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.

* * *

Why don't you give that copper's brain of yours a rest? Every time you look at me, I can see it dwelling over its slogans. Once a crook, always a crook. Once a tramp, always a tramp.
-Ingrid Bergman, "Notorious"

Part 2

Somebody saw me.

They were standing at the window watching me as I went into the house, and I can't remember which window, and I have no idea who, male or female, human or spirit. All I know is that there was a shadowy figure, and it saw me.

Sometimes I think maybe I imagined it. I tell myself I have nothing to worry about. Sometimes I even listen to myself, and stop worrying.

But it doesn't last. I keep remembering.

* - * - *

Considering it was one of those rare occasions where almost everyone was eating together, the dinner table was unusually quiet, except for Bobby, who seemed to be radiating nervous energy. Jean seemed very pensive, Scott noted, scanning the faces around him, as did the Professor, but there was nothing new in that. Warren looked grim. Rogue, hair wet and limp from a recent shower, looked abstracted. Some emotion played on Betsy's face, like sunlight at the bottom of a pool, but Scott couldn't place the expression. Gambit was there - a rare occurrence - and he looked hung over. Hank looked tired, Sam, apprehensive, as he did only too often, and Bishop, well, he looked blank. Wolverine and Storm were both out somewhere.

"Do they know who killed him yet?"

Gambit's red rimmed eyes snapped to Bobby, then away.

"It just happened yesterday," Hank replied. "Give the over-worked, un-super-powered policemen a week at least, Bobby."

"Ah think whoever did it deserves a medal," said Sam, stabbing his food rather savagely. "Ah don't know much about who's who in the FOH, but even *Ah* had heard enough about this guy to loathe him."

"But ya have to admit," Rogue murmured, her voice soft like a dagger being pulled from its sheath, "it was a particularly gruesome way to die."

Bobby and Warren both glanced at her with concern. Remy's eyes stayed fixed on his almost un-touched plate.

"Not to be cold," said Betsy, "but some people deserve to die in particularly gruesome ways."

"But that doesn't mean," interjected Hank, "that we should discuss these things at the dinner table."

"My thoughts exactly," said Warren.

"What are we going to talk about then?" Bobby demanded. "I kinda missed the game, what with all the breaking news about the brutal and mysterious murder of an important figure in a major anti-mutant organization. Anyone watch 'Friends'?"

"Shut the hell up, Drake," said Gambit.

Bobby met his annoyed gaze for a moment, but Gambit rarely lost a staring contest. He certainly didn't this time. Bobby's gaze dropped, and, to Scott's surprise, he shut up.

There was a brief silence, which was prevented from becoming a long silence only by a cheerful query from Psylocke. "And how was your day, Daniel?"

All eyes turned on her. No doubt they were wondering, like Scott, whether she had gone insane. *Daniel?*

Bishop frowned. "Uneventful."

Oh, yes. Daniel.

"That's probably just as well," said Betsy. "Uneventful days are few and far between in this business, and must be cherished." She smiled brightly. "Jean, those are fabulous earrings. Are they new?"

Warren squeezed his eyes shut. "Betsy..."

Betsy turned wide, innocent eyes on him. "What, love?"

"May Ah be excused?" Rogue asked quietly.

"Of course," said Xavier, frowning at her.

*Jean,* Scott addressed his wife mentally. *Jean? JEAN?*

"Scott," Bobby's voice pierced through the conversation, "would you stop tele-flirting with your wife or whatever you're doing and pass the mashed potatoes already?"

"Oh. Sorry," said Scott, and passed the mashed potatoes.

* * *

"Thank God that dinner's over with," Scott said as he plopped down in one of the leather armchairs in the Professor's office. He sat up straight to pour some port from the decanter resting on the Professor's desk, and handed the glasses to Ororo and Xavier.

Ororo nodded. "The events of the past few days seem to have had a very pronounced affect on the team's morale."

Silence fell as they silently sipped their drinks.

"Gatsburg," said Xavier, seemingly irrelevantly, "was on the third floor, in his office, when he was killed. It would have been very difficult to get in and out without being seen by anybody."

Storm stirred uneasily. "Yes."

"It was very likely a mutant," Scott pointed out, "or at least that's how they want it to look. There are any number of ways a mutant can get in and out of a building undetected. What confuses me is that the man who seems the most likely suspect was seen entering but not leaving."

"So they say," shrugged Storm.

Scott glanced at her, taken aback by her reply. "There are security cameras."

"Have you seen them?"

Scott tilted his head bemusedly. "No..."

"Hearsay is not evidence."

"What the police report is hardly hearsay-"

"It depends on the police," Storm interrupted him. "I'm sorry, Scott. I don't wish to be contrary, but I do not believe anything in this case is as it appears."

"No, no. You're perfectly right. I'll have to look into those security cameras more thoroughly."

Storm didn't seem to think much of the idea. She vented a soft, "Oh?" and turned to the Professor, setting an empty glass down on his desk. Scott hadn't seen her drain it. "If you would excuse me, I have some things to attend to."

"Of course."

She nodded briefly to Scott, and rose. Scott usually thought she carried herself like a dancer, but, as she strode out of the room, he thought fencer would be more apt.

Scott excused himself shortly after, pleading fatigue, and resolving to follow up on Storm's advice the next day. For some reason, he had the feeling she didn't really want him to follow up on it.

* * *

Psylocke could have had a hell of a movie career, if only based on her spectacular skill in martial arts, to say nothing of her looks. She probably had a very limited range as far as acting went, but Scott had no doubt she would have been able to carry off certain types of roles to perfection.

She had promised to come as soon as she finished training. Scott waited in the study, reflecting on the strangeness of the whole situation. Jean's sudden shift in behavior. That hunted look in half the team member's eyes. The fact that Gatsburg was dead so soon after his son's murder, and the many, many possible explanations for his death. Too many. Scott had to narrow things down. If there was a plot in the works, it wouldn't do for the X-Men to be the last to know.

