Disclaimer: Owner: Marvel. Money: none. Suing: useless.
Rating: T. See the first chapter for summary and stuff.
Note: Yes, Francesca will tug at your clothes and scream: "I'm a plot device! Stomp me, I'm a plot device!" Please ignore her. I couldn't think of another way to resolve Gambit's dilemma.

The apologist
Chapter One -
Dawn

A rambling rose with a musky smell walked
Into my life and told me things that I cannot tell
I'm gonna sow the seeds of doubt in your mind
Now I'm gonna change the way you wonder
The way you lie

WHIPPING BOY, The honeymoon is over


Contrary to popular belief, Samuel Guthrie was not an early bird; as he grew up, sleeping in was the only luxury he could afford, and still his favorite. But the mere hint of daylight was enough to awake him, and the shattered blinders had not been replaced yet. After a dozen minutes of useless stirring and thrashing, he resigned, kicked the duvet off the bed, and went downstairs.

He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall and figured Mr. Summers was due to show up soon; while he was at it, he might as well make breakfast for everybody. Whistling quietly to himself, he put the kettle on, then went to the windows, stretching and yawning and relishing the rosy morning light.

He spotted Mr. Logan on the front lawn, performing kata moves in a fight against several imaginary enemies. The Wolverine was faster and nimbler now, without the extra weight of his metal bones: his body flowed from move to move like quicksilver, graceful, lethal. He suddenly stopped, bent in a perfect kowtow, then moved away and Sam lost sight of him. He tried to trace him among the foliage, in vain, until the kettle whistled and recalled him back to his job.

He was breaking eggs in a tureen when the shapeless shadow went thwack! into the window.
His blast shield flared like a shockwave; the eggs rolled out of the table and smashed onto the floor, the fork tinkled against the tiles. Sam turned, ready to fight; and stared wide-eyed at the beastlike shape, perched backlighted on the window sill and grinning like a madman.

"Booh!" Logan yelled.

Before Sam could think of an answer, he was gone in a rustling of branches, laughing. Sam picked up the fork and wiped the floor, sighing. Another morning at the mansion, another journey into weirdness. But it was good to see the Wolverine human enough to enjoy a practical joke.

He was trying to figure out how the percolator worked - it sported several additions of McCoy-ish workmanship - when Gambit moseyed into the kitchen.

"Bon matin, Sam."

"Morning, Mr. LeBeau."

The formal reply made the Cajun huff and shake his head. He snatched a slice of plain toasted bread and made himself some instant coffee, moving around the kitchen like a sleepwalker, with slow, uncertain paces and unpredictable movements. He nearly piled into Sam so many times that he wondered whether it wasn't doing it on purpose, but the Kentuckian had been there long enough to figure out that Gambit simply didn't do mornings. Having stormed out of the mansion after the fight with Mag - er, Joseph - he probably had pulled an all-nighter, crawling pubs, robbing banks, or whatever it was that he did to pick himself up.

However, LeBeau was trying to be urbane and wearily pushed towards Sam a paper bag of biscuits, without a word; Sam took one out of courtesy, and repented immediately. Cinnamon and ginger and... cloves? might've been okay for the Cajun's fireproof buds, but he was an apple pie guy. He rinsed the offending flavor with a gulp of coffee and hid the half-eaten pastry under a dish for a timely disposal.

After the coffee, LeBeau seemed to regain a certain awareness: lying back against the chair, he said, with a sleepy smile: "Not de best time to join de worldwide vanguard of mutant pride, eh Sam?"

"I wonder whether there's ever been a good time, Remy. Good morning, everyone." Miss Braddock entered the kitchen from the east door, lacing the belt of a blue kimono embroidered with tiny flowers. "Remember when you joined, with the mansion destroyed and the team scattered to all winds?" she recalled, sitting down and leaning a cup towards him.

LeBeau smirked, slowly, good humor dawning on his weasel features as he poured her some hot water from the kettle. "Of course I remember, Betsy." He cast a look around, scrutinizing the signs of the last fight: charred curtains and halos of smoke marring the walls and ceiling. "Looks like yesterday."


"I am thrilled, truly, at seeing you take an interest in the preservation of our common dwelling," Hank grinned as he plopped another armful of boards onto the floor.

"Mmmph. Farcafm iventifiev." Precariously perched on the folding ladder, Gambit spoke through a mouthful of nails as he coaxed the wooden plank into position. The new windows wouldn't be ready for another week and the wind blew through the shattered panes; they had to keep the drafts at bay somehow or the elements would finish what Onslaught had begun.

