowledge comes mainly from cartoons, and latterly fic. Therefore, I assume a compatibility of age and circumstance with no attempt as justification. Just so as you know.
Btw, they are in Chicago. And no, not even I know the why of that one. I just like the place.

He’s sitting on the roof again, brooding in a way that only Logan has ever come close to matching. Impersonally, I can admire the skill; I mean, it takes years of hard practice to graduate from mere displays of pique to full-on angsting. I’d like to think I’ve got the knack, but I’ve been informed that my efforts definitely qualify as sulking (supporting as ever, Hank old buddy old pal). At this particular moment though, when all that well-honed brooding is being aimed squarely at me, I’m taking it a little more personally.

I wait for him to acknowledge me. He ignores me, something else he’s gotten real good at, especially since he got back. It’s not just me, either. Hell, we never spoke that much before, so no big deal, but when he’s giving Ro the silent treatment, it’s way past time to start worrying.

It’s cold up here. There’s an icy wind sweeping in off the Lake this evening, snatching at my hair and creeping in through the gaps between jeans and sneakers. I know it seems weird, but I think that I feel the cold more than other people when I’m in human form. I don’t know why, I suppose its one of the many things I haven’t yet discovered about my mutation. Whatever the reason, it’s chill enough for me to be wearing my favourite blue fleece, the one I like even if it does make me look sixteen. He, on the other hand, is wearing nothing but faded jeans and a ragged, greyed out old t-shirt. His hair is confined in a tail, but the ends are whipped by the breeze so that it looks in the twilight as if flames are licking greedily around his shoulders. A cigarette is wedged firmly in between his fingers, smoke curling from its tip in restless, drawn out spirals as he leans on the low wall, and stares out over the city. It’s all about fire with him, or at least it was.

I know he knows I’m here. He always knows exactly where everything around him is, which makes it really hard to set up a decent prank, and believe me, I’ve tried. Ro said trying to outwait Remy was a ‘foolish plan’ – thieves are trained to be patient. She doesn’t understand the amount of annoyance I can cause just by existing, but then, I like Storm. I bet Scott would have no problem at all believing that Remy would crack first.

With most people, I’d do that coughing thing to announce my presence – well, except maybe for Logan. Even assuming he didn’t already know I was there, surprising someone with a fistful of sharpened adamantium and a wolverine’s instincts is never a good survival plan. Of course, the same applies to a thief who can turn an innocent playing card into a bomb with a click of his fingers, which is why I’ve stayed silent. For an hour.

Storm may have had a point.

The glowing end of his cigarette arcs up, and he drags deep on it. I’m beginning to wonder of he’s ever going to breathe out, then a stream of smoke plumes up into the cold air. He sighs in that long suffering way that I recognise from a thousand futile attempts to reason with me, and I can’t help grinning. He’s good, but no-one’s immune to my powers of irritation. Jubilee said it ought to be classed as a mutant power; Bobby Drake, the Iceman, also the human equivalent of itching powder in your underwear, or at least the guy most likely to have put it there.

“Wha’d’you wan’, Icecube?” he says, with a faint tinge of resignation in his voice. Wow, name-calling already. I’m better than I thought, if such is possible.

“Just admiring the view,” I say, innocently. “Why does everyone always assume I’m up to something?” I put on my best injured expression, even though I know he won’t believe it. There is such a thing as tradition.

He turns fully to face me, attention engaged. He looks unaccountably amused, and half opens his mouth as if to say something, but then the grin turns wry, and instead he says, “Maybe because you an’ trouble are like Apocalypse an’ attempts at world domination?”

“That is so not true!” I protest, wondering what he was going to say. I know that look from the inside and it was almost definitely rude. He arches one interrogatory auburn eyebrow in blatant disbelief. “I’m much more creative, thank you” I say, grinning, allowing him the point.

He smiles despite himself. “Well, now you seen de view, maybe you wan’ go be creative inside,” he says. “Unless, o’course, dis is one o’ dem rare occasions when you are up t’ somet'in’?” Talking to Remy is fun; he’s one of the few people who bites back. He knows damn well I’m up here for a reason, though I don’t think he’s quite figured out what it is yet. Now I have to admit what I’m up to or go away – either way, he wins. I actually consider telling him the truth - ‘Well, hey, Remy, I couldn’t help but noticing the fact that you don’t talk to anyone unless you have to, you’re taking suicidal risks in fights, and you look like you haven’t slept in a year. Oh, and you’re spending all your time up on the roof in nothing but a t-shirt in the middle of Winter, when you only just got back from nearly dying in the coldest place on Earth, and no-one seems at all concerned about this except me’ - for about a nanosecond. After all, there’s only so much damage going ice can fix.

