The Ante

by octobertown

When Gambit left Rogue on the shores of Blood Moon Bayou, he slipped a playing card into her hand. More than a conciliatory gesture, it signaled the start of something that carried the understanding: Never bet more than you are willing to lose.

21. Deuces Wild

Title: The Ante
Chapter 21: Deuces Wild
Fandom: X-Men: Evolution
Author: Kira Coffin
Summary: Never bet more than you are willing to lose.
Rating: Teen/Mature
Pairing: Rogue/Remy
Secondary Pairings: Niet.
Warnings: Language

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The Ante
Chapter XXI: Deuces Wild
-

Years ago, things had been different, thought Mattie Baptiste as she wiped her hands on her skirts. The mansion of the Boudreaux household, resplendent in its own right, nonetheless bore the telltale signs that a family of selective skill lived within. A selection of weaponry from the various corners of the world and from a multitude of different eras adorned the walls of its corridors. They gleamed and glinted with the dim cast of gaslight sconces as she passed them. To the Boudreaux family, such devices were much like the decorative splendour stolen from the Renaissance and Baroque that their counterparts, the Thieves Guild, displayed proudly in their halls.

Simply put, neither clan could resist a little showing off.

If she was unnerved by the multitude of blades, bows, and axes, the traiteur to both the Thieves and the Assassins did not outwardly show it. Her station afforded her a certain diplomatic status between the warring Guilds, though often she could not help but wish that, were it possible, she could turn back the hands of the clock to a time when things had been simpler for the families.

Measured in the growth of the same sentinel oaks that dotted the Louisiana landscape, she had watched the young men and women that she thought of as her children grow tall. In the same years it had taken them to escape their youth, they had turned from each other. It was a gradual process, but as she herself was nearing the ripened age of one hundred and twenty, a decade felt like little more than a few moments.

Such a shame, she thought, pausing before a door that had been left open a crack.

Raising her fist to knock, Mattie stilled as the voices from within carried into the hall.

"Y' certain, Gris Gris?"

"There be no mistake. It's him at the door."

"C'est impossible, he wouldn't come this far out unless he wanted t' leave in a body bag."

"Belladonna —"

"They killed two of our own and then they have the audacity t' send an envoy? Bring him t' me. I want to hear what the thieves' traitor has t' say for himself."

"And if y' don't like it?"

There was a pause, one that Mattie understood with the nonverbal assent of those trained in the killing arts.

"We'll deal with that when the time comes," Belladonna replied.

To Mattie, the girl had lost the sweetness of her cadence little more than a year ago. Growing up in such a short span of time had tuned her hard.

"Mebbe we should call your pére…"

"Do not defy me. Were Marius here, he'd do the same and since I'm actin' in his place until he comes home from his business dealings, you're gonna listen t' me if you know what's good for ya. Comprends? Bring me Theoren Marceaux. And Fifolet? Accompany Gris Gris. Make sure he don't do anything rash."

The door swung open onto an empty hallway. On the floor, lining the crevice where the moulding met the joinery that ran along the length of the hardwood, an inconspicuous trickle of water clung to the edge and out of sight as two men passed.

Theoren? But it was impossible. Visiting the Assassins without invitation was a grievous offence. If the Thieves did not sanction him for the visit, it would mean that he had defied his family and risked the compact that kept the Guilds apart from one another; a preventative measure intended to staunch the bloodshed that followed their encounters. What could prompt him to do such a thing? Mattie waited, hidden by her mutant form, and contemplated what it would mean for both Guilds if Theoren were seen with the Assassins by his own clan.

Certainly, the Thieves would consider it an act of betrayal.

The thought worried her. It was imperative that Mattie understand what his presence meant in the wake of the murders that morning. Would Belladonna demand equal payment for the deaths of two of the Assassins' own? That was tradition. That would be how the matter would be handled were Marius passing the judgement.

Flanking Remy's cousin, they returned. Theoren was a dour man at the best of times, practical to a fault with the disposition to match. A "real stick in the mud", Lapin liked to say. This morning, however, there was a shine to his eyes that unnerved Mattie: she knew that look — the boy was up to something. Carefully, as the door shut once more behind the party of three, Mattie trickled into the room, staying closest the wall and out of sight.

"This is a surprise," Belladonna murmured.

Theoren remained silent, though he glanced at the men hovering nearby as if to ask if they would be party to whatever it was he'd come to discuss.

"Gris Gris, Fifolet, Questa — wait outside. the thief and I will converse alone," Bella instructed. Her compatriots did not hesitate as they turned and left the pair, shutting the door.

