Disclaimer: I don't own a thing

Title: Born for Bad Luck

By: Peanutbutter

"Boys I'm most done travellin', Lord I'm at my journey's end

B'lieve I'm most done travellin', Lord at my journey's end

Well I been lookin' for me a good partner, bad luck is my best friend..."

(Born for Bad Luck song by Brownie McGhee)

Chapter 10: All the Kings Horses

"...That's wrong Little girl you are wrong

You got my mind messed up darlin...'"

(Song All the Kings Horses by: Allison and Solberg)

Note: Sometimes life is a little sucky, and then sometimes it's really, really, sucky. Lately it has been the later. Sorry there was no update or explanation on Thurs. I'm sorry. It's just sucky, sucky life, and thats all the explanation I can think to give. Give me some feedback if you want. I love you guys so much, and thank you for reading.

It was unnerving to look at him. John had spent a great deal time trying, but failing, to piss this man off. He'd memorized every part of the Professor's face in an attempt to read him, because the Professor was so good at reading everyone else. Sometimes John had been able to detect an eye twitch, the slow curve of his lip, the clenching of his jaw, but never out right anger. John had thought for a long time that, that was his greatest mutant ability, a phenomenal poker face. Remy would follow him around, if he ever met him, and demand to know his secrets.

The unnerving part wasn't that the Professor was angry this time, that wasn't likely to ever be shown outwardly. No, it was that he had mastered the poker face on an entirely different face. He'd heard that the Professor had died and then through the grapevine, because it seemed mutants could be like gossiping old women, that he was alive. He hadn't know the specifics, hadn't asked, but it seemed he missed a hell of a story.

"So John, I see you've been very busy since you left."

John tried to keep his jaw from dropping. It was the same voice. The same freaking British accent. He wanted to reach out touch his face, make sure he was really there. He resisted. Wolverine had barely pulled his claws away when the Professor told him to. Bobby had covered his shirt with a thin sheet of quickly melting ice, but the warning was there. They weren't going to let John do anything, be it ill willed or not.

"You have nothing to fear."

John removed the cloth from his neck, glaring. "Do you see the blood. I think you might be wrong about that, and quit getting in my head."

"Stop projecting your thoughts into the room." He folded his fist in front of him. The same mannerisms but hands that he'd never possessed, large, too hairy, too muscular, for the Professor. His strength had always been something subtle. This man's strength was apparent at first glance.

"We can talk about my origins later, right now we have a more urgent matter to discuss."

John wadded the blood soaked cloth in his fist and leaned back in his chair. His mind jumped to work. He had been taught how to erect mental shields. He'd never been good at it, but Magneto had been a good teacher. Maybe it was something about having a super powerful telepath as your best friend and mortal enemy. If the Professor noticed the shields he didn't show it, poker face through and through.

"How do I know that once I tell everything you won't hand me over to the cops. I know how they contain mutants, glorified coffins."

"You have my word."

John couldn't detect any thing in the Professor's answer. Nothing to reassure him, but nothing to push him away either. Besides he was just playing a game. He was going to tell them no matter what.

"Listen, me and a friend of mine have been doing some work for a fellow here in town. Calls himself Mister Sinister, or Essex to his esteemed employees. To be honest I don't know what he does, Remy don't either, we just get the job, do it and get paid, cut and paste. Thing is we hit a snag in the form of an annoying white streaked girl."

He wished for a cigarette anything to keep his hands from shaking. He could feel the eyes on the back of his head. They wanted to kill him. It wasn't so long ago that they had been on the same team, how times change. He balled his hands in his lap willing them to be still. He didn't want them to know how nervous he was.

"Well Essex got a hold of her."

"You turned her over!"

Bobby screamed it his voice deeper, angrier, than John had ever heard it.

"No, ice for brains, he stole her from us."

"You're telling me that Rogue was with the two of you willingly," he was simmering, on the verge of boiling. When had the iceboy turned into such a hot head. Wasn't that his M.O.

"Shut it iceboy."

He could feel Bobby powering up, but he ignored it. He didn't really think he'd do anything with the Professor in the room. He was wrong. The chunk of ice hit him in the back of the head, almost making him see stars. He jumped to his feet ignoring Wolverine, who had set out to contain him, and pulled his spare lighter our of his pocket. He was never without a spare.

