Author: Melissa Lee
Rating: PG
Date: 9-5-00
Feedback: Bring it on! Royal_Starship@yahoo.com
Disclaimer:
Rogue and all affiliated characters belong to Marvel Enterprises,
et
all. Don't sue because I'll flee the country and you'll never find
me!
*maniacle
laughter*
Disclaimers
Strike Back: I disclaim my lack of canon-ness in the X-Men
uni-
verse.
I have an extraordinarly vague idea of how Gambit came to join
the
X-Men. Oops.
Author's
Notes: The reason this fic took so long to surface was primarily
be-
cause
of an inability to locate a willing beta-reader that really *reads*.
If
you are one, you've got my digits above. ;-) French translations
are
at
the end of the story.
Dedications
& Thanks: Inspiration is an author's greatest gift.
Though she'll
probably
never know, this story is forever accredited to Tori Amos, for
giving
me the pleasure of listening to "Cooling." The silver goes to the
other
musicians mentioned -- they are/were geniuses also.
Summary:
(Flickfic) Rogue contemplates her curse, the meaning of history's
most
beautiful music, fire, water, and the newest X-Men, Gambit.
¤-~-¤-~-¤-~-¤-~-¤
"But Fire thought she'd really rather be Water instead/
This is cooling/Faster than I can/This is cooling."
--"Cooling," Tori Amos (Live)
¤-~-¤-~-¤-~-¤-~-¤
A
single tear slithered unceremoniously down Rogue's face, unwiped, unchecked,
and uncaring. She sat as a flame
glowing forth from a campfire, paralyzed and cap-
tivated by the sounds echoing through
her room. Lone grand piano notes floated out
of a nearby compact disc player,
their effect all to similar to that of the glittering
crystal clear orbs emanating from
a bubble machine. The seemingly spontaneous
notes soon resolved themselves into
the tune Rogue had become so intimately familiar
with. The string section picked
up a pleasant, yet tragic tempo as the ungracious
hands continued the theme from Love
Story on the piano.
The
instrumental tale of woe always had this effect on her, yet still she submitted
herself to the nightly anguish of
Henry Mancini, Beethoven, Trevor Jones, and other
various composers. The dull ache
began deep within her chest as she once again real-
ized that she would forever observe
love from afar, that the feelings and emotions
expressed in this amazing music
would never apply to her. The pain spread -- growing
like a wildfire -- and she felt
the tears prickling at the back of her eyes.
Rogue
lay atop her bed, her gloved hands and arms cradling her face, smoky
green eyes turned toward the balcony.
The October breeze winding through her room
had settled a breathtaking coldness
around her, yet the pale peach moonlight
tumbling into her room was worth
the chill. Shivering imperceptibly, Rogue switched
positions, leaning her head on one
hand only, ignoring the rough feel of the arm length
glove on the sensitive skin of her
cheek.
Her
cheek stained with tears.
She
sniffed loudly as she focused her attention on the beautiful music, feeling
her sadness tightly embrace her
eggshell heart. Her favorite part of the instrumental
was coming up, where the single
hand intoning the piano theme was joined by another.
A pair of twin musical strands singing
together of simple, elegant tragedy. Next, the
two tunes intertwined once more
and separated from each other, like a pair of divided
lovers. Finally, the theme reached
a dramatic crescendo, the orchestra rising up like
a bonfire, and the cue ended.
Sighing
deeply, Rogue heard a small group of X-Men returning from an evening
out. Their laughter and wine-induced
delight rippled through the empty halls of Pro-
fessor Xavier's mansion, and Rogue
could feel her face burning at the thought of why
she had not joined them for dinner.
That
morning, someone new had joined the group. A Southern boy about her
age by the name of Remy LeBeau,
though he preferred to be called Gambit.
Rogue
and Logan were in the kitchen that morning, conversing quietly over
their respective breakfasts of hot
chocolate and beer. Ororo had walked in then,
an unkept yet decidedly attractive
visitor in her wake. Storm glanced at Rogue
and Logan at the table, then turned
back to the boy -- who had not yet noticed
the room's other occupants -- and
pointed out where he could find food, drinks,
and other items. After completing
the quick overview, Ororo looked the boy in the
eye and murmured, "Don't even think
of taking anything from here either. We'll
know." Rogue threw a curious look
to Logan, who narrowed his eyes in silent re-
sponse. Was the latest X-Men a thief?
For
the first time, Ororo turned to Logan and Rogue and mentioned something
about other occupants of the mansion.
The two watched the newcomer with
profound interest. Wolverine did
not seem to make a good first impression judging
by the grunt he introduced himself
with. Then, by further urging from his female
companions, he muttered, "How ya
doin', Gumbo," and turned back to his beverage.
