A/N: I've been away for a while. Work's been killer. I am planning on updating everything, but Damaged Goods is on the top of my list. This is a little something I've been working on for what seems like forever. Lemme know if you like it, cause I'd like to continue.

"I can't believe you would be so stupid!"

Scott is really pissed. I can see the vein in the middle of his forehead getting bigger and bigger with every pass on the Oriental rug. I figure I have only a handful of seconds before he starts asking questions and answering them in the same sentence. Behind him, on the bank of monitors lining the back wall of the control room, are images of me charging a handful of cards and tossing them into a group of rather indignant humans. It replays over and over again, jumping from the minor resultant explosion, back to me reaching into my duster for my cards. Scott glances up at the screen, and looks away just as quickly, shaking his head violently.

"Didn't I tell you specifically to keep I low profile? I'm quite sure I did. It was a simple enough operation, even for you. But you had to go play vigilante right in front of a news crew!"

It's really not as bad as he makes it sound. Him and Xavier approached me earlier in the week, asking me to sneak into the Friends of Humanity headquarters. Their theory was that if they had a list of all the groups chapters around the country, we could monitor them and better head off any possible assaults. I got in without problem, found and downloaded the information they wanted, plus a little something extra. Getting out was just as easy. Problem was I had to pass by a demonstration on the evils of mutantcy being held on the road outside. Words were exchanged, mistakes were made(mainly by them) and before I know it I'm on the six o'clock evening news and on the receiving end of one of the most extensive lectures I've ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

"Look, I-"

"What really makes me angry is that you don't seem to understand how serious this is situation is!"

"I really do-"

"I thought we had taught you better! I thought you learned better self control while living here!"

At this point I simply sit back on my hands and wait for him to cool down. He'll only keep bulldozing any attempts I make to explain myself. Part of me suspects that he enjoys this, whatever it is we have. I piss him off, he reems me out for it, and we all go on our merry way. It's practically a standard way of living around here. Some days I think we clash so much because we're so different. Other days I think it's because we're so different. Most of the time I'm sure it's because he's the spawn of Satan and as such he takes some perverse pleasure in making my life a living hell. Of course, I'm pretty sure he could say the same about me. He certainly wouldn't be the first.

I look up then, and realize that he's staring at me, hands on his hips, tapping one toe expectantly on the rug. He must've asked a question when I was fazed out, and now stands expecting an answer of some kind. I take a random stab at it, and shrug my shoulders guiltily.

"I don't know what to say, Scott."

And then he's off again.

"Damn right you don't! You never do! You need to learn some kind of accountability for your actions!"

Now I take silent offense to that last bit. I always take accountability for my mistakes, anyway. I am here, aren't I? It would've been easier and less damaging to my eardrums to just evade Fearless Leader until he forgot all about this little incident. Sitting here, though, it seems as though I would have been evading him for the rest of my natural life. He hates to let go of something once he's got it in his head. Bit like a bulldog, or a 'gator that way.

"I understand that you wanted to break up that demonstration. I would've thought the same way if I had been there. But the important things is-"

Thank whatever powers that be interrupting his tirade with a knock at his office door. He sends me a glance that could wither all of Storm's garden with a single pass, then breaks away from his established pacing pattern to whip open his door.

Jean Grey is unfazed by his obvious display of anger. "Scott, honey, I wanted to run by next week's security schedule with you."

She gently takes him by the elbow, and leads him over to his desk, producing a clipboard from somewhere and laying it down on the mahogony surface. Scott looks over at me again, then begrudgingly focuses on his wife. They remain like that, bent over the desk and conversing quietly while I wait in my detention chair like a good little school kid. I spend a few minutes like that before Jean's hands appears around Scott's back, motioning towards the open doorway. I feel an eyebrow raise almost to my hairline, and for my moment's hesitation I receive a telekinetic shove in the right direction.

A huge grin nearly cracks my face in half as I finally clue in to what she's doing. Jean, my flame headed knight-ess in shining red silk and light weight cotton is distracting the dragon long enough for me to escape. Well, I don't need to be told twice. Slipping out of the chair and past the otherwise indisposed Fearless Leader is a trivial matter for a man of my expertise.

