Title: The Ante
Chapter 7: Mechanics
Fandom: X-Men: Evolution
Author: Kira Coffin
Summary: When Gambit left Rogue on the shores of Blood Moon Bayou, he slipped a solitary playing card into her hand. More than a conciliatory gesture, it signaled the start of a game that carried the understanding: Never bet more than you are willing to lose.
Rating:Teen/Mature
Pairing: Rogue/Remy
Warnings: Language


The Ante
Chapter VII: Mechanics

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so tired. The disassociation was one thing; the free-floating ease with which she found herself deposited behind a warm body lent to her delirium, but the desire to curl up into this dream and enjoy it? Well... worse things could have happened.

"Y' gonna hold on?" Remy murmured, settling her against the back of his Harley. He'd done so in a most genteel fashion, proffering his arm to her as she placed one foot on the exhaust and hauled herself over the seat.

Rogue couldn't help it if the worn leather had made a rude noise as she'd plopped down. The seat was still relatively comfortable, though, all things considered.

Nodding, she rubbed at her face. Her hands itched beneath her gloves, but it was a distant discomfort. Remy's voice was a detached echo that wavered in clarity and volume. Humming, she enjoyed the feeling in her chest.

"Comfy," she murmured, nestling into the cushion of his shoulder blades.

"We'll ride as long as you can stay awake. If I feel you slipping, we'll stop. D'accord?"

She nodded again, her cheek making a scrunching noise against Remy's trenchcoat. A gust of wind shivered through the leaves overhead, causing a domino-like ripple to run through her limbs, making Rogue tremble. The night had left its mark on Bayville. It settled around them, damp and shifting where the condensation made the air thicken. There would be fog soon. It was the sort of chill that would make a cold morning beautiful — dewy and touched with a lingering mist — but now, sometime after midnight, it was just uncomfortable.

Remy shrugged off his trench coat, propping Rogue up by the shoulder before she could slump forwards, and draped the garment around her. It was far too big, the sleeves falling several inches past her fingers, but the heat from Gambit's body had warmed it, turning it cozy. He pulled the collar up around her neck, tucking her in.

"You're gonna get cold," she complained, trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes. She yawned instead, covering her mouth a moment too late to be polite. "Sorry," she muttered, mussing her hair to the side.

Remy reigned in a chuckle.

"It's fine, m' powers'll take care of th' chill; I won't even feel it," he assured her.

Rogue looked at him for a moment, contemplative. The world was wrapped in a dream-like haze that made the situation surreal. If this were a dream, then she needn't restrain herself so much.

If this were a dream, she might allow herself to relish the scent of him clining to the jacket.

She did.

Rogue managed, "What happened to you? How could ya touch my hand like that and still be standing there, right as rain?"

Remy smirked and straddled the bike. His weight caused the shocks to sink a little, and Rogue slipped down the seat. She came to rest against his back with her thighs brushing his hips, and confused, she looked behind her. There was a bare two inches of seat left for the second passenger, which should have been fine, except there was no back rest.

If she moved back any farther, and Remy hit a pothole, she might actually get a quick flying lesson.

She squirmed a little, trying to give him some distance, her head beginning to clear. What was she doing here? Hadn't they been fighting just a little while ago?

"Y' shy now?" Remy smirked over his shoulder at her.

Oh, right. Rogue shook herself, sitting up straighter. She blinked at the back of his head. It must have been a dream — one to match her Geometry class naptime from yesterday. There was no way, under any circumstance if she was in her right mind, that she'd be anywhere close to the swamp rat, contemplating a quick getaway to... to... where were they headed again?

"It's a long trip South," he cautioned.

Right. Definitely an intricate fabrication on the part of her subconscious. There was no way in tarnation she was going back to New Orleans; history repeating itself and all that other bull—

"No!" she returned defiantly, though she hesitated to place her hands on his… on his… oh no. She'd forgotten about the belt. The damned thing was slung low on his waist. Much like a gun holster, it had several external pockets attached to carry his tools and packs of cards. What was she supposed to do? Grab his legs, or his pectorals?

Breath hitching as the motorcycle roared to life, Rogue weighed her options with muzzy torpor. Remy lifted the kickstand with his heel.

There was no way in her right mind she'd be sitting on the back of the swamp rat's bike, contemplating where she was supposed to put her hands while still trying to be discreet. She grinned. That made it alright, then, didn't it? If she just slipped her fingers down his thighs, feeling his muscles contract beneath her touch; the heat of him.

Still, her head didn't feel like it was screwed on straight.

Didn't matter so much, now, did it?

"Y' sleepin' back there?" He chuckled and twisted the throttle warningly.

"Ah'm just checkin' for holes in my eyelids," she muttered, her voice drowned beneath the purr of the bike. It sure did sound real, though. Her butt was vibrating along with the engine, the scent of exhaust tingling her nose.

"Best hold on then."

"Gambit!" she cried, throwing her arms around his stomach as the Harley roared to life, climbing to sixty and leading them off one of the mansion's back alleys in a matter of seconds. Her fingers rolled over muscle — the indentations in the skin so lifelike as her hands fluttered across his belly button. He hitched a little, the muscles jumping beneath her touch. She felt him stiffen, his surprise so very real.

Rogue could feel his laughter beneath her hands and against her chest where she pressed herself to his back. That felt oddly true to life too… not that she'd ever touched the Cajun like that.

"Y' keep holdin' on t' me like that, girl, and I'm not gonna need that coat back."

"Ah thought ya said your powers'd take care of ya," she yelled, her voice carried away on the wind.

"It's my favorite coat," he returned, almost defensive, but not without a wry grin over his shoulder. "'Sides, I think y' look better in that skimpy thing y' call a uniform."

She pinched him below the ribs, her fingers straining to find something other than muscle to squeeze. Gambit laughed out loud, and Rogue forced her gloved fingers to clasp together instead of settling on the ripple of his abdominals.

She flushed, glad he couldn't see her, and yawned into his back. This wasn't the worst possible arrangement, she thought. In fact, it was rather nice.

"Remy?" she tried again, the lull to slumber coaxing her once again.

"Oui, ma belle?" he called, taking a corner sharply near Bayville's mall, and gunning the engine before the lights could turn from yellow to red. They shot through the intersection and tore out onto the quiet thoroughfare that led to the interstate.

"Ah… Ah lost the Queen at the Institute," she said, resting her chin on his shoulder.

When Gambit didn't reply, Rogue ducked her head, pressing her cheek into the strong dip between his shoulders, and closed her eyes against the rush of wind that whipped around them.


After a moment of feeling Rogue settle against him, Gambit smiled. A little bit of charm went a long way, it appeared.

"No matter, chére. Got you, don't I?" he said, turning off onto the interstate.


"Is that it?" Jean asked, landing near Scott.

Wearily, Cyclops nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

He turned to look over the Institute grounds from the top of the portico steps. "What a mess," he muttered.

"Come on." She smiled and gave his arm a reassuring tug. "Let's debrief everyone and see if we can't sort this out. I'm sure there's a logical explanation."

Shaking his head, she led him into the mansion, which, thankfully, was still standing despite the appearance of its grounds.

"When has the Brotherhood ever needed a reason to instigate a riot?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, man," Ray called, hauling a limping Bobby down the corridor beneath one arm. "That was great! I am so going to sleep well tonight. My shocks are totally tweaked out."

"Speak for yourself," Bobby grumbled. "The next time I see that fungal infection —"

"Toad?" Ray offered.

"Don't say his name," Bobby bit back. "The only reminder I want of his existence is the carving on his tombstone. I'll be picking frog-snot out of my icicles for a week."

"Hey!" Scott called. "Bobby, that is not what X-Men stand for. With that kind of attitude, no wonder the Brotherhood think its fair game to come knocking on our door."

"Knocking down our door, more like," Sam muttered, staggering into the foyer and rubbing his forehead. "Golly, is it just me, or has Blob gotten thicker around the middle? Ah thumped myself good tryin' ta knock him off the fountain."

