Their base of operations was a meager place, one half step above an efficiency apartment just so they could both fit. Logan decided, for whatever reason, to help Remy with his injuries before grilling him on just why the hell he had been out getting his ass kicked by criminals unrelated to their mission. Logan wrapped a tender, slim wrist in an ace bandage, then heated some water for the cuts and got out ice for the bruises.

The kid was never late, so after an hour of Logan checking the clock, cursing and smoking, he had set out after him. The weather hampered his scouting skills somewhat, but this street led to that scent and down that alley and so on until he came across turf that didn't belong to the goons they were originally after. From the sight of everything blown half to hell, Logan gathered that Remy had been single-handedly fighting a group of, thus far, unknown thugs.

Three attackers were backing him into a corner. Before the leader could tie Gambit up properly, a quiet snikt was the only warning before the scene exploded in a blur of misplaced fists, adamantium claws, and blood.

Logan moved to apply antiseptic to a pair of gashes on the left shoulder blade. Remy let out a hiss at the incredible sting and his back muscles tightened. Logan continued to dab the gash and let his other hand other trace along the un-bruised sections as a distraction to the Cajun's senses. Remy's shoulders slowly relaxed as he concentrated on the feel of Logan's rough, calloused fingers. The feel made him shiver involuntarily, and he cursed inwardly at the tremble through his body.

Logan noted the powerful muscles underneath skin that was scarred but not terrible to see or feel, especially with his enhanced sense of touch. The unique texture was intriguing and much more interesting to him than his own flawlessly healed skin. He concentrated on dressing the wounds, finding it harder to keep his attention focused on pure medicine than he'd care to admit. Clearing his throat, he pulled away.

"Hey Gumbo," Logan looked him over. "You okay?"

"Oui, Monsieur, Gambit est bonne," Remy removed his bandana, allowing wet brown hair to frame his face. "Merci, mon cher, merci."

"Cut down on the French, kid," Logan shook his head. "And no more poker for you." He lit a cigar and leaned against the kitchen counter with an expectant gaze.

"Ain't no card sharks, mon ami," Remy said over his shoulder.

"Well, who the hell are they? This may surprise you, but I'd like to know whose ass I'm kicking," He folded his arms over his chest, eyeing Remy warily. He picked up something dark radiating off of the kid when he turned to face him. The slumped shoulders and worn expression said guilt and weariness.

"They work for Sinister," Remy crossed his legs at the ankles, mindlessly rubbing his left wrist.

Logan shifted on his feet and waited for a real explanation. He willed his eyes to bore into the Cajun who looked ready to jump out of his skin, but still Remy was quiet.

"You owe them somethin'?"

"Homme, Gambit done paid all his debts, and then some," He said bitterly. "He good at what he does, even if he may not want to do it, and he keep his word!"

Logan quirked an eyebrow. "Alright Gumbo, alright! Ya may be a bit on the defensive side, but I know when you're lyin' and when you ain't."

The tension in the air thickened by the moment as Remy tried not to squirm under Logan's intense focus. Logan himself was a little surprised by the interest he took in the ordeal. If it had been Scott backed into a tight corner, he would have all but helped those thugs.

" ...Looked to me like they were ready to hogtie ya and ship you off somewhere."

"Oui."

"Why?"

"Dunno." The subject made him uneasy as it was, and Remy was agitated at himself for discussing the situation with Logan. He had a bad feeling about the consequences of being tracked down by Sinister, and prayed that he could avoid involving the X-Men in his past. He could sense Logan thinking and feeling him out.

Cigar smoke curled around his mouth. "Well, they've got some bad news coming," Logan said gruffly. "We ain't handin' you over to this whack job like turkey at Thanksgiving."

Remy averted his gaze from some spectacular dust on the floor back to Logan's face. He blinked a few times and muttered his thanks in French, but didn't mask the disbelief. The Cajun generally had a good grip on himself, always appearing very smooth above the layer of secretiveness he kept veiled. Something was up.

"Listen, I'll phone back to the mansion and we'll get outta here. Back home, we'll talk this over with Chuck and see-"

"Non! Non, we don't gotta go just yet, cher. What about the other job? Ain't gotta take on no rush just because of Remy," He blathered, and Logan stared at him suspiciously.

