This is the first fanfiction I've posted in, shall we say lifetimes? It's been a while, so comments and helpful advice are greatly welcome. This is a ROMY fic (what can I say, those southerners) in the evolution universe. A bit of background, this occurs after the final episode, Gambit joined the Xmen around the time of Cajun Spice, and Rogue has been off and occupied with her preceding history. This is just for the browsers, no fear, all shall be revealed in time. I do not own X-Men or any of its characters. Marvel does. That's why I live in a cramped box and they own a Universe. The idea for the story however is mine. Small consolation, what can I say?

Synopsis: It has been a year since Apocalypse and the X-men are settling into their schedules of school, work and life. When Gambit is asked to greet a runaway mutant neither he nor his compatriots realize the catastrophe that will follow .For eyes have been watching. Something strange lurks in the shadows; something dark knows their names and something vengeful will emerge triumphant.

Thieves

Prologue- The Encounter

"Well?" Remy turned woefully from his half filled cup of caffeine and milk, his lips parting in sweet sorrow. "What do you think?" Lifting a strong hand to his chin, he rubbed the scratchy shadow of hair that seemed in a permanent state of five o'clock distress and shrugged. The short figure before him scoffed, pulling at several loose strands of hair that framed her pretty face. "Like, that is such a typical guy response." Her lips pursed in a youthful frustration only trendy teens seemed able to accomplish. The southerner breathed a tiresome breath.

"Den why you ask, Cherie?" the thin tips of his shapely lips came together in perfect annunciation and, as he predicted she blushed a furious hue.

"Oh, forget it!" she scowled and dropped her hands to her sides, slowly clenching and unclenching her fingers making her look more like a child in a tantrum than a starting junior.

"Keep yo' face like 'dat p'tite, 'n it gonna freeze." He returned to his morning beverage with a normal air of nonchalance and perhaps a touch of personal amazement. Beyond his rebel good-looks, Cajun charm and theatrical flair was an even greater appraising talent (one that seemed to excel on the female variety). Through the deep cocoa scent of his large mug he caught another flavour, one whose manner held deep annoyance at his purposeful flouting.

"Gambit, leave Kitty alone! She's just a little nervous." the short brunette beamed, accepting the soothing arm attached to a taller redhead. "First day jitters, huh Kitty?"

"I'm like totally freaking Jean! I mean, this is like so much bigger than last year, right? I mean, between my AP courses, and computer labs and volunteering… can you believe I only have one year left after this before like, college?" Jean nodded sympathetically, her arm still wrapped round the smaller girl. Kitty let out a frustrated gurgle and slapped her forehead with her palm.

"Is jus' school, p'tite. Not'in importan' to worry ove'," then, he winked and added. "'Sides. Yo' can always' go back an extra year. Yo' small enough, nobody notice!"

"We can't all be dropouts, Gambit," she stressed his name, spitting it like sour fruit. Before she could continue her reciprocate, the big and little hands sprung to twelve and eight, respectively. "Oh! Now look! You're making me late!" and as though on cue, the three teens heard the groan of a car starting followed by impatient hollers.

"Better go Kitty. I wouldn't put it past Kurt to leave without you." Passing her the knapsack slumped at her feet, she chuckled. "He's gotten even worse since teaming with Bobby. Good luck!" she winked. Kitty shook her head appreciatively.

"Thanks Jean! You too, don't get lost on campus now!" whatever else the girls said as farewells fell on deaf ears. Currently, Remy was fascinated by the dark ring that had crusted along the inside of his mug. The muscular crimson of his retina contracted and released, expanding and constricting the surrounding blackness. Dat's what happen' when yo' leave it too long Remy, and unconsciously his head flopped in disgust.

"Do you always have to tease her so badly?" Remy ignored Jean and instead focused on his grip round the white china. He felt them warm, a soft, reddish glow emanating from somewhere deep until the cocoa started to bubble. Grinning satisfactorily he shrugged.

"Why Chere, jealous?" the curl in his lip deepened, bulging the skin beneath his eyes so they formed a black half-crescent moon. "Remy had no idea." He heard her smirk before her lips parted, his enhanced awareness a useful guard. Her cerulean orbs slid skywards.