"Uh, Sam?" Jamie asked, contemplating his mud-soaked uniform, unmindful of the tracked footprints he left behind him as he walked into the foyer. "You sorta hit the fountain yourself."

"Students," Professor Xavier projected. "We are congregating in ready room number three. There is something Hank and I would like to discuss with you about the events of this evening. Kurt, if you could leave the door open; Logan has just arrived and will be coming up the drive, shortly."

Nightcrawler paused, one blue finger held over the security system's numeric panel near the door. "I guess there's not much point arming the mansion, is there?" With a nervous laugh, he dropped his hand to his side.

He was met with a snarl a moment later.

"Wolverine?"

"You heard the Prof, Elf. Move it." He sniffed the air, baring his teeth. "We've got more problems than just a few trampled petunias out front."

Kitty phased up through the floor a few feet away, hefting herself to her knees on the rug and looking around the room. Two crunched playing cards poked out of her fist where she braced herself against the carpeting.

Wildly, she searched her teammates' faces.

"Where's Rogue? She's not in the briefing room," she said, her voice two octaves higher than normal and shrill enough to make Logan wince.

Logan's claws made a distinctive snikt as they extended and then retracted. He glowersed a moment, his eyes flicking to the cards clenched in Kitty's fist. She gripped them even more firmly when Rogue failed to appear among those gathered in the entranceway.

Logan sniffed, catching the smear of scent left on the King and Queen of Hearts.

"Problem numero uno," he growled and stalked past Kitty and down the hallway, banging his fist into a recessed oak panel. The wall popped with a hydraulic hiss and slid to the side, revealing the elevator that led to the sublevels of the mansion.

"Get in," he rumbled to the remaining X-Men. "Now."

Logan pointed to the cards that were now pressed to Kitty's chest. She yipped, knowing she was singled-out. "Bring those with you."


It smelled like sweet grass, Remy thought, breathing a little more easily now that they'd cleared state lines. Pennsylvania, however, was still too close to New York, and for the first time Remy had to repress the irrational discomfort that if the wind changed direction, it'd be blowing straight back into the nostrils of Rogue's overprotective bulldog of a father figure.

Wolverine would be more than willing to claim a pound of flesh for this particular offense, he thought. He'd promised as much the last time they'd had an altercation: The cooyon had torn six puncture holes into his jacket as a reminder, and tacked him up against a cypress tree.

Idly, Remy wondered if Rogue would be willing to stop Wolvie again if it came to that.

Somehow, he figured she might be the one to really give him a thrashing when she returned to her senses. His subtle coercion tactics wouldn't have been worth a tick without the backing of his mutation — at least, not with her. Rogue was single-handedly the most stubborn femme he'd ever met — save Bell, but with Rogue nestled comfortably against him, Belladonna Boudreaux was the furthest thing from his mind.

Nonetheless, he'd given Rogue just a small mental nudge as insurance — just a tiny brush of that charm he was renowned for — and now she was snuggled up around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He wished he had a Polaroid camera.

She really was going to kill him for this later; he smirked, enjoying the feeling of her trembling thighs against his hips as she strained to stay upright behind him. The warm weight of her arms around his stomach assured that she was still holding on, though since half two, he was noticing the steady droop to her wrists. She'd reposition herself occasionally, brushing against him and sighing — and if that wasn't utterly disconcerting, the mental images that accompanied those slight shifts of her weight had nearly driven him off the road twice.

When she moved, he could feel the light press of her breasts and the angle of her hips as she fit herself to his back. In fact, if his compacted staff hadn't been in the way, he'd probably sense the concentrated warmth pressed against his tailbone too.

Remy shook himself.

It was… nice, he thought stiffly. And if he didn't leave it at that, he'd really be in trouble.

They needed time — a day at best — but if the X-crew were really determined to find them, they'd disappear.

What good was a thief who could be found when he didn't want to be?

"Rogue?" he asked after a stretch, feeling her slump heavily against his back. Her hands fell idly into his lap.

Remy cocked an eyebrow, peering down at the juncture between his legs where her hands rested, and with some difficulty, restrained the string of lewd thoughts that threatened to slingshot across his temporal lobe.

Rousing herself with a small groan, Rogue's fingers fumbled their way back to modesty.

"Time t' pull over," he muttered, more to himself than to the girl behind him. As fate would have it, an illuminated sign for lodgings and food passed on his right at precisely the moment he required it.

24-Hour reception. Swimming Pool. Vacancy. One of these things they could live without.

He took the exit ramp, and within minutes, Remy had parked the bike and collected the key to a battered motel room from an equally battered-looking receptionist, who had leered and asked if he'd be paying for the night or by the hour.

It had been an exercise in self-restraint to not blow up the magazine the clerk had been reading, leaving bits and pieces of Buxom Babes in cinders, and a perplexed and pock-marked receptionist in the snowfall of its ashes.

That would have been rude. Instead, he welded the latch on his way out — snapping the door lock with a fizzle of kinetic charge and melting the deadbolt straight through. Remy hoped the kid liked his job enough to stick around, 'cause he wouldn't be going anywhere for a good long while.

Finally, after negotiating the stairs to the second floor gallery, he'd carried a sleeping Rogue to the threshold to a dingy room:

With the peeling paint flaking off in furrows that left the dull puce undercoat exposed, Remy peered at the dangling, rusted number fourteen nailed to the door. The rusty nails tacking the plated numbers right-side up clung stubbornly to the old wood, though the 'one' looked as if it was heading southwards. If the door still hung on its hinges when he kicked it open, he'd be mightily impressed.

Granted, Remy had seen worse, though a niggling thought at the back of his mind declared that while he deserved crap accommodations, Rogue should have seen better.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, and all that.

Fitting the key with its tacky plastic tag into the lock while holding the girl aloft had been no challenge. She was precious cargo, and precious cargo needed to be treated as such — didn't matter if it was an ancient artifact or a person. Trained as a thief from near-infancy, it had been deeply ingrained in him early on that damaged goods were utterly useless.

Remy tried not to linger too long on the metaphor: Rogue wasn't damaged — not outwardly anyhow. But to him it was clear that being used as the catalyst for Apocalypse's resurrection hadn't done anything to help her particular situation.

The girl in question snuffled in her sleep, her wrists folding over themselves against her chest.

Even in slumber she managed to draw inwards on herself.

Remy frowned.

He should have been there until the end. He should have gone back after Magneto had been defeated and stood alongside the X-Men. He should have kept a closer eye on her, and yet, he hadn't. He'd stayed in Louisiana with Jean Luc and had stood by uselessly as his own future was determined for him.

Maybe Rogue's stubborn insistence that she could take care of herself had been excuse enough for him at the time.

She was strong — had always been strong — but even strong people needed support, sometimes, and that was on him for not being there for her. It's not like she would have asked — but she could have — if that's what she'd wanted.

Would he have returned if she'd tracked him down?

Dropped everything and high-tailed it North of the Mason Dixie?

Gambit's jaw ticked.

Maybe he'd have turned a new leaf — ditched his responsibilities for a girl with a white streak and a scowl.

Or, maybe it had taken the reminder that he was no longer a welcome party among the Guilds to take the initiative and get gone.

Edging into the room sideways, careful not to bump her dangling feet against the door, he slid the deadbolt without so much as a grunt of effort. He turned, frowning at the peeling wallpaper, the stained carpet and…

"Merde," he said flatly.

The double bed. The only double bed.

Pursing his lips, he eyed the coverlet suspiciously. At least the sheets looked clean enough.

Depositing her gingerly in the middle, he carefully slid his trench from her shoulders as she rolled onto her side and pulled her boots off. These he deposited at the foot of the bed, and moved around quietly to stand over her. He'd have to lift her legs to coax her beneath the sheets, but somehow the prospect of handling her too much made him uncomfortable. She wouldn't appreciate it at all, but he highly doubted she'd thank him graciously if she awoke cold and with a stiff neck either.

Even that was overshooting expectations a lot.

Hastily, Remy slipped an arm beneath her calves, enjoying the soft press of relaxed flesh beneath the suit she wore for just one guilty moment, and then pulled the cover from beneath her, draping it over her side quickly.

