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Chapters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
 
 
 

The Ante - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Lucia de’Medici
Last updated: 05/11/2007 10:19:38 PM

Chapter 7

Chapter VII: Mechanics

---

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so tired.

"Y’ gonna hold on?" Remy murmured, settling her against the back of his Harley. He’d done so in a most genteel fashion, proffering his arm to her as she placed one foot on the exhaust and hauled herself over the seat.

Rogue couldn’t help it if the worn leather beneath her pert bottom had made a rude noise as she’d plopped down. The seat was still relatively comfortable, though, all things considered.

She nodded and rubbed at her face. Her hands itched beneath her gloves, but it was a distant discomfort. Her head was a lead balloon, Remy’s voice a detached echo that wavered in clarity and volume. She hummed, and she felt the sound in her chest rather than hearing it clearly.

"We’ll ride as long as y’ can stay awake. If I feel y’ slipping, we’ll stop. D’accord?"

She nodded again and shivered a little. The night had left its mark on Bayville. It settled around them, damp and shifting where the condensation in the air grew thicker. There would be fog soon. It was the sort of chill that would make a cold morning beautiful — dewy and touched with a lingering mist — but now, sometime after midnight, it was just uncomfortable.

Remy shrugged off his trench coat and draped the garment over her shoulders. It was far too big for her, the sleeves falling several inches past her fingers, but the heat from Gambit’s body had warmed it, making it cozy. He pulled the collar up around her neck, careful not to touch her chin with his bare fingers.

"Ya gonna get cold," she murmured, trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes. She yawned instead, covering her mouth a moment too late to be polite. "Sorry," she muttered, her voice thick and cottony to match the feeling in her head.

"S’ fine, m’ powers’ll take care of de chill; I won’t even feel it."

Rogue looked at him for a moment, and slowly, her vision became a little clearer.

"What happened to ya?" she asked. "How could ya touch my hand like that and still be standing there, right as rain?"

Remy smirked and straddled the bike. His weight caused the shocks to sink a little, and Rogue slipped down the seat. She came to rest against his back with her thighs brushing his hips, and cautiously, she looked behind her. There was a bare two inches of seat left for the second passenger, which should have been fine, except there was no back rest.

If she moved back any farther, and Remy hit a pothole, she might actually get a quick flying lesson.

She squirmed a little, trying to give him some distance, her head beginning to clear. What was she doing here? Hadn’t they been fighting just a little while ago?

"Y’ shy now?" Remy smirked over his shoulder at her.

Oh, right. Rogue shook herself, sitting up straighter. She blinked at the back of his head. It must have been another dream.

"No!" she returned defiantly, though she hesitated to place her hands on his... on his... oh no. She’d forgotten about the belt. The damned thing was slung low on his waist. Much like a gun holster, it had several external pockets attached to carry his tools and packs of cards. What was she supposed to do? Grab his legs, or his pectorals?

Rogue’s eyes widened, her breath hitching as the motorcycle roared to life, and Remy lifted the kickstand with his heel.

That was it. She was dreaming. There was no way in her right mind she’d be sitting on the back of the swamp rat’s bike, contemplating where she was supposed to put her hands while still trying to be discreet. Still, her head didn’t feel like it was screwed on straight.

"Y’ sleepin’ back dere?" He chuckled and twisted the throttle warningly.

"Ah’m just checkin’ for holes in my eyelids," she muttered sardonically, her voice drowned beneath the purr of the bike. It sure did sound real, though.

"Best hold on den!"

"Gambit!" she cried, throwing her arms around his stomach as the Harley roared to life, climbing to sixty and leading them off one of the mansion’s back alleys within a matter of seconds. She dug her fingers into his sides.

Rogue could feel his laughter beneath her hands and against her chest where she pressed herself to his back. That felt oddly true to life too... not that she’d ever touched the Cajun like that.

"Y’ keep holdin’ on t’ me like dat, chérie, and m’ not gonna need dat coat back."

"Ah thought ya said yo’ powers’d take care of ya," she yelled, her voice carried away on the wind.

"S’ my favourite coat," he returned almost defensively, but not without a wry grin over his shoulder. "’Sides, I t’ink y’ look better in dat skimpy t’ing y’ call a uniform."

She pinched him below the ribs, her fingers straining to find something other than muscle to squeeze. Gambit laughed out loud, and Rogue forced her gloved fingers to clasp together instead of settling on the ripple of his abdominals.

She flushed, glad he couldn’t see her, and yawned again into his back. This wasn’t the worst possible arrangement, she thought. In fact, it was rather nice... for a dream.

"Remy?" she tried again, the lull to slumber coaxing her once again. Did you get tired when you were sleeping? Was that even possible? The though was distant. She hummed.

"Oui, ma belle?" he called, taking a corner sharply near Bayville’s mall and gunning the engine before the lights could turn from yellow to red. They shot through the intersection and tore out onto the quiet thoroughfare that led to the interstate.

"Ah... Ah left the Queen at the Institute," she said, resting her chin on his shoulder.

When Gambit didn’t reply, Rogue ducked her head, pressing her cheek into the strong dip between his shoulder blades, and closed her eyes against the rush of wind that whipped around them.

After a moment of feeling Rogue settle against him, Gambit smiled. A little bit of charm went a long way, it appeared.

"I’ve got at least a few more of dem cards up m’ sleeve," he murmured softly and turned off onto the interstate.

---

"Is that it?" Jean asked, landing near Scott.

Cyclops nodded wearily. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so." He turned to look over the Institute grounds from the top of the portico steps. "What a mess," he muttered.

"Come on," she smiled and gave his arm a reassuring tug. "Let’s debrief everyone and see if we can’t sort this out. I’m sure there was a logical explanation."

Scott shook his head but allowed her to lead him into the mansion, which, thankfully, was still standing despite the outward appearance of the grounds.

"When has the Brotherhood ever needed a reason to instigate a riot?"

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, man," Ray called, hauling a limping Bobby down the corridor beneath one arm. "That was great! I am so going to sleep well tonight. My shocks are totally tweaked out."

"Speak for yourself," Bobby grumbled. "The next time I see that fungal infection -"

"Toad?" Ray offered helpfully.

"Don’t say his name," Bobby bit back. "The only reminder I want of his existence is on his tombstone -"

"Hey!" Scott called, straightening his back despite the fact that all the Team Leader really wanted to do was take a hot bath with some of Jean’s preferred form of self-indulgence: scented soap and a bit of sea salt. "Bobby, that is not what X-Men stand for. With that kind of attitude, no wonder the Brotherhood think its fair game to come knocking on our door."

"Knocking down our door, more like," Sam muttered, staggering into the foyer and rubbing his head.

"Students," Professor Xavier projected. "We are congregating in ready room number three. There is something Hank and I would like to discuss with you about the events of this evening. Kurt, if you could leave the door open, Logan has just arrived."

Nightcrawler paused, one blue finger held over the security system’s numeric panel near the door. "I guess there’s not much point arming the mansion is there?" He laughed nervously and dropped his hand to his side.

He was met with a snarl a moment later.

"Logan?"