The arch of fire was met by a stream of ice. He was ready for a fight, a rematch, this time he'd give Bobby a permanent reminder of their confrontation. The streams froze, fire and ice seconds from colliding. John gazed at it memorized by the image, because Bobby was frozen too, face contorted in rage. He looked to his side, Wolverine was seconds from tackling him, frozen too. Absently he reached out squeezing the end of Wolverine's nose, flicked it, the man didn't flinch. John grinned.

"I'll only hold them for a small amount of time. You deserve a chance to explain, and I expect the truth." The Professor raised one of those bushy eyebrows. It was a look John had seen a lot, it said, 'I expect more than this from you'. John had thought he had seen the last of that look. He had, after all, joined the other side. He didn't seek the Professor's approval, but the British bastard still wanted to give it to him.

John ignored the wave of nostalgia and lowered himself into his seat. "You care if I pull their pants down and set 'em out in the front before you wake 'em up?"

"Still the prankster, St. John."

John tried to ignore the way his full name rushed him back to the past; back to a time when he had been helpless to help himself, trapped, no will, no life, no future. When his eyes met the Professor's he was almost sure the man knew what the name had done to him, was still doing to him. Maybe this time, this once, he'd just get to the heart of things.

John sighed and set his elbows on his knees. "I screwed up..."

It was strange. The Professor listened to him. Listened to his theories on the Morlocks, his suggestions on rescuing Rogue and Gambit. He didn't ignore the fact that all of it was John and Remy's fault, but he didn't dwell on it. For the moment he was focused on the mission, on what John was trying to do. Storm and Angel, a poster boy blond, had gone to check on the Morlocks after he'd divulged Remy's thieving of the files. So far all was well there. Strom was staying, on stand by, and the rest of them were heading after Rogue and Gambit.

"I'm not wearing that." John raised a brow and crossed his arms over his shirt, his thin, cottony, worn yes, but comfortable t-shirt. He took a step backwards to emphasize his point. His jean clad legs rubbed together, jeans, yes, he liked his jeans.

"Everyone wears it," Bobby snarled and threw it at him. "Do you think we actually want you wearing it?"

John caught it on reflex, fingers closing over hard leather. He fingered it absently. So there was a time, a very shot time, in which he craved the costume, to dress up, fight crime, to be on of the X-Men, he was over that. He watched Bobby step into the bodysuit like it was a second skin, worn on the joints, wrinkled and fit just to him. John was sure Bobby had worn the uniform a thousand times, was proud of the creases, and patches.

"You got a problem."

John pulled the eyes he'd had fixed on Bobby's shoes to his face. Bobby was simmering on rage, cool air blowing around his face and wafting across the locker room. There were things he could say, things that would push Bobby over the edge and start another fight that, for the moment, would be just between them.

John clenched his jaw and turned back to the crumpled leather in his hands. It was against his nature. He turned his back, heel sharp on the floor. The silence that greeted his retreat was enough to make him twitch. His fingers flicking at his sides, begging to make up for the insult he should have let fly. He balled his fist, willed it to stop. He fought the urge to reach for his lighter.

All Bobby did was leave, shoes echoing across the floor; the door slamming into the emptiness. John bit his lip. The insult was still biting at him, worming it's way through his head, taunting him, begging him to say it anyway. He let his eyes fall on the leather uniform, the bright blue 'X' stared back at him.

"I'm still watching you."

John jumped, he couldn't help it. He didn't like being snuck up on. Remy did it all the time, laughing like the insane asshole he was, pulling some back flip shit to get away. This was different while Remy was annoying, Logan, Wolverine, was terrifying.

"I don't trust you, kid."

John looked up. Logan was smoking, he usually was, cigar hanging out of his half open, sneering mouth. He bit on the end his arm crossing over his leather clad chest. He stepped toward him. John did everything he could to stay still and keep eye contact.

"Used to think that uniform was nothin', was crap." He jabbed the uniform with his index finger.

John was sure Logan growled. He wanted to swallow, re-wet his suddenly dry lips, but he refused to move under the older man's gaze. Logan could kill him, but if he had wanted to John would have been stabbed and hanging from the spikes on the front gate by now. Logan had never been one to beat around the bush.