Luckily, I already have my excuse planned, which is brilliant (modesty is not a virtue, it’s a way to make sure other people get the credit for your good ideas), and has the added advantage of being the absolutely true.

“No one inside’ll play with me,” I whine, and I swear he flinches. The X-men have learned from painful experience that a bored and thwarted Bobby Drake is something to be feared. “Cyke’s in the Danger Room, so I can’t bug him. Ro’s meditating. Logan’s out, Jean has a headache, and Hank told me to remove my obstreperous and distracting presence from his heretofore tranquil laboratory before my juvenile prattle rendered him catatonic and quite unable to operate even the simplest item of equipment with any reasonable degree of accuracy.”

“He said dat.” Absolutely deadpan, but I think I’m getting to him.

“He also said that no matter how ingenuous I looked, no amount of dissembling would convince him I didn’t know that putting foot lotion in his shampoo would turn his fur green.”

“I wondered about de new fashion statement,” Remy says blandly, but his lips are twitching.

“Yeah, well, I really didn’t know,” I say defensively. “It was supposed to go pink.”

Finally he laughs, and I feel a weird sense of pride. I think it’s the first time I’ve heard him do that since he got back. Even when he’s unable to avoid everyone, they’re all on tiptoes around him, afraid to provoke him. They all think he’s unstable. I’m not quite sure what’s going on with him, but I’m damn sure that ignoring it isn’t going to make it any better.

“Drake,” he says quietly, and there is a tone in his voice that warns me he’s seen through my attempts to distract him. “Why are you up really up ‘ere?” Maybe he picked up my change in mood with that powerful but oh so fucked up empathic sense he’s supposed to have. I’d go to plan B now, except I never got quite as far as making it. So much for my excellent planning abilities.

I decide that now is a good moment to sit, and slowly settle down on the cold concrete, buying myself thinking time. I won’t tell him the truth. For most of his life, he’s only had himself to depend on. First, when he was a street rat, then during his Thieves’ Guild training, when it was only his abilities as a thief that stood between him and exile… and now, condemned as a traitor and left to die, alone, by the people who he should have been able to trust implicitly. Who should have trusted him. I still can’t believe that it happened, I mean, the great and benevolent X-men would forgive Magneto’s pet dog’s pet cockroach before they would cut one of their own some slack. Somehow I’m thinking that any suggestion of pity will definitely lead to communication, but unfortunately that of the sort which is both non-verbal and highly painful. All the old clichés pop into my head – ‘seize the bull by the horns’, ‘bite the bullet’, and my Dad’s old favourite, ‘take it like a man, boy’ (surely a contradiction?). Maybe he really is fine, and all I’ll get will be another humouring look and pointed dismissal to add to my already extensive collection. Yeah, Bobby, and maybe Sabretooth will go vegan and start a charity to feed starving babies in Africa.

“I told you, I like the view. Besides -” I grin wryly “- I’m not exactly Mr. Popularity down there.” I pause, judging his mood, then I take the plunge. “So, what brings you up here.” Not exactly charging into battle, but then, I never was very good at doing what my father told me to.

“Jus’ lookin’ at de view.” He gives me back my own answer, the slight rise of an eyebrow letting me know that he knows he’s won the diversionary skirmish, and is waiting for the real offensive.

“It’s not gonna go away if you come inside, you know.” He’s been up here every evening since he got back, and in the winter nothing changes but the thickness of the snow.

“Bobby, it’s not dat I don’t appreciate the effort, but I’d really like to be alone right now.” He crushes the stub of his cigarette against the wall with unnecessary force, and even in this half-light I can see the muscles in his lean shoulders have tensed up by the change in his stance. When you fight The Minions Of Evil on a regular basis, you learn pretty fast to look for signs like that. When the bad guys are just as strong and fast as you, knowing what they’re going to do next can save your life – not that I think Remy’s a bad guy, despite what others might think. Including him.

“Aren’t you cold?” It’s inane, I know, and I sound like my mother - for one bizarre moment I flash on an image of myself knitting mittens for him.

He looks up at me then, and a faint smile flickers briefly on his lips. “Dey tell me it’s all in my mind.” Despite the dark humour in his voice, his arms have crept up to hug around his body. It’s as if he’s seeking comfort the only way he can, when he won’t let anyone else touch the coldness inside him, and I don’t think he even realises what he’s done. Suddenly, all I can feel is the overwhelming urge to reach out and ease that need, give him someone else to lean on before he fractures under the weight of his guilt. It’s over just as quickly, but the power of it scares me and I take a step back before I can stop myself. I realise how it must look even as I do it. Rejection.