"Well, considering how just yesterday you managed to bring about even more damage to the premises..."

Gambit's reply was punctuated with loud bangs as he nailed the board onto the battered frame. "Feh. Joe fixed everytin' back, didn' he?"

They worked together for a while, in a silence interrupted only by functional exchanges. As he hammered away, a floorboard, weakened by the fire, gave under and the whole ladder swayed and swerved. The hammer struck the nail sideways, slid and landed hard on his hand.

"Tabern...!" he cried, and inspected the damage. His pinky throbbed as if a miniature hammer was still working on it: the skin on the crushed finger had split, revealing the intricacies of the joints below. As the wound quickly flooded with red juice, Gambit was brought back to another time and another place.

The man at the desk wears a tasteful Gucci suit with matching vest. He's wearing his golden Rolex above the left cuff, trés gauche, but at least his tattoos don't show whenever he takes a look at the time. He speaks with no trace of an accent and his voice is soft though his eyes are burning with rage and despise.

"Don't wear out my patience, LeBeau-sama. We have an agreement; otherwise you would have been already shot dead."

"Oui, Ojima-san. And you and your men would be blown off your Prada shoes faster than you can say 'sashimi'."

Now that's a tall tale. Your best achievement this week was charging a handful of confetti, and it took you six minutes twenty. And hotel rooms, even expensive suites like this one, are spectacularly devoid of ammunition.

"I suppose so," Ojima acknowledges. "And this would leave us where?"

Past him, Yukio holds a knife to Francesca's throat. Her eyes meet yours for a second, and narrow as if for a laugh. As if all this was extremely funny.

You are so mad you can't even think straight.

Outside, the tolling bells call the Milanese to the child and scare the pigeons of Piazza del Duomo into a frenzied flight around the spires. No one moves.

Defeated, you hand over the bundle with cautious movements. It is passed from bodyguard to bodyguard into the hands of the leading man, who unwraps it with grace.

The mempo is inside, undamaged and pristine. The lacquered features - part man, part demon, part tiger - are frozen in an unending roar. It is easy to understand how come Ishikawa was feared and respected on the battlefield; looking at the frightening mask you'd easily forget that there's just a man concealed behind it.

One last glance is all you can snatch before it is wrapped and buried in his case again.

"Just me bein' curious, Ojima-san. How ugly was the old ronin dat he had to cover his mug with such an affair?"

For all answer, Ojima steps back and grins in despise. "The exact phrase would be "sour grapes", right?"

You sneer, ashamed that your veneer has gotten so thin, furious that you let this get to you. "Fine," you bark. "You got your pretty thing back. Now hand back my pretty thing, and we're even."

"I'm afraid we're not even yet, Lebeau-sama," Ojima replies, shaking his head slowly. The mutilation showed as he waved his hand and there's no doubt the wakagashira of the Ishikawa clan had to pay for not being able to secure the familial battle suit.

As he speaks, as if this had been rehearsed a thousand times, one of his men has taken out a wooden board covered in cloth and is putting it on the floor in front of you.

Francesca is sobbing now. You'd want to scream, to hell with the bowing and scraping, let's be done with it. But the bastards want to savor this one and the only thing you can do is yield.

You adjust the board before your knees and lift the immaculate cloth, whistling softly as you see the hatchet. The gleaming steel stands out against the deep brown wood and it is both light and heavy in your hand as you raise it to assay the cutting edge.

"Y'know, dis be de first time somebody asks me to give him de finger."

"Hey, Remy, my dexterous friend? I'm addressing to you. Are you at all well?" the Beast enquired from miles and miles away. The room – Graymalkin Lane, east wing, second floor - came back around him, and he jolted, countering the movement of the ladder under him. All this had lasted a fraction of a second, but maybe a fraction of a second too much.

"Not a hammer..." he found himself saying, "...not a hammer."

"Remy, my comrade, what you're holding is definitely not a sickle, either. You're as pale as paper. What's ailing you?"

"I'm alright, Bête. Just hacked my pinky is all."

- Yet again.

The voice is frightening in its familiarity. It comes from the same place that the memory sprung out of and leaves a wave of standing hairs on your forearms, like a draught of cold air from an open door in January.

Someone better close that door. Better yet, lock it and throw away the key.

He brought his hand to his temples, frowning. The world was still revolving slowly around his head; a deep voice recalled him to reality.