Chuckling quietly to myself, I duck into the kitchen to fix the meal I was forced to skip because someone has a bug up their ass. Bobby Drake is sitting at the marble island, a bowl of fruit loops in front of him and a glass of kool-aid in his hand. I've been living in this mansion, with Bobby as one of many housemates, for long enough that I don't feel the need to question the merit of consuming such mass quantatites of sugar for lunch. Bobby on a sugar-high is not a very pleasant thing, unless I'm equally hopped up on something. But avoiding the kid after a lunch like this when he belts out all four verses of every Spice Girls song in existence everywhere he goes isn't all that difficult. He lacks both the motor skills and the courage it would take to climb the trellis up to the roof, so I frequently find refuge up there.

Today though, he simply looks up from his cereal with a dribble of milk sliding down his chin, and snickers. "So Jean liberated you from the dungeon?"

It's from this running analogy/inside joke that I came up with the comparison of Scott to a dragon. Bobby and I are the only ones that are subjects of his ire enough to become familiar with his lecturing habits, so this joke stays between the two of us. Although I do have some suspicions that he let Warren into this particular monkeyshine.

I nodd, grabbing my own plate and beginning to fill it with random leftovers from breakfast this morning and dinner last night. "His vein was gettin' so big I coulda rafted down it."

Bobby laughes, half choking around his mouthful of cereal and spitting a fine mist of milk onto the grey marble which he surreptitiously wipes with his sleeve. I chuckle softly at that alone, then say, "'You need to learn some kind of accountability for your actions!' Den he wen' to m'personal favourite, 'I understand that you wanted to break up that demonstration. I would've thought the same way if I was there.'"

My Scott impersonation is impeccable, if I do say so myself, and I throw in a violent finger wagging to get my point across. I would've liked to add in the pacing, but I'm still busy filling my plate, and I don't want to interrupt that.

Bobby's pressing a hand to his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent mirth. His eyes are wide and amused, but are focused on some point behind my right shoulder. I freeze suddenly. Bobby's not the kind to hold in laughter. The last time he tried resulted with a pretty serious hernia. Normally, for an impression like that, I would've gotten shrieks that could rattle the windows in their frames. There must be something wrong...someone behind me. I don't bother to hide the wince as I turn slowly.

Logan is standing in the doorway, glaring at me from underneath his worn and sweat stained Stetson. His hand tightens reflexively around the neck of the empty beer bottle in his hand. I swallow hard. Logan is one of the only people I've ever had trouble reading. I never know how he's going to respond to our sometimes childish humour. His near feral stare passes from me to Bobby, and I hear a metallic clatter as Bobby drops his spoon.

"You think that's funny?"the Canadian barks gruffly, and pushes past me to toss his bottle in the recycling.

I really, really do, and I'm sure Bobby feels the same way, but to admit that to Logan at this point would almost assuredly be fatal. I'm not exactly afraid of the man; I'm quite confident in the fact that if I couldn't outfight him, I could definitely outrun his metal encased skeleton. If I provoke him at this point, though, my lunch preparations will be for nothing. And I'm really hungry.

He seems to take our silence as an adequate response, for he heads to the doorway. Just on the other side of the threshhold, though, he stops, twists around, and smirks. "Keep practicing, kid. You're accent's still a little off." And with that, he's gone.

Me and Bobby are quiet for a whole minute before we simaultaneously burst into laughter. Every once in a while, men like us are gifted with comedic gems. Moments in otherwise normal daily activity that we can remember and laugh about for years to come. This moment with Logan falls into that category. We have also been experienced likewise moments with Storm, Professor Xavier, and one with Fearless Leader himself. It's moments like these that make life worth living.

After some immeasurable amount of time, I straighten up and wipe the tears from my face. Somehow Bobby's bowl of cereal got knocked over, and now pastel coloured milk is dripping down the side of the counter, and pooling on the floor. Bobby's in no position to care. He looks up at me from the floor, and between mad gasps for breath, asks, "Did that really just happen, or am I still asleep?"

I grin at him, and offer a hand to haul him to his feet. "No, mon ami. You awake. It really happened."

He gives one last chuckle, then shakes his head to clear the fuzz and wipes the moisture from his face.

Whenever I stop to think about it, this new friendship with Bobby surprises me. Before the whole Antarctic mess, we'd never been close. In fact, I was quite certain he hated me. Now, though...when all my other relationships in the mansion have abruptly frozen and cracked, this funny little Iceman doesn't have a problem sharing a joke with me. Sometimes he even seeks me out to try out his new material. I find this all incredibly odd, given that he's Rogue's best friend.