It feels odd to be on the other side for a change.

Large, clumsy snow flakes begin to fall into the silence, the kind that settle on absolutely anything and make me think of snowmen and snowdays. They cocoon us in a silent, frozen cloud, leaching away the energy that hums between us. The noise of the last few vehicles left on the empty roads is dulled by the gentle snowfall, and for a moment it feels like we’re the only two people left in the city.

He speaks before I can frame an apology for something I’m not sure he even noticed. “Why don’ you jus’ go back inside?” he says tiredly, and I realise he did notice, and that I was starting to get through to him, because I can see the change. Some light has dimmed inside him, and I have obviously confirmed his impression that not a single X-man really wants to hear his side of things.

I sigh. The first step to getting out of a hole is to stop digging it deeper, as Ma used to say. “I thought you might want to talk.” He’s not dodging this unless he’s willing to risk a six story plummet onto the tarmac below, which would be an excessive from of avoidance even for him.

He raises his head again, and his eyes flare. “I don’t.”

A wash of heat, anger, rises up in me despite myself at this flat denial – it’s not his fault; I just don’t handle rejection well, despite the large amount of practice I’ve had. “Then maybe I think you need talk,” I say, and I can’t quite keep the bitter edge from my voice.

“Since when did you become the team counsellor? I must be further out of de loop ‘den I thought.” He’s tense and jittery, but the words fall short of a sneer so he’s still in control. In fact, as I draw in the next breath to let loose at him, I realise he’s more in control than I am, and the whole point of this exercise was for me to help him. I let out the breath, unused, and begin again, reminding myself that this isn’t about my problems. Besides, I wouldn’t put it past him to turn this conversation against me, to try and make me forget that this started with me trying to draw him out. Just because I like him, doesn’t mean I can’t see that he can be a devious, dishonest, conniving, lying, selfish sonofabitch when he wants to be. Hell, that’s probably part of the attraction.

“I’m not a counsellor – I wouldn’t want to be,” - who’d let me counsel them anyway? - “I’m your team-mate, and I want to help -” He cuts me off, turning and stepping away from me. Giving himself space.

“Team-mates don’ leave each other t’ die,” he says flatly. The worst thing is that there isn’t even any bitterness in his voice. It’s just… dead. I want to protest and say it wasn’t me who abandoned him, but I know that in a way it was me, it was all of us, and we’ve all just been too self absorbed to admit the truth. Having him dead made all our lives easier, saved the effort of trying to find out why; of trying to live with him and the knowledge of his crimes. It seems unforgivably cowardly, when he has to live with that knowledge every single day, and looking at him now I’m pretty sure that he hates what he’s done even more than they – we – do.

I may not experience the emotion often, but I recognise guilt when it whispers in my ear.

“You’re right, they shouldn’t… but it happened, it’s done…” his eyes flare like Cyke’s and I hurry on before I create even more trouble for myself “…and friends help each other when they need it.” I swallow the hard lump of shame at this acknowledgement, but I can’t expect him to listen to me if I won’t listen to him. “Even if team-mates don’t.”

“You ain’ never been my friend,” he replies. There’s no malice in his voice, and I repress my natural reaction to say ‘of course I am’. He’s right, and it disturbs me when I realise that of all of us, maybe only Ro could ever have made that claim and had it be real.

“I’d like to be,” I blurt out, and then I realise it’s true. I think I surprised him too; he turns to face me again and stares. Having that red on black gaze fixed on me like a laser makes me flush, even in the cold, and my stomach clenches. I wonder if this is what it feels like to be judged, and if so then I think I’d be camped out on the rooftop all day and night if it meant I could avoid it.

“Why?”

I guess it’s the obvious question. I wish the answer were as simple. It seems odd, sitting here, looking at him, but I really haven’t thought about it. I really need to re-read the definition of planning if I get out of this intact. Perhaps it’s because we’ve got so much in common; both not quite in charge of our mutations, both not quite what we look like. The professor tells me that there’s so much more I could be doing with my powers. It’s almost as if he thinks I’m not-doing-it on purpose, which when you think about it, doesn’t say much about his confidence in my strength of character.

Okay, maybe I will get to grips with brooding after all. Hank, if only you could see me now.