"Well Romeo, could you try and lighten up? She's just a kid." Remy chugged the rest of his warmed coffee, plunked the empty mug and wiped his chin in an exaggerated show.

"We all jus' kids, mon enfant," his tone was condescending, but as he leaned back on the kitchen's counter, his long legs stretched out beneath the wooden chaise he took on the guise of a cat eyeing its prey. "Laissez jouez," rolled off as an afterthought, and Remy licked his lips slowly partly to enjoy the remaining flavour of coffee on his skin but mostly for the blush of vexation Jean sent his way. The sudden pounding of feet down the corridor cut the tension, though both continued their glares.

"Jean, ready to go?" A young man's face poked through the door, the square cut of his model-like face divided by a sporty pair of crimson sunglasses. A few strands of brown hair brushed over the plastic spectacles, and upon seeing Gambit his lips stretched in a polite manner. The colour faded quickly from Jean's cheeks, though Gambit remained just as he was. Scott's brow crinkled, perplexed. "Something wrong?" Jean shook her head.

"No," her eyes never leaving Remy's, she added "Behave now Gambit." And with a wry grin she turned to the all-american-boy, intertwining her fingers through his and answering his curious gaze in wordless telepathic ease.

Remy stayed in position, watching the pair disappear behind the door frame. The house was suddenly empty, quiet and free of the normal ruckus only the prepubescent and teenagers muster. He considered for a moment how he would spend the day.

Before he had come to New York, the answer was fairly simple- report to Pere, pick some pockets, meet some skirts and return with the daily quota. This however was not New Orleans, Charles Xavier was no Pere and the X-men were possibly the farthest moral assemblage when placed beside the Thieves Guild.

'Gambit,' the mental call derailed his train. 'I have a task for you.' Remy sat upright and sent what he hoped the mental intruder would take as a sign to be left alone. 'Gambit,' the tone hardened and Remy sighed.

"Wha' sort o' task yo' t'inkin', Proffessor?" like film playing off the brick of his mind's walls came the distinguished bust of a middle-aged gentleman. His head sat smooth and unwrinkled in all its bald glory, and though lines crossed his face, there was a gentle and kind demeanour characteristic of Charles Xavier.

'I have for some time now, sensed the presence of a young mutant.' The Cajun snorted.

"T'ere be a whole school full right here, non?" Xavier's terse silence served reproachfully. The young man shrugged. "Right, so yo' want ol' Gambit ta' go out and play fetch, oui?" Jumping from his seat, he slammed his hand to the cool counter top. "Have 'em here by dinner."

'It is not quite so simple, I fear. She seems to have a great distrust of all people, particularly mutants,"

"Ah!" Remy interrupted. "Une femme. I see why yo' pick me fo' 'dis one 'den. 'Dey cannot resist." The older man's chuckle sounded through his mind, deflating his puffed chest. His face fell in a look of bewilderment, then to one of suspicion. "What exactly is 'de chere's power?" through the wide pause, Remy could feel a slow and precise consideration.

'I have not been able to uncover it. Her mind is," Remy waited during the pause. Luckily, the Cajun was a patient man. 'Populated,' the professor finished but before the boy could ask further Xavier adjoined a new idea. 'I will lead you to her. After that,'

"Oui, oui, Je comprends. Break out 'de pledge form." He waved his hand dismissively. Picking the single mug from his seat, he carried it to the sink and placed it in the thick soapy foam.

'Gambit, try not to frighten the girl,' the boy stretched a muscular arm over his head and smirked.

"Please Professor, yo' lookin' at 'de King of Hearts."

--------------

She was tiered. Her legs throbbed beneath their doubled coating of nylon and cotton, the feel of her ripped jeans weighty so they sagged pathetically at the waist. The hands that so forcefully had remained in her pockets darted to her hairline, tucking imaginary strays back under their toque prison and pulling the hood attached to her sweater farther over her face. Leaning her head back, she saw a familiar diner, "The Chicken that Crossed the Road" it's name as tacky as the plastic sign half hanging overhead. Still, she mused, one o' them cooks have taken a likin' ta' me. Maybe he'll be feelin' extra generous. With an empty stomach and a hopeful palate, the slim girl slid into the chosen establishment.