"You're a dead man, LeBeau," he reminded himself, unsure weather he'd be grateful to be throttled by such a fine looking femme, or whether he should seriously consider worrying about how she'd react in the morning.

Rogue sighed, snuggling down into the sheets, and Remy permitted himself a small smile before tossing himself into the one uncomfortable chair nearest the door. Unceremoniously, he propped his feet up on the mismatched table beside it.

"Here's hoping Henri remembers t' bring out the Jazz band for y' funeral," he murmured to himself.

A tug on the moth-eaten drapes allowed for a weak beam of murky amber from a streetlight to fall across the bed. It struck Rogue's face just so; casting crescent shadows beneath her eyes. Her mouth was tinted to faded plum where her lipstick had smeared across her chin, and there'd probably be remnants of that dark color against the back of his shirt, but Remy remained unconcerned: The study took priority.

Truth be told, he hadn't had much of a chance to admire the changes a year could bring earlier, but with Rogue sleeping soundly a few feet away? It was almost like old times; when Remy could appreciate at his leisure from the comfort of the shadows outside her bedroom.

The tousled white streaks in her hair slid over her cheek; she'd let it grow out some since the last time he'd seen her. He cocked his head to the side and surveyed her expression.

She was peaceful like this, pretty even, and although Remy LeBeau relished the supple curves beneath the sheet and the repressed innocence that managed to cling to the girl, somehow, it just wasn't right. It was such a stark contrast to her usual scowl.

Remy smirked, trying to get comfortable with the chair back digging into his ribcage.

He couldn't help but anticipate the downturn to those pursed lips and the dimples that would form in her cheeks when she woke up and saw where she was.

Frankly, Remy couldn't wait to see Rogue back in her natural element: flushed beneath the collar, limbs tense as anything and ready to snap him in half, each muscle clearly defined against the taut body armor that covered her from head to toe, and that brilliant, beautiful darkening of her eyes.

There was nothing more striking than that very girl when she was angry.

With a chuckle, Remy pulled out a pack of cards. He cut the deck, the soft sounds of paper sliding against paper a comforting lull to whittle away the early morning hours.


Mississippi haze clung to the shores, casting everything in brilliant gold and soft violet where the trees relinquished their dappled shade. She loved the damp, rich scent of wet earth that caked between her toes as it dried and insinuated itself beneath her fingernails. She always took a little bit of the shore home after they played here.

Her feet were in the river, the hem of her dress creased with drying mud, and she was sprawled in the grass — fingers tangling between the cool sheaves of green, and sun-warmed tangles of auburn above her head where she stretched her arms.

She could almost hear the bullfrogs.

It was a nice dream.

Rogue's eyes fluttered, still unwilling to wake up fully. She wanted to remember the willow — how its heavy branches swayed overhead, slow and serpentine in the dull afternoon sun. They seemed to bend down to her, and maybe, if she reached far enough, she could grasp their dripping fingers.

Rogue stretched, uncomfortable though she had plenty of room to move.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to bring back the sun — unearth that day in her yellow dress by the river and pull it back from the depths of her memory before the lazy ripples of the river could swallow it whole.

Laughter. Rogue smiled into her pillow, arching her back to work out the kinks. Cody.

It was fading; a soft echo that insisted on slipping back into that steady babble that overtook her thoughts when she woke. The sun grew brighter, and slowly, Rogue's eyes fluttered open.

Less lucid, Rogue could still see him: Cody Robins; his hair haloed in bright amber, sitting against the trunk of that old tree — bare feet stretched out before him, heels tipped up onto a large river rock.

She hummed, smiling, and blinked into the daylight where his face was still silhouetted by the shadows cast from the overhanging leaves. She could feel him smiling.

"Sleep well?"

It was fuzzy, that sound. Rogue tried to burrow a little beneath the covers, her face turning into the pillow to escape the glare of early morning.

Something was wrong. Cody's voice had never sounded so deep; he was just a boy. Rogue frowned.

Something was wrong. The linens smelled musty, like they'd sat in a closet too long. The bed was lumpy; its springs were digging into her hip, and it stank of foreignness.

Something was wrong, her mind shouted at her.

Rogue scrubbed at her face and winced. She'd scratched herself with the back of her glove — the stiff leather hard against her cheek. She never slept with them on.

Across the room, someone chuckled. Rogue tensed, pushing herself up with her arms and rolled onto her back.

Not her bed. Not her room.

He chuckled.

"Was planning on sticking a charged Ace beneath y' head if y' didn't wake up soon."

The soft flick and snap as he pulled another card from his deck, the light scrape of paper against a laminate surface, was background noise for the panicked voice that steadily grew in volume at the fore of her mind.

Ears working overtime though her eyes were still bleary, Rogue blinked hard to get the sleep out. Gradually, Gambit came into focus before her.

Her reaction time had taken too long. She cursed herself.

"Where am Ah?" she ground out, her voice sounding hoarse and her tongue thick from sleep in her mouth.

Rogue looked at the sheets tangled around her body.

"Cajun —" her voice cracked. "Explain."

"Pennsylvania," he answered smoothly, not looking up from his game of solitaire. He was slouched in a chair across the room, one leg on the table and the other beneath it, his heel supporting his weight against the wall. Behind him, the morning sun bathed the shag of the auburn hair overhanging his cowl in bright gold. Like fire, she thought, taking in his profile.

If this were some sort of twisted temptation — the sort that determined saints and martyrs — for a moment Rogue was convinced she was being sent straight to hell in a hand basket. It was a good thing she'd packed light.

She tore her eyes away and scanned the room quickly.

The door was clear, she noted. Bathroom. Bare bulb on the ceiling. Filthy carpets. Television that probably didn't work. Deadbolt on the door. Rumpled sheets.

Rumpled sheets?

The fight. There had been a fight with the Brotherhood — she strained, wincing at the stiffness of her limbs as she sat there. Her head felt fuzzy.

She wasn't restrained.

The thought made her want to snort-laugh that he was improving his technique. The rest of what she felt was a mixture of rage and dread and disappointment.

"Ah'm gonna ask ya this once," she said in a low grosgrain, sliding the sheets from her legs and being at least partially relieved to see she was still fully dressed. "What in blue blazes am Ah doing in Pennsylvania?"

He shrugged innocently with one shoulder and frowned, his eyebrows lifting as if repressing a grin.

Rogue was out of the bed in a second, leaping across the room. She dropped and rolled — kicking one of the chair legs out from beneath him and sending him arcing backwards, chair and all. Gambit's leg shot out, catching the small overhang of the table and tipping it so that it flipped onto its side and clattered against the wall.

Cards rained down on top of them: a flutter of clubs and spades and diamonds that she stubbornly ignored. Rogue pinned him — a knee on his chest and a hand on his throat — and pulled back her opposite fist. The knuckle protruded slightly, ready to drive into the bridge of his nose.

"Start talkin'," she bit out through clenched teeth.

Remy smirked, holding his hands out in defensive supplication.

"Good morning to you too."

"What did ya do ta me?" she spat, her eyes narrowing. She shifted her weight to press down a little more firmly on his sternum. Gambit didn't even flinch. It should have been cutting off the oxygen to his over-inflated head.

"Well," he began lightly, peering at her knee on his chest with something close to approval, and then returning his attention to her face. He laced his fingers behind his head and appeared to settle in, despite the fact that Rogue was still poised to rearrange his bone structure. "Y' see, first Remy asked you if you'd have a normal conversation — thought mebbe we'd have some supper, nice bottle of wine, catch up a little," he drawled.

"Dream on, swamp rat," she spat.

"Then something funny happened," he continued, ignoring her indignant retorts. "Suppose you were still a lil' sore, mebbe a lil' shy since you hadn't seen me in so long, so I had t' make some arrangements with my old friends t' smooth things over."

"Ah am not shy," she snapped.

"I can see that now." He leered, his gaze sliding from the knee on his chest, up her torso and resting on her mouth for a moment before returning her speculative expression. "Y' keep putting me in this position, chérie, and I keep tellin' you –"

"Ah don't care what sort of perverse preferences ya got, LeBeau. You had the Brotherhood attack the mansion! That ain't 'smoothing' things over' where Ah'm from." Her fist clenched near her ear.