However much I hate my inability to control my powers or my life though, I have to admit that Remy’s got it much worse. It’s an open secret at the mansion and on Muir Island, and in isolated caves in the Rocky Mountains for all I know, that he’s got some kind of telepathic or empathic skills that he won’t, or can’t, use. It doesn’t matter how many times he proves himself, they’re always waiting for the next fuck-up, the next opportunity to say ‘I told you so, he’s not to be trusted’. Me, well, every time I do something useful or courageous I get a pat on the head as if I were some dumb pet dog that’s just performed a trick that everyone thought was too complex for it.

I know that look young, harmless and stupid, and I know I act up to it, but irrationally it still bugs the shit out of me that all my fellow mutants, with all their different forms and faces, are just as willing to go by appearances as the next norm. Gambit is slender and pretty. He looks like a walkover, yet he’s clever, strong, and one of the most lethal and ruthless fighters I know, and that includes the Marauders. I think if it weren’t for Xavier’s decree he’d be quite happy to use terminal force. One time, I caught him using the Danger Room with the safeties off. I thought he was just cutting loose like we all do sometimes, working off a bad day, but then I saw his face… he was grinning with absolute, pure joy, like nothing bad could ever touch him again. I wonder if maybe that’s the first time that I really realised how different he was. After that, I began tracking the times he was in there outside of supervised training hours. He does it a lot for someone who’s supposed to be a slacker, more than people realise, and when he doesn’t have to hold back… well, he’s breathtaking. Yeah, I watch, and yeah, I don’t say anything. Call it the misfits sticking together, I guess.

Sadly, my internal eloquence deserts me as soon as I open my mouth, and what I actually come out with, in a fit of tact and subtlety which would do Apocalypse proud, is “no-one should be alone.”

“Not even me, eh?” he says, and have no idea what the emotion is that briefly twists his face. I count myself lucky that he doesn’t fry me on the spot, though the lack of unanchored objects might have more to do with that than a lack of desire to maim.

“Not anyone.” I know I’m flushed. I can feel the heat on my cheeks, and my heart has inexplicably speeded up, the adrenaline flowing as if I’m in combat.

“Why you never say ‘dis before?”

“You had Logan, Storm, Jeanie…” His face goes even blanker, if that is possible, and I realise my use of the past tense was possibly not the most diplomatic approach. I flounder on desperately. “I guess I thought you didn’t need me.” I don’t know where that came from, but replaying it to myself, I realise it’s absolutely true. Damn, when did I get to be that pathetic? How annoying, to have to admit that just maybe my exes were right. Even if my body survives this conversation, my ego might not.

“What makes you t’ink I need you now?” he says, but not maliciously, which reduces the unexpected hurt to something like food poisoning instead of appendicitis.

“I don’t see them out here.” I manage, perhaps more bluntly than absolutely necessary.

“Maybe dey know well enough to leave me alone right now.” His pale skin has gone almost translucent in the cold, drawing my eyes to the violent red of his irises and the flush on his cheeks. I’m running blind now, reacting rather than planning, which is probably a good thing considering where my scheming got me. But still – there’s a nagging feeling that I’m heading for a fall – a crash – something. I just can’t see it.

“Maybe they don’t know enough.”

“And you do.” His voice is perfectly even, perfectly bland.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say, blind instinct leading me to it, and the unexpected truth in that statement absolutely scares the crap out of me. The snow-silence returns as I suffer through this, this whatever it is. He regards me, crimson eyes blazing from the wax mask that cold and constant strain have made of his flesh. I am suddenly hyper-aware of the long, clean lines of him within those tight jeans and t-shirt, the elegance of his form, and then I blush at the unexpected poetry of my imagery. I’ve never thought I was good with words, but - he looks more alien than the real thing. He looks – beautiful.

God. The shock rocks me from head to toes, like a double shot of purest vodka fresh from the freezer, and I know, I finally know, exactly why I’m here. The only thing I don’t understand is why it took me this long to figure it out.

“Yes,” he says.

“What?” I blurt, suddenly convinced he’s developed full-blown telepathy and knows exactly what I’m thinking. Is his voice lower? Am I imagining it? Jesus, Bobby, I think, get a fucking grip.

“Yes, you’re here,” he explains, and is that a small trickle of amusement in his voice? Now, he wants to talk. And I just want to go. He does not want to know what I’m thinking. I project thoughts of dirty laundry, accountancy formulae and Summer water-bombing statistics, just in case.

“Oh. Yes. No. Um, I think you were right. I mean -” I’m aware I’m babbling, but who’s going to notice the difference? “I should probably go. You need to be -” I wave an arm out randomly at the silent city to indicate its solitary splendour “-alone.” And I need to be far, far away from here so I can digest this little revelation in peace, and then get quietly and deliciously fucked out of my head on the finest whiskey I can find.

