The Blind Eye: Part 1

by Kassia

Marvel owns the X-Men. I am not making any money off of this story, and will probably continue not making money off it well into my twilight years. Feedback of any sort is, as always, welcomed with open arms.

This one's for Ebonbird.

Personally, I think alligators have the right idea. They eat their young.
-Eve Arden, "Mildred Pierce"

Part 1

Scott stared at the paper. So far, he had gotten as far as etching one large 'S' at the top. It returned Scott's bemused regard with blatant contempt.

He looked pointedly away, glancing around the study. His glasses painted the already dismal room in shades of red, as if some overly artistic director - one destined for commercial failure - had filmed the scene. Even the heavy shadows which draped the room were tinted red. Red, the color of blood and battle. Sometimes Scott wished he was colorblind.

Inevitably, his strained eyes returned to the light. The small lamp sat on his desk, illumining the paper that lay in front of Scott, and its single, mocking graphite 'S'.

He was not going to do this. He would not put his paranoia on paper.

But he knew he had to.

Firmly, he put the tip of his pencil down next to the 'S' and wrote out, neatly and deliberately, 'Suspects.'

He stopped and chewed on the end of the pencil.

Alphabetic order would be the best.

After a few false starts, in which he accidentally skipped some names, he at last had a complete list. Eleven suspects, written out in Scott's precise handwriting:

Angel
Beast
Bishop
Cannonball
Gambit
Iceman
Phoenix
Psylocke
Rogue
Storm

and, of course,

Wolverine

He stared at it for a few moments, before putting light lines through Storm and Psylocke's names.

Beside 'Beast', he jotted down 'Check alibi'.

Then, so slowly he could hear the sound of the pencil scraping against the paper, he drew a thick line under 'Gambit'.

*-*-*

Scott had always been a field leader. Someone who took charge when there was no time for a committee decision, no time to pool ideas and opinions, though enough X-Men tried to make the time. But during battle the team was not a democracy and, even if he made a wrong decision, he knew a wrong decision was less wrong that no decision at all.

Outside of battle, there was more time to consider all the evidence, to weigh the pros and cons. To make a well-thought-out mistake, instead of a quick, easy mistake. That was where things got complex. Icky.

It had started off fairly simply, on a pleasantly warm Tuesday. While the other kids played outside, Storm and Scott had come to the Professor's office to be debriefed on the latest mutant-related atrocity.

The meeting wasn't exactly eventful, but certain odd details stayed in Scott's mind. He could remember what Storm had worn - strange, since he never paid much attention to clothing. He certainly couldn't remember was Xavier had worn. But he knew that Storm had been draped in white, and wore sandals that snapped against the floor as she walked.

"Two boys. One a mutant," the Professor said, his tone straightforward, yet somehow still... compassionate. Some corner of Scott's mind spared a moment to admire the man's ability to keep his professionalism without becoming callous.

"How did they die?" Storm asked. She had a knack for asking questions that Xavier was going to answer anyway. Of course he would get to that eventually, but Storm had to show she was paying attention - mainly because she never looked like she was. She was staring out the window the whole time, eyes fixed on that sunny, green world that lived outside that little bubble of murder and violence that was Charles Xavier's office. She would've driven a high school teacher insane. But Storm was always paying attention. Always. Assuming otherwise could be a dangerous mistake.

"They were beaten to death," said Xavier.

"It is possible that it was a race killing," Scott said. "That is a neighborhood where that sort of thing happens." He hated that they automatically jumped to the conclusion that it had to do with mutancy, and so had to do with the X-Men. Now that he looked back his annoyance at them doing so was rather... hypocritical.

"That's very true, Scott." Xavier took two papers from his desk, and handed one to Scott, one to Storm. "However, we have forensic evidence to indicate they were moved after they were killed."

"Ah." Storm's mouth and throat tightened briefly, and then she went on, "There are any number of explanations..." Xavier held up a hand, and she stopped speaking immediately, a well-honed reflex.

"The non-mutant boy," Xavier dropped the words into the conversation like stones into water, "was was Marvin A. Gatsburg's son."

"Gatsburg the FOH Gatsburg?" Scott asked, and the nervous knot of his stomach became a bit tighter.

"You said the boy's name was Adam *Stevens*," Storm pointed out.

"His mother remarried, and he took on his step-father's surname. But you see where this leaves us."

Scott rubbed beneath his sunglasses, and said wearily, "With a huge mess."

