Title: Angels and Demons
Summary: Red-eyed from birth, powered from his youth—Remy LeBeau grew up to be a thief, a charmer, and a sometime hero. But the life he has was bought with a price, and debts from the past are not easily forgotten, nor repaid. A spin-off from TMOP.
Author's long note:
This is a Gambit spin-off my Wolverine/X-Men story The Meaning of Pain, which was started forever ago and inspired first by my own general insanity, and secondly by one squeekness over at the who used to give me lots of reviews, but after almost every chapter left a sad-sounding note: "I wish there were more Gambit." And then at the end of the most recent TMOP chapter, when Gambit took his leave from the past . . . there were so many sad-sounding reviews that I just couldn't keep this to myself.
So this is for all of us Gambit-loving freaks. ;)
A few notes:
1. This will be considerably shorter than my current ongoing Wolverine fanfic, if things go according to plan. Still, I hope it will be enough to satisfy. :)'
2. I must admit right off the bat that I'm much less versed with Gambit's past and character than Wolverine's, so if his character or some facts are not spot-on-sorry beforehand. I'm not spending as much time on this one proofreading either, so it might not quite be up to the same standard as TMOP.
3. Because TMOP is still my main focus, chapters for this story will be quite shorter and posted less frequently than I do for TMOP, so be warned of that beforehand.
As for the rest . . . . I'll let the story speak for itself.
Enjoy.
Chapter 1: Red is the Color of My True Love's Eyes
The high gilded ceiling gleamed with the faint glimmer of distant light, and the dark halls were silent save for the ghosts of the far-echoed ringing of crystal on crystal, and a soft murmur of laughter and conversation. The thick wooden panels and deep velvet carpeting blanketing the polished oak floors absorbed both the sound and the light, removing it to another place—another time.
A soft brush of moving cloth shifted in the silence, though it might have been the thick curtain, which swayed slightly as the wind shifted.
A canister rolled across the floor, sending up a soft white mist, and revealing the red lines of motion sensors criss-crossing across the hallway.
Twick!
Thunk.
A bolt shot down the hall, its head burying in a rich crest on one of the overhead arches. There was a tug on the thick cord it had strung down the hallway, and then a shadow slid down, belted to a pulley and pulling itself down the length with dark-gloved hands.
The figure paused, and in the darkness a faint glint of red caught the dim light. A hand released himself from the pulley, and he dropped ten feet, flipping backwards cleanly and landing low between the sensors with no sound other than that of his coat settling around him.
He didn't move at first, paused and crouched low, his head tilted as he listened. Far away, someone laughed. The sound was almost surreal in the dark silence.
He stood slowly, shoulder-length hair settling around his roguish face as he reached into his long brown coat and took hold of something. A flick of his hand, and a long staff extended at his side.
He leaped, landing one-footed between two lasers, then flipped, vaulting with his staff and twisting. Silent as ever, he landed, panther-like, at the end of the hallway, coming to a stop at a dark wooden panel.
He lifted a slow hand, his red eyes narrowed. He slid his fingers on bottom of the frame. Seconds later, the wall swung open, revealing the hidden study.
Hidden, but hardly secret. The Victorian curtains framing the twenty-foot windows covering the whole of the far wall had left a clear view of the comings and goings of the expansive drive at the front of the mansion throughout the day.
He padded forward, a hand rising as he scanned over the bookshelves. Millions of dollars worth of leather-bound journals, first-editions, and artifacts passed by untouched, until he paused, a hand hovering over a thick, dog-eared journal.
Nathaniel Essex.
He slid the book out of its place, and a thick folder of papers slid out with it.
A gloved hand shot out, catching it before it fell and its contents scattered. But a single sheet slid out at the end, and the sight of it caused the silent man to pause.
He set the journal down, quickly flipping through the thick folder before snapping it shut. He slid it into a bag, placing the journal in after it, and slung it over his shoulder as he headed for the door. He closed it behind him, darting down the hall again, his coat falling around him like a shadow.
Less than a minute later, he was gone, leaving the hall empty and silent, save for the distant clinking of crystal glasses.
He sat alone at a table in the corner of an open-patio diner, peering out over the street through shaded glasses as he spoke into his cell phone. He was a mixture of suave and casual—long hair brushed back, his shirt loose, his coat slung over the chair behind him.
"Non. Not comin' back for a few more days." A pause. "What dat? Non. No matter. Jus' got some loose ends to tie up, dat's all."
