itâs not fair, he wants to say.  he had his trial.  he paid the price, almost giving up his life for it.  she doesnât know, of course, x-men preferred to keep this quiet and sweep it under the rug after they left one of their one to DIE in the middle of freezing nowhere.  remy could still remember the feeling of another entity taking over his body, him willingly offering it just so he wouldnât succumb to the cold, or starvation, fatigue.  how can he look directly into wandaâs hues and tell her that her father held the mock trial, forced rogue to absorb his memories and RIP THEM OUT without a drop of objectivity;  no, it was a cocktail of shame, guilt and self-loathing.  this is something he has tried to hold on to, as for a reason why he was left behind, but the truth hurt more:  rogue was the only one affected by it, the others couldnât care less.
     so how can he try and explain now, without any fear pulsing right around his larynx, that wandaâs reaction is going to be just as bad ?  there are things sheâs better off not knowing, or so he thought.  now, however, heâs rethinking even that.
     â maybe, i was desperate anâ dumb enough tâmake a deal witâ someone i shouldnât âave.  maybe i didnât know any better.  witâ my powers back then, i would âave easily done much moâe harm thanââ â  he stops himself, his words sound like an EXCUSE, and he shakes his head.  â heâŚÂ  told me tâget a team, get âem intâ the tunnelsââ i didnât know.  not befoâe the bloodshed started anâ it was already too late.  i swear i didnât know. â  heâs not brave enough to ask for an apology ( nor does he find the strength to muster up a sentence for that, he had been begging for forgiveness long enough, like a starving dog they refused to trust with a bigger bone each time ), and should this have been anyone else, he wouldnât be waiting for her judgement either.  he knows itâs not pietro that has whispered this into her ear:  annoying as he found gambit, he isnât angry enough.  magneto, on the other handâââbut he doesnât open his mouth to speak the manâs name still.
            â THEREâS AN ODD kind of stillness to her. she sits, shoulders straight, no usual tapping of her foot. even her hands are still, fingers laced, white knuckled. no one had said anything to her. how blind had she been? if her father knew, then who else? and who else here? how many of the x-men had seen her hang around gambit and then said nothing about this? her jaw sets tight. painfully tight. looking at him, her emotions are swirling. she likes gambit. or liked? she doesnât know how to feel. she knows sheâs angry. and upset and frustrated. sheâs practiced controlling her emotions, that comes with stillness, and silence. if she didnât, she knows the cost, she knows how her vision turns red and how uncontrollable it gets.
so, she sits, she stares, she tries to keep her breathing even.
â who? â she says, â made a deal with who? â she peels her fingers apart, wrings her hands out. this explanation isnât making her feel any better. though she didnât think that it would have. not if it were true. and it apparently is. a shaky breath passes her lips. all those mutants dead, a secret buried; one spilled by her father, whispered in her ear. why? to hurt her? to anger her? to make her hate gambit? just âŚÂ why? everything had been fine, hell everything had been good. theyâd been friends, having fun, and now there was this. she shoves the heel of her palms against her eyes, then she looks back at him. â what happened? after the tunnels? â it canât have just ended there. she hadnât let her father say anything more, albeit she wasnât sure he was going to. â how did my father know? â