"Scoffed at Scott when he tried to make me wear it," he paused for a moment, his steely gaze faltering for a moment, "I was wrong."

He turned around, smoke following him. He walked for the door. John furrowed his brow, confused, that was it, no 'I'll kill you', just some shit the Professor would though at him, that Jean, and Scott, and Bobby, had all tried on him before. He gripped the suit, fingers digging into the leather.

"What the hell are..."

It was all he got out before Logan was in is face. Breathing the foul, thick, distinct, scent of smoke into his face, teeth flashing, eyes blazing. John felt metal pressed against his back, the lockers quaked with the force of his impact, claws dug into the door behind his head, grazing the corner of his ear. It was everything he could do to keep from crying out, his fingers flailed at his side, frantic for release, control, for the fire that always called to him. He burned to command it, to command anything.

"Listen, kid, you think I've forgotten about the fire to the face, the fact that it's your fault Rogue is in this mess?" He leaned closer.

John forced his hand still, a smile forcing it's way across his face. He couldn't help it. He had to compensate. "Pride a little hurt, you couldn't find us after all. Maybe if you had been a little better..." He let the sentence hang his tongue resting against the roof of his mouth seconds from a 'tsk'.

He was actually surprised he was alive the next moment. The one after that was enough to shock him into still silence. Logan just breathed, somewhere between blinding rage, an eerie calm. His grip hadn't loosened, the claws were still in the locker, which was better than embedded in him, but his silence was unnerving.

He backed away. The lockers jerked forward, missing the pressure of two bodies. John pitched toward the bench in the middle of the room, unaccustomed to holding himself up, and surprised that he was once again given the opportunity. Logan retracted his claws, reached for the uniform and held it out.

"You wear this kid, you do it justice." He tossed it.

John watched it fall in front of him, pooling at his feet.

"That isn't a fashion statement," he growled, "it's a promise."

He was gone. John toed it with his foot, contemplating kicking it across the room and burning the room to the ground, and hell probably taking the institute with it. He still might, later, but today he had something else to do.

When he walked onto the plane everyone was already seated, arms crossed, waiting. They turned to stare at him when he walked on. Scrutinizing, angry eyes, most of them had been his friends at one time, Kitty, Bobby, Pete, even Logan, to a degree.

"I can't believe you guys wear these all the time. There has to be some chaffing issues." John announced loudly and fell into a seat across from Kitty. He winked at her. She rolled her eyes and turned her head. John put his hands behind his head and leaned back into his seat, pretending their glares didn't matter.

It was hard to remember what happened. She was doing a piece for a magazine and before she knew it she was strapped to a table, powers tapped, mind a boggled mess. Really, she should have known better, people who generally read about which eye shadow promised you the perfect, night, business, and day look, didn't want to know about illegal research, or a shifty man whose alias was Mr. Sinister. She shouldn't have followed the lead, tapped into her former skills in government security, or even thought about using her powers, but she had. Now her brain was a scrambled mess.

There were pieces of her ordeal that she could put together, a patchy, inadequate view of a much larger picture. She had been taken down, how she couldn't remember, though a man with red on black eyes and a charming, but infuriating, smile keep worming his way into her memories. She didn't know him, didn't think she had ever seen him, but he refused to leave her alone. There was another swimming around as well, brown hair, brown eyes burning with fire. It didn't make sense. She didn't know them, knew no one could have burning eyes, but a 120 lbs, tall, leggy blond, shouldn't be able to lift a dump truck either.

Then there was the girl, the one she'd seen right before everything went crazy. The both of them had been strapped to gurneys. She was out of it, brown hair, streaked with white, tossing, moaning, struggling, but only half awake. Carol had tried to pull free, but the restraints were draining her powers, forcing her to be a normal human.

Sinister was talking, there were others, but that was hazy too, and then they had touched. Whatever was making her feel weird was because of that girl's touch. Whatever her skin had done it was enough to mess her up permanently. It was hard to see, to remember, just too much in her head.

Carol ran her hand though her hair, desperate for something familiar. She wanted to twist it, try to think of a way out, to get past the guards and fix her mind. She reached for her shoulders, fingers twisting, twining endless in her hair. It was getting long. She pulled her fingers though it like a make shift comb. Her fingers didn't stop at tops of her breast, but descended past, over her breasts, curling against the bottom.