"You heard the Prof, Elf. Move it." He sniffed the air and bared his teeth. "We’ve got more problems than just a few trampled petunias out front."

Kitty phased up through the floor a few feet away, hefting herself to her knees on the rug and looking around the room. Two crunched playing cards poked out of her fist where she braced herself against the carpeting.

Wildly, she searched her teammates’ faces.

"Where’s Rogue? She’s not in the briefing room," she said, her voice two octaves higher than normal and shrill enough to make Logan wince.

He snarled again, his claws making a distinctive snikt as they extended and then retracted just as quickly. He glowered a moment, his eyes flicking to the cards clenched in Kitty’s fist which she gripped even more firmly when Rogue failed to appear among those gathered in the foyer.

Logan sniffed, catching the smear of scent left on the King and Queen of Hearts.

"Problem numero uno," he growled and stalked past Kitty and down the hallway, banging his fist into a recessed oak panel. The wall popped with a hydraulic hiss and slid to the side compliantly, revealing the elevator that led to the sublevels of the mansion.

"Get in," he rumbled to the remaining X-Men. "Now."

Logan pointed to the cards that were now pressed to Kitty’s chest. She yipped, knowing she was singled-out. "Bring those with you."

---

It smelled like sweet grass, Remy thought, breathing a little more easily now that they’d cleared the state lines. Pennsylvania, however, was still too close to New York, and for the first time Remy had to repress the irrational discomfort that if the wind changed direction, it’d be blowing straight back into the nostrils of Rogue’s overprotective bulldog of a father figure.

Wolverine would be more than willing to claim a pound of flesh for this particular offence, he thought. He’d promised as much the last time they’d had an altercation. The coyoon had put six irreparable tears into his jacket as a reminder and tacked him up against a cypress tree.

Idly, Remy wondered if Rogue would be willing to stop Wolvie again if it came to that.

Somehow, he figured she might be the one to really give him a thrashing when she returned to her full senses. His subtle coercion tactics wouldn’t have been worth a tick without the backing of his mutation — at least, not with her. Rogue was single-handedly the most stubborn femme he’d ever met — save Bella, but with Rogue nestled comfortably against him, Bella was the furthest thing from his mind.

Nonetheless, he’d given Rogue just a small mental nudge, just a tiny brush of that charm he was renowned for — and now she was snuggled up around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He wished he had a Polaroid camera.

She really was going to kill him for this later; he smirked, enjoying the feeling of her trembling thighs against his hips as she strained to stay upright behind him. The warm weight of her arms around his stomach assured that she was still holding on, though since half two, he was noticing the steady droop of her wrists. She’d reposition herself occasionally, brushing against him and sighing — and if that wasn’t utterly disconcerting, the mental images that accompanied those slight shifts of her weight had nearly driven him off the road twice.

When she moved, which wasn’t often, he could feel the light press of her breasts and the angle of her hips as she fit herself to his back. In fact, if his compacted staff hadn’t been in the way, he’d probably sense the concentrated warmth pressed against his tailbone too.

Remy shook himself.

It was... nice, he thought stiffly. And if he didn’t leave it at that, he’d really be in trouble.

They needed time — a day at best — but if the X-crew were really determined to find them, they’d disappear. What good was a thief who could be found when he didn’t want to be?

"Rogue?" he asked after a stretch, feeling her slump a little heavier against his back. Her hands fell idly into his lap before she roused herself with a small groan.

Remy cocked an eyebrow, peering down at the juncture between his legs where her fingers had been a second ago, and restrained the string of lewd thoughts that raced through his mind with some difficulty.

"Time t’ pull over," he muttered, more to himself than to the girl behind him, and eyed the illuminated sign for lodgings and food that passed on his right.

He took the exit ramp, and within a few minutes, Remy had parked the bike and collected the key to a battered motel room from an equally battered-looking receptionist. He’d leered and asked if he’d be paying for the night or by the hour. It had been an exercise in self-restraint to not blow up the magazine the clerk had been reading. Finally, he’d carried a sleeping Rogue over the threshold to a dingy room on the second floor.

With the peeling paint flaking off in furrows that left the dull puce undercoat exposed, Remy peered at the dangling, rusted number four nailed to the door. Beside it, the number one to room fourteen looked nearly as battered, though the rusty nail tacking it right side up clung stubbornly to the old wood. He’d seen worse, he decided, though a niggling thought at the back of his mind declared that while he deserved worse accommodations, the girl should have seen better.

Fitting the key with its tacky plastic tag into the lock while holding the girl aloft had been no challenge. She was precious cargo, and precious cargo needed to be treated as such — didn’t matter if it was an ancient artefact or a person. As a thief, it had been deeply ingrained early on that damaged goods were utterly useless.

Remy tried not to linger too long on the metaphor. Rogue wasn’t damaged — not outwardly anyhow. But to him it was clear that being used as the catalyst for Apocalypse’s resurrection hadn’t done anything to help her... situation.

Rogue snuffled in her sleep, her wrists folding over themselves against her chest.

Even in slumber she managed to draw inwards on herself.

Remy frowned.

He should have been there until the end. He should have gone back after Magneto had been defeated and stood alongside the X-Men. He should have kept a closer eye on her, and yet, he hadn’t. He’d stayed in Louisiana with Jean Luc and had stood by uselessly as his own future was determined for him.

Maybe Rogue’s stubborn insistence that she could take care of herself had been excuse enough for him at the time.

Or maybe it had taken the reminder that he was no longer a welcome party among the Thieves to get out.

Remy edged into the room sideways, careful not to bump her dangling feet against the door, and slid the deadbolt without so much as a grunt of effort. He turned, frowning at the peeling wallpaper, the stained carpet and...

"Merde," he said flatly.

The double bed. The only double bed.

Pursing his lips, he eyed the coverlet suspiciously. At least the sheets were clean.

He deposited her gingerly in the middle, carefully sliding his trench from her shoulders as she rolled onto her side, and pulled her boots off. These he deposited at the foot of the bed, and moved around quietly to stand over her. He’d have to lift her legs to coax her beneath the sheets, but somehow the prospect of handling her too much made him uncomfortable. She wouldn’t appreciate it at all, but he highly doubted she’d thank him graciously if she awoke cold and with a stiff neck either.

Even that was overshooting expectations a lot.

Hastily, Remy slipped an arm beneath her calves, enjoying the soft press of relaxed flesh beneath the suit she wore for just one guilty moment, and then pulled the cover from beneath her, draping it over her side quickly.

"Y’ a dead man, LeBeau," he reminded himself, unsure weather he’d be grateful to be throttled by such a fine looking femme, or whether he should seriously consider worrying about how she’d react in the morning.

Rogue sighed, snuggling down into the sheets, and Remy allowed himself a small smile before tossing himself into the one uncomfortable chair nearest the door. Unceremoniously, he propped his feet up on the mismatched table beside it.

"Here’s hoping Henri remembers t’ bring out de Jazz band f’ y’ funeral," he murmured to himself.

