Chapter Four

Notes from Leo: Firstly, a huge thank you to anyone who has been reviewing - you are so very much appreciated! Your opinions, praise, suggestions, etc. are a huge help to me.

Secondly, Remy's French. Sadly, I don't speak any, and I refuse to use babelfish after having to correct papers that were translated there. So, any French that our resident Cajun speaks comes from linguistics websites and translation books. If it's wrong, I'm very sorry, and feel free to correct me.

Without further ado

Homme - man

Mademoiselle - equivalent to the English "miss"

Mam'selle - the shortened version of mademoiselle

Just one more fight

About a lot of things

And I will give up everything

To be on my own again

Free again

Limp Bizkit, My Way

"Bless me father, for I have sinned." Remy LeBeau paused, counting backwards. "It's been... at least a year since m' last confession." If the priest was shocked, he said nothing.

"I'm here because a man is dead, an' it's my fault." Remy let the words crawl, flat and unemotional, between the latticework. On the other side, he could hear the priest's sharp, quiet intake of breath.

"Go on, then." The voice was remarkably steady.

Remy opened his mouth, but the words he thought he would say died on his lips. He wanted absolution. He wanted forgiveness. He wanted to tell the priest he saw Julien Boudreaux's face in his dreams and caught glimpses of Henri out of the corner of his eyes. The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. But he did want. He wanted to go back to before and start over.

"Father, I –"

He what? He was homeless, living as a mercenary. He was in love with a woman who would kill him if she saw him again. He was an exile and a murderer, and he was beyond stupid for thinking this would fix things.

In a burst of unfocused energy, he left the confessional and stormed into the streets of suburban Baton Rouge. Two blocks down from the church he finally caught his breath, and chuckled when he realized his fingers were shaking.

"Dat," he said wryly to no one in particular, "is what y' get for goin' and tryin' to tell the truth."

Remy fished a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket and lit one with the tip of his finger. His nerves calmed and after a long second he relaxed, leaning against the brick and mortar of, wouldn't you know it, a courthouse. The late evening sun set the whole world on fire, and Remy briefly considered throwing on his shades.

"Mind if I join ya?"

She was younger than him, but not by much, and pretty in a small-town sort of way. Long brown hair, sparkling blue eyes, freckles sprinkled across her nose. Her short skirt and scooping neckline just begged for Remy to notice her. He grinned and motioned to the wall.

"Ain't nobody stoppin' y', now is dere?" He accompanied the invitation with a grin and a wink. The girl's mouth curved into a half-smile and she pulled a pack out of her purse.

"I'm Isabella, but everybody calls me Bella."

Anything else he might have said died on the spot. A new idea, a masochistic and stupid one, formed instead. He liked it. He took a deep drag and flicked the glowing ember onto the sidewalk.

"Dat so? M' Etienne," he lied, offering the name a friend who wouldn't mind the use. "An' dat's pretty much what everybody calls me."

Isabella smiled prettily, leaning towards him. "You stayin' around here long?"

"As long as a beautiful girl like you wants me too," he lied, throwing the butt on the ground and grinding it out with his toe. Her eyes flashed, suddenly full of mischief and intrigue.

"Is that so?" She grinned at him and crooked her finger in a come-hither motion. "Ya wanna stop somewhere for dinner? It's gettin' pretty late. We could head back ta my place for coffee after," she suggested, a faint blush marking her cheeks.

He knew there was probably a reason she was offering – maybe she'd just broken up with her boyfriend, maybe she'd just lost her job, maybe she just wanted to forget about reality for a little while, like he did – but he couldn't have been more grateful for the distraction.

"Bella," he grinned, "lead the way."

XxXxXxX

Remy let himself into his hotel room a little past two in the morning. He didn't bother with the lights; his eyes gave him a red-tinted night vision that made them unnecessary. He flung his duster over the chair in the corner, and was in the process of taking off his shoes when he realized he wasn't alone.

"Hold it right there, bub," Wolverine snarled, unsheathing his claws. Storm, silent as a ghost, trailed behind him.

Remy held up one hand in surrender and smirked. Good timing, Wolverine. He was still grasping the laces of one of his shoes. He twitched his fingers, and the leather glowed a lurid, intense pink.

"Might wanna think on dat again, homme. It'd be awful unfortunate if my fingers slipped."

"Both of you, stop," Storm ordered. She moved between them and held out her hands. "Gambit, we need to ask you a few questions, that's all. If you cooperate, it won't take more than a few minutes."

"Pardon if I don't believe you, mademoiselle." Remy favored her with a scoundrel's grin. "Convince me."

Her blue eyes burned and clouded over, alive with held-back energy. Ribbons of electricity rolled through her white hair, curling down her arms. It was a very obvious reminder that she was just as dangerous as the snarling, adamantium-clawed Wolverine. "Gambit, we would very much appreciate your cooperation, please."

Wolverine barked a laugh at his expense. "I'd un-charge that and drop it before the weather witch gets really pissed."

Remy pressed his lips together and let the tingle of kinetic energy flow back into his fingers. The shoe fell to the floor with an audible thud, and there was a split second pause.