She wafted in like a hot breeze, wearing a T-shirt and sweats, hair plastered to her forehead and neck by water or sweat. She tossed herself down in the chair across from him. "You don't look happy to see me, Scott. Didn't you want me to come?."

"I did. You're going to help me with something."

"Me? What could I possible do for you that your wife couldn't do just as well?"

"She's too ethical for what I have in mind."

"Ouch, Scott. You'll catch more flies with honey, you know."

Scott leaned forward, and demanded urgently, "What do you know about Marvin Gatsburg?"

A little self-satisfied smile appeared on her lips. "I thought that's what this was about. His son, friend to the mutant community, and another boy, a mutant, were killed. A few days after, Gatsburg was murdered under mysterious circumstances, and the only discernible motive is revenge. Unless," she purred, catching Scott's eyes, "it's part of a larger, twisted plot. That's what you're afraid of, right?"

"Right. So far there's only one suspect-"

"The boy's mother?"

"No."

Betsy looked momentarily bemused, but then her expression smoothed out into one of exquisite blandness. "Oh. You're a proponent of the theory that the mysterious man in the lobby did it. The one who only the receptionist saw."

"And the security cameras. Don't forget them. They're reticent, but very reliable once you get them to talk, Miss Braddock. Which is what I want you to do for me."

* * *

The wind cycled around him, whipping through his hair, over his face, stinging his eyes. He blinked, but stood his ground, waiting as the weather goddess landed.

"Logan," she smiled, "I have not seen you for a while."

"I've been busy. Skulking."

She chuckled. "How brave of you to admit it."

"Yeah. You still investigating about that kid's and Gatsburg's deaths?"

"You knew we were looking into that?"

"Everyone does, 'Ro. Even if I didn't know, I could've guessed. Kind of thing we look into."

"Mmm. We have done a bit of investigation. We are not trying to solve any murders here, Logan. We are just making sure it is not part of a larger, more dangerous, picture."

"Glad to hear that." Storm arched one eyebrow, questioningly, and he explained, "From the little I know, Gatsburg's son was a good kid and Gatsburg wasn't a good anything. Seems to me justice has been served. No need to tamper with that."

"Let the dead bury their dead?" Storm asked softly.

"Exactly," said Logan.

"I think I would like that."

* * *

It wasn't until Scott watched the tapes that he realized what he had secretly been looking for. It was crazy, but not *completely* crazy. A man in a trench coat had entered the building, and shortly after, a man in that building's head had seemed to be partially *exploded*. The man had fit the description of Remy LeBeau. Maybe Scott was being a paranoid ass, but at least he was honest enough to investigate the case from all angles.

The man in the FOH HQ lobby sure looked like a certain Cajun thief, but, despite the accusations of certain redheads and white-haired women, Scott was not jumping to any conclusions. It was only grainy black and white film anyway - black and red, to Scott's eyes - and the man could only be seen at an odd angle, from above.

He finished shuffling through the surveillance photos. "Thank you, Betsy. I hope you didn't have much trouble acquiring these."

"Not at all. Make me try to get something from the police the aid of telepathy, and *that* would be a challenge."

*Maybe not, depending on the sexual preferences of said police,* thought Scott, glancing at her form-fitting outfit out of the corner of her eyes.

She caulked her head to the side. "So, what next?"

"For you, nothing," he said bluntly, and then amended his response, "For now." He might need Betsy in the future. It wouldn't do to rub her the wrong way.

"What next for you, then?"

She looked far too keen. "I don't know," he replied.

That was a lie. He knew exactly what was next. If he hurried, he could probably even get there before the building was closed.

As soon as Betsy was gone, he had a date with a receptionist.

* * *

Bishop frowned at Rogue as she approached the front door.

"Ah've just been flyin' around,' she said.

"I didn't ask."

"Ah know, Ah know. You just always look like a guard."

"I'm not guarding against X-Men."

Rogue smiled oddly at him. "Why ever not?" He said nothing, and she added, "Ya know, if you're gonna be sitting on the porch, ya should do it properly. Ya should have something to whittle."

He raised his eyebrows. "Whittle?"

"Ya know, when you have some wood and-"

"I know what it means."

She laughed. It was an odd laugh, too, or maybe it was just the misty air and dark, starless backdrop that made him think that.

"Bishop," she said, when she had finished laughing, "some day, some day Ah want to sit down with you, and you can tell me about your world. Not the big things. Just little things, like how people dressed, what things looked like, sounded like, smelled like. Whether they whittled. Ah want you to tell me."

She was in a strange mood tonight. "If I'm still here, we can do that."

Her brows snapped down. "Why wouldn't you be?"

He shrugged.

"Well," she said, pulling herself together and heading for the door, "stay as long as you can. Ah like having you here. You make me feel safe."

The door closed behind her. Bishop glanced down at his two large, motionless hands - hands that would no doubt be better employed in violence than anything so creative as whittling - and wondered why he would make anyone feel safe.

* * *

Fortunately, the receptionist behind the front desk was the same as in the video. She was talking unconcernedly on the phone, while upstairs men plotted and planned, devised new ways to kill and repress their mutant brothers and sisters. Lovely.

She probably carried some mutated genes, this receptionist. Those fingers that drummed lightly on her desk, those eyes which glanced questioningly at the man with the red sunglasses as he approached her, contained millions of cells with probably contained as many copies of her mutated DNA, dormant and unthreatening, waiting to manifest itself in her children, or her children's children.

Scott cleared his throat and his mind. "Excuse me? Miss?"

She held up one long, slim finger, and finished off her phone conversation. Hanging up the receiver, she asked politely, "Can I help you?"

"Yes." He flashed a badge; the X-Men had nothing if not mountains of fake ID's. "I'm a detective working on the Gatsburg case, and I wanted to ask a few follow-up questions."

She glanced around the almost-empty lobby, and frowned. "I'm working, now-"

"I know, but it will only take a few seconds. The man in the trench coat, who you saw on the day of the crime, did he have an accent?"