To linger would be considered an insult to Belladonna's rank and esteem.

Theoren's gaze cast around the office. Unlike the corridors, the variety of trophies that ornamented Marius' study were not simply decorative: the hand gun on the blotter, the shoto on display on the bookcase, and the selection of kunai throwing daggers less than three paces to the left were all hallmarks of successful contracts. More importantly, they were armaments still in regular use.

Her compatriots, three men of equal skill and notoriety, left Bella and her guest to their business, and Mattie, inconspicuously, to oversee the unusual visit.

"If this isn't a surprise meant for the history books, Theoren. Does your brood know that y' came all the way out here t' defy them? I wonder what Remy'd think of this," she purred. "Or is it because of Remy that you came to call?"

Theoren bared his teeth in a smile. "Let's forgo the pleasantries, Ms. Boudreaux," he said. "This is a business proposition and nothing more."

As Bella reclined in her father's chair, she favoured the stranger with a shrewd smile. There was something about the eyes that didn't sit right; a lighter cast, perhaps, bleeding the brown to yellow.

They flickered, and as Theoren gathered himself, Belladonna took in the stance: the fold of his fingers and regal bearing as he drew himself up. One foot notched behind the other. Feminine, almost.

Bella raised an eyebrow as the figure dissolved before her: losing an entire foot in height, hair lengthening, skin darkening to an eerie, unnatural shade.

"That's some trick."

It was not Theoren after all, but a shape shifter — a mutant.

Yello eyes narrowed, but the woman offered a demure, graceful nod.

"I expect you realize the danger you put yourself in by taking the shape of my enemy?"

"I am partial to making a statement, Ms. Boudreaux."

Belladonna nodded, considering. She shrugged, indifferent, though her attention remained rapier-sharp. "'Sides, Theoren knows the rules, and if you knew Theoren, he woulda told y' what they were: decorum, for one, requires that the territories be respected. Assassins and Thieves do not cross the lines of old set across this town, least of all do we show up for sweet tea and biscuits on each others' porches. I take it you've no affiliations with the Guild."

"I owe no allegiance to the Thieves," the woman murmured in a tone that was equally as cool.

"Mutants rarely do, Madame…?"

"Please, spare the honorific." She slipped into a seat without invitation. "I expect your house is secure?"

"Can't say we normally take house calls, but yes." Bella rolled the words around a little. "For those that belong in its walls."

If the impertinence bothered her, she didn't show it.

"And there is no chance that our conversation will be overheard?"

"If there's conversation to be had." The blade glinted, extracted from saints-knew-where. Belladonna twirled the instrument over her knuckles, setting it at last, tip-first, into the desk's surface. It was a warning, and a none too subtle one at that.

If the stranger was unsettled by the quick flash of steel, her tone remained neutral as she replied, "There is a time for such shows of skill, my child; but I assure you, this is not it."

In less time than it took to blink, the blade stuck, point first, to the seat back a bare hairsbreadth from the woman's ear.

She smiled thinly, casting yellow eyes to the hilt, but left the knife where it was; lodged into the supple leather.

"The next time, I won't miss," Belladonna promised.

"Of that I have no doubt." The woman paused, considering. "Do you believe in fate, Ms. Boudreaux?"

"I believe that two inches to the right and you would lose more than just an eye." Settling back into her chair, Bella eyed the woman as if conculding that anyone so unflinching must mean business.

"I respect your need for anonymity." She sized her up. "Our clientele requires discretion. The house is secure, of that I can assure you. What is it that y' want from the family?"

"Your cooperation," she said evenly, pulling seemingly from nowhere an envelope that she placed on the desk. It slid forwards in one sinuous stroke.

"A contract?"

"Something of the like," the woman responded. "I offer you nothing more than information. In exchange, you will consider this offer as a token of my good will."

Belladonna raised an eyebrow. "Good will festers in debt, madame. There is nothing you can need of us that has only your word as payment."

"Not even to end the blood feud between your family and the Thieves?" she asked.

A beat. Bella fell to a stillness so concentrated that it appeared as if she'd become a lion that had spotted prey.

"The only end to this war," Bella said, "is a full cemetery vault." She leaned forwards, fingers steepling before her.

"I am aware of your losses, my dear. To be bereft two individuals, assets to your family and to your trade is grievous indeed. I offer my… condolences. I can understand your thirst for justice."

"Justice," Belladonna repeated. The word seemed strained, fraught with barely concealed amusement that curled her mouth upwards. "That's a pretty word for vengeance, as I understand it." She narrowed her eyes. "What are our affairs to you, stranger?"

"I, too, understand the machinations of revenge, my dear."