A tug on the moth-eaten drapes allowed a weak beam of murky amber to fall across the bed. It struck Rogue’s face just so, making the shadows beneath her eyes seem darker. Her mouth was tinted to faded plum where her lipstick had smeared across her chin - there’d probably be remnants of that dark colour against the back of his shirt, but Remy remained unconcerned. The study took priority. Truth be told, he hadn’t had much of a chance to admire the changes a year could bring earlier, but with Rogue sleeping soundly a few feet away? It was almost like old times; when Remy could appreciate at his leisure.

The tousled white streaks in her hair slid over her cheek. She’d let it grow out some since the last time he’d seen her. He cocked his head to the side and surveyed her expression.

She was peaceful like this, pretty even, and although Remy LeBeau relished the supple curves beneath the sheet and the repressed innocence that managed to cling to the girl, somehow, it just wasn’t right. It was such a stark contrast to her usual scowl.

Remy smirked, trying to get comfortable with the chair back digging into his ribs uncomfortably.

He couldn’t help but anticipate the downturn to those pursed lips and the dimples that would form in her cheeks when she woke up and saw where she was.

Frankly, Remy couldn’t wait to see Rogue back in her natural element: flushed beneath the collar, limbs tense as anything and ready to snap him in half, each muscle clearly defined against the taut body armour that covered her from head to toe, and that brilliant, beautiful darkening of her eyes. There was nothing more striking than that very girl when she was angry.

With a chuckle, Remy pulled out a pack of cards. He cut the deck, the soft sounds of paper sliding against paper a comforting lull to whittle away the early morning hours.

---

Mississippi haze clung to the shores, casting everything in brilliant gold and soft violet where the trees relinquished their dappled shade. She loved the damp, rich scent of wet earth that caked between her toes as it dried and insinuated itself beneath her fingernails. She always took a little bit of the shore home with her after they played here.

Her feet were in the river, the hem of her dress creased with drying mud, and she was sprawled in the grass — fingers tangling between the cool sheaves of green, and sun-warmed tangles of auburn above her head where she stretched her arms.

She could almost hear the bullfrogs.

It was a nice dream.

Rogue’s eyes fluttered, still unwilling to wake up fully. She wanted to remember the willow — how its heavy branches swayed overhead, slow and serpentine in the dull afternoon sun. They seemed to bend down to her, and maybe, if she reached far enough, she could grasp their dripping fingers.

Rogue stretched, uncomfortable though she had plenty of room to move.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to bring back the sun — unearth that day in her yellow dress by the river and pull it back from the depths of her memory before the lazy ripples of the river could swallow it whole.

Laughter. Rogue smiled into her pillow, arching her back to work out the kinks. Cody.

It was fading; a soft echo that insisted on slipping back into that steady babble that overtook her thoughts when she woke. The sun grew brighter, and slowly, Rogue’s eyes fluttered open.

Less lucid, Rogue could still see him. Cody. His hair haloed in bright amber, sitting against the trunk of that old tree — bare feet stretched out before him, heels tipped up onto a large river rock.

She hummed, smiling a little, and blinked into the daylight where his face was still silhouetted by the shadows cast from the overhanging willow. She could feel him smiling.

"Sleep well?"

It was fuzzy, that sound. Rogue tried to burrow a little beneath the covers, her face turning into the pillow to escape the glare of early morning.

Something was wrong. Cody’s voice had never sounded so deep; he was just a boy. Rogue frowned.

Something was wrong. The linens smelled musty, like they’d sat in a closet too long. The bed was lumpy; its springs were digging into her hip, and it stank of foreignness.

Something was wrong, her mind shouted at her.

Rogue scrubbed at her face and almost immediately winced. She’d scratched herself with the back of her glove — the stiff leather hard against her cheek. She never slept with them on.

Across the room, someone chuckled. Rogue tensed, pushing herself up with her arms and rolled over hard onto her back.

Not her bed. Not her room.

He chuckled.

"Was planning on sticking a charged Ace beneath y’ head if y’ didn’t wake up soon."

The soft flick and snap as he pulled another card from his deck of cards, the light scrape of paper against a laminate surface, was background noise for the panicked voice that steadily grew in volume at the back of her mind.

Ears working overtime though her eyes were still bleary, Rogue blinked hard to get the sleep out. Gradually, Gambit came into focus before her.

Her reaction time had taken too long. She cursed herself.

"Where am Ah?" she ground out, her voice sounding hoarse and her tongue thick in her mouth from sleep.

Rogue looked at the sheets tangled around her body.

"Cajun -" her voice cracked. "Where -"

"Pennsylvania," he answered smoothly, not looking up from his game of solitaire. He was slouched in a chair across the room, one leg on the table and the other beneath it, his heel supporting his weight against the wall. Behind him, the new sun bathed the shag of the auburn hair overhanging his cowl in bright gold. Like fire, she thought, swallowing and taking in the outline of his profile.

If this were some sort of twisted temptation, the sort that determined saints and martyrs, for a moment Rogue was convinced she was being sent straight to hell in a hand basket. It was a good thing she’d packed light.

She tore her eyes away and scanned the room quickly.

The door was clear, she noted. Bathroom. Bare bulb on the ceiling. Filthy carpets. Television that probably didn’t work. Deadbolt on the door. Rumpled sheets.

Rumpled sheets?

The fight. There had been a fight with the Brotherhood — she strained, wincing at the stiffness of her limbs as she sat there. Her head felt fuzzy.

"Ah’m gonna ask ya this once," she said in a low grosgrain, sliding the sheets from her legs and being at least partially relieved to see she was still fully dressed. "What in blue blazes am Ah doing in Pennsylvania?"

He shrugged innocently with one shoulder and frowned, his eyebrows lifting as if repressing a grin.

Rogue was out of the bed in a second, leaping across the room. She dropped and rolled — kicking one of the chair legs out from beneath him and sending him arcing backwards, chair and all. Gambit’s leg shot out, catching the small overhang of the table and tipping it so that it flipped onto its side and clattered against the wall. Cards rained down on top of them: a flutter of clubs and spades and diamonds that she stubbornly ignored. Rogue pinned him — a knee on his chest and a hand on his throat — and pulled back her opposite fist. The knuckle protruded slightly, ready to drive into the bridge of his nose.

"Start talkin’," she bit out through clenched teeth.

Remy smirked, holding his hands out in defensive supplication.

"Bon matin a toi aussi, ein?"

"What did ya do ta me?" she spat, her eyes narrowing. She shifted her weight to press down a little more firmly on his sternum. Gambit didn’t even flinch. It should have been cutting off the oxygen to his over-inflated head.

"Well," he began lightly, peering at her knee on his chest with something close to appreciation, and then returning his gaze to her face. He laced his fingers behind his head and appeared to settle in, despite the fact that Rogue was still poised to rearrange his bone structure. "Y’ see, first Remy asked y’ if y’d have a normal conversation — thought mebbe we have some supper, nice bottle of wine, catch up a little," he drawled.

"Dream on, swamp rat," she spat.

"Den somet’ing funny happened," he continued, ignoring her indignant retort. "Suppose y’ were still a little sore, mebbe a lil’ shy since y’ hadn’t seen me in so long, so I had t’ make some arrangements with m’ old friends t’ smooth t’ings over."

