Any Kinda Breath

by Kaylee

It's adenocarcinoma, Mr. LeBeau. A non small-cell type of lung cancer.

He blinked slowly at the framed watercolor on the wall and let the words run through him.

How... how do y' know? How can y' know?

Another long blink. The watercolor was an original Cézanne. A study for one of his most famous pieces in his 'Bathers' series. Remy had pinched it from a rich miser who'd hung it in a trophy room and left it to gather dust. For a while it'd been too hot to unload, and by the time the coast was clear he'd fallen well and truly in love with it.

That was art. Timeless.

But I feel fine. It's jus' this cough, neh? I've had worse. Got better from it, too.

The room was warm, the heater having been turned on before he ever got up there. Bobby, probably, since he couldn't remember taking the time to do so earlier. Funny, that little gesture of consideration. The cold never bothered Bobby.

And here it was heading into winter. Snow and snowmen, ice and everything that went with it. Santa, eventually, and plastic reindeer on top of houses.

The door opened, soft shush of wood over carpet. He blinked slowly at the painting. Cézanne had such a fine hand for displaying imperfect humanity in all its blunt beauty.

"Remy."

He looked. "Salut, Bobby."

The man took a step inside and closed the door, dropping them back into semi-darkness lightened only by a bit of starlight. Remy could still see, though. His eyes were good in the dark.

"Hank... told me. He said... he..." Remy gazed at him, red and black and dry-eyed. "Oh god... Remy..."

And then he was crying. Crying, and Remy was staring at him, distantly aware that he should be doing something. Instead he just sat in the chair against the wall, gazing, listening to voices in his head.

Bobby kept standing there, tears coursing down his cheeks, body shaking all over.

He remembered to stand eventually, moved by something more instinctive than reason, and held open his arms. Bobby was in them in less than a heartbeat, silent tears becoming loud, wrenching sobs that made his body shudder, his uninjured hand wrapping so tightly into Remy's shirt that the fabric popped in complaint. Trusting that unconscious drive Remy rubbed his back with one hand, then the other, whispering, "Hey, hey, it's okay." Nonsense words. Just sounds and syllables. "It's okay, it's okay." Meaning nothing at all.

They found their way to the bed. Remy sat himself against the headboard, not releasing Bobby from his arms or paying any attention to the sting of bruised flesh, listening to the wracking sobs with detached fascination. "It's okay... it's okay..." And his hands stroked as if they knew a secret magic, and Bobby clung to him and said words like "can't" and "you" and "cancer." And after awhile the tears eased and the sobbing was dry and the face buried against his now-damp chest stopped pressing so insistently into him. There were hitching breaths for a short time, slowly spacing themselves out.

Bobby fell asleep against him, and Remy stared at the Cézanne and listened to his thoughts.

By the time the clock shone a steady 3:13, he'd found answers.

He tipped Bobby's chin up with a finger and arched his neck to breathe a kiss across his lips. The younger man stirred faintly at that, a wordless sound coming from his throat, and Remy kissed him again just as gently.

There was an answer in the braced hand that rose to curve around his neck, pulling him closer. Remy leaned in and slid his tongue into the waiting mouth, fingers lifting to stroke through disordered brown hair. He could play a kiss like the most subtle of blues, knowing the key of every chord, the touch that was able to coax out the most delicate of notes, the intensity that took the music of the flesh and let it vibrate in the air. He used every bit of that skill now.

He wanted Bobby to wake with nothing but that physical music in his mind.

A hand caressed down the T-shirt clad chest and tugged the fabric free from jeans, sliding back beneath it along warm skin. Fingers traced the muscle-cushioned bumps of ribs. He relished the shiver that called from his lover.

The Iceman, shivering. He had to smile at the thought, busy lips curving upward.

His mouth dropped to the throat so temptingly turned up to him. Was there an inch of skin there that he hadn't kissed? He decided not to take the chance, lips and tongue carefully thorough. Bobby gave a shaky sigh and rocked his head back. Remy could taste the tears that'd crept down from his face and stained his neck.

Tears. For him.

"Remy, I..."

He shifted and caught the lips again, driving the words away, emboldening the touch of his hands to push them further from conscious thought. No words here, no distracting thoughts. Just sensation and the emotions that went with it. Emotions that reminded him that he'd made it out of his frozen hell with his own two feet, but he hadn't quite escaped entirely. Not alone.

Maybe he'd never been meant to have this. Maybe he really should have died there.

But he'd savor this moment and everything in it now that it was here, and relish the sweetness of it all the more with knowing how short a time it would be.

He shifted, curling around Bobby, and the pull of the bruising across his midsection reminded him that he'd let those muscles stiffen too much. Bobby seemed to sense his not-quite-flinch and sat up, pulled away, eyes opening to full wakefulness. "Wait, you're not--"

Fingers across his lips silenced him, and then Remy was back at his neck, his throat, easing up to an earlobe and catching it in a so-soft bite. Still he said nothing, guiding with touch alone, and Bobby slowly sank to the mattress under his determined ministrations.

A gift, then. Unnamably precious. Unwilling to realize his own value in Remy's eyes or what his love meant to a man who'd believed that life would always be about paying the debts of yesterday.

Love like that wasn't meant to be tested so harshly. It wouldn't be. If this was justice, at least justice had been kind enough to allow him these past months.

Bobby gasped beneath him, and Remy smiled an unfettered smile as he sought to bring the sound again.

He'd felt for years as if the ax hung over his head, waiting to fall and deliver the only sentence that was right, and now the waiting was over. He'd done his best to balance those scales tipped so far from level so long ago. Maybe he'd even halfway accomplished that. He'd tried. God, he'd tried.

Bobby breathed his name like a prayer and shifted, turned, tried to take a more active role. Gentle hands pushed him back down and a kiss kept him there.