Bella sniffed. "It is none of my concern what you think you know, madam. Of the Guilds? The war is old, and fresh spilled blood is nothing the Assassins shy from. State your business with my family, or to hell with you. I have no interest in offers of 'good will'; pretty promises don't fix what's broke."

"Not even to assume control, to claim the very thing that was wrested from you with the murder of your dear brother?" the woman asked, the same cold shine blanketing her gaze.

Slowly, Bella moved from her casual slouch, uncurling with keenness so sharp that Mattie could feel the splintering tension.

"What would you know of Julien?" Belladonna hissed. "No one outside the family knows our business."

"Nor would anyone know of the intended — failed — unification of the Guilds following his untimely passing. No one, save those interested in drawing certain circles to their conclusion." She pressed the envelope forwards. "We are architects of our own destiny, child. Who are we to question that which winds about the wrists and guides the hand of fate?"

A small, eerie smile turned the corners of the woman's mouth up.

Interest piqued, Bella carefully pulled the envelope towards her, watchful of her guest all the while. She lifted the flap and slid the contents to the blotter: a solitary playing card fell to the table.

Bella's expression clouded.

"He will be in the Quarter tomorrow evening," the woman said in a tone that suggested she understood more of Belladonna Boudreaux's secret, furtive thirsts than anyone might ever possibly know. Rising to her full height, a long shadow fell across the Master Assassin's desk.

Bella slid the Ace of Spades beneath her nails, lifting the card and inspecting either side. Slowly, a grim smile spread across her face.

"You're certain?"

When Belladonna looked up again, Theoren stood before her. He bowed from the hip, his eyes still cast in the same unnatural hue.

"It has been foretold," was the only reply offered, before the shapeshifter turned and slipped from the room.

What began as a breathy sigh of delight, rolled slowly into a chuckle that began in Belladonna's belly. Gathering in strength and volume as she clutched the Ace, she leaned back into her father's chair — and deepening, she roared laughter into the night: a brittle, maniacal sound that carried through the wood-pannelled halls.

Mattie slipped beneath the door once more — a steady trickle of liquid that coalesced in the hallway. She summoned her form together, turning first into a clear puddle, and then rising into her natural shape. A moment later, she brushed at her skirts. Her hands shook.

Still, Belladonna's laughter echoed.

It rose the skin on the back of Mattie's arms.

From down the hall, Gris Gris and Questa looked up, unmoved by her sudden appearance.

Rapping hard on the door with her knuckles, Mattie swallowed the ill sense that a terrible agreement had just been concluded. She would go to thieves as soon as permitted. She would speak with Remy, but not before she could try to reason with her charge on the other side of the door.

As Belladonna called for her to enter, Mattie thought of her children, her heart constricting with worry and fear: what had they become that it should fall to this?

—

Sunlight clotted in the curtains, washing the floors in dull ochre where pinpricks of light seeped through the thick damask. It made the shadows untrustworthy. Rogue blinked blearily against the heavy veil of sleep, scrubbing her face and propping herself up on her elbows.

How had she gotten here?

The thought woke her fully: Remy.

Ignoring the stiff straining of her muscles against the effort, the sheets bunching at her waist, she sat up. Her clothes felt sticky and a little damp from a mixture of sweat and dried swamp water, and her muscles twinged with the ache of being left in cold clothing for the duration she'd slept.

What time was it? She had no idea.

Kicking off the covers, Rogue slid from the large bed and padded across the floor to the covered windows. Remy had taken her boots off, she guessed, and left her in her own room in the Guild mansion. He hadn't bothered undressing her, for which she was at least partially relieved, but sleeping in wet, dirty clothes wasn't exactly her idea of comfor. At least the Cajun understood her limits.

"What a gentlemen," she muttered.

The sunset spilled in the room, rose-coloured and warm where it touched the exposed skin of her forearms and shoulders. No gloves, she noted. She'd lost them in the swamp. Wincing against the light, Rogue looked out over the dusk-drenched bayou. It was like the juice of a blood orange had been smeared across the sky — leaving a messy, watery red staining the tops of the trees.

She'd slept through the day. Rogue sighed; rubbing at her face and trying to ignore the persistent subconscious nagging that declared Remy had carried her to her room and put her to bed. She felt a little foolish that she'd fallen asleep on him out in the swamp, but beneath that, the steady, warm blossom of something comfortable insisted that it was all right. It had felt good for a time to be cared for.

She reigned in a small smile, lidding her gaze against the glare of twilight. Her fingers twined the tassels that lined the edge of the drapes, memorizing their texture.