"I already told you people-"

"I know, I know. But I was hoping you could give us a more thorough description. The man, did he tend to replace his th's with d's?"

"I don't know. He could have, I suppose. I wasn't really paying attention at the time, I'm sorry to say. I didn't know he was a murderer," she added, "or I wouldn't have let him in."

She looked very perplexed, and something suddenly occurred to Scott. "This may sound odd but - would you describe him as charming?" She stared at him as if he had just sprouted an extra head, but he pressed on, "Did you feel compelled to do what he said? Did you find him unnaturally attractive?"

He was rewarded by a slight flush in her cheeks. "Well, I guess I kind of, um, yeah, he *was* attractive. But I didn't let him in because of that. It was - it was almost like I was hypnotized, or dreaming, you know?" She broke off, embarrassed by the way she had spoken, but then a hopeful light dawned in her eyes. "Hey, are you suggesting he was a mutant with some sort of mind-clouding ability?"

"I'm not sure. Of course, Gatsburg would be a target for people with mutant abilities."

She nodded, and seemed relieved to have an explanation for her carelessness in admitting a murderer. "Of course."

"Hands up!"

Scott turned to see a security guard standing a few feet away from him, hands on his gun. As Scott turned towards him, he pulled it out and pointed it straight at Scott. The receptionist gasped, but that was the only reaction, since the lobby was otherwise empty.

The guard waved his gun slightly in the direction of a metal door. "Over there. Go. And don't touch your glasses."

Apparently he was known here. Well, it would be a sad, sad FOH security guard who didn't know his X-Men by sight. Scott obediently put his hands up, but said softly, "You had better not do that."

"Do what?" demanded the guard.

"Wave that gun around like that," Scott explained. "It makes me nervous. When I get nervous, I start to sweat," his voice dropped, "And when I sweat, my glasses sometimes slip a little."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Go to the door," he ordered.

Scott didn't move.

Scott Summers: leader, hero, Xavier's chosen one, and now, idiot. Well, by all rights, 'idiot' should have been added to his credentials long ago, but usually fate had intervened had he had somehow come out looking good. That didn't seem too likely, this time. It wasn't a problem of getting out, since there was only one security guard. The problem was causing as little damage as possible as he made his escape.

He couldn't control the size or force of his eyebeams without his visor, so he couldn't target the gun without seriously injuring the man. He briefly considered blasting the wall, just to scare the man into letting him go, but his trigger finger looked shaky enough as it was.

"Okay, okay," said Scott, inching sideways in the direction of the door, and to the side of the guard. "I don't want any trouble."

The man snorted. Scott took a long step sideways. The gun turned to follow him, but the man's body was not completely behind it any longer. This was the best shot he'd get.

With a twitch of his face, he lowered the glasses. The edge of the blast took the gun's barrel, and the gun went flying as the man clutched at his slightly burned hand.

Others would be here in a minute. On some psychotic impulse, Scott spared the wide-eyed receptionist a thank you nod as he darted out at a speed that would have done an Olympic sprinter proud.

* * *

Scott made his way up the stairs, deeply depressed. There was still a chance of course that Remy hadn't committed the murder, but the circumstances were against him. He lacked motive, yes, but maybe he had known one of the kids who got killed. Regardless, he had definitely been there on the day that Gatsburg had been killed, barring the possibility that this was the most elaborate frame job Scott had ever seen. Or maybe it was a clone. Or a Gambit from a parallel dimension. Or - God, he needed to get a new job.

He had asked Gambit for an alibi, partially from a vague hope that the man would actually have one, and partially because Scott wanted to watch his response to being asked.

As it turned out, his response was hostile. And, apparently, 'alibi' was a much more flexible word than Scott had ever realized. "Yeah, I got an alibi. I was at dis place, kind of a bar - Nobody to back me up on it, *non*. Why does it matter? I was wit' Ororo around five. Dat won't do? What is dis, de Spanish inquisition? You feeling okay, Cyke?"

Well, it had been a long shot anyway.

He could here Jean rustling about in their room. He pushed open the door, calling as he did so, "Jean, are you decent?"

"Who, me?" she asked lightly, tossing her head back and causing her lustrous red hair to fall in neat waves down her back as she flashed a smile at him. Her smile vanished when she caught his gaze. "Scott, what's wrong?"

"Nothing - nothing yet, at least."

"Well, Scott, I have good news. I know you haven't wanted to admit it, but you've been rather suspicious about Gambit lately, though God knows why you were so eager to suspect him of a gruesome murder."

How could he tell her it was because of that chance encounter on the night that Gatsburg was killed? The look in his eyes? It would sound insane. It *was* insane.

However, the photographs and the receptionist's testimony were unfortunately rather reliable.

"Well, I was talking to Charles about the case," Jean went on, "and it turns out that Gatsburg's face was smashed, and definitely not exploded."

"Oh," said Scott, and then, more weakly, "Oh..."

Jean smiled. "Just thought you'd like to know." She went towards the door, pecking him on the cheek on the way out. "You know, you'd better get Charles a present. You only have two days. I'll talk to you later, okay, honey?"

Scott nodded mechanically, still staring blindly forward.

*Let's review the facts, shall we?*

There was little doubt in Scott's mind that Gambit had entered the FOH headquarters that day, though no one had seen him leave. He had been at the site of the murder, around the time of the murder.

But he hadn't done it.

Then why had everyone been acting strangely since the murder? Paranoid, wary, depressed. The telepaths had been acting particularly strange; Jean had even shuttered her psychic bond with Scott.

They had sensed something. Jean had sensed something. And everyone was acting like there was something to hide.

But Gambit hadn't done it.

Why couldn't he just accept that?

He was an utter fool. He had been so eager to think the worst of Gambit, to suspect everyone's behavior, he hadn't bothered to examine any of the simpler explanations. There were hundreds, no doubt. Maybe Gambit had a good reason for being there. Maybe he was being set up, and had never been there in the first place.

*Maybe I'm hallucinating. Maybe this is all a dream.* Was he crazy, or masochistic, that he clung to the theory that would mean the worst for him and the team?