"M'amour," he whispered against the gasping lips. "Let me."

"But..."

Another kiss, then another, deeper, soul-searing. "Shhh," he breathed when he broke it, dropping his lips to tickle an earlobe. "Shhh." He drew back enough to meet the bright gaze and to see some of the messages in it; trust, longing, and beneath those...

He focused on the trust and longing and kissed those eyes closed to hide the rest.

His hands roamed with the freedom Bobby had granted him all those months ago, seeking out familiar contours, playing fingertips over skin to call that note from the quivering body. Back to those lips, more ardent, not demanding so much as giving fiercely. His body hovered over the other's, supported by a quick hand here, a shift to an elbow, a hip settling briefly against blankets. Never still or resting for a heartbeat, divesting the both of them of clothing in motions so smooth and practiced that Bobby didn't seem to realize their nudity until he finally let himself lay against him, desire fully evident and impatient. Where fondly named Jacques was in a hurry, however, Remy intended to take his time.

It was amazing how the importance of Time became so much clearer in just one night.

Bobby breathed like a small steam engine, panting quickly and rapidly, his fingers tangling in the blankets.

So much seemed so clear, now! As he stroked the planed lines of his lover's body, breathed in the scent of sweat and arousal, he marveled at the immediacy of the clarity he'd been searching for his whole life. Somehow it didn't even strike him as unfair that he should only start to understand it now. Understanding at all was something he'd never believed himself capable of.

He wasn't quite sure of just what he was understanding, but he knew it was profound.

Bobby's left hand tangled in his hair as Remy nibbled his way down the fit body. His lover had never bulked up tremendously, but his build was more compact than Remy's and carried the weight more densely. He'd been conditioned over these past months -- pushed himself more than Remy'd ever seen him push himself before -- and his body reflected it.

Remy took Bobby in his mouth, slowly, ears attuned to the barely verbal responses he drew out of the other man. Just a taste, a touch, a silk-smooth warm caress with lips and tongue, and Bobby's breath exploded. Another stroke, fingers tickling lower still, and his lover arched up with a cry and nearly gagged him.

("Bobby's fitness level has risen tremendously in the past few months," Scott said, unaware of the lurker just outside of the War Room who overheard the conversation to Muir. "And I can't imagine how he's gotten so flexible.")

Remy nearly choked again, this time for a far different reason. He did not need to be thinking of Scott Summers while making love to Bobby. Some things simply... didn't belong. Ever.

A breathless, "Remy," and beckoning fingers opening and closing convulsively. He ignored them for the moment, mouth and hands already quite busy. Bobby shuddered again, groaning. How many nights had heard that sound since that first night? How many times had one or the other of them gasped or cried out or moaned in appreciation for the other's efforts? How many nights...

... how many nights would it not happen again...?

His own breath caught with something more complex than desire and he scooted up Bobby's length a bit, ever so briefly dropping his forehead to rest against the heaving chest. If he truly believed in God he thought he might take a moment now to pray -- to say, 'I can't, I can't, please help me, please,' not knowing exactly what he meant by the words but meaning them regardless. I can't. I can't. Please help me.

Please.

Fingers slid into his hair, caressing, then the other arm was over his shoulders, holding him there, holding him there, as Bobby shifted, stilled a tremble, slowed his breathing as if ready to ignore desire and end it all here and just hold him, he could let go... but he didn't want that, no thoughts now, no words even unspoken. He stroked the hardness pressing against his side and turned his pause into a leisurely tongue exploration of Bobby's skin. Stay in the moment. Cherish this. Make this time count. That was what he could do right now.

Bobby's left hand left his hair and caught at his arm, pulling, and Remy slid up to meet the request, as breathless in the kiss as the other man. The hand vanished, crept lower and surprised Remy with a caress just where he needed no more encouragement. He caught a shallow breath and held it, reaching down, catching the hand and pulling it to his lips for a quick kiss.

Bobby curled his fingers around Remy's and brushed them alongside the unshaven face, and Remy thought he felt his heart either swell or break, or maybe both.

Eyes still full of that trust-longing-other, Bobby lifted his head from the pillow to kiss him again, then started to shift to turn over. Remy put a hand to his chest and nudged him back down. The smooth brow bunched slightly in question. "But..."

"I wan' see y' face," Remy murmured. "A'right?"

A slow nod with blue eyes luminous in the dark. Remarkable eyes. So plainly human, and yet somehow still he found himself drowning in their depths. Especially now, especially knowing... knowing that...

Not now, something deep in his mind decided firmly. Not now. Now was for something else...

And then...

Sound and sight and feel, all together, joined in some single overwhelming sense that fit no one name except

Sweat and heat, and Cajun French breathed in a rhythm with moving bodies. Bobby'd asked him once what he said when he spoke that way, and Remy had grinned his most charming grin and said that a guy had as much right to his secrets as a woman, didn't he? Which was just his way of avoiding the fact that there were some things he was ready to say that he wasn't quite ready to have heard. Some things that just... just...

God, the warmth, the warmth everywhere... in his loins, in his mind, in his chest, in his... heart...

Everywhere.

Some timeless eternity later found Remy slowly easing an arm out from beneath his lover's shoulders, ears attuned to the level breathing and listening for any hitch. Bobby slept the sleep of the sated, and the innocent. The Cajun had been slipping out on both for longer than he'd been calling himself 'Gambit.'

... even if he wanted nothing more than to lay his head back down on that smooth chest, grip arms around Bobby's waist, and hold on as tightly as he possibly could, not letting go, not letting go... holding on tight and saying goodbye all at once...

He made himself don clothing with quick motions, denying instinct its gratification and not permitting so much as a look back at the quiet form on the bed as he dressed. There would be much to explain later, but still riding that wave of almost-euphoria, he didn't even dread it.