There was no one at the counter when she entered, though the scent of grease and fries hit her like a wave of exhaustion and she clenched the wall to keep from buckling. Using the cheap drywall as a walking aid, she made her way to the closest booth. There were many from which to choose. To her left was a large paned window. The street outside was relatively empty, a side road strolled only by those who frequented the small barrage of crack houses, garbage cans and desperate renters abodes lining the inner veins of the Big Apple.

A can clattered down the street, drawing the girl's attention. Her eyes followed it as it continued to bounce into the late afternoon. Its movements mesmerized her so that she did not see initiator, a long gangly leg attached to an equally trim torso. From behind reflective glasses, the head caught sight of her through the window and grinned. She stared past him, imaging now how the tiny aluminium container would catch tiny glints of sun. It continues to roll, she reflected her mind amused by this new subject, past the thousands of feet thundering past on their way to a late lunch, an early dinner, sneakily dodging each leather clad sole in a feat of pure physical genius. Each shrill touch tolled like that of a meal bell and momentarily, the voyeur could picture themselves in such a place.

The sun would be high, stretching across in burning arcs until the eyes burned with tears. There were smells also, strange, disgusting and enchanting smells. Some were of sweat and dirt and grime while others carried their spice and tang and sweetness straight on over so that the air was always pleasant, like a warm bath. There was always food, meat queuing on the grill or soup waiting on the stove or pie sitting in the oven, or a window sill; and the strength of these sensory incantations brought these particularly watchful eyes from the shrouded cold of the Northern streets. For a moment, this lone, weary figure leaned against the rough plastic seating, closed her eyes and allowed her lips to savour that secret world. She did not notice the instigator slide to the seat directly across from her.

"Hey, you! Either you're buying or your leavin'," the cry cut through the mirage like scissors through paper and in its stead the porous and angry veneer of a glaring burger clerk. Her eyes popped open, the large emerald orbs momentarily confused. A lardy middle aged prick shook his un-gloved hand in outrage and pointing his spatula to the freshly awoken youth, continued. "Whaddya take me for, some kinda moron? I know you never pay for your meals, and don't think that Chuck's gonna rob for you again, fired his ass yesterday. Now pay up or get out!" The girl dropped her jaw indignantly. Gambit smirked, his eyes brightening gleefully behind his aviators.

"Monsieur is 'dat anyway ta speak ta une femme? Dey teaches yo' no manners 'ere, mon ami." The girl swirled in her seat, shocked to see the young Cajun seated before her. "G'afternoon, p'tite," he nodded his head in what she could only assume was meant as flirtatious obstinacy. Jes' what Ah need, her mind grumbled. "One order o' greasy bear w'de fixin's fo' 'de femme, an' a poutine fo' me," his smile dared to be challenged, but the clerk assented, shrugging rudely.

"Whatever, s'long as someone's payin'. Ain't nothin' for free" his mutters continued even as he turned, disappearing into the tile lined kitchen brewing ten different diseases. The girl stared across the table, eyes full of indignation and lips brewing with millions of rebuttals. A light flush had spread across her cheeks giving their high bows vibrancy. As her first words finally drew out, Gambit resisted the urge to flinch. Venom shot from her tongue and each sound hissed through clenched teeth.

"That's real nice o' yo' t'offer, but Ah ain't hungry." She straightened her hood and brushed beneath her eyes. Flecks of dark shadow dispersed, gripping the tiny hollows on her fingertips. "Jes' came in here lookin' fo' someone." Gambit nodded, his smirk never parting from his face. He noticed her clothes were mismatched and torn.

"Someone who could feed ya'?" She turned her face to him, eyeing him openly through furiously slit eyes. Her voice was low and husky, her southern drawl madly apparent.

"How charmin'. That line work on all the girls?" He chuckled and slid his long fingers through the straight locks that seemed intent on blinding his vision.

"Only 'de hungry one," but she had already begun to leave, one hand pushing her out of the tiny booth, her pale fingers luminous against the dark plastic lining of the table. Gambit reached out quickly, "Attends!" she pulled her arm away before he had a chance to reach her. The force of the jerk sent the tall girl sprawling back onto the plastic bench.

"Don't touch me!" she cried and Gambit too jumped back, surprise ripping the cool nonchalance from his stance. The Professor had warned him to use caution. Judging by her terrified face, he now saw why.