The team.

Yes, so Gambit didn't do it. *That doesn't mean that someone else on the team didn't do it.*

Scott suddenly felt a bit sick.

* * *

There was piano music, coming from somewhere. 'Somewhere' probably being the room with the piano in it, Jean reflected. The notes were slow to come at first - obviously it was a novice at the keys - but eventually they came with more speed and confidence, and a song begin to form. A familiar song.

Jean followed the music to its source. As she entered the room, she found Bobby behind the piano, playing the same three keys over and over, and regarding the keyboard as if it were a difficult equation.

"I know that song," she commented.

"Well, good for you. I seem to have completely forgotten it." He tried another key, and shook his head. "I learned it for my mom, to make her feel better about money wasted on my piano lessons. It was the only thing I knew how to play. Damn, what comes next?"

Jean leaned against the piano, and helped him by humming at first, and then singing, "You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss..."

"Ah-ha! Got it. Here we go." He began to hammer out the whole thing, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Logan on the scene.

Logan went towards the liquor cabinet, darting an irritable glance at Bobby as he did so. "What are you trying to do to my ear drums, playing like that?"

Bobby wrinkled his nose at the older man. "Hey, it's a nice song."

"When it's played well, maybe."

"Be nice, Logan." Jean turned back towards the piano. "Play it again, Bobby. Play 'As Time Goes By.'"

"Logan?"

"If she can stand it, I can," Logan shrugged. "Go ahead."

Bobby began to play, and then started to warble in accompaniment to his shaky playing, "You must remember this ... A kiss is still a kiss ... A sigh is just a sigh... The fundamental things apply, as time goes by..."

"You have no shame, do you, Drake? Drink, Jean?"

"Now that you mention it, a gin and tonic would be nice."

"...And when two lovers woo, they still say, 'I love you'... On that you can rely..."

Jean joined in, her singing softer and more tuneful, but just as unprofessional, "No matter what the future brings... as time goes by...."

Logan handed Jean her drink.

"Join in," said Bobby brightly. Logan glared at him, silently declining the invitation, and sat down with his own drink.

"So, Jean, how's the investigation going?"

Bobby resumed singing, "Moonlight and love songs, never out of date..."

Jean hoisted herself on to the piano. "I don't know. It's Scott's, not mine." She had to raise her voice to be heard over Bobby's exuberant performance. "But I gather none too well."

"'Course not," said Logan. Jean decided not to ask what he meant.

"...Hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate, Woman needs man..."

"Logan...? I was wondering about, well-"

"What?"

"...And man must have his mate, that no one can deny..."

"You're rather close to Rogue." Bobby's singing became momentarily deafening, and Jean spared a moment to frown discouragingly at him before continuing to Logan, "I don't suppose she's confided in you about, well, anything? Not that I would want you to betray any confidences, of course."

"But you're worried about her, I know. And, no, she hasn't told me anything."

"...Well, it's still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die..."

"That's too bad."

"I think so, too."

"...The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by..."

"That was lovely, Bobby."

"...Oh yes, the world will always welcome lovers... as time goes by."

Logan glanced dispassionately at the piano. "Thank God that's over with."

"And now," Bobby declared cheerfully, "from the top!"

Logan threw the rest of his drink back, and rose. "In that case, I'll see you later."

"Thanks for the drink," Jean called after him.

As soon as Logan left, she stretched herself over the piano, extending her hands to rest on Bobby's and still his playing. "Bobby, I don't suppose you know what's going on with Rogue?"

He shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine. In fact, your guess is probably the same as mine."

"Gambit?"

"Always Gambit," said Bobby bitterly.

Jean ran a finger over some of the higher keys. "Not necessarily."

"Yes, necessarily." He looked up at her, and said pointedly, "Hey, Jean, you've seemed a little distraught lately. Why's that?"

Jean fixed a blank expression on her face. "Have I really? *Distraught*?"

"It's something to do with Scott, right?"

She returned his unflinching gaze for a moment before nodding reluctantly.

Bobby seemed to think he had just made an important point. He looked down at the keys, and began to run his fingers over them. "It's always Gambit," he pronounced, "because she's in love with him. It will always be Gambit."

* * *

Scott sat at the study desk, in the dark, and tried not to think.

It was an interesting exercise. Some people devoted their whole lives to trying not to think, and said that they had found God, or at least inner peace, when they succeeded in doing so. Scott could see what they were getting at.

He leaned back in the chair and pulled his fedora down over his eyes. Of course, his glasses got in the way. Experimentally, he tried resting his feet on the desk, but the position was very awkward, and he gave up.

The door opened, and he saw a figure silhouetted against the light of the hallway. He couldn't see her face, but he would have known that figure anywhere.

"My, it's dark in here," she said, and switched on the light. She closed the door behind her.

Scott now saw that Betsy was wearing something dark and slinky. It rippled like a snake's skin as she moved. "Warren and I were going to go out," she explained, "but I have a headache."

He tipped his hat slightly to get a better view of her, but didn't say anything.

"Scott..." She paused, seemingly at a loss for words. Scott wasn't about to help her. At last she said, "Do you really know what you're getting in to, with the Gatsburg case?"

"No," he said bluntly, "but I'm getting into it all the same."

She sighed. "I was afraid of that. I don't even know why I came." She approached his desk, and rested one hand on it, affording him an excellent view of her cleavage. The other arm reached out and, with one finger, she flicked off his hat. "Shouldn't wear hats inside," she said. "It's rude."

"Oh?"

She was leaning so far forward now that their noses were practically touching. She lifted her chin, and gently touched her lips to his forehead. "Good luck, Scott," she murmured into his hair. She straightened, slowly, and begin to walk out.

Scott could feel annoyance rise in his throat. He was tired of being danced around. "Psylocke?" he called out, in his drill sergeant voice.

She stopped, hand on the door knob, and didn't turn to look at him. "Yes?"