Before he left he stopped to breathe the lightest of kisses over the hair-shadowed forehead. "Je t'aime," he whispered too quietly to wake the other. "Don' ever doubt that."

Bobby's lips curved, but he didn't wake, and Remy made no noise at all as he slipped out.

***

He didn't plan on sitting. He didn't even plan on pausing for long, really, since this announcement shouldn't take more than a minute at most. Less than that. It wouldn't go over well, but it didn't have to. Henri didn't have to like any of this any more than Remy did, but he had to accept it.

As Remy had.

Henri turned his full attention on him as soon as Remy pushed open the double doors and walked into the lab. He was alone this time, Dr. Niles gone for parts unknown, and he looked haggard and unkempt. "Good morning, Remy."

"Mornin'."

Henri gestured to the mismatched couch and chair in the corner. "Have a seat."

"Non."

A quick look, sharp. Very sharp for six AM. "Pardon?"

"Non." He cleared his throat, then carefully smoothed his voice into unaccented English. They took him more seriously when he minimized the accent. "I'm not sitting. Or staying. I just came down here to tell you that I won't be taking the treatments you offered."

Henri didn't move for a whole minute. Remy watched the seconds tick by on the large clock on the far wall. He couldn't read the spectacled blue eyes, but that didn't change his resolve. Silence wouldn't sway him.

The doctor walked a few steps, seeming uncharacteristically flatfooted, and turned with an abrupt, graceless motion to lean up against the central table. "Why don't you explain why," he invited in a voice that held no question.

Remy kept his voice low and clear, calm and steady. "You won't understand this. I don't think someone like you can. You're too..." A small smile. "... too much of a decent man."

"Forgive me for not seeing just what your opinion of my decency has to do with your decision to refuse treatment."

No, this wouldn't go well at all. Remy lost the smile. "You told me you didn't know how I survived. Down there." He almost shivered with the word. "Antarctica. Remember that?"

"Of course. The conditions were extreme and you weren't equipped. Your survival under those circumstances is as close to a miracle as anything I've witnessed."

"What if it was a mistake?"

Henri's eyes narrowed slightly. "I believe I just misheard you, Gambit."

Remy gestured expansively, wishing there was a way to convey exactly what was in his mind... all that confusion and the giddy thrill of discovery. "Seems to me that whatever's up there or out there is trying to balance the scales. To fix a problem." He took a breath, shallow enough not to call on that deep cough, and rushed the rest out. "I wanted that trial, Henri, an' I wanted to... pay for what happened. And I didn't pay. Not like they did. It's not right, an' I'm thinking it was just an... oversight. And I was supposed to die."

Then he stopped and caught his breath back, watching carefully. Somehow those words hadn't sounded as... reasonable... as they'd sounded earlier in his head. And he didn't think he'd conveyed the understanding he wanted to convey at all.

The blue eyes held his for another minute -- also counted by the slow ticking of the clock -- and then, as if Henri timed it precisely, he reached up at the minute mark and pulled his glasses from his face, dropping them in dexterous furred hands to be polished against his lab coat. "Tell me something."

"What?"

The voice was tight... sounded very angry. "Have you enlightened Bobby with this... discovery of yours?"

Remy looked away. Dropped his voice a little, half-consciously. "He ain' ready t' hear it." He barely noticed how easily his accent had crept back in. "I know it's gon' be hard on him... but..."

"'But'?"

This wasn't going anything like what he'd planned. He should already be gone, not standing here discussing this. And where was that surety going, that comfort in his decision? It was here just a second ago... just a heartbeat, really...

His throat was suspiciously tight when he made himself look back to Henri. "It'd be a lot harder f' him t' watch... t' watch it happen slow."

Where had that come from?

Henri didn't put the glasses back on. Didn't move away from the table. "You've become an expert on cancer in the past twelve hours, then? I must say, I'm astounded that you've managed to compress twelve years of education into that many mere hours! Most impressive, Gambit. For your next trick why don't you make the Statue of Liberty disappear?"

Remy swore harshly enough to almost set off his fickle lungs, then had to stand there under those furious eyes for long seconds while he fought for composure. That wasn't just anger in that tone, no; that was disgust there, twisting it, making the normally melodic baritone vicious.

His surety in his decision was fading so quickly that not even a ghostly afterimage tickled his mind in parting.

"I heard what Dr. Niles said," he rasped when he was able. "Bad odds, Henri."

"You're the gambler." Coldly. "It was my impression that you liked bad odds. 'Makes the pot sweeter' -- isn't that what you said?"

Somehow he kept himself from snapping at that. "Y' wan' cut out my lung. Pump me fulla poison."

"At this stage we don't even know if any of that would do you any good," Henri said bluntly. "We have more testing to do to discover if it's even operable." Slowly he put the glasses back on. "Don't you even want to know?"

He made a desperate last grab for that certainty that this was only justice. "Maybe I ain' meant to. Maybe this is the universe settin' t'ings t' right."

A glint of a fang between blue lips. "Oh, I see. And the universe just happened to decide to punish Bobby the same time it caught up to you."

"That ain'--"

"Because that's how he'll see it, if he hears you speaking this infantile rubbish. He's barely beginning to accept that being a homosexual doesn't mean that he's a freak or damned, and now you wish to tell him that some higher power -- God, as it were -- is actively punishing you for past crimes. What on Earth do you expect him to think about that, particularly when he sees that you've chosen not to fight? What's more natural at that point than the assumption that he is likewise being punished? And tell me... just what does Bobby have on his conscience that he feels is perhaps worthy of condemnation other than the societal prejudice he was instilled with regarding his own orientation?" Henri crossed his arms over that thick chest and paused as if honestly waiting for an answer, then continued without letting there be one. "I suppose everyone who has been afflicted with a severe illness such as this is also being justly punished by higher powers. Let's look at Legacy, shall we? I'm sure that Jamie Madrox was a truly deplorable person. Certainly he hurt enough people in battle to deserve that manner of death. What about Moira? She had a son who killed people. Perhaps she's damned for that? We'll ignore for now the fact that she's given more to this world, unselfishly, than almost anyone either one of us could name. I'm certain that she deserves this punishment, indubitably." His voice went glacial. "In fact, only little Illyana could have deserved it more."