A soft laugh. "Moi aussi, je t'aime. Be back by da end of da week, cherie."
He hung up, sliding the phone into his pocket before turning his attention back to the folder before him.
He glanced up, making sure that no one was walking past his table, then flicked it open. He sat back, taking a drink as he scanned over the papers for the thousandth time. But he'd already seen as much as he needed to.
He just didn't know what to do about it yet.
He left a tip and the rest of his drink behind, gathering up the folder and journal and putting them safely in his black briefcase.
It wasn't safe to go home yet. Not until he'd figured out what he was going to do.
He stood, placing the folder in his bag and picking up his coat before stepping onto the crowded sidewalk. He moved easily through the crowds down the street, narrowing in on a payphone. He stepped in, closing it firmly behind him before picking up the phone and dialing a number.
Could've used his cell phone, but if they tracked the number for some reason . . . he didn't want his name on it.
"Hello? I am lookin' f' . . . Heather. Heather . . . Hudson. Non, not Header—Heather. Married t'Mac—James Hudson."
It took an hour, an extra trip to a change machine, and enough of his charm that he even felt it running a bit thin by the end. It kind of surprised him; such a thing had never happened before.
"Ce est? Non. D'name's Gambit. One a' de firs' members of your Canadian Alpha Flight," he tried.
"Really? Gambit? I haven't heard of you."
"Jus'—just call da lady, all right? 's about da Wolverine."
The name was like a spell. The rookie on the line stopped stand-still, put him on hold, and left him wondering why he hadn't brought the name up in the first place.
Fifteen minutes on hold and listening to the second repeat of T'chaikovsky's 1812 Overture, however, and he started scanning the streets for black cars or the Canadian equivalent of the SWAT team and debating whether it would be safer to head for the sewers or just gouge out his eardrums.
Canadian SWAT team? Really.
Well, with Wolverine, who knew? Especially after all this time.
Finally, the music cut, and there was a pause. "Hello?"
"Mon dieu, I was starting t'think it be faster t'go t'Canada an' track you down myself."
There was a pause, and she spoke with a colder voice. "Who is this?"
"Heather, mon cherie. Gambit's hurt."
Another pause. "Gambit? What—Remy?"
"Y'do remember, den. How your team? Haven't looked it up lately, but las' I hear you doin' jus' fine."
"Yeah. Things are. . . . yeah, they're fine. Remy. What, where, how—" she paused, laughing. "I don't even know what to say."
"Don' worry about it, petite. Gambit jus' wonderin' if our Wolvie on hand, 's all."
Another pause, long enough for Gambit to pull back and glance at the phone, then hold it back to his ear, hoping he hadn't lost the call.
"He—he's not around anymore."
"What dat? Where he go?" He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. Gambit honestly didn't even think that was possible.
Not at this point, if he had ever doubted.
"He—he left, about 10 years ago."
"Jus' . . . left?" He knew he should have thought of it, but somehow he had a difficulty picturing where Wolverine would leave to. It was hard to see him anywhere among normal people. "D'ya know where he is?"
"Why?" It was defensive now—wary. Heather didn't sound much different, but time had taken away some of her innocence, somehow.
"Found sometin'. Sometin' that he would want t'see."
There was silence as she processed that. He wasn't about to tell, and she was smart enough to realize that. He waited, wondering if she would help.
"Well . . . I haven't seen him. Mac looked for him for years, but . . . when he wants to hide, well, you know. But . . . he came back on the map. On youtube, of all places."
"L'enfer!"
Gambit had heard about the mutant fiascos—who hadn't? And as a mutant himself, keeping track of the rise and fall and then sudden surge of reignited mutant hate was part of survival. He'd never actually seen the footage, but he'd heard about it. Some crazy rogue mutant gang—called themselves the X-Men, of all things—fighting it out with some rival group led by that Magneto person.
But Heather had the details that had been filtered from the public. How a guard had been found with three stab wounds, and when Heather had seen them, she'd known.
No one left their mark like Wolverine.
New York, then. Well, he had time. Belladonna would just have to wait.
"Well, maybe I gonna go track him down. T'anks, Heather. For both den and now."
"If you find him . . . tell him hello for me, will you?" She paused, and Gambit wondered. So Wolvie'd had a one-sided crush on the girl, but if he'd taken off just ten years ago . . . he'd stuck around for five years. What had happened during all that time? "What happened to you?"
"Dat a long story, cherie. Too long." Gambit gave a soft laugh. "Far too long."
TBC . . .