"Ah am not shy," she snapped.

"I can see dat now." He leered, his eyes sliding from the knee on his chest, up her torso and resting on her mouth for a moment before returning her gaze. "Y’ keep putting me in dis position, chérie, and I keep tellin’ y’ -"

"Ah don’t care what sort of perverse preferences ya got, LeBeau. Ya got the Brotherhood to attack the mansion! That ain’t ’smoothing’ things over’ where Ah’m from." Her fist clenched near her ear.

"...Left y’ dis lil’ invitation — stuck it t’ y’ mirror back at de Institute," he continued lazily. "Shoulda been a grand ol’ time... Remembered how much y’ liked de Mardi Gras fireworks back in N’awlins, so I brought de party on up t’ New York." He smirked, shifting his shoulders to get comfortable beneath her knee.

"Ah don’t think ya realize what kinda damage yo’ ’fireworks’ did, Gambit," she snarled.

"Au contraire, chérie. De end, in dis case, appears t’ justify de means." Gambit’s eyes seemed to smoulder in amusement, the red of his irises flaring brightly against the darkened sclera. His mouth curved easily into a lopsided smile, and he lidded his gaze. "Y’ here ain’t y’?"

Something twisted in the pit of her stomach as he smiled — if that little upturn of his mouth could even be considered a smile.

He was enjoying this, she thought venomously.

Rogue snorted, finishing the discussion for him. "Kidnapping again? Ah shoulda known," she returned, determined to best him. "Ya don’t seem ta get much more original than this, Cajun."

Gambit cocked an eyebrow.

"Don’t y’ remember?" he murmured, and slowly, he pulled a hand from beneath his head and held it up before her. He waggled his fingers, waiting for her to focus on them. Rogue snapped her gaze between the two bare digits exposed by his oddly-cut gloves and his face suspiciously.

"What?" She sneered. "Ya finally find out how ta use primitive tools? It’s an opposable thumb, swamp rat. Yo’ about twenty millennia behind right about now."

He chuckled, pursing his lips. "Trust me, I know how t’ use m’ hands jus’ fine."

Rogue flushed despite herself. Why was it that everything that rolled off his tongue had to sound so darn dirty all the time?

He kept his gaze trained on her face as slowly, he reached for a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her face.

Entranced, Rogue watched his fingers, barely aware that even as those few uncovered appendages moved towards her, she was pulling backwards.

"Don’t —" she warned, her breath bouncing back to her from his hand. He was too close.

"Rogue," he murmured, his gaze intent — fixed on her expression as it shifted between wariness, to fascination, to fear.

"Ah said don’t!" she yelled and shot backwards. She dug her heels into the threadbare carpeting and scrabbled until her shoulders made contact with the recently toppled furniture.

Her back crashed into the fallen table, and she grunted. Bracing herself, her gloves sliding over the slick surfaces of the cards that littered the floor of the motel room, Rogue shuddered and turned away. A moment later she’d wrapped her arms around herself protectively. She didn’t want to look at him — not when he looked at her like that. There was something veiled beneath his schooled expression — was it curiosity? Or was it some sort of sick preoccupation with danger that had prompted him to do that?

She glanced at him, her mind rushing to catch up of its own accord. How could she have forgotten so easily? She swallowed, keenly aware that throughout this altercation she had carefully sidestepped something excruciatingly important.

"Ah — Ah absorbed ya," she breathed. "Oh man..." She covered her mouth, and looked at the cards surrounding her without really seeing them.

Remy sat up, watching her closely. "An’?"

She could feel his unsettling stare on her even as she flinched at his prompting.

"And what?" she shot back.

"Dieu!" he chuckled. "Y’ really don’t remember do y’?"

She winced.

"Or y’ do an’ y’ just don’t want t’ admit it." He leaned forwards, ducking his head so that he slid beneath her direct line of sight. Rogue glared, her gloved hand balling against her mouth. She desperately wanted to bite down on a knuckle. "Dat’s a bad tell, Rogue — when y’ do dat wit’ y’ eyes." He clucked, bemused.

"Do what?"

"Dey get a little darker ’round de edges," he grinned, slow and Cheshire-like. "When y’ pupils dilate — de grey goes green."

"My mutation doesn’t do that," she countered.

"Non, it’s subtle. S’ not part of y’ powers; y’d barely notice it if y’ weren’t paying’ attention."

He sat back on his knees, his hands on his hips. Dimly, Rogue acknowledged that he probably knew exactly what the position did to enhance his musculature. She scowled and dropped her eyes.

"Cased y’ f’ a long time," he admitted unabashedly. "Dis, however," he dipped his head again, once again insinuating himself in her direct line of vision, "ain’t somet’ing y’ can tell but up close."

"What’s yo’ point?"

He cocked his head, grinning. "M’ glad I got t’ see it." He winked. Rogue opened her mouth to snap, but thought the better of it, gritting her teeth together.

"En tout cas," he continued, sitting back on his heels and folding his hands before him loosely. "Dis ain’t a kidnapping, y’ practically begged me t’ bring y’."

"Ah did not!" Rogue returned, horrified.

"Woulda been close jus’ de same." He shrugged, his eyes glittering with mischief. "M’ used to it; de femmes, dey do it all de time. Y’ just do it in y’ own way."

Rogue fumed, anger bubbling up in her chest like a warm spring. She braced herself against the ground, getting ready to lash out at him with a foot, a fist, anything to smack that sly grin off his face. Her hands skidded, and she glanced at the cards again. If she had absorbed him last night, that meant she’d be sitting on a geyser of Gambit’s powers. Slowly, Rogue shifted her weight so that she sat on the fingers of her gloved hand.

"How do ya figure?" she asked. She had to keep him talking, keep him distracted. She pulled back her arm a little, slowly, wiggling her fingers to loosen them from the glove.

"Well," Gambit wet his lips, squinting a little for added affect. "Y’ know how y’ took m’ hand when I offered it t’ y’ last night?"

Rogue froze. Oh no she didn’t...

"An’ den y’ just stared when y’ didn’t feel dat old wrench in y’ gut when dere was no absorption?"

Rogue’s eyes widened, looking down at herself. Stupid body, she thought furiously. Stupid, betraying, deceitful body!

"An’ den y’ let Remy treat y’ like a proper fille for all of two seconds before y’ knocked him t’ his knees?" He lidded his gaze, looking at her slyly, he murmured, "Figures y’d like having dis homme at y’ feet, Rogue."

That was it! Rogue drew her arm back, tearing off her glove entirely, and launched at him. Powers or no powers, she had the best right hook in all of Caldecott County, and there was no way she was going to put up with one more murmured bit of innuendo from that filthy mouth.

"Easy!" Gambit moved a second faster than she, catching her at the wrist and moving with her momentum so that they both landed, sprawled, side by side against the carpeting. "S’ cozy," Gambit murmured after a moment, shifting her arm across his chest without releasing her wrist. "But y’ not quick enough, m’ afraid." He tapped his temple with his free hand. "I saw y’ move before y’ even thought about it."