"Va te faire foudre," Remy spat. "Don' try t' turn this into--"

"You," Henri said, firmly enough to override him, "began this. I'm merely following it through to its logical conclusions."

Other than more profanity, Remy couldn't think of anything to say.

And after a moment Henri continued with a marginally less biting tone. "You have lung cancer because you smoked cigarettes every day for most of your life. Not because of some divine punishment. Not because of a nebulous 'balance' the universe maintains in each of our lives. You smoked. You got cancer." Another step down in tone, eyes gentling just a bit. "Sometimes it really is that simple, Remy."

You smoked.

You got cancer.

That simple.

His feet suddenly didn't want to hold him. Rather than letting himself collapse ignobly right where he was he somehow made himself walk the interminably long three yards to the stool by the nearest bed, and he sank to it with a not-quite-steady motion. Just sat and stared blindly at nothing.

A whisper of bare, furred feet over the floor. They sounded like slippers, those feet. Henri pulled another stool around and sat a few steps from him, wordless.

Eventually Remy asked quietly, "Y' t'ink I got a chance?"

"I don't have an answer to that yet." Always honest with him, Henri. He could at least count on that much. "That's what the tests will tell us."

I don't want to die, he wanted to say. But there wasn't much point in saying that, was there? Instead he asked, "When... y'know... when do we get started?"

There was a pause, then an indrawn breath. "I'd like to get some blood, and another sputum sample. Then..." A hand was suddenly on his shoulder, and Remy looked up into eyes that held no hint of the anger of minutes earlier. "How much have you slept in the past few days?"

"I don' know..." He made himself think about it. "Few hours. I--" He stopped himself. Henri already knew about the... panic attacks. "I guess I'm a li'l tired."

"Yes, that's what we in the scientific community call 'a big fat lie.' I'm afraid that's not even worthy of the slightly less stigmatic label of 'understatement.'"

It wasn't enough to bring a smile. "But y' said we can do these tests, neh?"

Henri didn't comment on how willingly he changed his focus one hundred and eighty degrees. "I need blood, and I need you to cough for me. Then you will get some sleep if I have to knock you out to inspire it."

"But--"

"This afternoon we'll begin." The hand squeezed his shoulder, once. "But first, sleep. I can't overemphasize how important that is."

He couldn't hold that gaze any longer. With a sigh and a nod he dropped his eyes to the floor again. "D'accord."

"I'll ask you this one time, and one time only: Are you through playing games?"

His eyes closed and he nodded again. "Oui."

Another squeeze and the hand slid away. "Good." Gently. "I know this can't possibly be easy, Remy." And rather than waiting for a senseless answer of agreement, he stood and went about gathering what supplies he needed.

He breathed too deeply and his chest seized up. The coughs hit him hard, robbing him of breath, tearing his chest, tasting foul.

Sometimes it was that simple.

***

Hank met Bobby just outside the medlab doors, having been warned in advance by the ping of the elevator. Bobby's feet were bare, his hair mussed, and he wore only hastily drawn on jeans. Those normally quick, bright blue eyes stared out between red-rimmed and puffy lids set in a sleep-lined face. He looked anxious and tired all at once, like he'd cried himself to sleep and woken to find that the world had gone wrong somewhere. Or stayed wrong, stubbornly refusing to go back to normal when the sun rose.

Even in this midst of his hurry he calmed when he saw Hank. "Is he down here?"

"Yes." Hank waited patiently while Bobby stepped forward to peer through the windows on the medlab doors. Remy was already asleep in there; he'd dropped off nearly the moment his head had hit the pillow, letting three days of near sleeplessness catch up with him all at once. And as for any other concerns Bobby might have had...

"Blankets," Bobby said quietly. "You put them on?"

"Yes."

Bobby took a breath. "He gets cold real easy. He won't admit it, but he does."

"I'm aware of that."

A restless brush of a hand through slightly longish brown hair. "I woke up and he was gone. I didn't know where he went."

"He... wanted to come down to talk about the procedures we'll be doing." All true. "We'll begin this afternoon."

Bobby didn't even look at him. "Earlier he was so... he was..." A pause. "I thought he might be planning something stupid."

"He's not, Bobby." Not now, at any rate. "But he needs sleep right now more than anything."

"Yeah." Eyes flicked to his, then back to the windows. "He doesn't look bad, does he? I mean, he doesn't look sick."

Hank put an arm around the other's shoulders and started to steer him away. "Come on, Bobby. Allow him his rest. Maintaining his general health is the most vital thing right now."

"But he doesn't. He looks fine." He let himself be guided, but his head was still turned back toward those windows. "I just don't get... how he can be sick."

"His general overall health is misleading, I'm afraid. It made it far too easy for the symptoms to be overlooked." This wasn't a direction that would be particularly helpful, Hank decided abruptly. "I imagine you'd like to discuss our next step...?"

Finally Bobby let his reddened eyes come back around, nodded and looked ahead of them instead of behind as Hank motioned him into a waiting room. Bobby took a corner of the neutral beige couch. With an eye to comfort Henry sat down beside him rather than across from him. Clinical detachment would only frighten his friend more.

The blue eyes were still distracted, but fixed on him readily enough. "You said last night that there were more tests you had to do. Before you'd... know."