"You hurt your thumb and your head hurts?" Hank was losing his temper. "Obviously I let you out of med bay too soon. Let me check that hand."

"It's just a glancin' blow."

"Seriously," the Beast growled.

Gambit knew Beast too well to argue with him when he became concise. He descended the ladder, handed over the hammer, and let himself be bandaged and lectured on tool safety.

The vertigo had given way to numbness; an unpleasant feeling, a fullness, like his head had been stuffed with warm cotton wool. Discharged by McCoy, he wandered through the corridors until he found himself outside; instinct carried him farther and farther from the Mansion.

So not everything you ever have done or been is known to you - as if the lot you know wasn't enough. The sudden notion weighs on your stomach like cold marble. It's like going back to the bayou after the river has swollen and retreated; the safe trails all vanished, the shifting sands waiting in ambush under the moon, the swollen carrions rotting in the open. The ominous, uncharted terrain lures you within.

You have to ride up to the challenge. Are you or aren't you Gambit?

Everything was wrong. Having removed the whole fiasco would be enough – he had even met Yukio again, years later, and she had meant nothing to him! – but his body had done more than that. He counted and counted: five little piggies, all home and safe except for a presently throbbing pinky.

He shrugged. It had been fixed at some point.

But it can' be. Dat was after.

I couldn' tell it was after.

On de other hand, I couldn' tell it was before. An' I could sit here arguing with myself till I get blue in de face.

Yukio knows me by Remy. I've been in a coma. Dere's gotta be some damage.

Den again, it don' make any sense otherwise. And my memory is still good in any other respect.

'Cept dat I didn' even remember Francesca till an hour ago.

But I do remember her now. Wanna bet?


The phone booth at the junction between Graymalkin Lane and the Westchester road must've heard more weirdness than a father confessor, Gambit thought as he kicked out the inevitable can of beer and shut the door. He dialed the number by memory, glancing at the ads for Thai massage and weight loss plastered onto the walls, and prepared to wait for a long time. Outside, the engine of the Harley ticked and clicked as it cooled.

The monotone buzzed in his ears and he imagined the reaction at the other end of the line; the panic, the struggle against the unexpected, the potentially dangerous. Even friends and relatives had to call Francesca at set times now. He had almost given up when the call was answered.

"Pronto?" the unsteady voice said.

"Buonasera, Francesca."

"Chi..."

"Ti ricordi di me? "

There was a long pause, punctuated with noises as if she was fumbling with the receiver, or propping against the wall for support, or both.

"I rememer, Remy," came out in a breath. "I wish I didn't."

Or at least that was what it sounded like. Gambit thought of an appropriate reply, came up empty-handed. Here's what happens when you learn Italian in three months and don't brush on it for four years.

"Che cosa vuoi?"

Rummaging through his aching brain for forgotten words, he managed to put together his request. It was so bad she suggested that they switch to English.

"I... need you to tell me if I had any... scars when we met."

"Scars? Oh, santo Dio. Why do you want to know? Is someone after you?"

Gambit gritted his teeth with enough force to make them creak. Even an ocean away, he could feel the fear creeping back into her voice. He had no right to do this, not after the breakdown and the shrinks and the therapies...

...but he needed to know.

"No, Francesca. It's just... I'm having dem removed, an' de surgeon wants to know how ol' dey are"

She sighed, apparently more at peace now. "No, you didn't have scars... not at that time. Dio santo, Remy, I don't understand how you carry on with... with... Wasn't the sore enough?"

"W-what sore?" he asked, already feeling his ears ringing from the buzz - no not again notagain -

"That big wound along your chest. Is that what you mean? It was infected and never healed, so I brought you to Dottor Pallavicini. He took away a lot of flesh, gave you thirty stitches. Don't you remember that? Remy?"

But Gambit was in no condition to reply. The buzz had turned to a roar that drowned every other sound, every single thought; a mnemonic whiteout that nothing could survive.

When he came to himself again, he was half kneeling, half slumped onto the booth floor, and his head seemed to be splitting in two. The receiver was hanging from the cord, mute.

He pulled himself and hung up. Well, what was he expecting?

It had been a cool sunny day, so he went to town to get his cigarettes, only to discover he didn't have enough change for the vending machine. The three dollars and a quarter that he remembered putting into the slot were down to just a couple dimes. With his mouth dry, he stared at the tin coins cupped in his hand as if they had been stigmatae.

She told me den. We spoke... an' I sure as hell don' even remember she picked up de telephone.


Next: Harry's Hideaway hypotheses.