Xavier nodded. "I want you two to look into this. Make use of any resources we have, human or otherwise, but try to keep between as few people as possible. We don't want to make any waves with this investigation. Scott, you'll start at Gatsburg's end. Ororo, you'll investigate from the victims'. The other boy was Nicholas Beal. He seems to have the ability to secrete a substance that would form a hard outer layer over his body, rather like a giant body scab." He passed some papers and a photograph to Storm.

Scott leaned forward to take some papers that Xavier passed to him. "Do you think we have a conspiracy on our hands, sir?"

"I hate to jump to conclusions, but I think it's safe to assume that whoever was responsible for these killings had some sort of political agenda."

Storm's face contorted with revulsion as the Professor said 'political agenda.' Scott rather suspected he had a very similar expression on his face.

After Xavier had finished relaying all of the other information they had to work with, he released them. If the Professor's information about Gatsburg's recent financial transactions was accurate, Scott was pretty sure he knew where to start. He went to track down Warren.

He found him working at a computer, his flawless features contorted in a scowl.

"Warren, I need your help."

Warren ceased typing and swiveled in his chair to face Scott. His expression smoothing out into one of polite, and no doubt spurious, interest. "Yes?"

"You know Charles Yeats?"

Warren pursed his lips thoughtfully, and Scott gave him a moment so that he could use his phenomenal memory for names and faces to dredge up the information. At last he said, "Yes. I met the man briefly a year or so back. He was Ray Forsythe's right-hand man then. I haven't heard anything about him since."

"No reason you should have. He's still with Forsythe, doing the same old same old."

"Still evading taxes, cheating his boss, and working hand in hand with the FOH?"

"You don't miss much, do you?"

"Not where business is involved, no. Or the FOH. But why do you bring him up?"

"It's about a killing yesterday."

Warren's gaze grew cold. "What did that bastard have to do with it?"

* * *

Jean was pleased to find that there were no white couches or armchairs. She didn't like white upholstery. It wasn't that she objected to them on aesthetic grounds. The fact was, she was a housewife at heart. She wasn't ashamed of it; quite the contrary, since she lived in a world where housewives were more of a novelty than super-spies and ninja assassins. And, as a housewife-at-heart, she knew that white couches and armchairs were extremely impractical, and ended up looking dull and

grungy in anything but an absolutely sterile home.

Jean drew her attention away from the living room furnishings, and back to the issue at hand. The former Mrs. Gatsburg (seated in a deep green and extremely comfortable looking armchair) was staring at Jean with guarded hostility. Ruby Stevens was a small woman, with a determined nose that dominated her face. She watched Jean steadily from the depth of large, tear-drop eyes, looking away only to pick up the cigarettes at her elbow.

"Do you smoke?"

Jean shook her head.

Mrs. Stevens lit a cigarette. "It's a useful habit. I took it up to stop biting my nails."

"I don't bite my nails."

"Really? That's surprising. I'd be biting my nails to stubs if I had to interrogate grieving mothers."

Jean had been an X-Woman too long to be fazed by the glare the woman cast her. "I can understand if you're uncomfortable talking about this, Mrs. Stevens."

Mrs. Stevens shook her head, and blew a cloud of smoke. It hovered above her, like a dark halo, constantly mutating.

Jean sighed, and then perked up as she at last identified the vibes she was getting from the woman. She had been categorizing them under the broad name of 'fear', but 'wariness' was far more accurate. But of who? "I'm a mutant, you know," she said softly.

The dead boy's mother raised her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I haven't been sent by the FOH, or any affiliate organization. The opposite, actually. I can prove it." She spoke into the woman's mind:

"That doesn't prove that you're not with the FOH," Mrs. Stevens said calmly, careful to convey no emotion in her voice. "I've heard Hitler was part Jewish."

Jean frowned. She had been sure that that would work.

Mrs. Stevens' fingers were tracing a pattern on her skirt. Jean watched the movements sharply, as if the woman would trace out a message on the somewhat crumpled polyester. But Mrs. Stevens saw her watching, and stilled her hand with a frown.

*Honestly, Jean, are you blind?* What more could the woman tell Jean than she already had? It was made obvious by her behavior, by her responses, telepathy be damned. She was so careful to display no affinity for nor hatred of mutants, yet she had slipped when she used an analogy which left the FOH playing the part of Hitler. She was wary of FOH spies, not mutant ones.