Everyone always wanted it to be so simple. Easy answers, everything laid out, the problems clearly defined so that coping could begin. Hank only wished he had some way of making that happen now. To just be able to say, 'Yes, he'll live, but he must undergo this treatment,' or even, 'I'm sorry... there's no chance' -- allowing them the opportunity to know how much time they had. It was this uncertainty, this fear-hope-confusion-dread, that made the process so anguishing.

"I'll be doing a CT-scan this afternoon," he said, losing himself in the details of what he could accomplish instead of musing over what he couldn't. "Marcus was able to pinpoint what appears to be a growth on the X-rays. Now we need to get a more detailed image of its exact size and location. The scan will supply that as well as showing us whether or not there are other growths the X-ray hasn't revealed and then, using that information, we can conduct a biopsy." He'd explained this to Bobby earlier but wasn't entirely sure of just how much had actually reached through the haze of shock.

Bobby blinked a few times, visibly making himself focus. "Right. And the biopsy is for... what'd you say it was for?"

"It will tell us what type of cells any abnormalities the CT-scan reveals consist of. It's necessary to allow us to be certain of what we're dealing with. We were able to isolate the reactive cells when we ran the cytology on the sputum sample, but that doesn't necessarily connect those cells with the mass seen on the X-rays."

"'Abnormalities,'" Bobby echoed distantly. "You mean the... c-cancer."

Hank nodded and wondered how long it would be before Bobby would be able to say that word without his voice threatening to break. "That's correct. What we do from that point will depend on what we find in the biopsy."

"When will you... the biopsy? This afternoon?"

"Tomorrow morning. Marcus will be arriving at seven."

A short nod, almost composed now. "And after that?"

"... A lot depends on the results of the biopsy."

"Hank..." Just his name in a level voice, but there was no mistaking the pleading in those eyes. Bobby was managing by dint of some heretofore-unseen self-control to keep his expression almost unreadable.

Almost.

Well. He might as well have some idea of the possibilities now. "If the biopsy tells us what we believe it will tell us, the next step will be a relatively minor surgical procedure to test whether or not the cancer has entered his lymphatic system."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, it will tell us if the cancer has metastasized." He explained that before Bobby could ask: "If it's spread beyond the localized area, which in this case would first be detectable in his lymph nodes."

"And if it has?"

"If it has..." He hesitated. It was early, and they really didn't know much yet. Perhaps too early to put forth such a grim possibility.

Probability. Nine out of ten adenocarcinomas didn't show symptoms until after metastasis. Marcus had commented that if the abnormality he'd noted was the cancer growth it was unusually central for its type, more likely to trigger symptoms early, but nevertheless -- there still remained a ninety-percent chance that Remy's cancer had already spread. And if that were the case...

If that were the case, Bobby had a right to know about the ramifications ahead of time. "If it has, we begin looking for signs of cancer cells throughout the body, primarily in the liver or brain. Adenocarcinoma is usually... an aggressive form of cancer. If it has gone systemic it will probably move quickly. And if that's the case... there isn't much we can do. Pain management, mostly. Perhaps we could give him a little more time with radiation or chemotherapy..."

Bobby's throat bobbed on a hard swallow. "More time before... before he dies."

There was no point in circling it. "Yes." No point in dwelling on it yet, either. "But it's far too early to look at that as the only possibility, Robert. We may discover tomorrow that surgery will be a viable option."

"You said you might..." He paused long enough that Hank almost spoke into the silence, then continued just before the words would have come. "You might cut out his... his lung."

"It's a possibility. Another is that we'd have to perform a lobectomy -- ah, removing just a portion of the lung. I wouldn't worry so much about that... we humans generally don't use nearly our full lung capacity, so with a little training and practice he should be able to recover quite comfortably."

"But he could never... I mean, he wouldn't be..." Hank barely held that gaze, those desperate eyes. "He hates being sick. And not being able to be active, he just wouldn't--"

"Stop." Bobby stopped. "Listen to me." He at least looked as if he were listening... "I do not have all the answers. No one-- no one does. We could go in tomorrow and discover that there's absolutely nothing we can do." A sheen of moisture sprang instantly to the eyes holding his own so intently, but nothing fell. "We may also go in and find that a lobectomy could facilitate a remarkable recovery. We don't know." Bobby blinked, too rapidly, and Hank reached out to rest a furred hand over the uninjured smooth one. "I would love nothing more than to be able to give you a straight answer, Bobby. Any sort of answer. But I'm sorry to say that all I can do is explain each phase as well as I am able."

An unsteady nod that was so far from real comprehension at this stage that Hank felt a pang for him. "That guy that was here... Dr. Niles...?"

"He's the best oncologist in the state. Perhaps even in the country."

Bobby nodded again, breathing out a little shuddering breath, and pulled his hand free gently to rub it over his eyes. For a long moment he just left his hand there pinching at his forehead as if to ease an ache somewhere inside.

Then he dropped his hand and turned to lean back, the top of his head just bumping the wall over the sofa, staring at the utilitarian light fixture. After a moment of the heavy silence Hank stood, intending to give him his space, let him digest this information in his own way.

"Wait."

"Yes, Bobby?"

He didn't look away from the light. Kept staring, and suddenly Henry noticed that his eyes were... shining? Not with damp moisture, but...

Frozen.

And he didn't blink anymore when he cleared his throat and said, "I'd like to know... what you're gonna be doing. Details. When and, and how and why. I wanna know everything you can tell me right now."

Oh, Bobby. He closed his eyes briefly behind their spectacles, then opened them and slowly sat back down. Across from the couch. And waited until the frozen eyes looked at him.

"Not like that, Robert," he murmured. "You know the danger of a partial transformation for any length of time."

"I'm okay like this."

"No." I'm so sorry, my friend. He had to have enough faith in Bobby to believe he could handle this, though. No matter the findings of the biopsy, he knew that it would get much--

--much--

--harder before it was over. He couldn't encourage Bobby to start removing himself, one little step at a time. His friend would never last that way; not on this long road.