Telepaths. They always smiled like they knew what you were going to say. Maybe they did, most of the time, but surely sometimes they had to be taken by surprise. He smiled tightly at her. "Give me your professional opinion, Betsy - who on the team do you think is capable of murder?"

He asked the question merely from an urge to throw her off balance, and, of course, it didn't work. "Oh, Scott," she murmured. "What a lovely question." She glanced at him now, her eyes glinting briefly. "Everyone. I think everyone on the team is capable of murder." She switched off the light and stepped out of the room, calling over her shoulder, "I hope that helps."

* * *

Statistics show that there are more women in the world than anything else. Except insects.
-Glenn Ford, "Gilda"

Part 3

This is not the first death I've seen. It won't be the last. But I sincerely hope it's the bloodiest. I can handle a lot, I honestly can, but I rather doubt I could handle anything more gruesome than that.

His head simply exploded. It was rather like he'd been a pumpkin. I still can't believe it was that simple. I wish it hadn't been.

*=*=*

Scott pretended to read the newspaper at the kitchen table. Across from him Hank was actually reading his section, having emerged from the depths of his lab in order to grace them with his silent presence. Bobby finished pouring himself a bowl of cereal, then sat down at the table and took the Sunday comics.

Rogue came in, rubbing her eyes, and poured herself some coffee. Scott stopped his fake reading for a moment, and observed, "Everyone's up early today."

"Naw," said Bobby. "This isn't early for me. I usually get up at four AM so I can spend the morning training, before taking a brisk five mile jog. That's why you never see me."

"Ah actually *have* been up since four AM. Ah couldn't sleep."

Hank gave her a look of mingled concern and professional interest. "I hope you don't usually find it difficult to sleep."

I do, thought Scott.

"No. Sometimes, of course, but who doesn't?"

Vague suspicions of murder and tumultuous emotional atmospheres aside, it was right after she said this that Scott got his first real shock he'd had in a long time. It was well before nine o'clock, yet into the kitchen stumbled Remy LeBeau, mostly awake and relatively clothed. He paused at the wide gazes of the four people in the kitchen, and said defensively, "I'm just here for de coffee."

"Please," Rogue said in a perfect monotone, "help yourself."

Scott tore his eyes away from the always fascinating Rogue-Remy interplay, and realized with surprise that Bobby had his arms wrapped around his stomach and was regarding his cereal with something like disgust. Or horror. "Excuse me," he said in a choked voice, and rushed out of the room without further ceremony.

Hank shook his head. "I think he's sick, but he won't believe me."

Scott could sympathize. He was getting quite adept at sharing afflictions with his teammates, it seemed. Insomnia, nausea, paranoia.

Then there was Hank. Hank seemed calm, put together. Hank was unaffected by any empathic or telepathic vibes, completely without bitterness or suspicion. *I wouldn't mind catching some of that.* If you thought you might be going crazy, Hank was the best person to ask.

He followed Hank down as the man returned to his lab, receiving an update on his research. When they finally reached their destination, Scott closed the door and confessed, "I actually had something to ask you, Hank. Have you noticed any of the team members acting strangely as of late?"

It was, Scott realized as he said it, a supremely stupid sounding question.

Hank appeared to consider. "I haven't had an opportunity to closely observe anyone, hidden away as I am down here, but I couldn't help but notice the particularly haggard faces of Gambit and Rogue. Has there been some sort of rift between them? What a silly question. Don't even bother to answer it. And then, of course, there is Bobby's uncharacteristically stubborn refusal to believe he's sick, though he can't keep a meal down." Hank frowned.

"And Warren? Is it just me or is he more, uh, broody than usual?"

"He certainly looks particularly morose as of late. While we're on the topic, young Sam Guthrie has also been looking rather broody and red-eyed. Maybe you should speak with him, or have someone else do so..."

Scott waved Sam aside. "But I haven't been imagining all this?" he said, torn between relief and a stomach-churning fear.

"Unless we've both been doing so. But, flattered as I am that you value my opinion so much, couldn't you just as easily have asked Jean?"

That was, of course, the obvious question. Scott cursed himself for not having thought of an answer to it ahead of time, and shrugged. "I suppose I could have."

"Ah."

Scott stared at Hank for a long, long moment.

Hank stared back.

Scott knew he had to ask it.

"Hank, where were you on Thursday, between six and ten PM?"

Hank's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately."

"Really." He rubbed his chin. "As it happens, I do have an alibi."

Scott leaned forward, and said breathlessly, "What is it?"

"Who, actually." Hank cleared his throat, "Her name is Joan Perske. Would you like her number?"

Scott took Hank by the shoulders. "Are you sure, Hank? She's a real, honest-to-God alibi? I mean, she is a respectable alibi, isn't she?"

Hank looked slightly affronted. "Of course! Don't tell me you don't recognize the name. She's Brooke Taylor's lawyer." Scott looked blank, and Hank continued impatiently, "Brooke Taylor, the Olympic contender whose gold medal they took away on account of her being a mutant?"

"Oh, *that* Joan Perske," said Scott. "Um, Jean is following that case more closely than me."

"Philistine," sniffed Hank.

"Regardless, she's my new best friend, so long as she doesn't deny she was with you or anything."

"I don't think that will happen. But tell me if I understand correctly - you think someone on the team might have had something to do with the murder of Marvin Gatsburg?"

*No, I'm positive someone on the team had something to do with it.* "I think it's a possibility, and I have a duty to look into all possibilities."

Hank, a scientist, nodded. "Who else have you eliminated, if I may ask?"

"Just you, Hank. Just you. That is, if this Perske thing pans out."

Hank nodded again. He didn't seem to be taking this murder thing too seriously, which was reassuring in as much as Scott would have loved to find himself mistaken. It was not reassuring in that finding himself mistaken would mean he was a paranoid idiot. After taking the number Hank scribbled down for him, Scott, finally feeling he was making actual headway, left quickly to call it.

On his way out, he practically collided with Bobby.

"Hiya, fearless leader. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"Hopefully to see a Miss Perske," said Scott.