"Ah sorry p'tite, didn't mean nothin' by it, jes'," he watched her intently, the clear and sudden panic that engulfed her subsiding. "Food's already ordered," he offered. Through his shades her expression read clear. The saint's and bishops cowered. Gambit sighed. "Jes' stay 'n eat a while." She frowned.

"Don' call me that. Now Ah' don't know who y'are o' what you're playin' at, but ya' can be damn su-" A loud ding sounded over the tension, cutting the young woman's sentence short. The head cook shouted;

"Greasy Bear 'n Forest," Gambit shrugged.

"Food's up," but she shook in offence. Gambit noticed her pull anxiously at the frayed edges of the forest green hoodie.

"Yo' don't take rejection well, do ya'," her response, though coated with sarcasm, seemed free of her initial attack. Gambit studied her face. She kept her head lightly bowed so that a shadow seemed permanently etched from the dip of her eyes upwards. Her hair was completely hidden, though for one who'd been homeless for at least a year, she carried only the slightest scent of street.

"Honestly Chere, 'dat not somet'in' 'dis home used ta' dealin' wit'." He could not see her reaction, but sinking further on the bench, he lowered his face to her level so that they stared at one another from a safe distance. The well formed bottom half of her lip dropped in a skulking protest.

"Did't yo' mama tell ya' not ta' talk ta' strangers?" the teen grinned wildly.

"Neva' listened to' ma," her brow shot up, the dark eyeliner masking her features emphasising her frown. "Gambit," he offered. Her face remained impassive. "Gambit," he repeated the earnestly added; "now we ain't strangers." She chuckled.

"That's jes' a name. Anyone can get a name," she contended. "'Sides, it ain't a very good one at that." Gambit feigned insult. Standing he leaned over the counter and in a few short seconds returned with the steaming pile of greasy goods.

Without looking her way, he picked up a few of the cheesy fries, poured an extra heap of gravy and took a thrilled bite. The girl eyed the plates wistfully. The man before her chewed slowly, savouring each sensation and she again felt the innate urge to smack him with any laden object. Finally, he swallowed and met her gaze.

"Tans pis! Personally, Ah've learned neva' refuse a helpin' hand." His fingers returned to the steaming pile, his lips so close to the next handful the steam blew over his fingers. "Specially if it be servin' 'dis," and he closed his mouth around the deep fried potato bits, the sides of his cheeks pooling out to hold the greasy mass. The girl studied him, her temples tight, the deep pout of her lip managing to look seductive and deadly.

"Rogue," she said, reaching for the melted heap of meat, cheese and drippy condiments. Gambit drew up both brows, peering at the peculiar sight of a hood inhaling a burger.

"Rofgu?" Tiny bits of grease dripped from his chin and he shrugged apologetically. "Shorry." Rolling her eyes she tossed him a napkin.

"Rogue," and she took another bite from the side of the meal, assessing it from each angle to find its point of weakness. "Now lemme ask ya', Cajun, yo' always buy food fo' every random destitute ya see?"

"How'd p'tetite know Ah'm from 'de bayou?" Rogue laughed, momentarily foregoing the burger for a gulp of soda.

"Pretty unique accents down there, sugah. Ya' didn't answer mah question," behind his shades, Gambit supplied mischievously.

"Only 'de cute one's." Rogue straightened her spine, glaring at him from overtop the burger. "What? You prefer I call yo' une bete?"

"Naw, Ah' prefer ya' not thinkin' mah' affections are fo' sale." Gambit chuckled.

"Believe me Chere, 'de burger ain't got not'in' ta' do wit' 'dat. 'Sides," buffing his nails against his chest, he boasted "Don' Gambit need not'in but his charm." He wriggled his brows suggestively behind the frames and as the slithered in and out of sight Rogue could not help but crack a grin.

"I don't know who sold ya' on those glasses Sugah, but it must've been some kinda' sale." Taking another bite from the quickly disappearing mass, she settled against the back of the wall. Gambit noticed as her muscles lost their tension, that small grin still nipping her cheeks.

"You don' like 'em, Chere?"