"…Left y' this lil' invitation — stuck it t' y' mirror back at the Institute," he continued lazily, offering a sly grin. "Shoulda been a grand ol' time… Remembered how much you liked th' Mardi Gras fireworks back in N'awlins, so I brought the party on up t' New York." He winked, shifting his shoulders to get comfortable beneath her knee.

"Oh, Ah am ever so grateful," Rogue said, rolling her eyes. "Ah don't think ya realize what kinda damage your 'fireworks' did, Gambit."

"Au contraire. The end, in this case, appears t' justify the means." Gambit's eyes seemed to smolder in amusement, the red of his irises flaring brightly against the darkened sclera, and Rogue felt a stirring sort of familiarity — it was like an involuntary tug, an implacable, unvoiced demand for her to agree with him.

His mouth curved easily into a lopsided smile, and he lidded his gaze. "You're here, ain't ya?"

Something twisted in the pit of her stomach as he smiled — if that little upturn of his mouth could even be considered a smile.

He was enjoying this, she thought venomously.

Rogue snorted, finishing the discussion for him. "Kidnapping again? Ah shoulda known," she returned, determined to best him. "You don't seem ta get much more original than this, Cajun."

Gambit cocked an eyebrow.

"Don't you remember?" he murmured, and slowly, he pulled a hand from beneath his head and held it up before her. He waggled his fingers, waiting for her to focus on them. Rogue's attention snapped between the two bare digits exposed by his oddly-cut gloves and his face, suspicion keeping her firmly in place atop him, poised to break his nose.

"What?" She sneered. "You finally find out how ta use primitive tools? It's an opposable thumb, swamp rat. You're about twenty millennia behind right about now."

He chuckled, pursing his lips. "Trust me, I know how t' use m' hands just fine."

Rogue flushed despite herself. Why was it that everything that rolled off his tongue had to sound so darn dirty all the time?

He kept his gaze trained on her face as slowly, he reached for a stray lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes.

Entranced, Rogue watched his fingers, barely aware that even as those few uncovered appendages moved towards her, she was pulling backwards.

"Don't —" she warned, her breath bouncing back to her from his hand. He was too close.

"Rogue," he said, coaxing, gentle; intent on demonstrating just how little he was concerned by the possibility of being knocked out cold with one tiny brush of his skin against her cheek.

Fixed on her expression as it shifted between wariness, to fascination, to fear, Remy didn't seem to be bothered by the danger.

Rogue, however, was all too aware of the threat she posed.

"Ah said don't!" she yelled and shot backwards. Digging her heels into the threadbare carpeting, she scrabbled until her shoulders made contact with the recently toppled furniture.

Her back crashed into the fallen table, and she grunted. Bracing herself, her gloves sliding over the slick surfaces of the cards that littered the floor of the motel room, Rogue shuddered and turned away. A moment later she'd wrapped her arms around herself protectively, swallowing back the immediate revulsion born from skittering too near the edge because of a little temptation. She didn't want to look at him — not when he looked at her like that. There was something veiled beneath his schooled expression — was it curiosity? Or was it some sort of sick preoccupation with danger that had prompted him to try and touch her?

Incensed by the thought, she glanced at him, her mind rushing to catch up of its own accord: How could she have forgotten so easily?

Last night — the Brotherhood attacking the Institute as a distraction — explosions — fire — Remy

She swallowed, keenly aware that throughout this altercation she had carefully sidestepped something excruciatingly important:

"Ah — Ah absorbed ya," she breathed, the night's events tumbling into reality. "Oh man…" She covered her mouth, and looked at the cards surrounding her without really seeing them.

Remy sat up, watching her closely. "And?"

She could feel his unsettling stare on her even as she flinched at his prompting.

"And what?" she shot back.

Shit, she thought. He'd taken her to Pennsylvania. This wasn't a kidnapping; she'd left with him willingly.

Dear lord, Logan was going to kill her.

"Dieu!" Gambit chuckled, brushing himself off. "Y' really don't remember, do you?"

She winced. Oh, but she did.

"Or you do and you just don't want t' admit it." He leaned forwards, ducking his head so that he slid into her direct line of sight. Rogue glared, her gloved hand balling against her mouth. She desperately wanted to bite down on a knuckle to keep herself from screaming at him.

"That's a bad tell, Rogue — when y' do that with your eyes." He clucked, bemused despite the deliberate condescension in his tone.

"Do what?"

"They get a bit darker 'round the edges." He grinned, slow and Cheshire-like, drawing his thumb against the corner of his mouth absently. "When your pupils dilate," he continued, rubbing at the small tuft of his soul patch below his lower lip, inadvertently drawing her attention to his mouth. "The grey goes green."

"My mutation doesn't do that," she countered.

"Non, it's subtle," he said. "It's not part of y' powers; you'd barely notice it if you weren't paying attention."

He sat back on his knees, his hands on his hips. Dimly, Rogue acknowledged that he probably knew exactly what the position did to enhance his musculature.

Something else surfaced in her memories from the previous night: the feel of his abdominal muscles beneath her wandering hands.

Rogue blanched.

"Cased you for a long time," he admitted unabashedly. "This, however," he dipped his head again, once again insinuating himself in her direct line of vision, "ain't something you can tell but up close."

"What's your point?"

Cocking his head and winking, he replied, "I'm glad I got to see it."

Rogue opened her mouth to snap, but thought the better of it.

"In any case," he continued, "this ain't a kidnapping. Y' practically begged me t' bring you with me."

Horrified, Rogue snapped, "Ah did not!"

Gambit shrugged, his eyes glittering with mischief. "I'm used to it," he added, waving it off in such a way that, Rogue decided, he'd perfected just to piss her off.

Rogue fumed, anger bubbling up in her chest like a hot spring. She braced herself against the ground, getting ready to lash out at him with a foot, a fist, anything to smack that sly grin off his face. Her hands skidded, and she glanced at the cards again.

If she had absorbed him last night, that meant she'd be sitting on a geyser of Gambit's powers. It'd be just like the Danger Room, she suspected, only this time, she was sure of the imprint: she had his memories sifting towards the surface of her mind to know it. It was just a matter of calling back that tingling in her fingers, that sizzle, that crackle in her nail beds that threatened for release...

Slowly, Rogue shifted her weight so that she sat on the fingers of her gloved hand.

"How do ya figure?" she asked. She had to keep him talking, keep him distracted. She pulled back her arm a little, slowly, wiggling her fingers to loosen them from the glove.

"Well," Gambit wet his lips, squinting for added affect, to make it seem as if he was mulling over a particularly difficult question.

Fake, she thought at him snidely. Charlatan. Poser.

"Y' know how you took m' hand when I offered it to you last night?"

Rogue froze, racking her brain furiously. Oh, no. No she didn't

"And then y' just stared when you didn't feel that old wrench in y' gut when there was no absorption?" he continued, his tone dropping to a desultory sort of purr, bordering on obscene.

Rogue's eyes widened, looking down at herself. Stupid body, she thought furiously. Stupid, betraying, deceitful body!

"And then y' let Remy treat you like a proper Southern belle for all of two seconds before you knocked him t' his knees?" He lidded his gaze, appraising at her slyly. He licked his lips. Oh gawd, he'd kissed her hand. He'd dipped her like she was his dance partner.

He murmured, "Figures you'd like having this homme at y' feet, Rogue."

That was it! Rogue drew her arm back, tearing off her glove and launching at him. Powers or no powers, she had the best right hook in all of Caldecott County, and there was no way she was going to put up with one more murmured bit of innuendo from that ribald mouth.

"Easy!" Gambit moved a second faster than her, catching her at the wrist and rolling with her momentum so that they both landed, sprawled, side by side against the carpeting.

"This is cozy," Gambit decided after a moment, shifting her arm across his chest without releasing her wrist. "But you're not quick enough, I'm afraid." He tapped his temple with his free hand, giving her a sidelong smirk that served to infuriate her even further. "I saw y' move before you even thought about it."