"I will answer every question you may have, but not while you're like that."

Bobby stared at him with those glassy eyes for a few seconds that felt much longer, then nodded once. The ice receded without fanfare and left two blinking blues in its wake.

"Thank you," Hank said softly. Those eyes were warming, tearing up already, but he found the tears easier to gaze at than the other. "Now... what do you want to know, Bobby?"

Another blink, sending a few unselfconscious drops down unshaven cheeks. "Everything," he said simply.

Hank settled himself more comfortably and prepared for a long morning.

***

Time. Tripped. By.

Bobby'd been staring at the clock for exactly seven minutes and twenty-four seconds. It fuzzed out every fifteen seconds or so when his gaze went unfocused, but he quickly narrowed his eyes and brought the picture back clearly. If Time insisted on traveling so slowly then it would have to contend with his scrutiny.

It sounded stupid to him even as tired as he was, but he found comfort in his inane distractions. Before this had come counting how many times the letter 'e' was used in an article in Newsweek magazine. For all that he'd been trained as a number-cruncher, though, he'd lost count somewhere around three hundred and nine. Before that was an attempt to estimate how many small glass pebbles were in the bottom of a very fake floral arrangement that graced the waiting room table. He'd poured the thing out finally and counted them up, one by one, and took no particular pleasure in noticing that his guess of four hundred twenty-eight was only off by fifteen. Before that he'd closed his eyes and focused on his heartbeat for a while in a futile attempt to lull himself into a snooze. Before that he'd paced an ordered little path back and forth, back and forth, until he was fairly sure that he'd worn a patch of carpet down to threads, though he hadn't bothered to check. Before that...

Well. It had been a long hour. Long enough for him to realize that most of his mind-absorbing distractions featured meaningless numbers, which made him wonder why he hadn't been more successful as an accountant.

Nine minutes, two seconds.

It wasn't fair. It really, really wasn't fair. One minute Time was racing along merrily, dragging him by the scruff and not giving him a chance to even get his feet beneath him, and the next it... stopped. Paused. Held still and breathless, keeping him waiting in this room for more hours in the past few days than he wanted to remember. Hurry up and--! Sit here. Rush-rush-rush and--! Relax. Take a breather. Watch the Country Music Channel.

No. It definitely wasn't fair.

He could be watching the 'procedure.' The 'operation.' The thing they described by nice detached words that didn't say what really happened. He'd sat -- well, stood -- in the observation room for the biopsy, cringing internally, heart pounding as that needle was guided by unfeeling machinery down, down, down... denting the flesh of Remy's back, piercing, penetrating, traveling through him down into the 'abnormality' in the lung... And he'd stood in there for the longer hours the next day while Dr. Niles made an incision just below a collarbone Bobby loved to kiss, watching the calmly professional doctor pass a snaky metal thing into the cut, guiding it beneath flesh down Remy's torso until it gathered the evidence it needed to indicate that the cancer had not, thank god, spread to the lymph nodes. That was the moment the question was answered; there was the instant when they found out that Remy actually had a chance.

He'd stood in there this morning, hardly noticing the voices of friends who'd tried to offer support that he didn't know how to accept, and he'd tried not to go pale when he saw what they were doing, saw how the motionless man was laid on his side, saw the blood from the incisions, saw the thing they used to spread the ribs, Remy's ribs, apart, saw...

Ten minutes, forty-three seconds. He stood and started pacing again.

A lobectomy. Doctor-speak for "we're gonna cut out a piece of his lung and we're not putting it back, but don't worry, he'll be fine, unless he dies on the table or the disease is more widespread than we think in which case he won't, but you probably shouldn't worry too much about that, he's really healthy except for this whole deadly cancer-thing, so don't get yourself in a tizzy, Bobby, just sit down and smile and drink coffee or take a nap and this'll all be over in just a few hours, honest, really, there's a lad."

Okay, so that wasn't exactly what Hank and Dr. Niles had said... but it was definitely the gist of it.

They'd been in there so long. Bobby's nerves had driven Jean out early on, her pretty face pinched with the pain of the headache he'd inadvertently caused. Scott hadn't lasted anywhere near as long as she had; his personality didn't bear up well under the constant fidgeting, and Bobby hadn't been able to force himself to listen to a word the leader said. Rogue had put in her appearance, then quietly left. Logan hadn't even poked his nose in. By now he was down to Sam Guthrie, who'd thus far survived by simply being quiet and remembering many short errands that got him out of the room frequently.

Bobby tried to appreciate their support. He really did. But it was so hard to divide his attention between their well-meaning words and the realization that everything - hinged - on - this. What the hell did the quiet assurances of "it'll be okay" mean against that knowledge? How could anything be "okay" until Hank marched his furry blue butt down here and walked in and looked at him and said it was all "okay"? For all the years that Bobby had uttered those same reassurances, he'd never before truly realized how completely shallow and meaningless they felt from the other end.

And Time just kept dragging...

***

The blue furred face was either the most wonderful or the most terrible thing Bobby thought he'd ever seen, and it all depended on what words he was about to hear rumbled out in that baritone voice.

Hank smiled tiredly, but it looked (please-god-let-it-be) genuine. "We're through. It went well."

Bobby just blinked at him, not quite sure he understood. "He's okay...?"

A nod. The doctor clasped his shoulder. "He's in the recovery room. The operation went... resoundingly well, actually."

Tears tried to fall, then forgot to and just stayed quivering and ready. He couldn't pull his gaze away from his friend's tired, spectacled eyes. It wasn't possible. The nightmare couldn't be over so quickly. It couldn't be true that he could stop fearing now, that these feverish four days were finished...

