Even as Jean worked with Cerebro to trace Remy's "signature", question upon question raced through her mind, demanding multiple fractions of her attention. Why was she alone in receiving Gambit's lapses in control? Why had he released that incredible psi-storm she'd been witness to? Why, why why? All the why's of the world, and no answers.

This time, however, she had found a path to follow, and it led to Canada. *Why on earth would he have picked Canada?* As the echoes of Gambit's emotional explosion faded, she struggled to narrow it further, before he could vanish again. Finally, as as the last echoes dissolved into the vastness of the astral plane, she achieved …victory.

She'd found him. Now remained the question of what to do about it? He'd made it clear that he wished no contact with the X-Men, but she was worried about him. Scott stood right beside her, focused on every atom in Cerebro's display panel, sharing her desire to find Gambit, and practically vibrating with the desire to atone for their damaging misinterpretation of past events.

As well, Gambit himself was operating under several incorrect assumptions. He didn't understand that every single member of the team wanted him back. He had no idea that Rogue was driving herself with an intensity never before displayed, rewriting herself in an effort to ask his forgiveness for her weakness, and her failure to be what she should have been. There were sure to be lapses, but her obstinacy was legendary, and she'd focused on a goal she had no intention of being swayed from. Not for Remy, but because of him. All this and more, he needed to know.

Well, she'd answered her own question of what to do about finding him. They were going to have to talk to him, and they were going to have to do it soon.

She turned to Scott, knowing he'd find a way to make it happen. He was the team's leader, and as much as they poked fun at him for it, there was no one better suited to fill the position. His reserve with others somehow made you feel that your secrets would always be safe with him, and his open command of any situation assured you that there was a goal that could be completed with some action on your part.

The X-Men were comprised of adults who were more than capable of thinking for themselves, and for all that they teased and tormented each other like rival siblings, they knew the tremendous strength of will it took to outline a plan of attack in a hopeless situation. They knew that his clear thinking and ability to put "hopeless" aside were the very points that had made him a leader in the first place. What kept Cyclops as leader, was the fact that his plans worked, hopeless situation or not.

And now, he had to find a way to bring back Remy. Or not.

**************************************************************************************

Rogue knew she was dreaming, but she didn't want to wake up. She'd been dreaming about Remy, and she snuggled the feeling of him into her heart. If dreaming of him was the closest she could get, she'd hang on to the dreams with a death grip.

He seemed so sad, in this dream. So incredibly, awfully sad. She could see the blue swirl of tears intertwined with the muddy brown of unhappiness. Tears escaped from under her closed lids in empathic sympathy. The distinctive dusty cinnamon color she would forever associate with Remy permeated her senses. Her sleeping mind tried to merge color with memory, attempting to impose Remy's face over her dream, but the dream refused to comply.

She could see him, sort of, in the way you always saw a familiar person. You didn't see them, you saw the sense of them, the personality. Which is so often why you don't notice a friend's new outfit, or that their hair is suddenly six shades darker. You cease registering their physical characteristics, and they become a feeling, an evocative name. When someone said "Logan", she didn't think "Short, stocky, kind of fuzzy, mean looking guy", she thought "difficult, grouchy, sarcastic, friend." He wasn't a compilation of physical characteristics, no one was. When someone said "Remy", she was attacked by multiple emotions, each competing for the right to be recognized first. It took a moment to remember to attach a face to the memories. Often, she simply allowed herself to feel all he was to her, without holding his picture before her eyes. It wasn't necessary.

His sadness was still growing. Why was he so sad? How could she help make him feel better? *Please come home, Remy.* It was a wish from a wide-open heart. *I'm so sorry. Please come home.* Even dreaming, she knew the illogic of her simply wishing him home. Wasn't going to happen. He must have zero desire to see any one of them again, after the way they'd forced him to leave. So what if it wasn't entirely their fault. It had taken Jean erasing Remy's accidental manipulations for them to admit they'd done something extremely harmful to him. She felt angry at them that they'd not been willing to believe in him with unconditional trust. And then she reminded herself again that she was no better. She'd done much worse; had verbally attacked him with venomous accuracy. The others had merely reflected what they'd received. She, on her own initiative, had driven him away, and she'd done it all by herself.

So, who was more wrong?

Calmly and silently, Remy had completed the arrangements for Dakota. In lieu of any relatives who'd mattered, he'd taken control of her hospital bills, and … other arrangements. The hospital hadn't asked questions, and he hadn't volunteered information. He'd arranged for her to be buried in a simple plot nearby. One last task had made possible a small marble and granite statue of an angel, with an inscription at the bottom that read:

DAKOTA

She made me see so many things.

May her gifts be rewarded.

Even though her hospital identification had provided them, he added no other names, nor dates. Somehow, they seemed unnecessary.

Later, he and Chat visited the gravesite. Standing there, feeling closer to her, somehow, Remy began to talk. He told Dakota about how he missed her, and how he wished he could hear her telling him to keep caring about people. He told her of his struggles every day, and how frightened he was, facing the surgery Doctor Harrigan had planned. About how dispirited he sometimes got, and how thinking about her made him smile, although it still made his heart ache.

He sat cross-legged at the side of her grave, and held Chat close as he continued. Telling her of all that had happened in the last two weeks.

He told her that he'd received a letter from the X-Men, and how they'd figured out what had happened. He bowed his head, and told her how confused he was, how he didn't know what to do. He didn't know if he could go back. He wasn't the same person, and he didn't want to be that person anymore. He'd shed all his masks with the fire, and the thought of putting them back on left him uncertain and uneasy. He wanted more for himself this time, but what was more? He stopped short of asking her what to do. He knew she'd have told him in no uncertain terms to figure it out for himself.

Feeling somewhat better after spending an hour talking to her, he smoothly rose to his feet, and turned to go, having never uttered a word.