Bobby looked pleased. "You mean Joan? Cute, isn't she? Sharp as a tack, too. I think she might be the one."

"The one?" Scott repeated blankly.

"The one for Hank! Sheesh, keep up, would you? Admittedly, I don't know that Hank feels *that* way about her, but he likes her. How couldn't he? I mean, this case will in all probability ruin her career, and she took it anyway. That's class. Brooke's nice, too. She does temperature. Hank and I had lunch with them, and Brooke and I talked shop. I *never* get to talk shop. It was fun, really. Scott, are you listening?"

"No. Sorry, Bobby, I was thinking of something else." Like, that Bobby in iceform would be very tough, essentially like rock. Easily able to make holes in people's faces.

"Scott? You look like little pointy-toothed creatures are nibbling at your brain. Maybe you'd better go rest, or something."

"Yeah. Maybe I will, after I talk to Joan Perske."

* * *

Scott called up Miss Perske and left a message on her machine. Then we went to the study on the first floor, to get some paper. On his way he passed Sam sitting in the living room, watching television with Rogue.

Rogue could have easily killed Gatsburg. And Sam... Scott bet that if he flew with a fist in front of him, he could have about the same effect.

*That would take incredible coordination. I hope you realize you're crazy.*

Scott took a deep breath. It was about as useful as taking a breath when you were about to dive into an active volcano. "Hey, Sam, Rogue. Could I ask you a question?"

"Fire away," said Rogue.

"Do you guys remember what were you each doing on Friday between six and ten PM?"

Sam looked flabbergasted. Rogue's brow furrowed.

"Ah... day before yesterday, right? Ah was just kind of lounging, Ah think. Went out and flew around a little."

"Sam?"

"Ah was with friends some of that time, but not all of it..."

"Get a paper and write them down for me, and, where necessary, how I can contact them."

Scott was extremely grateful when Sam simply nodded, and hastened to obey. Rogue looked suspicious, though. "What's all this about, Scott?"

"It's routine," Scott intoned. "Just routine."

He continued on the way to the study, and took out his folder, containing the background information on all the victims. Family, history, disposition in as much as that could be assessed. Feeling a bit depressed, got some blank paper, and sat down.

After an inner struggle, he at last managed to write at the top 'Suspects'.

* * *

*Let's review the facts.*

Gambit was in the right place at the right time for the murder. Well, wrong place, and wrong time, depending on how you looked at it. Anyhow, he was probably there, though he didn't do it.

At least not using his powers. Was the injury to Gatsburg's face one that could have been made by a very fit, angry man, wielding a blunt object?

He made a note at the bottom of the paper to check on the force needed to crush Gatsburg's face. What fun.

Okay, moving on. Assume Gambit did, indeed, have an accomplice. That could possible explain why none of the security cameras, which were at all the exits, showed him leaving. The camera in the elevator - which Betsy had not brought, but had asked the police about - showed him getting off on the third floor, but he had never left it by conventional means. Perhaps he had had someone's help doing it. Perhaps someone who wasn't an X-Man, someone else Gambit knew.

But that didn't seem too likely.

Jean could yell at him all she liked, but, in Scott's experience, when bad things happened, they almost always revolved around the X-Men.

* * *

Scott needed a distraction. He had a one-track mind, and it had come in handy often enough, but it could be damn depressing. He decided to watch something. Something more potent and less legal than images on a screen probably would have done better, but you took you escapes where you found them.

He found Bobby in the living room, watching TV. Scott sat down next to him, silently. Something about Bobby's face inspired silence. Even the television was relatively quiet.

After about ten minutes of silence, in which Bobby was seemingly oblivious to anything but the bright screen, the doorbell rang. For half a second, Scott couldn't place the sound. He wasn't used to the bell. Usually, people coming to the mansion either lived there, in which case they had keys, or were attacking the mansion, in which case they didn't usually bother with the doorbell. Maybe someone had ordered a pizza...?

The doorbell rang again. Scott started to rise. "I'd better-"

Bobby looked at him, as if mildly surprised by his presence, and held up a hand. "The door? No, no. I'll take care of it." Bobby cleared his throat, and shouted, "SAM! GET THE DOOR!"

"COMIN'!" came the distant reply. There was the sound of running, then the rushing noise of Sam using his blasting powers, then a thud. A panting Sam peered into the living room. "The door?"

"Yeah. Better hurry. They rang like ten times, and they're probably getting angry." Sam nodded, and disappeared from view. Scott shook his head, and murmured, "That's just wrong."

They heard the door open, and Sam conversing with someone female. Then Sam ushered a gracile, and - Scott thought it over - blond woman, into the living room. "Wait here a moment, miss. I'll go get him."

At the sight of the woman, Bobby sprang to his feet and went forward to greet her. Scott also got to his feet, waiting politely in the background.

"Joan!" said Bobby. "Scott, this is Joan Perske, Joan, this is Scott Summers. Or did you already meet...?"

"I haven't had the pleasure, yet," Miss Perske murmured in an attractive, trombone-like voice. She extended her hand, and Scott took it. She had a confident grip, to match her eyes.

"The pleasure's all mine. But, really, you didn't need to come all the way out here..."

"No, it was nothing. I was already visiting someone near here, and I wanted to speak to Hank."

"Good. So long as you weren't inconvenienced. If you don't mind talking now before you see Hank, this won't take above five minutes. Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Coke? Water?"

"Nothing, thank you."

"Bobby, go check about Hank, would you?"

"But Sam-" He stopped at a glance from Scott. "Oh, sure. Be back in a few minutes."

Ha. Telepathy, who needed it?

They both sat down, and Scott bluntly asked her if she could verify Hank's alibi, which she did very graciously, even if there was a hint of sarcasm in her eyes. She then leaned forward, and said in a quiet tone, "Let me get you straight, Mr. Summers. Are you worried that someone on your team might be connected - or be accused of being connected - with the murder of Marvin Gatsburg?"

"I have to examine all possibilities," he said neutrally.