*The enemy of my enemy is my friend.*

But the woman wasn't just afraid of the FOH, no. She was afraid of Gatsburg. Father of her son.

There would be no violation of mental privacy, not this time. It was quite unnecessary. Jean sat quiet for a moment longer, forming a subtle but effective psychic link with Mrs. Stevens. The woman seemed to feel something was happening, and she glanced at Jean sharply through the haze of smoke.

said Jean, rising in as non-threatening a manner as possible,

To her surprise, Mrs. Stevens smiled a slow, sad smile as she rose to see her telepathic guest to the door. "Like in a fairy tale," she said softly.

"I wish," said Jean, and took her leave to go report to Storm.

* * *

Jean paid the taxi outside the gate, and began her walk back towards the mansion. Her progress was slow - she was in no hurry, having nothing important to report. Mrs. Stevens' suspicions had been just that, suspicions. What Ororo and Scott needed were facts. Still, it felt good to know she had given the woman some security, with their newly formed psychic link.

She was about half-way to the mansion when, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the back of a light haired head. The person was seated on the bank of the little stream that cut through the lands. Leaving the long driveway, she began walking towards the figure.

The stream was relatively quiet, so he must have heard her approach, but he didn't look up, not until she said, "Hi, Sam. How're you doing?"

"Hey, Jean. Ah'm good."

"Mind if I sit with you a minute?"

He obviously wished to be left alone but he was studiously polite - like all Guthries but, alas, only one Summers - so he nodded, and gestured for her to have a seat on the grass next to him.

"You just got back from somewhere? Or just out walkin'?" Sam asked.

"I went to see the mother of Adam Stevens, one of those boys who was murdered three days ago," said Jean.

Sam's face became solemn. He reminded her so much of Scott, sometimes... "Poor woman," he said. And he meant it, of course, because if there was one thing Guthries knew it was the value of family, and sometimes Jean loved them for it.

"She's having an awful time of it," agreed Jean. "I formed a psychic link with her, so she could call us if she needed us. Even though it's only a light connection, I can still feel all of her fear and sadness, because it's so strong."

Sam bent his head to get a better view of her face. "Really?"

Jean nodded absently, staring down at the water.

"Having someone else's pain in your head, especially if that person had just lost their child..." Sam frowned. "Ah think that would drive me crazy."

Jean looked up quickly at him, and, for a second, seemed not to move, not to breathe.

Then she smiled, and Sam thought maybe he had imagined the moment. "I'm going inside." She stood up, and added as a worried afterthought, "Sam, you'd tell me if anything was really wrong, right?"

He smiled, a lop-sided smile, not unlike Scott's own self-deprecating one. "If something was really wrong, Ah don't think Ah'd even have to tell you. Ah'm not exactly the mysterious one on the team."

*That's why I wonder about you.* Jean ruffled his hair, and left.

* * *

Warren did good research. The others could be as scornful as they wanted, but Scott knew well that sometimes cocktail party training was much more useful than prowess in battle. Though Warren had that, too.

He didn't write reports, though. None of them did, but the things were so damned useful. All the facts, laid out in a nice, neat format for easy reference. Scott smothered a wistful sigh as Warren finished speaking.

"I'm impressed. This took you only four days?"

"Some people just don't know how to cover their paper trails. It's not conclusive," he added modestly, "but it's certainly enough for us."

Scott drummed his fingers on the table. "You understand, you don't breathe a word of this, Warren."

"Of course not. I wouldn't want to even if I could." Warren's face spasmed with anger. "Goddammit, his own son." Warren took a deep breath, and let his body de-tense. "Do you know why yet?"

"Not yet," admitted Scott, and then added, "But I will." His eyes narrowed, but there was no way for Warren to know that.

"Damn. I knew Yeats was a weasel. I just had him figured as a small-time weasel."

"I doubt he's helped hire assassins before, but he's certainly been up to more than he wanted Warren Worthington III or anyone else to know."

"God damn it. I could kill him."

Scott shot a covert glance at his fellow X-Man's face. It was set tightly, and his eyes were burning.

*I believe you could, Warren.*

Scott wandered dispiritedly back down the hall. He found Jean in the kitchen, drinking Diet Coke and reading some women's fashion magazine. She took one look at him, a look that took in more than his external appearance, and closed her magazine.

There was coffee in the maker. There was always coffee. Scott poured himself some, sat down next to her, and explained what he wanted.