"Is he... better? I mean, what's it...?" Don't dare to hope don't dare to hope don't dare...

"We're going to start him on chemotherapy as soon as he's recovered enough from the surgery to withstand it, as I explained to you," Hank elaborated, taking a seat on the overstuffed couch and motioning Bobby to sit across from him. "But for now..." He smiled more broadly. "Marcus is guardedly optimistic."

Bobby sank down to a chair, feeling as if his legs had turned to Jell-O. "He... he's okay. He's really okay." He fixed Hank with a dazed look. "Really?"

"It's a little early to say that there won't be any further complications," Hank cautioned, "and we do still have much to do before we can say he's safely in the clear... but it looks auspicious at the moment."

With a breath that wanted to catch in his throat Bobby tipped his head back and closed his grainy eyes very briefly. All the apprehension of the past days and nights... all the desperate searching for some guarantee that it would be all right... and now Hank had done it. He'd given Bobby the miracle.

Thank you, he thought; at Hank or at something bigger, he wasn't sure. I promise to never again put Insta-Curl in Hank's shampoo, or say the 'G-D' word, or make fun of televangelists, or... or... It didn't matter. None of that mattered. Only-- Thank you.

Hank was waiting patiently, and when Bobby finally opened his eyes the blue lips were again stretched in that quiet smile. Bobby swallowed hard and returned the expression more stiffly. "Can I see him...?"

"Of course." The doctor stood in a shush of fur and lab coat. "I believe you know the way..."

Hank watched as Bobby quickly gained his feet and hurried out, to all appearances intent on being there when Remy awakened. His younger friend had so far risen to face these trying circumstances with the fortitude Henry had always believed was hidden behind the mischievous grin. It was encouraging, that determination. Heartening. If Bobby's resolution had faltered in these past four days then the coming months would have looked very bleak indeed.

They were going to be long months, but for the moment at least it was appearing as if Bobby would be able to bear up under them. Hank mused on that briefly, finding reassurance there, as he headed more composedly for the recovery room.

***

No one had remembered to mention the coughing.

Remy counted that as a relatively small offense in the larger scheme of things, but when it was coupled with the wide assortment of other small offenses it came to carry a bit more weight. They hadn't remembered to mention the coughing and they'd let the fact that he'd have to practice 'deep breathing' twice a day slip their minds. Neither of these things were comfortable. Neither made him a particularly happy Cajun.

"The cilia in your lungs that you destroyed by smoking are recovering," Henri had informed him matter-of-factly; almost cheerfully. "They aid in a process that transfers mucus up along the walls of your lungs to your throat, where you then swallow the mucus down your esophagus as your body's way of disposing of it. Smoking deadens the cilia, so now that the hairs are functioning again you've got mucus with smoke byproducts -- tar, for example -- that's been trapped in the bottom of your lungs for years being brought up, thus the sooty color. It will pass in time."

Remy rather thought that he didn't really want to know that. Any of it. Ever.

Now he was supposed to be 'taking it easy.' Three weeks after the lobectomy he was still shaky on his feet, knocked to his ass by a bad enough cough. Dr. Niles had said that they wouldn't be starting chemotherapy until after he was comfortably back on his feet, which was almost enough encouragement to stay in bed longer... but the enforced idleness was driving him to new extremes of mentally climbing the walls. Being the sort to always be on the go, he'd never really noticed just how many hours got inconsiderately crammed into each and every day.

And as much as he appreciated Jean and the support she'd offered for his relationship with Bobby, he thought he might very well tear her a figurative new hole the next time she gave him that encouraging smile and said, "You're really doing so well."

He sighed now, forcibly deep to exercise his diminished lung capacity, and focused on what he'd been doing for the past fifteen minutes -- walking the hall.

This never used to be so exhausting.

Warren, thank whatever watched over thieves and rascals, wasn't an issue at the moment. Not only had he and Betsy not been staying at the mansion, but now he'd been summoned overseas for 'business interests' that needed his personal attention. Elizabeth herself had yet to show any intention to return to action now that her telepathy was defunct. It had come as no surprise to hear that she'd accompanied Warren to Europe; Remy had gathered that she was showing increasing interest in the running of Worthington Enterprises.

Heh. Maybe the unpredictable lady would go vicious-bitch on Warren, insinuate herself into his finances, then overthrow him and keep the fortune for herself. Though he didn't particularly like Elizabeth, Remy couldn't deny that he found a certain appeal in that thought...

At the top of his current avoid-if-at-all-possible list, Rogue was showing an uncomfortable amount of interest in his health. He was never sure how to respond to her less-than-tentative overtures of 'friendship.' What had gone wrong between them still rested solidly on his shoulders, he knew that, but that didn't erase the edginess he felt in her presence. The awareness of his current... vulnerability... doubled when she entered the room. Tripled, even. He recognized it as a subconscious reaction, out of his immediate control, but still battled with it whenever it made itself obvious. He didn't want to be a slave to memories of past mistakes.

Scott was distantly supportive, though he was clearly not planning to get involved in Remy's treatment any more than he had to, which suited the Cajun just fine. None of these people were particularly 'friends'; the time when he would've given them that label had pretty much gone the way of the dinosaurs and didn't look any more likely to return.

He chose to ignore the creatures currently living in the Savage Land. They ruined his analogy.

Sam Guthrie was busily falling into his role of trying to fill the gap left by both Remy and Bobby taking leave time from active duty. The kid was running himself ragged with a cheerful smile. Bobby admitted in his more uncomfortable moments that Sam's example was enough to have him more than a little ashamed of his past history of underachievement. Remy didn't have the energy to blunt the edge of that self-castigation these days. In what he considered his more selfish moments he found himself simply hoping that they'd pass with time.