In the next second, Wolverine had him pinned by the throat. Remy tried to flip him, but on the floor with adamantium claws at his neck, he had no leverage.

"Thought we were cooperatin'," he managed. A thin trail of blood worked its way into his collar.

Storm frowned, but made no move to help. "Where is Rogue, Gambit?"

"Huh?" The girl's face appeared in a few hazy memories. The sound of her voice, cynical and mocking, escaped him, but he could remember the way her eyes shined when he slipped a card into her hand as an apology and a thank-you.

"Rogue was here a couple hours ago," Wolverine growled, pressing down a little harder. "Which is awful funny, 'cause so were you."

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I swear. I've only been in de city since dis mornin'."

Wolverine began to sniff him, an incredibly uncomfortable experience.

"Do y' mind, homme?" He tried for levity and was ignored, though he thought he saw Storm's lip curl upwards a little.

"There's no trace of her on him, Storm. He could have showered though. Even changing would've pretty much destroyed the scent."

Storm moved, lightning coursing at her fingertips, to knock him out. He wrenched himself as far away as possible.

"Look, y' wanna find Rogue? Y' need my help around dese parts."

Wolverine rocked to his feet and glared at him. "And why would you wanna help us, Acolyte?" He bared his teeth, looking every bit like his namesake. Remy smiled thinly as he rose.

"I owe Rogue," he said simply, thinking again of the wide-eyed girl who'd helped him just because she could. "An' you know my line o' work, Wolverine. Y' know where I'm ranked. If I say I can find her, I can find her, an' faster dan you two could all on your lonesome."

When it became clear that that was all he was going to offer them, Wolverine shrugged and sheathed his claws. His posture suggested his opinion of the thief hadn't swayed a bit.

"We don't have any more time ta mess around. You," he growled, pointing at Remy, "If you're set on comin', grab what ya need and follow Storm. You'll listen ta whatever she says and do it. No questions, no messing around or we drop ya back here with a new set of nostrils, got it? We've got four hospitals ta check and not long to do it before someone realizes what we're after."

He left without explanation. If Storm was at all fazed by the last five minutes, it wasn't apparent on her calm, regal face.

"Gambit?" Remy put his shoes back on and shrugged into his coat. He checked the pockets methodically, searching for the feel of his deck and the cool metal of his bo staff. When he found both, he flashed a grin and a thumb's up.

"All set mam'selle. Let's save us a damsel in distress."

XxXxXxX

Rogue woke up with a start. Her head pounded vengefully, a vague and eerie counterpart to the fast, angry tattoo of her heart. She blinked, trying to understand the sudden change in her surroundings. Colors swirled, settling into familiar shapes as her eyes began to focus.

She was in a hospital, that much was obvious. What happened? She searched the white ceiling, the crisp sheets, and the blank walls like they held the answer. There was no memory, no flash of recognition, nothing that told her why she was lying in a hospital bed instead of in her own.

There were no monitors attached to her; they were jumbled off to the side as if they had been used and then discarded. Rogue shifted, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Fierce red holes marked the insides of her arms, surrounded by the tiny pinpoints left by a hypodermic needle. She poked them, waiting for a stab of pain that never came.

"Huh," she said aloud. It made her head swirl. "Where am I?" Her voice sounded strange. It was hers, but not, like the time Kurt had recorded her on his phone and the recording came out alien and garbled.

Someone, someone, anyone, a voice chanted brokenly in her ear. Rogue twisted to look over her shoulder, looking for the disembodied voice. Even now, she knew there was only one psyche in her head, just one, and his name was Dorian Leech.

Please, please, it's so dark, please, the voice whispered. It sounded like a scream. Rogue clapped her hands over her ears.

"Irene? Is anybody here?"

Can anyone hear me? Where am I?

"Irene!" Rogue shrieked, not caring if she caused a scene. Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. In the back of her mind, dread was growing and swelling, sweeping over her. Something awful had happened.

Someone, someone, can you hear me? Anyone, please, I'm begging you, I'm done, just let me go! No more, no more, please, someone, the voice wailed.

"Irene!" Rogue gasped again. She couldn't breathe, she was so scared. Had she touched the assistant? Had she finally gone crazy? Something was terribly, horribly wrong; she could feel it in every inch of her body. Her vision blurred and faded at the edges, then disappeared altogether as Rogue sank back into unconsciousness.

XxXxXxX

"You're clear." Wolverine's voice crackled over Remy's borrowed communicator. The red and gold "X" looked so out of place against his trench that he'd gotten a chuckle out of it before being silenced by Wolverine.

"We copy," Storm replied while Remy tucked his lock picks back into his coat. "We are in radio silence. Out."

Like him, she was dressed in stolen scrubs that he'd slipped out of the back of an ambulance. Unlike him, she actually looked the part. He folded the duster carefully and set it on the concrete roof of the hospital.

"All right," Remy breathed. "Let's do dis." Doctor, doctor, doctor, he chanted in his mind. Practical, stiff, exacting, methodical. Doctor. Right. Once he had his character set, he blinked to adjust his contacts and held the door open for Storm.

"After you," he said before slipping behind her into the surprisingly dark garret of the Baton Rouge Emergency Clinic.