Jean leaned forward as she listened, elbows on the table. Her hair framed her face and neck, and just touched the table top. She fingered a lock of it with one of her perfect hands - Jean's hands had always been just right, Scott had noticed that when they'd first met. "Maybe the fact that his son was associating with mutants was too much of an embarrassment for him, or an impediment to his career."

"I have considered that, but his solution seems a little drastic, don't you think?"

Jean took Scott's hands, tightly gripping the edge of the table, into hers and rubbed his palms. "I spoke to his ex-wife, and she seemed to think Gatsburg was perfectly capable of having his son killed, though I don't believe she had any evidence he had done so. Too bad," she added reflectively.

"Won't she be in danger, if she suspects?"

"I have a psychic link with her. She can call me if things go bad."

"Good." Scott pulled his hands from hers, gently, and straightened his back. He took a sip of his coffee, not nearly as hot as he liked. It never was.

"So you want me to look into this boy's life? See what he was up to that merited his death?"

"I promise you, whatever he was doing, it didn't merit death."

"You know what I - oh, Bobby." Jean turned towards the kitchen doorway, where Robert Drake was standing. "I didn't notice you."

Bobby flashed them a crooked smile. "Too caught up in your conversation with your husband to even bother sensing me? I'm insulted." He drifted into the room. Scott frowned thoughtfully. How long had Bobby been standing there? Not that Scott could imagine anything horrible coming of Bobby knowing about the case, but it felt rather - chilling - to think that he could stand there unnoticed by one of the world's most powerful telepaths.

Jean smiled placatingly. "You're just part of my background noise, Bobby."

"Gee, thanks. Is there any coffee left?"

"There's some. Enough for you, considering all the milk and sugar you add."

"Actually, it's for Rogue. I was just watching the news with her and Warren. There was an item about two boys who were killed about a week back. One of them was a mutant. Rogue got really upset." He pursed his lips, and poured out the remainder of the coffee. "Some times... these things just really get to you, you know?"

Bobby left with the coffee. Scott and Jean exchanged glances, but neither said anything. They never needed to.

* * *

Warren stared pointedly forward, glanced to his left, looked up, looked at the television, and then finally gave up and looked to his right.

"Um, Rogue, are you crying?"

She sniffed. "No." She stared pointedly forward.

"Oh. Okay."

"Ah get so sick of this shit." Warren started slightly at the anger in her voice. "And the boy's father, goin' on and on about the adverse effects of associating with mutants..." Her fists clenched, and her gaze turned back to the TV, but Warren was fairly sure it wasn't what she was seeing.

Warren regarded her angry profile for only a moment before saying, "He killed him."

Rogue looked at his sharply. "What?"

"He killed him. But you had already guessed that, hadn't you?"

Bobby came back with the coffee, then, and she didn't get a chance to reply.

* * *

It was four days after Adam Stevens and his friend had been brutally and mysteriously killed, and Scott still had nothing but the nagging suspicion that there was some method in the madness of Stevens' murder; that something would come of it, that that something would be an unpleasant something for mutants, and, by association, the X-Men.

It wasn't that late; somewhere between eight and ten, Scott estimated. He couldn't be quite sure of the hour since apparently hell had frozen over and he had forgotten his watch. There was something in the air that night, something that made thoughts and things slip away from you, and that made time pass strangely. He had left around seven, he knew, but his meandering steps had lead him down new paths, or perhaps old paths changed by darkness, and he had wandered much farther than he had

originally intended.

He was approaching the mansion now, which seemed darker than it usually was at this hour - whichever hour 'this' was. Despite their relative dearth, the few lights that were on gave of the same familiar golden light as always, and still held promise of comfort and warmth and time pieces. Scott had hoped that the house would be blazing in welcome, but this glow would suffice.

He stopped abruptly as he caught a light out of the corner of his eye. It was small, moving in a constant, measured pattern, rising for a few seconds, than falling and hovering a few feet above the ground until it rose again. Finally Scott's brain registered that it was a cigarette. The figure holding it was leaning against a tree, standing just outside the halo of light that radiated through the mansion's windows and fell on the grass.

His vision obscured by the darkness and his red glasses, Scott had to move a little closer to be sure the figure was indeed Gambit, albeit sans trench coat. That was strange, on such a cool night.

"Cyke," the thief acknowledged him.

"Gambit, hello."

Gambit dropped his cigarette to the ground, extinguishing it with one foot, and crossed his arms.