"I'm not asking this out of vulgar curiosity." Her shoulder length blond hair fell in front of her eyes, and she pushed it back. "In light of my client's identity, I'm very interested in anything that might influence public opinion concerning mutants."

"I understand completely." After all, Xavier had first stuck them with this case because of the possible political repercussions. "I don't think the police's investigation has lead them to believe that any of the - of my team were involved, and I certainly have no good reason to believe so." He paused to collect his thoughts, and said slowly, "Of course, I think all the damage that can be done, has been done, since the natural assumption was that a mutant killed Gatsburg... Hello, Hank."

Hank beamed. "I see you've met Joan."

"Yes. I was thinking, Miss Perske-"

"Joan."

"Joan. If you have time, I think my wife would like to meet you. She's been following the case closely."

"That's actually a good idea," agreed Hank. "Jean might have a few insights that would useful to your case."

Joan raised her eyebrows curiously. "Is she an expert in genetics, too?"

Hank smiled. "No, better. She's an expert in humans."

* * *

It was Professor Xavier.

"I think we should have chocolate cake," he said to Jean, seated next to him on the bed.

"But tiramisu is so *classy*," she objected.

"I can count the number of classy X-Men on one hand, with three fingers cut off."

"This party isn't for the X-Men," Jean pointed out. "It's for Charles."

"True, but I'm sure he would prefer us to enjoy ourselves."

"Scott, over the years I've sensed many an emotion coming from Charles Xavier, but never once did I get an 'I just want you guys to have fun' vibe. Anyway," she said sulkily, sticking out her lower lip, "tiramisu *is* fun."

Scott burst out laughing. Jean kept up the pout for a few seconds before it dissolved into a grin.

"You know what? We should have two cakes. We need that many to feed the X-Men, anyway."

"All right. I'll leave it up to your discretion. Excuse me. I have to go."

He was out in the hall when he heard a soft tread. He turned to see Jean standing a few steps behind him.

"Why do you have to go?" she whispered.

He almost replied that Xavier wanted him, but then stopped himself. She looked smaller than usual as she stood in the hallway. Surely this self-inflicted telepathic blindness was taking its toll on her as much as on him.

What was so important to hide, that she was willing to do put herself through this? Why did he assume that it had to do with Gatsburg's murder? There were many other things a woman and a wife could wish to conceal.

He took a step towards her and pulled her up against him with one arm, using the other hand to raise her face to his. He kissed her deeply, and, after a moment, she kissed back, her arms going around his neck. His hands went back to twist through her hair, no doubt tangling it horribly. They must have been meant for each other, Scott reflected, they must have been because he saw everyone else with the wrong hair color, but hers he saw amplified.

Her kisses grew more frantic, but he didn't mind. They also seemed a bit fearful. He didn't mind that, either.

said Xavier's voice.

Scott cursed, and let go of Jean. She wobbled slightly, and Scott realized that her feet hadn't been on the ground.

he growled back.

"What is it, Scott?"

"Xavier wants to see me," Scott said, smiling viciously.

"You had better go, then," his wife said softly. She turned and began to walk away.

Scott watch her until she was out of sight, and then went to see - kill - Xavier.

* * *

Charles Xavier smiled brightly as Scott entered his office, scowling.

"Good afternoon, Scott."

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Scott bit out.

"Yes, Scott, sit down. It's about the Gatsburg case."

Scott sat down, sprawled over the chair, before he realized he had taken up the same posture Gambit used in his more rebellious moods. He sat up straighter. "What is it?"

"I don't think we should stop, or at least suspend, the investigation. It seems to be a waste of manpower, and it is also taking its toll on you."

"But we still don't understand why any of the three murders were committed. That could be critical information. We can't just stop now."

"Yes, we can," said Xavier with maddening assurance. "I'm not so sure that this will affect us in any way, if it does, we can cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Do we have another mission to go on, sir? Because if we don't, I can't see a better use of our energies-"

"Scott, let me be blunt. It's not *our* energies I'm worried about. It's yours. You've seemed very tired lately."

What was new about that? Where had Xavier's concern been all those other times when Scott had been stretched so thin he was about to snap?

"You've also lacked focus," Xavier went on. "When was the last time you trained, or organized a training session?"

"I don't know. A week ago, maybe, but that has nothing to do with the case-"

"Regardless, I want you off it."

Scott stared at the man who had been like a father to him for most of his life. If this had been a movie, Xavier would've been the murderer.

He couldn't abandon the case, especially now, and not only for the reasons he had told Xavier. His instincts told him that if things were allowed to continue the way they were going, it would have disastrous effects on the team. The X-Men could cope with a frontal attack, but this was more subtle than that, this was...

"A figment of your imagination," said Xavier suddenly.

Scott stared at Xavier in horror, an indignant, "What?" wrenched from his lips.

Xavier seemed oblivious to Scott's reaction. "I can see that some things are bothering you, but they aren't real, aren't tangible. You're worried that there will be consequences where there are none. You aren't thinking clearly, Scott. I sincerely think you should take a sabbatical."

Scott, thinking rapidly, replied, "Okay."

"I think it would be-" Xavier stopped abruptly, and eyed Scott askance. "What?"

"I said, okay. You're right. I've been seeing enemies where there are none, and we can't have that in a commander. For the next few days, I'll just relax."

"Good." Xavier nodded slightly. "Good, I'm glad to hear that."

Scott hoped his glasses hid the calculating look he knew must be in his eyes. *What are you afraid of, Charles? Do you even know?*

"I'll see you later, then, Charles."

"All right, Scott. Take care."

They were afraid. Every single one of them. The knowledge twisted inside Scott like a particularly lively tapeworm as he left the office.

There was no one to trust, no one to turn to. He was on his own. He was a leader without any followers.

And somewhere, deep down, buried beneath the hating it, he loved it.

As Scott walked down the hall, he was very surprised to find himself whistling.

* * *

"Do de police have *any* suspects?" Gambit asked Storm.

