Remy likes to watch the X-Girl at night. Nothing creepy or stalkerish about it, really-he just likes sitting on the edge of her balcony (well, not strictly HERS. She shares the room with a little brunette that's far too perky for his tastes) and looking through the sliding glass door to see her sleeping there. He likes to think it's his little secret, these nighttime visits, but he's near certain that Piotr knows. Piotr is a good man though. He doesn't ask questions, and looks the other way as Remy sneaks out of the base once it starts to get dark. The Russian will keep this supposed impropriety to himself.

Remy's read her file. He knows all about her powers and her past, about the Cody boy and her mutant terrorist mother. The file goes in to depth on these matters, and includes a full psychological profile centered on how dealing with her power might affect her. Remy has read over it more times than he'd admit to himself, let alone anyone else. The report is written in the clinical language of academics and filled with words he only half understands. It essentially suggests that since she has been denied physical contact of any kind for so long, her emotional development will likely be stunted to a dangerous degree. It then goes on to suggest ways in which to exploit her 'compromised emotive state'. The detached words in the report deliver this news in a manner that frustrates Remy each and every time he reads them. It's painfully obvious that the author has never actually seen the girl.

Remy knows her nighttime ritual. She'll change in to a pair of oversized flannel boxers and a black tank-top, and he wonders how great a sense of relief allowing her skin to breathe after being completely covered all day this change offers. She also washes off the makeup she cakes on every day. It gives him a twisted sort of satisfaction that he's likely the only guy in Bayville who's seen her without the heavy mask she so carefully applies each morning. Next, she'll run a brush through her hair while absently making conversation with her roommate. He can't hear her voice through the glass, but from his vantage point in the shadows, he can read her expressions very clearly. They vary from night to night, but generally, it appears that she only trades one mask for another. There's an aloofness there that shouldn't surprise him, all things considered. Sometimes he catches himself wondering what it would take to coax a genuine smile from her. He tries to suppress such thoughts with the knowledge that if he indeed knew what it would take, he would do it, consequences be damned. This attempt at suppression is half-hearted at best. Finally, she'll slip off her gloves and set them gingerly on her bedside table atop whatever worn-out paperback novel she's currently reading. He never gets close enough to make out titles, but it's apparent that she likes her books like the sleeves of her shirts-long. Once the gloves come off, she tucks herself beneath her comforter as her roommate switches off the lights.

Remy doesn't leave when the lights go out. Once he's certain the girl's asleep, he'll move a little closer, perhaps even as close as the door itself if he's feeling particularly forward that night. He never crosses that line though, and never plans to-there's something sacrosanct about her room that he doesn't wish to toy with or push. It demands a respect of sorts, and he gives it by remaining behind the glass. From just outside her door, he watches the soft rise and fall of her blankets that mark the timing of her breathing. There's something about watching the girl find the peace she apparently lacks in the waking word as she sleeps that brings him a sense of calm. It pleases Remy that she can find a safe place. It gives him hope that maybe he'll find one for himself one day.

Remy knows something is wrong tonight. The very air itself speaks of tension and discord, something that he was trained from childhood to notice. Were he about to execute a heist, this sensation alone would be enough for him put it off until the strange feeling blows over, if not to put it off altogether.

Whatever you're after, it's not worth it to pursue it in the presence of doubt, his father had always said. A job is one tenth panache, nine tenths confidence.

For some reason, Remy has ignored his father's teaching tonight. He is perched upon the girl's balcony and is watching as he always does. The room is dark; she ought to be falling asleep now. She is instead sitting cross-legged upon her bed, rubbing her temples and muttering something that's just beyond hearing. This break from pattern gives rise to concern. He watches as she rises from her bed and heads towards the glass doors that separate the room from the porch. He backs to the furthest, darkest corner of the balcony, readying himself to leap off and land silently on the ground beneath before literally disappearing in to the night. As she opens the door, he begins the motions that will launch him over the wrought-iron rails. He stops as he hears her speaking.

"My body. My head." She mutters, still rubbing her temples. "Get out."

She cringes, the pain apparently growing more intense, and she presses her face in to her hands. It takes him but a moment to realize what's going on. Memories from books read long ago come back to Remy unbidden, lines from stories long since thought forgotten.

O, that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheekā€¦

He wants nothing more than announce his presence; to go up to her, to hold her and tell her everything will be okay. He wants to chase the voices away for her and offer himself as a distraction of sorts, whatever he's worth.

"Just leave me alone," She pleads quietly as her shoulders start to shake. "This is my body, my head. Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Her mumbling grows more and more incoherent, the shakes more violent. A tearing sensation rips through Remy's chest. He should do something. He should help her. But what about the careful distance he has maintained? What happened to watching her from afar?

"Get out of my head!" She cries before letting out a loud, racking sob and collapsing there on the balcony. Remy stands there, unsure of what to think or do. He knows that there's something fundamentally wrong with the fact that her limbs are splayed violently on the ground in that way. He purses his lips as he draws a step closer to her unconscious form. He looks towards the door. The girl had left it cracked open when she came out. An invitation? A sign? He isn't sure, but he finds himself picking the girl up and slipping through the door in to her room.

Remy has crossed the boundary. He is in the girl's room, somewhere he never, ever thought he would dare tread. He can't help but feel he has tainted the space-it was sacred, apart, and his presence here is somehow as wrong to him as the girl's body on the balcony. He pushes these thoughts aside as he pulls back the covers of her bed and lays her down. He pauses before drawing the blankets up around her body to whisper an apology to the unseen force in this room that he can feel expressing distaste at his being here. He remains standing there, a silent sentinel, not sure he wants to leave. An uncomfortable moan from the other side of the room (from her roommate, he realizes) acts as the deciding factor. If he wants to return, he can't be caught tonight. Taking a last glance at the girl in the bed before him, he steals away from the room and is gone before the roommate has time to shift her weight.