I top my plate off with a pair of cold chicken legs, then carry the mountain over to the kitchen table. Bobby's wiping up the spilt milk with a mound of paper towels when I pass him.

"I hope you didn't get Scott in too bad of a pissy mood,"he says, carrying the whole soppy mess over to the garbage can. "I've got a training session with him in ten minutes."

I would like to say something, but my mouth's full of chicken and it just wouldn't be possible without committing the worst of sins, according to Tante Maddie. So he smirks at me, dumps his dirty dishes in the sink, and waves a hand on his way through the door. I'm reaching for a slice of pizza when the intercom on the wall beside the kitchen door beeps. Professor Xavier's disembodied voice comes through the speaker. "Gambit, would you come to my office please."

It's phrased like a question, but the emphasis is on command. He doesn't sound happy; I suddenly get the feeling I'm in for another "you're so stupid" lecture.

The Professor prefers the good old fashioned telepathic beckon and call, but for whatever reason it doesn't work on me. He told me once that my shields were too strong; telepathic communication would only work if I'm receptive to it. He didn't outright say it, but I got the impression he didn't see that all too often. And even though I'm certain sure he and most others think of the intercom system as a nuisance, I'm none too inclined to invite him into my head. That is the way of badness.

I reluctantly replace my lunch plate in the fridge, and make my way down the hall towards his office. I respect Professor Xavier quite a bit more than anyone else in my life, save maybe my family back home, even if his Dream seems a little far-fetched. But that doesn't mean I have to come running the minute he decides he'd like my presence.

I come across Warren on my way down the hall, and he gives me a look that could melt stone. I'm not afraid of him, and his opinion matters less to me than that of a housecat's, but his constant and obvious hatred towards me is growing a little tiresome. He seems to enjoy trying to cut me down in front of the others. For now, though, he seems satisfied with a simple glare. Either he has finally run out of suitable insults, or the conversation he is taking part in with Elizabeth Braddock is just too engaging. Knowing her, I would say it was the former.

Professor Xavier is typing away at his computer when I finally knock at the door; he looks surprised, like he didn't entirely believe I would come. Then the surprise is gone, and he smiles guardedly. I decline the chair he offers me, and instead stand with my arms crossed just inside the doorway. He looks tense, and that bothers me in ways I can't even begin to describe. Professor Xavier is like the pillar of this dysfunctional little group. Whenever anyone living under this house falls apart, he's the one at their side, helping them to put the pieces back together. To see him so obviously troubled makes me worry.

"How are you feeling, Remy?"

My eyebrows nearly disappear beneath my hairline at that. I'm not sure he's ever asked me how I'm feeling before; I am a grown man, after all. Even if some people living under this roof have their doubts. On top of that, I'm quite positive he's never ever called me Remy. As with most of the bodies in this mansion, it's always the codename first when addressing me. I guess it's their way of keeping their distance. What they don't realize is that that's just the way I like it. The implications of his apparent attempt to befriend me make my knees a little shaky, and despite myself, I fold easily into one of two leather wingback chairs facing his desk.

"'M fine, Professeur. What's dis all about?"

"Well, it's all related to your stunt two days ago."

I wince immediately. Surely he knows I've already been chewed out to the fullest extent of the Constitution, I bet he even heard most of it from here. But then he smiles a little, and I relax as best as I can. He's not going to revisit the lexture from earlier. If he was, he certainly wouldn't enjoy it.

"Don't worry; I have no intention of chastising you further." He turns away from me for a moment, typing furiously on his computer. "I was contacted yesterday by a couple living in Canada. They told me they saw an article in their newspaper about a red-eyed mutant."

My eyebrows raise fractionally, and suddenly I'm terrified. It's almost impossible, but if this couple somehow found a way to track me, then I could've single handedly brought down the X-Men. Part of the reason why we're still here is the basic fact that we're anonymous. Anyone who might have a beef with the team as no idea to find us.

His expression softens considerably as he seems to follow my line of thinking. "It's all right, Remy. Nobody found us. It's actually quite the opposite."

He sighs, types a few more keys on his computer, then turns back to me somewhat reluctantly. "They contacted me because they heard I was deep in the mutant community. They want to be put in touch with this mutant."