But when the boy turned to Rogue,
she thought she could see his deep-set eyes
blaze red in interest. He gave her
an appraising look, and Rogue felt her cheeks
flush at the attention. She wondered
at his own first impression of her, still
dressed in her pajamas with a loose
ponytail and silvery white locks of hair framing
her face.
He
didn't seem to care.
The
boy held a hand out to Rogue, glancing at the slender, white, and un-
gloved hand resting on her knee.
However, she only gave him a shake of her head
and told him, "I'm better with verbal
introductions." She shrugged slightly.
He
seemed to wonder at her refusal to shake hands with him, but did not
hesitate in continuing. "De name
is Gambit," he said in a husky French-Cajun
accent, his lips hinting at a cocky
smirk. "But you, chere, may call me Remy.
Comment t'appelles tu?"
"Rogue,"
she gave her name shortly, remaining expressionless. "How has your
trip here been?" she added in an
attempt at friendliness.
"Très
bien," he replied in perfect, admirable French, "now dat I've met you."
He gazed down at her, chestnut strands
falling into his fathomless eyes.
Rogue
allowed herself a flattered smile and bit her lip, then quietly excused
herself from the room. She felt
Remy's eyes on her the whole time. Once she
cleared the doorway, she flattened
herself against the wall outside, listening
carefully. She heard Remy say, thinking
she was gone, "I must've come to da right
place, no? Dat girl is on fire!"
Smiling
to herself, Rogue furiously wondered what Logan's reaction to that
would be, considering his protective
position over her.
"That's
right, Gumbo," he retorted, an angry edge in his voice. "'Cept touchin'
fire is less painful than touchin'
Rogue. So you'd better watch those thievin' hands
of yer's." With that, he pushed
his chair back and exited the room, oblivious to
Rogue hiding in the shadows.
Presently,
Rogue switched her CD player to a Trevor Jones piece from the film
The Last of the Mohicans.
The diligent fiddle worked its magic as she mulled over
those earlier events. She knew Logan
had realized that Rogue had been unable
to explain to the handsome newcomer
of the dangers in physical contact with her.
In reality, he had helped her, more
or less, in telling Remy, but had unintentionally
cheapened his compliment. She hadn't
even been able to go out for dinner that
night when Jean had come down to
the pool and invited Rogue, adding that "the
new boy" would be coming also.
Rogue
rubbed her eyes, trying to extinguish the burning tears. Burning, she
thought bitterly, always burning.
Like a fire. Why did it have to be fire that she
was compared to? Fire hurt. Fire
scarred. Fire was painful. Though beautiful, no-
body could truly love fire.
Flipping
onto her back and relaxing into the comfortable bed, Rogue squeezed
her eyes shut and listened to the
epic theme of The Last of the Mohicans heighten
in drama to the background of the
fiddle's promising repetition. All she could think
of was what Remy and Logan had said.
"Fire!" Gambit had said. "Fire is less painful..."
Logan had intoned. They meant well,
Rogue knew, but the flames searing at her
soul remained. She was cursed to
feel this burning for the rest of her life. All she
wanted was for the fire to cool.
Suddenly,
Rogue imagined water. The most peaceful element of all, Rogue's
mind's eye concocted images of gurgling
streams, lapping waves, roaring rapids,
rain puddles, and even dripping
tap water. Water was looked upon as cleansing
and pure. Clear, cold, and soft
to touch. Yet she was fire. With that, she realized
that, if anything, she would really
rather be water instead. Anybody could touch
water and remain safe. Humanity
loved water. Oceans, lakes, and rivers were
highly populated areas. Yet she
was fire. Hard, scalding, unforgiving fire.
Surprised
to find water dripping down her face, Rogue swiped at the droplets
atop her cheekbones and wondered
how fire could produce water. Immediately
passive, a thought hit the young
girl: she would yet become like water. Soon,
her pain would pay off, her tears
would put out the fire, and Remy would be
waiting for her. For her powers
to come under control, for the fire to dwindle.
She daydreamed of a secluded lake
house where she could wake up early
every morning with Remy and swim
in the lake with him, unconcerned with the
touching of their bare skin.
A
new song came onto the player, and the beautiful notes of a woman's voice
reached Rogue's ears.
This
is cooling.
¤-~-¤-~-¤
French
For Fanfiction Fans
1.) "Comment t'appelles tu?"
literally translates to "How do you call yourself?" but
is used in ordinary conversation
as "What's your name?"
2.) "Très bien" literally
translates to "Very well" or "Very good."