"Ya callin’ me predictable?" She struggled, trying to pull her arm back, but Gambit held firm. Beneath her elbow, she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

"Dat was de last t’ing on m’ mind," he confessed honestly. Rogue blew the hair out of her face with a frustrated huff and narrowed her eyes. There was something strange about his expression — it was too open, almost, but as quickly as it came, it was gone.

"Ah don’t think Ah even want ta know what’s running through yo’ head half the time."

"But de other half’s just fine, ein?" He smirked. She shook it off and tried to peel away from him. "Ah!" he chastised, locking a knee over the back of her legs so she was rendered immobile, stomach against the floor, her ribs pressing into his side. "Dis conversation’s just begun. De more y’ fight it, de longer its gonna take f’ me t’ explain m’self."

Rogue squeezed her eyes shut, quietly contemplating the nonexistent options. In this position, she wouldn’t even make it to the door — and if she did manage it, hotwiring a car to get away would take more time than she’d have if he followed.

"Fine," she bit out. "Talk."

"Merci." He nodded, seeing her settle a little despite the inherent tension in her limbs. "As I was saying, y’ shoulda taken a few of m’ memories last night — not all, just a couple t’ give y’ an idea."

Rogue’s eyes snapped open.

"Don’t get any ideas, p’tit. Y’ might be sporting a few residual bursts of m’ power but not nearly enough t’ disable me long enough t’ keep me down."

"Now that ya mention it," she muttered dryly.

"Quoi? Y ’ t’inking of blowing m’ up? Y’d make more of a mess of dis fine establishment den it already is." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling in distaste.

Rogue peered at the soiled carpet, mimicking his expression.

"Je n’ai pas de choix," he continued, confirming her apprehension while peeking at her out of the corner of his eye. "Y’ were gonna fall off de bike if we didn’t stop."

"Bike?"

"S’ parked outside, one floor down, t’ree spots over."

Rogue shook her head, frustrated. "Ah don’t get it."

He chuckled. "It’s simple; y’ see, y’ put down de kickstand and pull out de key and -"

"That’s not what Ah meant and ya know it," she interrupted. "Yo’ memories are there, but barely, it’s like — Ah can feel them. Ah know Ah saw them, but ya ain’t in there. Gambit, where’s yo’ psyche?"

He turned his head sharply, eyes blazing. "Y’ serious?"

"Usually, when Ah absorb someone, a large chunk of their personality settles into my head, and Ah can’t get them out. Yo’ memories, yo’ powers, yo’ feelings, everything gets a nice new place in my mind -" she continued, aware of the bitter taint to her words even as she spoke them.

"Non, s’ not what I meant," he cut her off. "Y’ mean y’ remember what I showed y’?"

"What’s that supposed to -"

"Do y’ remember it, Rogue?"

She stared at him, hard. He matched her gaze intently, red eyes swimming in her vision when she failed to look away.

Gambit’s memories — she paused, sucking in a sharp breath. Exerting whatever minimal control before they threatened to overtake her mind, they slide into focus, merging with her experiences and creating an interplay between Remy’s and her own. Rogue can feel the cold touch of steel controls beneath her hands. She runs the pads of bare fingers over the tracking knob, the play button, and she hears the soft whirr of the hard disks in Magneto’s control room before hitting the rewind button again. The machinery is warm beneath her touch and warmer still where her hands have rested against cold metal.

His memories, distinct from her own by their clearness — the attention to detail that cut grooves into the hieroglyphs lining Apocalypse’s tomb, the scent of her own hair just beneath his nose, the acute impression of pain — failing muscles and fresh bruises.

His memories; seen from a thieves’ eyes, everything is animated, everything is in motion — the swirl of dust caught in beams of light, the tiny, trembling sensation of molecules below Gambit’s fingertips as he excites them. The stone — a shard — something he hadn’t expected to ever come across because such a thing he himself never needed — but nonetheless, it shocks him, throws him off balance. Rogue can feel the rush of Gambit’s power through her own limbs, surging upwards and around — treading a fine, silken path over her arms. It makes her hair stand on end. He is encased, stronger than he’s ever felt — it’s feedback from the gem and it embraces him entirely. The gem...

Rogue could feel her heart pounding, sending a rush of adrenaline into her system that would eradicate any possible need for a cup of coffee later on in the morning. Still, she fixed her stare on Gambit’s and dared not to blink. It was a test of wills, more than any search for truth. She wanted to snicker, and for one perfectly irrational moment, she nearly stuck out her tongue from the desire to placate her rattled nerves.

Gambit was the first to give into the silence.

Not looking away, he whispered heatedly, "Is dere somet’ing stuck in m’ teeth?"

Rogue snorted, the tension broken, and tugged her hand back. He grinned, releasing her arm and sitting up. Rogue could feel the sizzle of his gaze as he sized up her prone form appreciatively.

"This place is disgusting" she threw over her shoulder, before rolling onto her back, and raising herself to sit beside him. Shuffling over a little put an extra foot between them, for which Rogue was all the more appreciative.

"Y’ make it into a paradise, chérie. Don’t need t’ pay attention t’ de scenery wit’ y’ here," he countered lightly.

Rogue rolled her eyes, and turned away just enough to conceal a fast flush.

"But y’ didn’t answer de question." It figured he’d be relentless.

Rogue sighed, knowing full well that as long as she sat there with him, they weren’t going to get anywhere unless she ignored his persistent teasing. "Ya ask too many, swamp rat."

"One t’ing at a time den, river rat." He grinned, clasping his hands loosely between his knees. The look he favoured her with was a combination of amusement and condescension. With Remy’s strong features, the gritty, unshaven look of someone who’d spent the night half-awake, it was unsettling. Again, Rogue was struck by the way he’d grown into his features. His face was a map of strong angles, a hard-worn tan, and a mouth that pursed lightly when he smiled. It wasn’t a full grin he offered her; it never completely reached his eyes though they shone all the same.

She snatched at her boots, concentrating on pulling them on instead of looking at him.

"Something happened to yo’ powers when ya went back ta New Orleans," she said after a stretch, fiddling with one of the buckles on her boots. She carefully avoided the other two blurry memories that settled into the back of her mind.

"X-Men and dere keen observational skills," he said wryly.

Rogue glared at him, gritting her teeth.

"If ya so keen on talking about it, then shed a little light for me, won’t ya? What was that rock ya picked up? Why is it that ya can touch me now?"

He quirked an eyebrow, watching her as he wiggled his fingers before him and produced a card, seemingly from thin air.

Rogue smirked at the fluidness of the trick. A simple sleight of hand, but he’d done it so fast that she couldn’t begin to fathom where he’d drawn the card from.

"M’ powers," he began, transferring the card, a Jack of Spades, over his knuckles, "let m’ charge any object’s latent energy. Don’t matter de size, don’t matter de molecular structure. Y’ excite the molecules enough, and dey sing t’ y’." The card flashed pink, erupting in a brilliant, blinding glow of fuchsia. "De t’ing is, f’ a long time, I couldn’t light up just anyt’ing."

"What do ya mean?"