"You callin' me predictable?" Rogue struggled, trying to pull her arm back, but Gambit held firm. Beneath her elbow, she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. He wasn't even breathing hard.

"That was the last thing on m' mind," he confessed. Rogue blew the hair out of her face with a frustrated huff. There was something strange about his expression — it was too open, too honest almost, but as quickly as it came, it was gone.

"Ah don't think Ah even want ta know what's running through your head half the time."

"But th' other half's just fine, ein?" He smirked. She shook it off and tried to peel away from him. "Ah!" he chastised, locking a knee over the back of her legs so she was rendered immobile, stomach against the floor, her ribs pressing into his side. "This conversation's just begun. The more y' fight it, the longer its gonna take for me t' explain myself."

Rogue squeezed her eyes shut, quietly contemplating the nonexistent options.

In this position, she wouldn't even make it to the door — and if she did manage it, hotwiring a car to get away would take more time than she'd have if he followed.

"Fine," she bit out. "Talk."

"Merci." He nodded, seeing her settle a little despite the inherent tension in her limbs. "As I was saying, y' shoulda taken a few of m' memories last night — not all of 'em, since I can siphon out what I want to show you if I drop my guard just a little bit and focus hard on the important parts; just a couple t' give you an idea."

Rogue's eyes snapped open.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, p'tit. Y' might be sporting a few residual bursts of m' power but not nearly enough t' disable me long enough t' keep me down."

"Now that ya mention it," she muttered dryly, glaring downwards at the carpet two inches below her nose. She pulled a face, tugged her free arm around, and rested her chin in the crook of her elbow. In doing so, she found that a stray two of spades had stuck to her wrist.

"Quoi? You thinking of blowing me up?" Remy asked, reaching over and plucking the card out from under her arm. Rogue sniffed disdainfully. "You'd make more of a mess of this fine establishment than it already is." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling in distaste.

Rogue peered at the soiled carpet, mirroring his expression.

"Didn't have a choice, for what it's worth," he continued, confirming her apprehension while peeking at her out of the corner of his eye. It almost sounded apologetic, but it just didn't quite make it. Idly, Remy rolled the playing card over his knuckles, flicking it in and out of sight in a steady rhythm. "You were gonna fall off th' bike if we didn't stop," he said finally.

"Bike?"

Waving the question off as if their transport was irrelevant, Remy answered, "It's parked outside, one floor down, three spots over."

Rogue shook her head, frustrated. "Ah don't get it."

He threw the card, and it fizzled out over their heads, falling to the bed as a charred, wilted, and blackened rectangle. Gambit didn't just blow it up, he nuked it from the inside out without a sound.

Chuckling at her expression, he elaborated, "It's simple; y' see, you put down th' kickstand and pull out th' key and —"

"That's not what Ah meant and you know it," she interrupted. "Your memories are there, but barely, it's like —" She gestured feverishly at her forehead, as if the very thought of the images he'd shared with her were itching just below her skin. "An echo of someone speaking. A shadow of someone who's just left the room. Ah can feel them," she continued, frustrated at her inability to explain the sensation to someone who'd never had two dozen ghosts cavorting around in their skull. "Ah know Ah saw them, but you ain't in there. Gambit, where's your psyche?"

He turned his head sharply, startled. "You're serious?"

"Usually, when Ah absorb someone, a large chunk of their personality settles into my head, and Ah can't get them out. Your memories, your powers, your feelings, everything gets a nice new place in my mind —" she continued, aware of the bitter taint to her words even as she gave them voice. "You'd think that eventually Ah'd run outta room. 'Parently not."

"Non, that's not what I meant," he cut her off. "You mean, y' remember what I showed you?"

"What's that supposed to —"

"Do you remember it, Rogue?"

She stared at him, hard. He matched her gaze intently, red eyes swimming in her vision when she refused to look away. Clearly, Gambit's concerns weren't the same as her own.

It figured. Grimacing, Rogue turned away with a frown, turning inwards, mentally poking gingerly at the scenes, vivid behind her eyes.

Gambit's memories — she paused, sucking in a sharp breath:

Exerting whatever control she could before they threatened to overtake her mind, they slid into focus, merging with her experiences and creating an interplay between Remy's and her own:

Rogue can feel the cold touch of steel controls beneath her hands. She runs the pads of bare fingers over the tracking knob, the play button, and she hears the soft whirr of the hard disks in Magneto's control room before hitting the rewind button again. The machinery is warm beneath her touch and warmer still where her hands have rested against cold metal.

His memories, distinct from her own by their clearness — the attention to detail that cut grooves into the hieroglyphs lining Apocalypse's tomb, the scent of her own hair just beneath his nose, the acute impression of pain — failing muscles and fresh bruises.

His memories; seen from a Thieves' eyes, everything is animated, everything is in motion — the swirl of dust caught in beams of light, the tiny, trembling sensation of molecules below Gambit's fingertips as he excites them. The stone — a shard — something he hadn't expected to ever come across because such a thing he himself never needed — but nonetheless, it shocks him, throws him off balance.

Rogue can feel the rush of Gambit's power through her own limbs, surging upwards and around — treading a fine, silken path over her arms. It makes her hair stand on end. He is encased, stronger than he's ever felt — it's feedback from the gem and it embraces him entirely. The gem… the name of it so close, and so evasive that she can't grasp it —

Rogue could feel her heart's driving rhythm, sending a rush of adrenaline into her system that would eradicate any possible need for a cup of coffee later on in the morning.

There was something to the stone. It had changed him, somehow; enough that he could withstand her mutation. Moreover, Gambit knew it was still in New Orleans. That he'd come back to Bayville to retrieve her while knowing this was... well, Rogue didn't know what that was, but it made her uncomfortable, and it made her heart pound with the sudden knowledge that they were still touching from knee to hip.

Still, she fixed her stare on Gambit's and dared not to blink. It was a test of wills, more than any search for truth.

She wanted to snicker, and for one perfectly irrational moment, she nearly stuck out her tongue from the desire to placate her rattled nerves.

Gambit was the first to give into the silence.

Not looking away, he whispered heatedly, "Is there somethin' stuck in m' teeth?"

Rogue snorted, the tension broken, and tugged her hand back. He grinned, releasing her arm and sitting up. Rogue could feel the sizzle of his gaze as he sized up her prone form appreciatively.

"This place is disgusting," she threw over her shoulder, before rolling onto her back, and raising herself to sit beside him. She shuffled over to put an extra foot between them, for which Rogue was all the more relieved, but no more appreciative.

"Y' make it into a paradise, chérie. Don't need t' pay attention t' the scenery with you here," he countered lightly.

Rogue rolled her eyes, and turned away just enough to conceal a fast flush.

"But you didn't answer th' question." It figured he'd be relentless.

Rogue sighed, knowing full well that as long as she sat there with him, they weren't going to get anywhere unless she ignored his persistent teasing. "You ask too many, swamp rat."

"One thing at a time, then, river rat." He grinned, clasping his hands loosely between his knees. The look he favored her with was a combination of amusement and curiosity. With Remy's strong features, the gritty, unshaven look of someone who'd spent the night half-awake and watchful, it was unsettling. Again, Rogue was struck by the way he'd changed. His face was a map of strong angles, a hard-worn tan, and a mouth that pursed lightly when he smiled. It wasn't a full grin he offered her; it never completely reached his eyes though they shone all the same.

She snatched at her boots, concentrating on pulling them on instead of looking at him.

"Something happened to your powers when ya went back ta New Orleans," she said after a stretch, fiddling with one of the buckles on her boots. She carefully avoided the other two blurry memories that settled into the back of her mind.

"X-Men and their keen observational skills," he said wryly.

Rogue glared at him, gritting her teeth.

"If you're so intent on talking about it, then shed a little light for me, won't ya? What was that rock ya picked up? Why is it that you can touch me now? And," she gestured at the room around them, "How in the hell did Ah agree ta this?"

He quirked an eyebrow, watching her as he wiggled his fingers before him and produced a card, seemingly from thin air.