“I thought no-one deserved to be alone?” he says, and that is so a smile. Or at least a smirk. What happened to the angst? I could deal with that. I liked that, apparently more than I realised.

“Oh,” I say, “You didn’t listen to me, did you? I mean, just look at, er,” arrghh – think brain, think “Buddhist monks -” thank you brain, I promise never to drink again “- all that contemplation on lonely mountain tops. Very together guys, those monks. Excellent models of, you know, um, togetherness. Except on their own Obviously.” Oh God, shut up, mouth, please. I need a drink.

“I don’t t’ink de monkish lifestyle would suit me,” he says, definitely grinning now, and I feel the sudden blush that hits me wash all the way down from my cheeks to my toes, passing everything in between on the way. And I do mean everything. Apparently, my subconscious having been hiding things from me, is now making up for lost time with all the enthusiasm of a Sentinel on a mutie-hunt. We’ll have to have a talk about this later, man to psyche, just as soon as I get my blood out of my dick and back up to my brain where it’s supposed to be.

He – and there’s no other word for what he does next – glides forward, and slowly brings up one elegant, long-fingered hand to rest, fingertips only, on my chest. “No, I guess not,” I choke out, not even able to remember the question anymore, and probably looking as stunned as I feel. Maybe he does know what I’m thinking, after all – though simple observation would tell him just as much as telepathy at this point. Five points of fire seem to be eating through my fleece, my shirt and the skin beneath, and I don’t want them to stop.

“Bobby,” he says, and the intimate tone of his voice sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine, “I think I’d like to test a theory.” The Cajun honey-rasp of his voice catches on my ears, spreading its own brand of liquid heat through my senses. Much more of this and I’m going to melt. I’ll have to rename myself Puddleman. Now that’s a name to inspire fear in the hearts of my enemies - “Watch out Havoc – he might splash on you!”

“Okay,” I manage, with as much coherency as I can muster, which is to say, none.

“I just wan’ to see if you really as clueless as you seem, cher,” he murmurs, soft and low and intimate, and before I even have a chance to summon my indignation, he leans in, and he kisses me. On the lips.

And a second later, with tongue.

At first it’s gentle, tentative even, and I dimly realise he’s not half as sure of himself as he’d like me to think, before it quickens, catches fire, sparking flame from my tongue where it twines eagerly with his (clueless, eh?). My brain short circuits and drags up words like lime, silk, cherries, coffee, ashes, but that’s not what he tastes like at all. His mouth is slick and hot and demanding, and he’s kissing me like he’s starving, like he’s been alone so long that he’s afraid he’s forgotten how it feels to be wanted.

He kisses me like he needs me.

Finally, he releases me, and for one crystal clear and undeniable moment, all I can think is please God, don’t stop.

“Christ,” I say, shakily. At some point he ended up pressed against me, the hand that was on my chest now spidered out flat between the press of our bodies. I can feel the pounding of his heartbeat vibrating through the fine bones of his fingers, and I realise that though fast, it’s no quicker than my own. I shudder briefly - if Magneto, Sinister and the entire Bolivian army stormed the house right now, my most effective defence would be to spew ice-cubes like some malfunctioning refrigerator.

“So,” he says, slowly, and I feel the buzz of his speech vibrate between us. “I guess no.”

“No what?” I’m really not holding up my end of the conversation here. But then, I am a little distracted.

“No cluelessness. I ‘tink.” He sounds a little unsure, a little poleaxed, and paradoxically that strengthens me, to think that maybe we’re both equally lost.

“You think?” I say, the germ of an idea ripening. Me, clueless? Ha! “Then –” I take a deep breath and hope to God that I’m reading him right, that this is finally the ‘real’ him under all those masks “- maybe you should try it again? Hank always says that a good experiment produces repeatable results, after all, and we should all strive to be thorough, shouldn’t we?” I know I’m rambling again, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

I’m just starting to think I’ve miscalculated, when an unexpectedly warm hand curves round my waist. I happily reciprocate, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. His other hand moves up my chest, the friction doing interesting things to my nervous system, and rests on my shoulder.

“All in de name of scientific research den?” he asks, a dangerous, sharp-edged grin twisting across his mouth. The hurt is still there, and the anger, clamouring for attention, but if I can drown it out, even for a little while, then perhaps he can one day find peace. I know that I’ve always craved affection. I need to be held, I need to be needed. Maybe now it’s my turn to be leant on.

So, I smile, and move closer. “All in the name of research,” I agree.

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