"Had t’ be inorganic in nature," he answered, his attention fixed on the card with a reverent expression. "Rocks, paper, metal." He shrugged. "Whatever. But dat’s not de interesting part."

He flicked the card with his opposite hand, and doused the charge.

"Dat gem," he continued, turning to face her, "did somet’ing t’ me. I can sense it now — de latent energy in everyt’ing. It’s just begging t’ be released. I feel it in m’ bones, in m’ hands, m’ skin. I feel it in other people, in obstacles — I can see de potential in everyt’ing now, as obvious as a smack upside de head. I didn’t know f’ sure," he shrugged again, this time indolently like he was trying to downplay it. "Had to get some tests done." He turned away, looking at the card again. "But de end result is dat..." He hesitated, taking a deep breath. "Dieu, dis is gonna sound fou..."

"Ya think it changed yo’ mutation," Rogue supplied for him.

He nodded, silently turning the Jack between his index and middle fingers. "I don’t t’ink it did."

"Ya know it." Rogue frowned, looking at her still un-gloved hand.

Gambit winced, looking at the ceiling. "I figured dat out last night," he muttered. It came out in such a low murmur that Rogue almost didn’t hear him.

"What?" Rogue deadpanned, getting to her knees.

"I had t’ confirm it." He grimaced, still evading her glare.

"Confirm what?"

"Y’ know de bit about being able t’ touch y’?" He peered at her askance, trying to gauge her reaction. Remy didn’t flinch, but for a second, it looked very much like he wanted to.

"Ya didn’t know if ya could," she whispered, suddenly horrified. "Ah coulda killed ya."

"Non, non, non — attends, toi. Because of -" He gesticulated towards himself. "Because of dis, because I can sense it better than I did before, I knew after I left dat building dat somet’ing was a lil’ different wit’ m’ own genetic structure. I did a few preliminary tests with laser defence systems an’ such, just t’ see — an’ it’s controllable. Just a bit of a block dat keeps m’ from touching anyt’ing directly. S’ like m’ own internal biokinetic charge sort of bled out. S’ real thin, bit of a force field like... Star Trek, tu sais? No fingerprints, comprends?" He grinned a little. "But still de same level o’ sensation, n’est ce pas?"

Rogue was on her feet. She stepped over his legs in the cramped space between the bed and the wall and snatched her glove from the floor.

"Ya did it again, didn’t ya?"

"Quoi?"

"Ya used me! Ya hadn’t been in Bayville less than twenty-four hours and yo’ just batting me around like a lab rat in a cage!"

"It’s not like dat, chére..."

"Don’t ya. ’CHÉRE’ me nothing!"

She bent down, placing her feet on either side of his outstretched legs and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt to haul him closer. "Ya took a risk at my expense," she hissed. "If ya’d died, it’d be on my head."

Gambit peered down at her hands with a frown, and then leisurely, he dragged his gaze back up to her face. He was smirking.

"Dat’s not exactly right..."

The next few moments happened so quickly that Rogue barely had the chance to realize that Gambit had latched onto her legs and flung her over his shoulders. She hit the bed was a gasp, her booted heels smacking into the lumpy pillows, and before she could twist around, he’d leapt over her and pinned her hands.

"Y’ see," he said thoughtfully, leaning closer to whisper. "If y’d listened to de whole story y’d know dat part of dis involves y’."

"Get off me," she spat.

"Non." His breath was warm and sweet, and he was close enough to make even the down on her cheeks prickle pleasantly.

"Get off now." Rogue forcibly solidified her resolve. She was infinitely grateful that her voice didn’t quaver as Remy’s weight settled over her knees. It prevented her bucking him off.

He tutted. "De firs’ t’ing I thought of after I’d figured out dat m’ mutation can do a whole lot more f’ de both of us..."

"Was probably something that involved a seedy motel room in the middle of buttfuck nowhere Pennsylvania," she snarled. "How did Ah guess?"

He took a breath, startled, and pulled back a little. Rogue didn’t fail to miss the stung expression, the slight furrowing of his brow, or the subtle downturn of his mouth.

Gambit squeezed his eyes shut. "Y’ really don’t t’ink too much of me do y’?" he said after a moment.

"At this point in time, Ah wouldn’t put it past ya," she spat.

He let go of her wrists as if scalded. Rogue readied to shove him off, but in a second, he’d shifted off her, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and was moving around the room towards the upturned table and chair.

"It was a risk I was willing t’ take," he said in an undertone, collecting his trench from the floor with a snap. "F’ me, dat is. Didn’t mean t’ hurt y’ in de process."

Rogue pushed herself to her elbows, watching his motions guardedly. Gambit’s jaw was set, his eyes downcast as he slung the trench over his shoulders and began rifling through the pockets.

He shrugged noncommittally. "Figured if de stone could boost de control of m’ powers up t’ maximum effect, it’d do de same t’ yours."

He didn’t look back on her once as he unhooked the deadbolt and opened the door.

"I thought I owed it to y’ f’ helping me with Jean Luc last year, seeing as how y’ still don’t have control an’ all," he said over his shoulder in a monotone and stepped outside into the early morning glare.

Stunned, Rogue sat up fully. She was more alert than she ever had been at any time in her life. A glance at the clock revealed it to be a little past seven, and that said a lot. Not even the threat of an early morning training session with Logan could get her heart rate this high.

What just happened?

The door creaked, shutting fully behind him. Rogue let out a breath she hadn’t been aware that she’d been holding and looked down at her feet.

Her heart seemed to settle a little closer to her stomach, a little more leaden than she was comfortable with.

Control. What a foreign concept. It was an ideal she hadn’t started entertaining, not really, until recently. Pipe dreams just didn’t make for happy endings, and her rate of success with her mutation didn’t leave room for hope. It didn’t leave a margin of error - if she held on too long, that was it. She hurt people. She was damned dangerous. Beyond that, the small, selfish seedling of curiosity was blooming.

A mutant with her abilities could never be normal, but something closer to it?

Rogue swallowed the ripple of embarrassment and peered around the debris of the hotel room.

On the ground, in the centre of the wreckage created by the upturned coffee table and Gambit’s scattered cards, one in particular drew her attention.

Breath hitching a little, Rogue pulled on her glove, and plucked the Queen of Hearts from the pile.

---

"You don’t want to go in there," Lance muttered, leaning against the doorframe that led into the Brotherhood’s great room. Jabbing his thumbs through his belt loops, he threw Pietro a sardonic smirk before looking at the scuffed toes of his boots.

"What? Why?" Pietro tried to peek over Lance’s shoulder, but Lance merely shook his head, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Uh uh." He shook his head, his jaw quivering as his shoulders began to shake. "I hate to say it -" Lance managed.

A wail cut through the otherwise quiet house, followed by several loud curses and a strangled sob.

"But when I said it was a bad idea," he continued, flinching a little as a chair flew from the great room and crashed into the opposite wall. Pietro sidestepped the soaring La-Z-Boy easily, and folded his arms across his chest. "I wasn’t kidding," Lance finished with a smug smirk.