Then there was Logan. Logan, who was the only person in the mansion who treated him almost exactly the same as he had previously. The Canadian never went out of his way to ask how Remy was feeling or knocked on his door when he hacked and wheezed and groaned and generally felt impossibly sorry for himself in between his bouts of resolution to get himself back to full functionality as quickly as possible. Logan hadn't said a single uncharacteristically nice word to him in all this time, and Remy wouldn't have it any other way.

It would be less tortuous to him, though, if the man would obey Henri's orders and quit smoking.

Smoking. Remy missed smoking. He longed daily for that feeling of scratchy warmth, filling roughness. It didn't matter that he was living through one of those horrible commercials they put out to keep kids from picking up the habit; he still wanted a cigarette first thing in the morning and last thing at night.

He didn't have the breath to spare to sigh as he slowly paced the empty hall, but he felt the sentiment fully.

When his breath gained the warning rattle loudly enough that he couldn't ignore it he forced himself to slow, heading straight for the room. Anytime he pushed it did this. In a moment his chest would seize up, his throat would constrict, and he would--

He'd almost made it to the room when his fragile control over his lungs fractured and the agonizing coughs hit. The lightning stabs of pain stretched all the way from muscles along his ribcage, still recovering from the surgery, to the very top of his skull, which seemed to want to pound merely for the pounding. He gritted his teeth, fumbled his door open, and walked/fell through gracelessly.

A'most twenty minutes, he thought with satisfaction that wasn't entirely occluded by the pain. Four days ago it'd been barely over half that. Measurable improvement. It somehow made the coming months less daunting.

He clutched the edge of the dresser and fought the clawing, tearing, damp coughs grimly.

The door opened -- he saw the motion out of peripheral vision -- and then almost immediately there were hands on him; left at his back, brace-wearing right half-clutching at his tense biceps muscle. "What are you doing up? You should be in bed... easy, breathe shallow..."

It made him struggle harder to control himself. After a too-long space of minutes he was slowly able to quiet the coughs, standing with his eyes closed and still holding tightly to the dresser. Bobby's worried murmurs hadn't stopped.

When he could speak again he said, "'m fine. Leggo."

Bobby didn't seem to hear him. "C'mon. You should rest."

"Non, I--" He forced himself to slow when his throat gave a warning squeeze. "Non. I ain' gettin' better by spendin' all my days in bed." He shrugged roughly. "Let go."

Expression bordering dangerously on shattered/scared/oh-no-don't-be-mad-at-me, Bobby let go and took a very small step away. "... Okay. ... Are you gonna lie down?"

"Tu ne m'aide pas..." he all but growled, voice strangled still. "Y' wan' keep me in this room f' the rest a my life?"

"No!"

"Then I gotta walk--" He had to pause to catch his breath. "--don' I?" For once he didn't feel up to taking the time to soothe Bobby's ruffled feathers, either. "Jus' gimme some respect here, Bobby. This is hard enough wit'out havin' t' fight you."

"... fight me...?"

Remy straightened and forced more breath down into his lungs. "I'm gettin' myself better so they can start poisonin' me that much sooner. I'm tired an' I'm hungry an' I don' feel good, but I still got enough common sense t' decide when I need a 'nap.'" He scowled irritably at Bobby's outright-conflicted expression. "An' merde, don' look at me like that right now."

Bobby blinked, stricken puppydog-eyed look chased away by the blank surprise on his face. Cleared his throat, opened his mouth as if he were going to speak, closed it and rubbed his left hand through his hair restlessly. "I... uh... then is there anything I... can... do? Anything?" There was almost a wistful note in his voice. "There's gotta be something..."

"Y' can drop the solicitousness, f' starters," Remy informed him in a voice that he couldn't really claim was anything other than a grumble. "I don' like bein' babied."

"... okay. Um." He tugged at his brown hair absently, briefly catching his lower lip between his teeth. "You're annoyed. Aren't you?"

Red-black eyes rolled in exasperation. "No, Bobby, I always like t' hack an' wheeze an' tell my boyfriend t' buzz off."

"... oh. Um." He turned a little hesitantly and took an uncertain step for the door.

Now he was running? Remy felt the bite in his voice and was too tired and generally grumpy to restrain it. "Where y' goin'?"

A startled look. "You said... you're hungry, right? I thought you might want... something to eat..."

It was Remy's turn to blink. "... Oh." Well. That was... thoughtful.

Of course it was thoughtful. When Bobby wasn't hovering anxiously, all but begging for something to do, he was always thoughtful. Which wasn't always the same as helpful.

But it was rather difficult to stay mad at someone who'd been all but waiting on him hand and foot, completely absorbed in his well being, for nearly three weeks. No... counting those nights of the panic attacks, those arms in the dark, it was a good bit longer than three weeks.

Thank God the panic attacks at least were in the past. Henri had explained to him that in all likelihood they were a symptom of his body trying to tell him that something was wrong -- a subconscious defense mechanism. It sounded true enough, and they hadn't returned since he'd found out about the cancer, so...

So... Bobby was still staring at him, looking very much as if he expected another rebuke. Remy sighed silently and didn't let himself show how weary he was when he pushed away from the dresser and walked over to take him in a hug. Bobby hugged back, arms as tentative and gentle as they'd been since the surgery.

Then Bobby drew back, expression suddenly purposeful. "I'll go get food. You do whatever... whatever you need to do. I won't be long." Now that he had a Mission he was in a hurry to get started. He planted a quick kiss on Remy's lips and vanished through the door while Remy was still trying to think of what kind of food to ask for.

"Huh."

Well, there wasn't much he wouldn't eat. He shrugged, considered his respiration for a moment, then decided that he might as well walk himself into another coughing fit. Painful, yes, but the sooner this was over, the sooner the chemo would be over in the long run, and the sooner Remy could look back on all of this as a particularly ugly dream.

He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair to order it, and opened the door to begin again.

[next part]

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