Rogue smirked at the fluidness of the trick. A simple sleight of hand, but he'd done it so fast that she couldn't begin to fathom where he'd drawn it from.

"My powers," he began, transferring the card, the Jack of Spades, over his knuckles, "let me charge any object's latent energy. Don't matter th' size, don't matter th' molecular structure. You excite the molecules enough, and they sing t' you." The card flashed pink, erupting in a brilliant, blinding glow of fuchsia. "The thing is, for a long time, I couldn't light up just anything."

Her gaze trained on the sparking Jack, trying to determine the difference between how he lit up the card, and how he'd scorched the two of spades of ash without as much as a lick of flame. "What do ya mean?"

"Had to be inorganic in nature," he answered, his attention fixed on the card with a reverent expression. "Concrete, paper, metal." He shrugged. "Whatever. No pulse, no problem. But that's not the interesting part."

He flicked the card with his opposite hand, and snuffed the charge as easily as he'd lit it up.

"That gem," he continued, turning to face her, "did something t' me. I can sense it now — the latent energy in everything. It's just begging t' be released. I feel it in m' bones, in m' hands, m' skin. I feel it in other people, in obstacles — I can see the potential in everything now, as obvious as a smack upside th' head. I didn't know for sure," he shrugged again, this time indolently like he was trying to downplay it. "Had t' get some tests done." He turned away, glancing at the card again as if the Jack could offer his support. "But the end result is that…" He hesitated, taking a deep breath. "Dieu, this is gonna sound crazy…"

"Ya think it changed your mutation," Rogue supplied for him.

He nodded, silently turning the card between his index and middle fingers. "I don't think it did."

"Ya know it." Rogue frowned, looking at her still un-gloved hand.

Gambit turned his gaze upwards to the ceiling to avoid looking directly at her. "I figured that out last night," he muttered. It came out in such a low murmur that Rogue almost didn't hear him.

"What?" Rogue deadpanned, getting to her knees.

"I had t' confirm it." He grimaced, still evading her glare.

"Confirm what?"

"Y' know th' bit about being able t' touch you?" He peered at her askance, trying to gauge her reaction. Remy didn't flinch, but for a second, it looked very much like he wanted to.

"You didn't know if ya could," she whispered, suddenly horrified. "Ah coulda killed ya."

"Non, non, non — wait. Because of —" He gesticulated towards himself. "Because of this, because I can sense it better than I did before, I knew after I woke up th' next day that something was a lil' different with my own biological blue printing. I did a few preliminary tests with laser defense systems and such, just t' see what this enhancement might be like — and it's controllable," he insisted. "Just a bit of a block that keeps me from touching anything directly. It's like m' own internal biokinetic charge sort of bled out. It's real thin, bit of a force field like… Star Trek, you know? No fingerprints, comprends?" He grinned a little, sucking in a short breath and offering her a brief flash of teeth. "But still the same level of sensation, n'est ce pas?"

Rogue was on her feet. She stepped over his legs in the cramped space between the bed and the wall and snatched her glove from the floor.

"Ya did it again, didn't you?" she spat.

"Quoi?" Remy asked, sounding genuinely surprised at her reaction.

"You used me! Ya hadn't been in Bayville more than twenty-four hours and you're already batting me around like a lab rat in a cage! I know what a secondary mutation is, Gambit — I talk about these possibiltities with the Professor all the time. They're theoretical. They don't always happen, and when they do, it's a little like playin' roulette: you don't always know what you're gonna get."

"It's not like that, chére…"

"Don't ya 'chére' me nothing!"

She bent down, placing her feet on either side of his outstretched legs and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt to haul him closer. "Ya took a risk at my expense," she hissed. "If you'd died, it'd be on my head. Maybe that doesn't bother you, but me? Ah'd rather not live with that kinda guilt. Ah have enough of that ta last me a lifetime."

Gambit peered down at her hands with a frown, and then leisurely, he dragged his gaze back up to her face. A shadow of some dark thought crossed his face, and though his expression remained placid, save for the wry smirk, Remy's eyes were cold.

"Skeletons not rattlin' in y' closet these days?" he purred. "Pity. Mine's been soundin' like a Mardi Gras marching band for some time now."

Rolling his head back to peer lazily at her, Remy flashed a small, hollow smile. "While I respect your opinion on th' matter, that's not exactly right, Rogue…"

The next few seconds happened so quickly that Rogue barely had the chance to realize that Gambit had latched onto her legs and flung her over his shoulders. She hit the bed was a gasp, her booted heels smacking into the lumpy pillows, and before she could twist around, he'd leapt over her and pinned her hands.

"Y' see," he said thoughtfully, leaning closer to whisper. "If you'd listened to th' whole story you'd know that part of this involves you, and not in any way that'd be so… macabre."

"Get off me," she spat, twisting under him, trying to get a knee up.

"Non." His breath was warm and sweet, and he was close enough to make the down on her cheeks prickle pleasantly. She froze, his proximity sending off instinctual warning bells that made her press backwards and away from his skin.

"Get off now." Rogue forcibly solidified her resolve. She was infinitely grateful that her voice didn't quaver as Remy's weight settled over her knees. It prevented her bucking him off, but it put him three inches farther away.

He tutted, seeming to notice that despite his assurances about being able to touch her, Rogue wasn't relaxing. Good, she thought fiercely. Nothing was assured in life, she reminded herself frantically. Not promises. Not potential. Not nothing when it came to her mutation.

If Gambit wanted to die, she wasn't about to play his Kevorkian. Too damned bad for him. That was the only guarantee she had to offer.

"The first thing I thought of after I'd figured out that my mutation can do a whole lot more f' the both of us…" he began, his inflection softening, as if a few gentle words would placate her.

Rogue grit her teeth.

"— Was probably something that involved a seedy motel room in the middle of buttfuck nowhere Pennsylvania," she snarled. "How did Ah guess?"

He took a breath, startled, and pulled back a little. Rogue didn't fail to miss the stung expression, the slight furrowing of his brow, or the subtle downturn of his mouth.

"You really don't think too much of me do you?" he said after a moment, his voice tight.

"At this point in time, Ah wouldn't put it past ya," she spat. "You're still on top of me, aincha?"

He let go of her wrists as if scalded. Rogue readied to shove him off, but in a second, he'd shifted off her, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and was moving around the room towards the upturned table and chair.

The hell was he playing at? "Drop the act, Gambit. You're a terrible actor and this damned pity party ain't gonna do anything for your image."

"It was a risk I was willing to take," he said in an undertone, collecting his trench from the floor with a snap. "For me, that is. Didn't mean t' hurt you in th' process."

Rogue pushed herself to her elbows, watching his motions guardedly. Gambit's jaw was set, his eyes downcast as he slung the trench over his shoulders and began rifling through the pockets.

He shrugged noncommittally. "Figured if th' stone could boost th' control of m' powers up to maximum effect, it'd do the same t' yours."

He didn't look back on her once as he unhooked the deadbolt and opened the door.

"I thought I owed it to you for helping me out with Jean Luc last year, seeing as how y' still don't have control and all," he said over his shoulder.

Stunned, Rogue sat up fully.

"How did you know Ah didn't have control yet?"

He looked at her for a long moment, something working in his features. He lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

"Dunno."

Rogue frowned — the falsehood rang true and clear. She knew an untruth when she heard one. "Liar," she whispered.

Gambit sighed, shaking his head. "I thought —" He shut his mouth, breathing a laugh to himself. "I thought if you had control, you woulda come found me." He faced her fully, something raw and pained pinching his mouth into a smile that lacked humor. "Okay? That's how I would have known."

There heft of his confession hit her in the chest: a full sucker punch of waiting and time and expectation that went unfulfilled. For both of them. Rogue took a breath. He'd been waiting for her, just like she'd been waiting for him. It hurt to breathe; swallowing around the lump in her throat almost impossible, but she managed a brief, pitiful, "Oh," just the same.

He gave her a faint smile. Pausing as if he wanted to say something more, Remy thought better of it, shook his head, and stepped outside into the early morning glare.

What had just happened?

The door creaked, shutting fully behind him. Rogue let out a breath she hadn't been aware that she'd been holding and looked down at her feet.