She shrugged. "None by name. They suspect that it was mutant friends of the victims."

"Huh. Have you found anything out about dis Nicholas Beal? He could very well have had more to do wit' it den anyone thinks."

"No, I have not been able to. Didn't I tell you? Charles wanted us to stop the investigation."

Remy's eyes widened. "Did he?" he breathed.

Storm held out a hand to him. "Yes."

He took it, and clutched it tightly, not even looking at her. "Dat's... interesting. Why?"

"He feels the case is affecting the team's concentration and morale. Especially Cyclops's."

"Hmm."

"He's right, of course. But Scott is nothing if not persistent."

"I know." He raised her hand to his lips. This time, his eyes never left her face. "T'ings could get really weird, really soon, Stormy."

"I know, Remy. I admit I do not quite understand what is going on, but be careful. And for the love of the Goddess, don't call me 'Stormy'.

* * *

*Let's review the facts.*

"Of course, we can't go through the whole day acting like we all forgot his birthday. We'll go through the motions, wish him happy birthday-"

There were so many ways to get out of a third story window. Off the top of his head - wings, iceslides, telekinesis. Riding on the wind and rocketing and Rogue's own unique brand of gravitational defiance.

"-mention a birthday dinner, but there will be no presents, and people will be off doing their own thing during the day. Maybe a few people can say they have previous engagements. They'll be really apologetic about it, of course-"

"It won't work," said Scott.

The eight eyes of the impromptu party committee turned to him.

"Why not?" demanded Warren.

"We have Jean and Elisabeth to help keep it secret," added Ororo, nodding to the two women.

Scott removed his hat, and fanned himself a couple of times with it. "You just can't keep a secret in the X-Men."

"We don't want it secret from other X-Men. Just Xavier."

"The most powerful telepath on the planet?" Scott smiled, then shrugged, firmly setting his hat back on his head. "Well, I suppose it's worth a shot."

"Do you have to wear that stupid hat?" Warren asked plaintively.

"Jean got it for me." He flicked the brim. "I rather like it."

Storm looked stern. "You should not wear it inside the house, though."

Obediently, Scott removed it again and placed it over his heart. "Funny, Betsy said much the same thing to me." He then became absorbed in examining his feet, and, after an awkward pause, the other four resumed discussion. After a while, Scott excused himself. He had a birthday present to buy, God help him.

He was going upstairs, to pick up a book he had half-heartedly started, when he heard yelling. There was nothing new in that, of course. The thing that made him pause and listen, though, was that both people yelling had southern accents. He couldn't make out most of the words, but the inflection was unmistakable.

Why the hell would Sam and Rogue be arguing?

Scott suppressed a very inappropriate grin and, after putting his hat back on, he followed the voices to their source.

They were standing in the kitchen. Rogue had a knife. It would have been more alarming if there hadn't been a chicken breast on the cutting board, but nonetheless it didn't exactly add to Scott's comfort. Sam seemed oblivious to the fact that the woman yelling at him was holding a large knife.

The both froze when Scott came in, and regarded him with flushed faces. Scott walked past them and took an apple out of the bowl in the middle of the kitchen table. "You guys all right?"

Sam nodded, once, and looked to Rogue.

"Yeah, we're fine. Sorry. We were discussing... something."

"So I heard." He bit into the apple and then grimaced. It was green. They always bought green apples. Scott was apparently the only X-Man who preferred red.

"Ah've... got to go," said Sam. "G'bye."

"Sam..." said Rogue.

He stopped, turned, and grabbed her gloved hand. "Ya know what? It's okay? It doesn't matter. None of it matters."

She blinked at him, and managed a small smile.

After Sam had gone, Scott said, "Well, I'm confused."

"And you're gonna stay that way." She turned back to the cutting board, and resumed chopping.

Scott took another bite of his apple, and tossed it in the direction of the trash can. By some miracle, it landed right in the middle, on top of an empty milk carton. "Need any help?"

"No, thanks." She was chopping quickly and recklessly, her fingers perilously close to the blade.

"Better slow down, or you'll cut yourself."

"Maybe I don't mind."

"Maybe I do." He reached over, and placed his hand over hers. She stopped chopping. "I need you all in working order, in case of emergencies. Let me do this, while you do something else."

She looked resentful, but went and sat down at the table.

"You still having trouble sleeping?"

She glanced back at her, to see her nod. "Yeah, but don't worry about it."

"I do. Maybe you should drink less coffee."

"Ah rarely have coffee," she objected.

The knife made a very satisfying sound, hitting against the wooden cutting board. "Except when you come down at night."

"How do you know Ah do that?"

"I hear you. I don't sleep so well, either. And you leave the coffee pot partly full."

She sighed. "That's 'cause it's early morning, not night, and Ah know Ah won't be gettin' back to sleep, anyway."

"Hmm."

Suddenly, she laughed. Loudly and, if he was any judge, sincerely.

"What?"

"It's just - ya look so funny, chopping things in that hat." She went off into another peal of laughter. "Oh, God, Ah wish Ah had a camera..."

Of course, he should have known she was laughing at him. He frowned up at his fedora. "I like it."

"It's a lovely hat," she reassured him, and went off into another peal of laughter. She stood up, and pushed him away from the cutting board. "Thanks, shug, for the heart to heart. Ah can take it from here."

He released the knife into her custody, and tipped his hat solemnly to her as he left.

* * *

It was just Scott's luck, that his favorite suspect was also the man with the least going against him. Because, quite frankly, you couldn't count annoying personal habits as evidence against a person, no matter how much you might want to.

He could still ask questions due to the fact that the man could probably come out of a three story drop relatively unscathed, though, and that was quite enough for Scott.

Scott's favorite suspect tapped the ashes of his cigar onto the concrete pathway which lead through the yard. They danced in the breeze, before being borne off into the grass. "Whaddya want, Summers?"

"I just wanted to know-"

"I've got nothing for you. I know what you're up to, and I don't have an alibi."

"Nothing?"

Logan cast the taller man a contemptuous glare. "No."