"Shouldn't litter," said Scott, more from habit than a deep-seated belief that littering was wrong.

"Shouldn't smoke, eider," shrugged Gambit. "Lots of t'ings I do dat I shouldn't."

It was only later, in memory, that Scott caught the introspective note in Gambit's voice. But by then it was perhaps merely a product of imagination.

"Yes, but the only ones I have a problem with are the ones involving other people's property. You can come out tomorrow and pick up every cigarette butt you find. I'll spare you the cigars."

"D'accord," Gambit said wearily.

Taken aback by the submissiveness of Gambit's reply, Scott nodded good-night to the man, and went inside.

He didn't see anyone at the mansion, but whether they were out, or hidden away in one of the mansion's many rooms, he couldn't say. At the time, he couldn't have cared less where they were. There had been a time when he would have made a point of knowing everybody's whereabouts at all times. No longer. Too bad.

He watched TV for an hour before he saw anybody. It was Storm, fresh from a shower. She merely wanted to make sure they were both up-to-date concerning each other's investigations, which they were. Scott couldn't help but feel that she had perhaps come merely for some company. This idea was reinforced by the fact that she lingered a while after they had said all there was to say.

He saw Jean next, about a quarter hour later.

*You're back,* he thought cheerily to her.

No reply.

"You're back," he said.

Jean turned and smiled brightly and meaninglessly at him. "Of course. Everywhere in Salem Center closes at nine, anyway. I would've been back sooner except I stopped to pick up some food for you. You haven't eaten, have you?" Scott shook his head. "I thought not." She held up her shopping bags. "I bought some presents for Charles' birthday. Only four days left, you know."

Scott sighed. "I suppose I should look into getting him something, but he's so hard to shop for. What do you buy for a man who already has his own hoverchair?"

"I could pick something up-" began Jean.

"No. Definitely not. It's one thing to have your wife buy presents for your friends, but when the man's your mentor you have to put some thought into it."

She raised her eyebrows. "Especially when he's a telepath?"

"That wasn't even a consideration."

She put her bags in the closet, except for one. "I got something for you," she said, grinning as she pulled out a large box.

Scott blinked as its details registered.

"Jean, maybe I'm going crazy, but that looks suspiciously like a hat box."

"Yes. Can you believe it? A milliner opened in Salem Center, and the salesclerk was the nicest boy wearing a white suit and white hat. He looked like something out of a movie. I think we have a duty to help the place stay in business."

She lifted the lid and revealed a dark fedora. She held it out to him. "I had to guess the size. It's brown. The band around it matches your hair."

He put it on, and lowered the brim slightly over his eyes. "Fits perfectly," he said, wandering over to check himself in the mirror that stood to the left of their bed. The glasses somewhat spoiled the effect, as did his T-shirt, but all in all, not bad.

"You look great," Jean pronounced, "Men should wear hats."

He glanced over at her, watching him with her brilliant, white grin. Was it glued on permanently?

She came up behind him and pecked him on the cheek. "Let's go eat now. I'll even let you wear the hat at the table."

It was the most cheerful he'd seen her in days. Usually, because of their psychic link, he could also feel any strong emotions, but she seemed to be confining all her happiness to herself, since all Scott felt was weariness. His own. He assumed.

Scott followed her down to the kitchen. There was a plastic bag on the table, and inside it were Styrofoam containers of fried chicken.

"You don't look so hot, love," Jean commented as he sat down.

"I've just been thinking about the case."

"You're afraid of the repercussions?"

Scott took the hat off, and set it on the table in front of him. "I don't even know what they'll be."

Jean pressed her lips together in silent sympathy. "Maybe you should just leave it alone, and see what develops." She shrugged. "For now, let's eat, and then you can get some sleep."

Both their heads turned at the sound of someone entering the room. Elisabeth Braddock strode in. "Maybe the first good sleep you've had in a while. Xavier sent me to tell you - Gatsburg's been killed."

Scott's eyes widened. "How? Why?"

"Well, we're not exactly in the police's confidence, but I gather it involved his head exploding, or being shot with a very large bullet at point blank range, or something equally messy. The why is a bit beyond me, but I expect it has something to do with divine intervention."

Jean blinked rapidly. "Good God."

Betsy smiled. "That's exactly what *I* thought."