Her heart seemed to settle a little closer to her stomach, a little more leaden than she was comfortable with.

Control. What a foreign concept. It was an ideal she hadn't started entertaining, not really, until recently. Pipe dreams just didn't make for happy endings, and her rate of success with her mutation didn't leave room for hope; it didn't leave room for a margin of error:

If she held on too long, that was it. She hurt people. She was damned dangerous.

But beyond that, a small, selfish seedling of curiosity was blooming.

A mutant with her abilities could never be normal, but something closer to it? Rogue worried her lower lip, the decisive tug of her attentions pulled to the sound of receding footsteps seeping through the thin walls.

Swallowing a ripple of embarrassment, she peered around the debris of the hotel room.

On the ground, in the centre of the wreckage created by the upturned coffee table were Gambit's scattered cards; one in particular drew her attention.

Breath hitching a little, Rogue yanked on her glove, and plucked the Queen of Hearts from the pile.


"You don't want to go in there," Lance muttered, leaning against the doorframe that led into the Brotherhood's Great Room. Jabbing his thumbs through his belt loops, he pretended to inspect the scuffed toes of his boots.

"What? Why?" Pietro tried to peek over Lance's shoulder, but Lance merely shook his head, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Uh uh." His jaw quivered as his shoulders began to shake. "I hate to say it —" Lance managed between chuckles.

A wail cut through the otherwise quiet house, followed by several loud curses and a strangled sob.

"But when I said it was a bad idea, I wasn't kidding," he said, flinching as a chair flew from the great room and crashed into the opposite wall.

Pietro sidestepped the soaring La-Z-Boy easily, and folded his arms across his chest.

"What the hell, man?" Toad muttered from the top of the stairs. Wanda knocked him out of the way as she strode past. Toad squawked, teetering on the landing precariously.

"Can't I get any sleep around here?" Wanda grimaced as she shoved between the boys.

"Wanda, don't go in there, believe me —" Pietro cautioned, grabbing at her wrist. His fingers scrabbled over the lacings on her gauntlet. She glowered at the offending appendage, and with a slap of blue current, she flung Pietro's hand off her arm.

A bandage wrapped her wrist, which she tightened with a perfunctory tug .

"Do not grope at me, Pietro. Ever," she warned.

She hadn't been the only one injured in the previous evening's scrap with the X-Men, but all things considered, and compared to the display she was met with upon entering the Great Room, Wanda was probably the least affected out of all of them.

"What's wrong with Pyro?" she demanded, only to be met with more shoe-gazing.

Sniffing disdainfully, she stepped into the archway.

"Bad idea," Lance said, not a second too early.

Wanda reeled backwards, stumbling into Pietro, who propped her upright.

"Not what you were expecting, huh, sis?" he said.

Wanda, at least, had the decency to appear only slightly ruffled.

Lance snorted and shifted his weight with a wince. The sting of pain cut the laughter from his face.

"Shnookums?" Toad called from the top of the stairs, taking them gingerly, one at a time, rather than with his usual spring.

Wanda didn't have the gumption to snap at him; instead, she turned to her brother for reassurance.

"It's like one of those bad horror movies," she whispered.

"Worse," Lance chuckled. "Ever seen that movie with that wizard dork?"

Pietro cocked an eyebrow.

Lance gave the siblings an exasperated look, making an elaborate squiggling motion with his index finger. "You know the one with the glasses, and the scar?" he explained, finally working out something that resembled a lightening bolt in midair.

From the living room, Pyro bellowed, "SHE WAS MY FRIEND!" He whinnied, his howl cut short with another sob.

"Uh," Toad said, peeking through the group's combined legs. "Wrong line, guy."

"I'M GOING TO KILL HIM!" Pyro choked, his voice hoarse from crying.

"Man, I can't watch," Toad cringed, shuffling back from the doorway.

"What's Pyro complaining about?" Freddy asked, lumbering out of the kitchen with a carton of milk squeezed between his thick fingers in one hand, and a gargantuan bowl of cereal in the other. "Someone ate all my frozen waffles, and there are no marshmallows left for my cereal."

The group stared between each other, exchanging uncertain glances.

"I like marshmallows," Fred insisted morosely. "They take forever to get soggy."

Lance piped up, "John's having a rough morning, Blob. You think you can talk to him? You know — calm him down a little?"

Fred blinked. "Me?"

"You're the only one who won't get killed if Pyro throws the couch, homes," Toad answered, backing Lance now that the power structure within the group had shifted.

Lance offered a sage nod, as if to approve the remark, and cocked his head at the destroyed armchair, broken into a mess of stuffing and splintered wood. A chunk of torn chintz fabric clung to the banister where the chair had scraped past before slamming into the plaster on the far side of the hall.

"That was my favorite recliner," Fred said, dejected.

"Don't tell him there aren't any Twinkies left," Pietro said in a furtive whisper to Lance. "I can't handle them both in a bad mood. I'llkillmyselffirst."

In response, St. John Allerdyce keened.

"He came in last, this morning," Wanda hissed, sinking her nails into Pietro's forearm. He winced, but didn't voice his complaint. "I didn't think it was this bad. I was too busy enjoying the iodine to hear him." In explanation, she gestured to her injured arm absently, her eyes fixed on the scene before them.

"Didn't see him either after Gambit took off," Pietro added. "The psycho —"

"Psychic," Wanda corrected.

"Whatever. She nearly chucked me into a mailbox. I couldn't run fast enough to get away."

Wanda threw him a wry look.

"Well that was after I made sure you were okay," he added hastily.

"Did anyone know what happened to John after Colossus got a hold of him?" Lance asked. He was met with several blank expressions. "Think we oughta find out. This'll go on all day otherwise, and we don't have that much good furniture left," he added. Slowly, four pairs of eyes turned to Blob, standing at the edge of the group, still looking at his armchair sadly.

"Freddy?"

Turning back to them, Blob took in their expectant faces. Finally, he shoved his breakfast at Toad, who toppled backwards into Lance's legs. Fred ambled past, a look of determination cutting lines like warpaint into his sagging cheeks.

"Brave man, Blob," Pietro said, too loud.

Wanda snorted, adding in an undertone, "Or just too stupid to know any better."


The Great Room was a mess. As a central living area, it had been the place that suffered the most abuse from the Brotherhood's members — but never in his three years spent boarding in Mystique's former house, had Fred seen it in worse condition:

Chunks of the carpet had been torn out, the window hangings — those that remained — drooped, and the remaindered furniture was in a state not fit to grace the garbage dump. At the center of the room, Pyro hunkered, his breathing ragged.

"St. John?" Fred tried in the gentlest tone he could manage.

Sniffing, his shoulders heaving as he sighed, Pyro's head lolled on his neck.

"Sin Jun!" he corrected tightly, his voice unnaturally high-pitched.

From Fred's vantage point at the door, he could just make out the filthy bottoms of the Australian's socks from where he knelt, facing the fireplace. Why Pyro had thought to remove his boots, but keep his uniform on, was not entirely beyond him — but Fred didn't want to hazard a verbal guess to confirm it.

He could see clearly the severed fuel pipes hanging listlessly off Pyro's gloves.

They flopped uselessly against the floor while John's shoulders shook.

He laughed. It was a strangled, watery sound.

"I'm gonna kill him, mate," he sniveled, not turning around. "He knew — the bastard knew — and he let us walk right into it like a bunch of bloody sheep. Why do I always have to be somebody's bitch?" Pyro sighed heavily and let loose an unnerving titter that, anywhere else, could pass easily for nervous laughter. In Pyro's case, Fred knew better.

This wasn't good.

Fred shifted uneasily, the battered floor creaking beneath his weight. "John?" he tried again. Pyro ignored him.

"My poor baby," Pyro cooed, petting his arms and the spaghetti noodle tubes that flopped from them. "Yeh never did anything to deserve this, love. You were so beautiful." He hiccupped, and Fred took an apprehensive step forward to peer over Pyro's shoulder. "Wasn't she beautiful, mate?" Pyro didn't look away from the compacted bundle of twisted metal in his arms. He caressed it lovingly, running his gloved fingers against the dips and swells, smearing the leaking lighter fluid across the warped surface. It left behind an oily sheen as it evaporated, and the air stunk of it — acrid and volatile.