I fail to see the importance of that. Although it doesn't exactly happen often, it's definitely not head of. I know Storm has a few followers out there, so does Bishop, Scott, and Rogue. There are certainly others I just haven't heard about. People who see us doing our job, and think they understand us. They develop feelings based on what they see, feelings they misinterpret to be love. In most cases, it remains passive, like a crush on a celebrity. But I have heard of instances where people have quit their jobs, and devoted their entire lives to figure out the superhero mystery. It's hardly surprising.

Apparently he wasn't finished. "They claim they were on vacation in Louisiana twenty four years ago, and that their newborn son was abducted from a hospital down there."

It doesn't take me long to figure it out, and the blood leaves my face in a rush as the indications of what he is saying reach me. I've never exactly been sure of my age, but my adoptive father, Jean Luc LeBeau, estimated it at about eight years old when he found me. That certainly jives with what these people are saying. But it couldn't be possible. My biological parents abandoned me at the hospital I was born in. Why would they want to get in touch with me all these years later? It didn't make sense. I tell Professor Xavier as much as I start to get up from my seat.

"You don't believe them, do you?"

He makes a face, like a cross between a grimace and a smile, then says, "I wouldn't be telling you if I didn't. They seemed genuine to me."

I sit back in the chair, cross my arms tightly against my chest. Just what exactly does he expect of me, I wonder? Surely after all these years I don't have any obligation towards them. It was them who abandoned me, not the other way around. I want to ask what he thinks I should do, but I somehow know he wouldn't answer. It's my decision, he would say.

I frown, then ask, "What else did they say?"

He shrugs minutely, a very uncharacteristic gesture. "They would like for you to agree to meet with them before they drive down here." He pauses, looks at me carefully out of the corner of his eye. "If you like I could arrange for them to meet you somewhere in the city in a few days."

Now that is a loaded question. Even if by some miracle they were telling the truth, did I really want a relationship with a pair of people who gave up on me so easily? It can't be that hard to find a red eyed kid in New Orleans. From what I understand, their mutant population isn't that high. How many red eyed street kids can there be?

Professor Xavier is looking at me with that damn understanding look in his eyes, like he's experienced all this before and would gladly bestow his wisdom upon me if I only say pretty please. He's crazy if he thinks I'm going to answer him now. There are way too many things to consider. And besides the point, when did I start taking what people tell me at face value? Despite having proven to me he's on the level, there's no rule written in stone that says I've gotta believe whatever the Professor tells me. There was a time when I would check three sources before being assured, that yes, the blue sky above me was in fact blue.

"Lemme t'ink 'bout it."

I stand to leave, but the Professor isn't finished. "Gambit, please think about this seriously. I realize the potential for it to go wrong. But this is a chance to answer all the questions you may have had about why they weren't there. It's a chance to get to know your biological family. It would be a shame not to take it."

I frown. "Now seems to me, Professeu, dat you would be de first to admit dat blood ain't got nothing to do wit' family."

I don't give him a chance to say anything further before getting out of my seat for a final time and closing the door behind me. My gut is screaming at me that this is a bad idea. Don't believe they're genuine, don't give them a chance to get close and hurt you. But there is a small part of me, a tiny, almost miniscule portion of my brain that's ridiculously easy to ignore, that wants to know why they gave up on me so easily. Even though for a time, Jean Luc LeBeau was everything in a father I ever would've wanted, growing up without biological parents does something to a person. Being constantly riddled with doubt, wondering if there's a fundamental flaw in your make-up that makes people unable to stick with you. To be given the chance to recify that almost seems worth the risk of it all being a hoax.

I wrap my duster tightly around myself as I skulk down the hallway. Lucky for me, and anyone within hearing range, Warren and Elizabeth have moved on. Most days I'm pretty tolerant of Warren's withering looks, but at that point in time, I would've likely taken his head off if he opened his big silver spoon fed mouth.

I pass by the kitchen on my way by, but whatever appetite I'd had before has long since evaporated. I consider briefly heading down to the Danger Room, checking on Bobby's training session, but that would mean possibly running into Cyke, and I'm just not that supportive.

I decide instead to go right up to the roof, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. I've got a lot to think about, and often times the roof is the only place I can get that done.

...tbc...