"They make Jesus cry," and with a pucker she chided him. "An' Ah tol' ya' not ta' call me that." Shoving the empty carton of his brunch aside, he wiped the grease on one of the many napkins littering the table. With a slow hand, he removed the oversized aviators, crinkling his eyes momentarily against the facing figure. For a moment he felt a strange pang in his chest; fear? No, he corrected himself. Obviously he'd swallowed too quickly. This was hardly his first experience with Poutine.

Noticing his silence, Rogue pulled her gaze upwards, remnants of the burger pooling in the crinkled folds of its wrapper. She caught sight of his arm dropping, the tacky shades clenched between his fingers. His cheeks were high, she noted, his face angular and sharp. His nose ended bluntly, the middle dipping slightly lower than the sides. It was high and curved with a slight bump that seemed slightly off-centre. At one point it had been broken. Yet they drew together beautifully and though she hated to admit it, this new acquaintance clearly had no problems attracting women.

It was then that she noticed them- his eyes. They were not deep and green like her own, nor the matchless blue of her first kiss. Encircling the iris was red, not albino but actual blood crimson. The rest of the eye was not white but pitch dark, and seemed alive and watching where the iris could not. She caught a gasp in her chest as the realization dawned.

"'Dis better?" she drew back, her hands clenching the plastic seat beneath her. "I know Rogue," he said, in a manner as subtle as he could manage. As if from nowhere, he produced a small, white card in his palm. Allowing it to slide to the ends of his fingers, then to the table he looked up catching her gaze. "He, 'de Professor, got a school for people like us. We can learn how to use our 'gifts', how ta' control 'dem…"

He felt traitorous, suddenly and without any logical appeal yet the look in her eyes commanded it. "If ya' need a place ta' stay," he paused, grinning feebly in an attempt to lighten the mood. "All the free burger's ya' want." She shook her head.

"Control?" Her gaze dropped, forcing intensely upon her fingers. "Ah've heard o' him before, an' his school." Gambit forced his face to remain neutral. The brow over her left brow arched majestically. "But what ya' tellin' me, that ain't all Ah've heard."

"Bill," a thick and hairy arm dropped between the two, tossing a plastic plate with a yellow receipt onto the table. The weight of the cooks lumber shook the floors, the vibrations lessening as the distance between them grew. Fishing in his pocket, Remy dug out fifteen dollars and as he stood, dumped the bills on the spoiled surface. He noticed a familiar stretch limousine parked outside the dicey diner. It looked strangely out of place amidst the cracked brick and windowless panes of this back alley. Rogue turned to follow his stare and nodded to the notable vehicle.

"That him?" He nodded. A wall stood erect between the two. As she exited the booth she turned to Remy, her eyes scouring his. "Thanks fo' the burger." She stormed the entrance, slamming the glass doors so they rattled. Remy stayed where he was, watching through the window as she blew past the car, much in the same fashion as he had done. With a knowing eye, he watched her pause, watched the expression morph from ire to alarm to blunt curiosity.

Outside the window lowered and Rogue focused on the face behind the shade. Through her trepidation she could feel something else calling, something else screaming yes, yes! In the eyes of the older man, she saw something so long forgotten it sent spears of youthful hope through her bosom. That day, beneath the newly high noon sky, the girl named Rogue stepped forward, off the curb and into the sleek ebony of promise.

Gambit waited a moment, waited for the lights to flash, for the hulky vehicle to pull away from the curb and settle onto street then finally, for it to turn through the alley and onto the main road. Only when he was sure they were out of sight did he leave the table and proceed unto his exodus. Though the sun was high, there was unseasonable chill in the autumn air.

His fingers nipped coldly as they left his pocket, placing the dainty end of his filtered cigarette to his lips. Forgoing a lighter, he lifted a fingertip to the tobacco filled end, igniting it with a flicker of power. As he breathed a deep drag, he could not help but feel wary. Slipping on his sunglasses, he hurried down the street, the enhanced ability of his senses on edge. There were people around, oh yes. Milling and filtering in and out, shouting and screaming and laughing but beneath all that- Remy felt it again. He stopped and focused intently. Nothing- he could see nothing out of place.

Flipping up the collar of his brown leather jacket he continued on his way, though the feeling of unease continued to follow. Something in the wind whistled the beginning of an opera and he winced. 'Dey only end in tragedy.