"What the hell, man?" Toad muttered blearily from the top of the stairs, before Wanda knocked him out of the way as she strode past him. Toad squawked, teetering on the landing precariously.

"Can’t a girl get any sleep around here?" Wanda grimaced; her otherwise striking features contorting unpleasantly as she shoved between Pietro and Lance.

"Wanda, you don’t want to go in there," Pietro cautioned, grabbing at her wrist. His fingers scrabbled over the lacings on her gauntlet. She slapped his hand away and tugged at the bandages on her other arm. She hadn’t been the only one injured in the previous evening’s scrap with the X-Men, but all things considered, and compared to the display she was met with upon entering the great room, she was probably the least affected out of all of them.

Wanda reeled backwards and stumbled into Pietro who propped her upright.

"Well that’s not what I was expecting," she said, a little shaken.

Lance snorted and shifted his weight with a wince. The sting of pain cut the laughter from his face.

"Shnookums?" Toad called from the top of the stairs, taking them gingerly, one at a time, rather than with his usual spring.

Wanda didn’t have the gumption to snap at him; instead, she turned to her brother for reassurance. "It’s like one of those bad horror movies," she whispered furtively, her eyes drawn back to the spectacle before her against her will.

"Worse," Lance chuckled. "Ever seen that movie with that wizard dork?"

Pietro cocked an eyebrow.

Lance gave the siblings an exasperated look. "You know the one with the glasses, and the scar?"

From the living room, Pyro bellowed, "SHE WAS MY FRIEND!" He whinnied, his howl cut short with another sob.

"Uh," Toad said, peeking through the group’s combined legs. "Wrong line, guy."

"I’M GOING TO KILL HIM!" Pyro choked, his voice hoarse from crying.

"Man, I can’t watch," Toad cringed, shuffling back from the doorway.

"What’s he complaining about now?" Freddy asked, lumbering out of the kitchen with a carton of milk squeezed between his thick fingers in one hand and a gargantuan bowl of cereal in the other.

The group stared between each other, exchanging uncertain glances.

Lance piped up, "John’s having a rough morning, Blob. You think you can talk to him? You know — calm him down a little?"

Fred blinked. "Me?"

Pietro rolled his eyes. "Like a lamb to the slaughter," he said, loud enough so that only his sister could hear. Wanda curled her fingers around his elbow, but didn’t look away from St. John.

"You’re the only one who won’t get killed if Pyro throws the couch, homes," Toad answered, backing Lance now that the power structure had seemingly shifted overnight within the group.

Lance nodded sagely as if to approve the remark, and cocked his head at the destroyed armchair, broken into a mess of stuffing and splintered wood. A chunk of torn chintz fabric clung to the banister where the chair had scraped before slamming into the plaster on the far side of the hall.

"That was my favourite recliner," Fred muttered dejectedly.

In response, St. John Allerdyce keened.

"He came in last this morning," Wanda hissed. "I didn’t think it was this bad. I was too busy enjoying the iodine to hear him." In explanation, she gestured to her injured arm absently, her eyes fixed on the scene before them.

"Didn’t see him either after Gambit took off," Pietro added. "The psycho -"

"Psychic," Wanda corrected.

"Whatever. She nearly chucked me into a mailbox. I couldn’t run fast enough to get away."

Wanda threw him a dry look.

"Did anyone know what happened to John after Colossus got a hold of him?" Lance asked. He was met with several blank looks. "Think we oughta find out. This’ll go on all day otherwise," he added in a murmur. Slowly, four pairs of eyes turned to Blob, standing at the edge of the group, still looking at his armchair sadly.

"Freddy?"

Blob turned back to the group, taking in their expectant expressions. Finally, he shoved his breakfast at Toad, who toppled backwards into Lance’s legs, but nodded to him all the same as Fred ambled past.

"Brave man, Blob," Pietro slapped him on the back.

Wanda snorted, adding in an undertone, "Or just too stupid to know any better."

The great room was a mess. As a central living area, it had been the place that suffered the most abuse from the Brotherhood’s members — but never, in his three years spent boarding in Mystique’s former house, had Fred seen it in worse condition.

Chunks of the carpet had been torn out, the window hangings — those that remained from Pyro’s rampage — drooped forlornly, and the remaindered furniture was in a state not fit to grace the garbage dump. At the center of the room, Pyro hunkered, breathing raggedly.

"St. John?" Fred tried in the gentlest tone he could muster.

Pyro sniffed loudly, his shoulders heaving as he sighed, and his head lolled on his neck.

"Sin Jun!" he corrected tightly, his voice unnaturally high-pitched.

From Fred’s vantage point at the door, he could just make out the filthy bottoms of the Australian’s socks from where he knelt, facing the fireplace. Why Pyro had thought to remove his boots, but keep his uniform on, was not entirely beyond him — but Fred didn’t want to hazard a verbal guess to confirm it.

He could see clearly the severed fuel pipes hanging listlessly off Pyro’s gloves.

They flopped against the floor uselessly while John’s shoulders shook.

He laughed. It was a strangled, watery sound.

"I’m gonna kill him, mate," he snivelled, not turning around. "He knew — the bastard knew — and he let us walk right into it like a bunch of bloody sheep. Why do I always have to be somebody’s bitch?" Pyro sniffed heavily and let loose an unnerving titter that, anywhere else, could pass easily for nervous laughter. In Pyro’s case, Fred knew better.

This wasn’t good.

Fred shifted uneasily, the battered floor creaking beneath his weight. "John?" he tried again. Pyro ignored him.

"My poor baby," Pyro cooed. "Ya never did anything to deserve this, love. You were so beautiful." He hiccupped, and Fred took an apprehensive step forward to peer over Pyro’s shoulder.

"Wasn’t she beautiful, mate?" Pyro didn’t look away from the compacted bundle of twisted metal in his arms. He caressed it lovingly, running his gloved fingers against the dips and swells, smearing the leaking lighter fluid across the warped surface. It left behind an oily sheen as it evaporated, and the air stunk of it — acrid and volatile.

Fred swallowed. Nope. Not good at all.

He hoped Lance had had the sense to pocket the matches off the fireplace mantle before Pyro really had the opportunity to mourn the loss of his firepower.

"Wasn’t she?" Pyro shouted, his shoulders hunching.

"Y-yeah," Fred managed. "She — she was great, John."

"Her name," he snarled, clutching his demolished fuel pack to his chest and twisting around, "was Stella."

From behind the protective cover of the wall leading to the hallway, someone muffled a snort.

"I’m gonna kill him," Pyro said again. "Right after I give the old girl a proper seeing off," he babbled, his lower lip quivering a little. "Gonna bury her in the backyard, right under the hydrangea."

"That’ll be... nice." Fred winced, and hastened to add, "I’ll help you, John. I can get the shovel and -"

"No!" Pyro’s voice rose a few octaves as he waved Fred off. "No, this is between me and the old lady. She’d have wanted it like that."

Fred frowned. Pyro hiccupped again.

"Pyro?"

Pyro heaved a huge sigh, and stood up on wobbly legs. Slowly, he turned, and Fred had to divert his gaze. Pyro’s face was a blotchy mess — wet from crying and red ringed around the eyes.