Her hair wasn't long though. She had never had it longer than a few inches past her shoulders. She pulled her fingers through again. It was there, long, tangled. She turned toward it, pulling the hair into view. Brown, silky strands, burned into her mind, a white streak running though the chunk she was clutching in her palm. It wasn't right. Her vision swam, her mind reeling, was she seeing things.

Rogue pushed her away through the darkness grasping at the edges of reality, pushing, forcing her way into awake, the light, but someone was already there, looking for her, thinking for her. She waited confused before she pushed back. The voices spun dragging her into their midst, confused and angry. She fell prey to their whims.

He still felt strange, his body humming, his limbs aching, and his head felt like he'd been on a bender. He groaned and tried to roll to his feet, but his legs refused to work and he flopped uselessly onto his side, gasping for breath from the movement. He could feel the sweat forming on his brow, dripping down his face, stinging his eyes. It didn't matter that he was shaking, freezing, his body didn't believe him. The sweat was just going to make him shake harder.

Numbly, he reached for the blanket, his fingers fat and useless slipped against the cotton. Frustrated, he clamped his jaw only to bit the end of his tongue. He cursed and lay still. It was going to ware off. He knew that. It was just going to take a while. He had no idea how long the bastard had held onto his arm. It was probably a little longer than necessary, he had, after all, nearly blown his hand off. He was just going to have to wait it out.

He closed his eyes hoping sleep would come and relieved that Essex only believed in the minimal torture of his 'patients'. The bed he was on was soft, softer than the floor, and there was air blowing in from the ceiling. It was clean, a toilet in the corner. He'd been in much worse.

A chill rushed up his spine and he thought of reaching for the blanket again when he heard a voice. It could be a hallucination. He'd heard so many people before he blacked out that there was really no way to tell what had been real. He'd thought he'd heard John, warned him, but he didn't even know if he'd actually been speaking. Not to mention his rambling might have given his friend away. Their entire mission a bust. He'd failed miserably at heroism.

There it was again, snuffle, a voice soft and garbled, but a voice he knew. He forced his eyes shut and tried to concentrate. For a moment the extra effort did nothing but make the world blur. He pushed past it, forcing himself into a more conscious state. Her voice drifted to him, the rustle of leaves on the wind.

"Rogue?"

He spoke softly, not sure that his words would carry, that he was actually hearing her. He said her name again, louder, with more purpose. His voice echoed, booming against the large empty walls. The response was another whisper of sound.

"Rogue is that you?"

He needed to get closer to the sound. He narrowed his eyes and tried to pinpoint it's origin. Was it coming though the walls, the ceiling, in front of him? His toes barely broke his fall, his knees struck the ground next followed by his palms. His skin slapped against the hard floor failing to keep him upright, but softening the blow as his face struck the floor. He inched toward the right his hand touching the wall, supporting him as he lifted his torso.

"Rogue?"

"You're not there. Ah don' know you."

She was clearer this time. He pulled his body against the wall resting his ear against the metal. His fingers hummed, the semblance of power resting under his skin. It begged to come forth, but he couldn't tap into it. The room was sucking, suppressing his mutant ability.

The cool metal did little to stop the chills running over his body. His shirt was wet around his collar, down, his back and under his arms. He curled his legs toward his chest, tucking his bare feet under his legs willing them to warm against his own skin. His hands, he tucked under his arms. Gritting his teeth, he tried to talk to her.

"Rogue, it's Remy. Rogue? We came ta get y' out cherie."

"Where?"

"You're wit Esse..."

He didn't get to finish. Her voice broke in, sharp, barking.

"Essex, right, Essex. Mild mannered geneticist, right."

"What are y' talkin' 'bout?"

"Writing an article that requires, more than on brain cell to read, perfect." She paused, voice drifting away. "What's goin' on, who's there?

Remy quirked a brow. Maybe it wasn't only his body that was out of whack. She was talking crazy, disjointed and confused.

"Rogue, is dat you?"

She didn't answer right away, voice muted against the wall, a whisper in his ear when she finally spoke.

"Ah don' know who Ah am."

Well here's what was supposed to be Thursdays chapter, sorry again.