Fred swallowed. Nope. Not good at all.

He hoped Lance had had the sense to pocket the matches off the fireplace mantle before Pyro really had the opportunity to mourn the loss of his firepower.

"Wasn't she beautiful?" Pyro shouted, his shoulders hunching to form a protective wall around his former flame thrower.

"Y-yeah," Fred managed. "She — she was great, John."

"Her name," he snarled, clutching his demolished fuel pack to his chest and twisting around, "was Stella."

From beyond the cover of the wall leading to the hallway, someone muffled a snort.

"I'm gonna kill him," Pyro said again. "Right after I give the old girl a proper seeing off," he babbled, his lower lip quivering a little. "Gonna bury her in the backyard, right under the hydrangea."

"That'll be… nice." Fred winced, and hastened to add, "I'll help you, John. I can get the shovel and —"

"No!" Pyro's voice rose a few octaves as he waved Fred off. "No, this is between me and the old lady. She'd have wanted it like that."

Fred frowned. Pyro hiccupped again.

"Pyro?"

Heaving a huge sigh, Pyro stood up on wobbly legs. Slowly, he turned, and Fred had to divert his gaze. Pyro's face was a blotchy mess — wet from crying and red-ringed around the eyes.

"Yeah, mate?" he asked feebly, rocking the fuel pack like he would a baby.

"Who are you gonna kill, exactly?" After a slight hesitation, he added, "Colossus? I would have helped, you know — but you were already in that dumpster and —"

Pyro sniffed and jutted his chin defiantly.

"Not Piotr," he interrupted petulantly. "Who else? 'Y' need a lil' action, need a lil' fun. Mebbe blow off a lil' steam — all yeh gotta do is distract 'em,'" Pyro imitated Gambit in a falsetto. "The same arse who didn't bloody well leave us any compensation for our —" He hesitated, glancing at his fuel tank forlornly a moment. "Sacrifices," he finished at a higher pitch.

Pyro's face crumpled and he sank to a crouch again, sobbing haplessly.

"What?" Lance snapped, stepping around the corner. "What do you mean he didn't leave us compensation — we had an agreement —"

Wanda pushed past him, levitating the remaining furniture with her uninjured hand. She flipped the couch over mid-air, dumping the cushions. When nothing other than a few crumbs and some loose change fell to the carpet, she moved on to the ruins of the coffee table, levitating the wreckage in case they'd missed something, in case the small bundle had been moved or buried during Pyro's fit.

"It was right here! He left it on the table last night. I saw it with my own eyes!" she snapped.

Pyro laughed mirthlessly.

"You lot obviously don't know Gambit that well," he sneered, the expression falling as he clutched at the tank again. He pressed his cheek against the crumpled ball.

"He promised us!" Wanda snapped.

"Thieves' honor," Pietro interjected wryly. He leaned against the doorjamb, his hip jutting out. "Figures."

"But it was here when we left, Pietro!" Wanda argued, dropping her hex so that the remaining furniture fell to the ground with several cracking sounds and resounding thuds.

"Didn't I say we should have given it a demo beforehand?" Lance looked to the ceiling as if to say, 'why?' to whatever omnipresent being was lurking overhead.

Fred followed his gaze, though all he saw was crumbling plaster.

"We were just being practical," Wanda muttered bitterly. "Considering the fact that Gambit had led us to believe he was planning on sticking around a little longer before heading back…"

"You actually believed that?"

"I told you, Pietro, something didn't feel right the instant those charges went off at Xavier's," she shot back.

"Not to mention that you thought this was a great idea to begin with," Lance interjected, pointing an accusing finger at Pietro.

"Hey, I was only agreeing with John, man —"

"It's good to know you're still capable of functioning all on your own, Quicksilver. At least we'll know next time that your mouth's still faster than your brain."

"Watch it, Alvers —"

"Or what? Gonna sick daddy on me? Last I heard he was running around calling himself Joseph in some loony bin up at Redwood Pines — can't even remember that he was the 'Master of Magnetism.' A lot of good that'll do for you, Junior."

"Hey!" Toad called, wincing as he stood to his full height from amidst the wreckage of the television unit. He held aloft a small, carefully wrapped bundle. "Is this it? I think I found it, yo, the Gem of cyt-cot-torra-ACK!"

Fred turned, Wanda leapt, Lance spun, but Pietro was the quickest. He'd snatched the bundle from Todd's fingers and was across the room before anyone had even taken a step towards the corner.

"Cyttorak," Pietro corrected. "Do you need me to spell it out for you, genius?"

He squeezed the bundle tentatively and sniffed it. With a disgruntled grimace, he dropped it almost as quickly as he'd picked it up.

"False alarm; it's one of Fred's old sandwiches."

The floor rumbled.

"John?" Lance ground out.

Pyro looked up blearily, a vague smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

"I think you're going to need some help with that —"

"STELLA!" Pyro barked.

"With Stella, yeah." Lance balled his fists at his sides. Pyro's recently destroyed object of affections being the furthest thing from his mind. "And after?"

Wanda nodded her grim assent. "We know where he's going."

A silent plan of vengeance began formulating among the members of the Brotherhood of Mutants.

"That mean we're taking a vacation?" Toad piped up, looking hopeful despite the situation. "I hear New Orleans is one of the most romantic cities in the world, yo —"

"I hear the swamps have alligators big enough to swallow a man whole," Wanda returned, her lip curling as she appraised Todd. "Frog legs on the menu?" she asked with mock innocence.

"I'll buy the first round if we get that rock." Lance sneered.

"And I'll get the second, if we take down the Cajun," Pietro added. "Permanently."

Pyro sniffed. "It's not a proper wake unless ya get properly pished." He shook his head, chuckling without humor.

There was a pause as they collected themselves, coming to an agreement without words, without needing to vocalize the promise of retribution in plainer terms.

After a moment of looking between the Brotherhood's determined expressions, Fred asked, "What are we doing?"


The door shut behind him with a groan. Someone needed to oil the hinges, Remy thought absently.

He paused, leaning against the chipped stucco wall outside room number fourteen, and waited.

"C'mon, chérie," he whispered, more to himself than the girl he'd just left in the hotel room.

Three seconds. Six seconds. Ten, and the floorboards groaned inside as Rogue got off the bed.

Remy smirked and pushed himself off the wall. He strode to the end of the narrow gallery that lined the second floor of the motel, and leapt over the banister — taking the fifteen-foot drop to the concrete below with ease.

He landed, and with a nimble spring in his step, strolled over to his bike without looking over his shoulder. In passing a nearby garbage can, Gambit pulled from his pocket a very battered-looking parcel — a decoy, naturally, that was nothing more than a pretty piece of painted glass.

If there was one thing Jean Luc had taught him, it was always to have proper leverage. With that, he dropped the bogus stone, smirking at the resounding clang! as it hit the bottom of the metal receptacle.

It was only a matter of moments before he heard the whining door to room number fourteen as it opened.

He slowed his step.

Rogue's voice cut the chill morning air. It could have melted any late-season frost:

"Remy!"


Post Script:

- Mechanic (Poker): A cheater who uses sleight-of-hand to arrange the deck or deal to benefit himself or a partner.

- "S' like m' own internal biokinetic charge sort of bled out." Gambit #16

- "She was my friend, ad nauseum": Tip of the hat to "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" in there. Paraphrasing the film rather than the book… as if Lance would read for recreational purposes.

- Stella, Pyro's fuel tank: A nod to "A Streetcar Named Desire."

Translations:

Au contraire, chérie: On the contrary, dear.

Coyoon: (Cajun) idiot

D'accord: alright

Dieu: God

Femme: Woman

Fille: Girl

Homme: Man

Ma belle: my sweet, my pretty

Merci: Thank you

Merde: Shit

Non, non, non — attends, toi: No, no, no — wait a second, you!

Oui: Yes

Quoi?: What?