* * *

The obvious motive for murdering a man who had just had his son murdered was revenge. If that was indeed the motive - and all signs seemed to indicate that it was - then it shortened the list of suspects considerably. Instead of everyone the man had ever pissed off, the list became composed of everyone who knew about and resented Gatsburg's hand in his son's death. That would include Ruby Stevens, probably a number of the victims' friends, and, of course - Scott snorted derisively at the thought - many of the X-Men.

The blow that had killed Gatsburg did much towards shortening the list of suspects, too. The man's face had been completely crushed, or exploded, or something to that effect, and either the perpetrator was possessed of incredible physical strength, or a very, very tiny bomb had been strapped to the man's face.

Scott hated investigations. There were far too many variables, especially when you were on the outside as the X-Men were. He didn't know how much force it had taken to kill Gatsburg, the exact time of death, nothing useful if he wanted to get to the bottom of this before the X-Men were affected by any fallout. Then again, they were much better at dealing with fallout than they were at investigating things.

The murder was on the news the following morning.

"So, honey, what do you think? Scott?" Jean called from the bathroom, where she was brushing her hair.

Scott pressed the mute button on the remote. "I'm sorry, Jean, I missed that. What do I think about what?"

"A surprise party. Charles would never suspect it. Betsy and I could make sure of that. A surprise party for a telepath, wouldn't that be too wonderful?"

"If it would work, yes. Wait, it's about Gatsburg. I want to hear this." He turned the sound back on.

"...has been shocked by the brutal murder of Marvin Gatsburg yesterday, only four days after his son's death, supposedly at the hand of a group of mutant dissidents. Gatsburg's murder raises questions as to whether his family is being targeted. His ex-wife cannot be reached..."

Jean, still brushing her hair, walked out of the bathroom and through the multi-colored corners of Scott's peripheral vision, and looked at the TV in distaste. "Idiots. You can't tell me no one's figured out what's going on."

"It's perfectly possible that the X-Men are the only ones who know, Jean. After all, who would suspect Gatsburg had killed his own son? Even we don't know what his motivation was."

"Things aren't kept secret so easily," argued Jean. "There have to be tons of people who know. There have to be, because one of them killed him for it."

"Hmmm." Scott looked thoughtfully at his wife. "Jean, is our... I mean, is it just me or are you-?"

"What, Scott? Am I what?"

For some strange reason, he couldn't bring himself to ask it: *Have you closed our telepathic link?* Their bond couldn't be shut down completely, short of death or some very brutal telepathic surgery, but she still didn't seem as connected to him as usual. The woman was entitled to her privacy, God knew, but it felt odd.

"Never mind."

"Okay, honey."

The TV blared on, "A witness report that a strange man in a trench coat and sunglasses entered the building that day, but was not seen to exit. He was describes as being approximately six feet in height and had a distinct, but possibly false, accent. The police ask..."

"Scott, what is that look supposed to mean?"

"What look?"

"Oh, come on! A trench coat and sunglasses, so it must be someone we know, and probably Gambit, that's what you're thinking, isn't it?" Jean wrenched the brush through her normally docile hair.

"Jean, I didn't say anything like that." Though, now that she mentioned it, it was rather odd that Gatsburg's murder occurred on the exact same day that Warren came back with evidence of the man's guilt.

She slammed the brush down. "You don't have to say it. You know very well that was what you were thinking." An angry breath trembled on her lips, and her eyes glittered angrily at her reflection. When he had first met Jean, Scott hadn't realized her hair was red, assuming her hair to be somewhere in the vicinity of brown.

Now he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for anything but a redhead.

"Jean, that's crazy." Now that he thought about it, mutant powers would also go a long way towards explaining the odd circumstances of Gatsburg's death. "I didn't say a thing," he went on, "and I'm pretty damn sure I didn't think it. Maybe you know better than me, though."

"You-" She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a few deep breaths. Scott decided it was wise to remain silent. After a moment she spoke, "I'd better be quiet before I make a bigger fool of myself."

"No. Go ahead. Get it out of your system."

"You're sore," she said, with all the brilliant insight of a telepath.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Jean, I don't mind. You're entitled to the occasional outburst. Though I wouldn't mind if you'd use a quieter voice in the future."

She shrugged, and resumed brushing her hair. "I guess I've just been on edge lately."

He managed a sympathetic smile. "Yes, I know. Since last night."

"Last night," she echoed hollowly.

For a moment, the expression on her face looked familiar. It took Scott a moment before he realized it was because it was the same look Gambit had had in his eyes the night before.

The night Marvin A. Gatsburg was murdered.