"Yeah, mate?" he asked feebly, rocking the fuel pack like he would a baby.

"Who are you gonna kill, exactly?" After a slight hesitation, he added, "Colossus? I would have helped, you know — but you were already in that dumpster and -"

Pyro sniffed and jutted his chin defiantly.

"Not Piotr," he interrupted petulantly. "Who else? ’Y’ need a lil’ action, need a lil’ fun. Mebbe blow off a lil’ steam — all yeh gotta do is distract ’em,’" Pyro imitated Gambit in a falsetto. "The same arse who didn’t bloody well leave us any compensation for our -" He hesitated, glancing at his fuel tank forlornly a moment. "Sacrifices," he finished at a higher pitch.

Pyro’s face crumpled and he sank to a crouch again, sobbing haplessly.

"What?" Lance snapped, stepping around the corner. "What do you mean he didn’t -"

Wanda pushed past him, levitating the remaining furniture with her uninjured hand. She flipped the couch over mid-air, dumping the cushions. When nothing other than a few crumbs and some loose change fell to the carpet, she moved on to the ruins of the coffee table, levitating the wreckage in case they’d missed something, in case the small bundle had been moved or buried during Pyro’s fit.

"It was right here! He left it on the table last night. I saw it with my own eyes!" she snapped.

Pyro laughed mirthlessly.

"You lot obviously don’t know Gambit that well," he sneered, the expression falling as he clutched at the tank again. He pressed his cheek against the crumpled ball and whined again pitifully.

"He promised us!" Wanda snapped.

"Thieves’ honour," Pietro interjected wryly. He leaned against the doorjamb, his hip jutting out. "Figures."

"But it was here when we left, Pietro!" Wanda argued, dropping her hex so that the remaining furniture fell to the ground with several cracking sounds and resounding thuds.

"Didn’t I say we should have given it a demo beforehand?" Lance looked to the ceiling as if to say, ’why?’ to whatever omnipresent being was lurking overhead.

Fred followed his gaze, though all he saw was crumbling plaster.

"We were just being practical," Wanda muttered bitterly. "Considering the fact that Gambit had led us to believe he was planning on sticking around a little longer..."

"You actually believed that?"

"I told you, Pietro, something didn’t feel right the instant those charges went off at Xavier’s," she shot back.

"Not to mention that you thought this was a great idea to begin with," Lance interjected, pointing an accusing finger at Pietro.

"Hey, I was only agreeing with Pyro, man -"

"It’s good to know you’re still capable of functioning all on your own, Quicksilver. At least we’ll know next time that your mouth’s still faster than your brain."

"Watch it, Alvers -"

"Or what? Gonna sick daddy on me? Last I heard he was running around calling himself Joseph in some loony bin up at Redwood Pines — can’t even remember that he was the ’Master of Magnetism.’ A lot of good that’ll do for you, Junior."

"Hey!" Toad called, wincing as he stood to his full height from amidst the wreckage of the television unit. He held aloft a small, carefully wrapped bundle. "Is this it? I think I found it, yo. Gem of cyt-cot-torra-ACK!"

Fred turned, Wanda leapt, Lance swivelled, but Pietro was the quickest. He’d snatched the bundle from Todd’s fingers and was across the room before everyone had even made it to the corner.

"Cyttorak," Pietro corrected. "Do you need me to spell it out for you, genius?"

He squeezed the bundle tentatively and sniffed it. With a disgruntled grimace, he dropped it almost as quickly as he’d picked it up.

"False alarm; it’s one of Fred’s old sandwiches."

The floor rumbled.

"John?" Lance ground out.

Pyro looked up blearily, a vague smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

"I think you’re going to need some help with that -"

"STELLA!" Pyro barked.

"With Stella, yeah." Lance balled his fists at his sides. Pyro’s recently destroyed object of affections being the furthest thing from his mind. "And after?"

Wanda nodded grimly.

"That mean we’re taking a vacation?" Toad piped up, looking hopeful despite the situation. "I hear New Orleans is one of the most romantic cities in the world, yo -"

"I hear the swamps have alligators big enough to swallow a man whole," Wanda returned, her lip curling as she appraised Todd. "Frog legs on the menu?" she asked with mock innocence.

"I’ll buy the first round if we get that rock." Lance sneered.

"And I’ll get the second, if we take down the Cajun," Pietro added. "Permanently."

Pyro sniffed. "It’s not a proper wake unless ya get properly pished." He shook his head, chuckling humourlessly.

There was a pause as they collected themselves, coming to an agreement without words, without needing to vocalize the promise of retribution in plainer terms.

After a moment of looking between the Brotherhood’s determined expressions, Fred asked, "What are we doing?"

---

The door shut behind him with a groan. Someone needed to oil the hinges, Remy thought absently.

He paused, leaning against the chipped stucco wall outside room number fourteen, and waited.

"C’mon chérie," he whispered, more to himself than the girl he’d just left in the hotel room.

Three seconds. Six seconds. Ten, and the floorboards groaned inside as Rogue got off the bed.

Remy smirked and pushed himself off the wall. He strode to the end of the narrow balcony that lined the second floor of the motel and leapt over the banister — taking the fifteen-foot drop to the concrete below with ease.

He landed, and with a nimble spring in his step, strolled over to his bike without looking over his shoulder. In passing a nearby garbage can, Gambit pulled from his pocket a very battered-looking parcel — a decoy, naturally, that was nothing more than a pretty piece of painted glass.

If there was one thing Jean Luc had taught him, it was always to have proper leverage. With that, he dropped the bogus stone — smirking at the resounding clang! as it hit the bottom of the metal receptacle.

It was only a matter of moments before he heard the whining of the door to room number fourteen as it opened.

He quickened his step.

Just as he’d swung his leg over his Harley, Rogue’s voice cut the chill morning air. It could have melted any late season frost.

"Remy!"

---

Post Script:

- Mechanic (Poker): A cheater who uses sleight-of-hand to arrange the deck or deal to benefit himself or a partner.

- "S’ like m’ own internal biokinetic charge sort of bled out." Gambit #16

- "She was my friend, ad nauseum": Tip of the hat to "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" in there. Paraphrasing the film rather than the book... as if Lance would read for recreational purposes.

- Stella, Pyro’s fuel tank: A nod to "A Streetcar Named Desire." Like you didn’t see that coming.

Translations:

Au contraire, chérie: On the contrary, dear.

Bon matin a toi aussi, ein: Good morning to you too, huh?

Coyoon: (Cajun) idiot

D’accord: alright

Dieu: God

Femme: Woman

Fille: Girl

Homme: Man

Je n’ai pas d’choix: I didn’t have a choice (Slurred. Should be "de choix". I pronounce it differently; coming from my mouth, it sounds like "J’en ai pas d’choix." Makes no sense to anyone else unless you live in Quebec.)

Ma belle: my sweet, my pretty

Merci: Thank you

Merde: Shit

Non, non, non — attends, toi: No, no, no — wait a second, you!

Oui: Yes

Quoi?: What?

30

 

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