"I don't give a damn about the other job when some thugs I'm not familiar with almost bashed your head in and made off with ya," He chastised. "I know what you're trying to do, and you're not gonna play this down to me, for whatever reason." Whatever had shaken the kid up so much gave Logan a bad feeling. Not exactly running home with their tails between their legs, but he didn't feel much like taking chances with this. "Now, I'm pretty sure Chuck, Jean and Storm are in D.C. for some presentation to the Senate shit or whatever, but I can call One Eye and have him pick us up in no time."

This time, it was Remy's turn to look at Logan with suspicion, like he was crazy. He reconsidered his own premise.

"Yeah, alright, okay," He conceded. "But first thing tomorrow morning, we're headed back to the mansion. Capiche?"

He gave in. "D'accord Logan. C'est bon," Remy rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "It's not like anybody gonna sneak up on you in the night, eh?" He moved to get up, ignoring Logan's glare.

"Gumbo," He said with a warning. "Why don't you want to go back to the mansion?"

"It's not that I don' wanna go back. Not at all like that, cher," He stood up from the table to leave.

"Look, kid. Just remember... Everyone's got a past." Logan somehow wasn't surprised to sense no noticeable change in Remy's demeanor or attitude toward the whole ordeal. He watched him shuffle to the doorway.

"Oui, Logan, Remy know you always right. But we see how the chips fall when de time comes." He smiled weakly and half yawned. Logan recognized this as the kid retreating, and only nodded his goodnight.

Logan watched Remy leave the room. He sat at the table, pushing smoke from his mouth thoughtfully. The kid was being stubborn, and Logan could hear him tossing and turning in discomfort, probably over not coming totally clean with him. He shook his head and promised his cigar that when morning came, so would answers. He poured himself a nice little glass of bourbon and nursed it, waiting for the mood from the other room to calm down. He resolved for a night of alertness and light sleeping before leaving the glass and bottle on the table.

Remy stretched his arms while walking to the bedroom. His bed was at the far side of the room, nearest to the window. He changed clothes and made sure his knapsack and boots were easily attainable at his bedside. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let down his hair and lit a cigarette.

He was exhausted from the physical fighting and the mental terror he found himself facing, both at the hand of Sinister. He knew that somehow his treachery against the Morlock clan and his deal with Sinister, the Devil himself, would ruin his life yet again.

He tried not to think of how the knowledge of his past would effect his future with the X-Men, his family. He dreaded the exile of the lonely, musty boathouse, or even worse. Instead, he tried to concentrate on what would most certainly be his last night as a real member of the team and his last night of being on the job --for the forces of good this time. It was also most certainly his last night to be on speaking terms with Logan, the best friend he had found in a long, long time.

That seemed to sting more than anything else. He mused on their time as sparring partners in the Danger Room or on missions and then the times in the rec-room they often shared.

Fighting against or alongside Wolverine was absolutely electrifying. In practice, no one could spar one-on-one without clearing the rest of the day for no more action than staggering off to the med lab for a patch up. Gambit's skills as a Master Thief and more had strengthened to amazing heights thanks to these sessions, and they left him with much more than an endorphin kick.

They bonded a bit more cordially over many games of pool and even more cases of beer. There was always smack talk. Remy would make fun of Logan as a typical plaid sporting Canadian lumberjack whenever he watched hockey, and Logan would remind him that catching crawfish, or "fake lobsters" in the mud did not qualify as a sport or a meal.

And then there were some moments altogether different. Like the feel of Logan's hands on his injuries, gliding over his back. He knew that touch was innocent, only to distract him from the stinging gashes, but the energy there couldn't be ignored. For Remy, the spots wherever Logan touched him felt more like his own hands charging cards before he blew up a fucking building.

Remy took in a last drag and tossed it out the window, watching it pop like a tiny firecracker. Sliding in between the coarse cotton, he tossed and turned until he was semi-comfortable in spite of his new bruises.

A/N: I hope you all can enjoy my first 'serious'~ piece of fanfic. I'd like to say that I'm very confident that most of you are familiar with the accents of both Logan and Remy, so I've tried to write their dialogue in such a way as to recognize that --yet not destroy the grammar or spelling to where it dampens legibility. .....Rereading that sentence, I sound like such a dick, but I kind of stayed up until 7 AM (wtf self), so sorry if this note is a little wonky.

Anyway, comments and critique of all kinds is immensely appreciated and flattering!! Let me know how I can fulfill your deepest slashy needs! Haha, or at least not butcher the characters up too bad. Also, I love everyone in this fandom so much, :D