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{Post Antartica Story. T his chapter can stand alone. Remy is nto always kind and forgiving.}


"Y'look freezin' Gumbo."

Remy just took another pull on his smoke, holding that little bit of warmth inside until he had to exhale. "Oaui, well you try sleeping on a glacier couple weeks and see how warm you feel."

He didn't look up at Logan, didn't move under the pressure of his expectation. The man had been at him for a couple of weeks now, trying to get a rise out of him. Everyone was. Pushing at him with guilt or anger or hate or something. Remy just held it all out, keeping his game-face on didn't let any of it touch him. After a few moments, Logan left.

Remy smiled, small and cold.

It took him awhile to figure out why he'd come back. Why he'd crawled out of Antarctica, begged a ride on a Russian hauler, why he'd hitched himself all the way back to New York and the very folks who'd tried to kill him. But he figured it out, sitting awake at night, too cold too sleep. Too sick to eat. Revenge.

Every morning he went down to breakfast and conversation stopped. When he walked down the halls, eyes turned away. So, he went to breakfast every day, he didn't hide in the boathouse, didn't let them drive him away with their hypocrisy. Remy made them suffer. Every day, he breathed in and out, and just the sight of him made them suffer. He was going to make them look at him every day of the rest of their lives.
He could taste the guilt like poison in the air. Already Scott and Warren suffered it, an old friendship shattering under the weight of Remy's silent, living presence. Hank was nearly sick with shame and every time he turned away from his apology, it was like a knife in his heart. Rogue might take longer but Remy could tell she was beginning to hope he still loved her and might someday forgive her. He could use that - and he would.

The others, the ones who hadn't been there, he didn't care about. Remy shut them out, they weren't much more than ghosts. Like him.
Because, Remy knew that's all he was. A ghost. Nothing real had made it out of Antarctica. Everything important had died there. All there was now was revenge. It filled him up, cold and poison sweet. Sometimes he could see it, late at night, when he was too weak to move - green smoke would rise from his mouth and it tasted like hate. Sometimes, late at night, when he was too weak to move - he'd cry. But in the morning, he was just cold and all he was hungry for was revenge.