Had she done the same to his hair before he'd coaxed her into slumber?

Would it be so bad if she had?

With the ghostly feeling of Remy's arms wrapped around her, his fingers kneading gently, working out the knots of tension coiled through her back, came the sort of nightmarish clarity that makes the heart stutter:

She could have hurt him.

It hadn't seemed like much of a concern when he'd held her so tenderly, but the knowledge that his shields had failed when they'd kissed was a serious problem.

There was also the awareness of his feelings towards his ex-wife, grazing lightly beneath the surface of her conscious thoughts.

She might've been Remy's three hundred and thirty eighth rebound for all she knew — another notch on a bedpost, another conquest to forget Belladonna. His feelings were confused and fading, which made it all the more difficult for her to understand what truly remained in his heart.

Remy said he'd kissed her. He'd announced it with the sort of pride that declared he'd one-upped her in their little battle of wills. Worse, he said he'd cared for her.

"Well, shit," she huffed, staring outside at nothing in particular.

He wasn't afraid of her powers, and to prove it, he'd tucked her against him, pressed her so close that she felt every ripple, every notch, and every indentation of the muscles in his chest.

A warmth spread through her belly at the thought, and to staunch the sensation, Rogue shut her eyes, flattening her palms against the cool glass. She forced herself to breathe evenly, inhaling through her mouth and exhaling through her nose.

It didn't help.

"Shit," she swore again, disbelief that she'd let her defences drop entirely when she was around him leaving her distracted.

She turned back to the room, unsure of what she should do. She was a stranger in a house full of criminals; a mutant amidst baseline humans who she put at risk since she no longer had her gloves. What if she went out and someone touched her by accident?

Part of her knew that this was an excuse: she wanted to avoid Remy.

Rogue grimaced, looking at her hands and the flecks of muddy brown still staining her bare forearms. She could shower and buy herself some time. There, she decided. That was a plan. She needed time to think without the swamp rat in the immediate vicinity. He had a very bad habit of clouding her judgement.

Hell, had she really fallen asleep in his arms?

Rogue shook herself, glancing at the discoloured bed sheets. Shower first, she decided, frowning at the huge, dried stains left on the linens. Swamp water on fourteen hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton. Remy clearly wasn't worrying about the damages done by leaving her to sleep in wet clothes.

She paused — the sight of the bed before her off in a way that felt as if reality was about to tilt and toss her off. Approaching the side of the bed where she hadn't slept, she found that the pillow was indented, the sheets creased, but not slept in. They were slept on.

Her mouth went dry. The covers were cool to the touch, the sheets remarkably soft beneath her fingers, but the knowledge that she hadn't slept alone remained:

Remy's stayed with her. Beside her. In bed.

Before she could contemplate the Joker tucked into the sheets, Rogue turned on her heel and marched to the bathroom, a searing blush burning her cheeks as she slammed the door after her.

—

"This is the reason why I don't like dealing with Tabitha." He punctuated the last word with his fist hitting the dash, the keypad proving useless to open the com lines with the Institute. It wasn't the machine's fault: rather, the girl at the end of the line was ignoring Iceman's efforts.

"Cool off, Iceman," Cyclops warned.

"That's so redundant it's almost funny," he shot back.

Bobby scrubbed at his face, weary with the lack of sleep. His teammates were in no better condition, though they remained vigilant after a night spent circling the city, awaiting clearance from the airfield to land.

Kitty bounced on the soles of her feet, hovering near the door. "Why aren't they back yet?" she asked.

Nearby, Jean shook her head with a frown.

"They've been delayed," she said. "They're on their way, but Kurt's teleportation is erratic. I've given them our coordinates, and they know Scott wants them to rendezvous before it gets dark."

"Is Wolverine with him?" Storm asked.

Jean cast a glance at Cyclops. "Yes, and from what I sense, he's not particularly happy about what they've uncovered. They will both be here momentarily."

"Vould it not be more effective if ve vere to establish a search perimeter?" Colossus asked. "Split up?"

"It has been more than twenty-four hours," Storm said. "Not only have we prolonged the mission considerably, but it would not be safe to continue without rest."

"If one-eye hadn't been so damned preoccupied with the legislative landing crap, maybe you wouldn't need to take a nap," Logan groused. His shoulders hunched as he stalked out from beneath the wing and into view of the jet's occupants. A wispy cloud of dark grey smoke trailed him, preceded by a defeated-looking Nightcrawler.

"Kurt?" Kitty asked, her voice an octave too high.

He sighed, his voice strained as he tried to find the right words to express himself. When he could not, he teleported to a seat near Cyclops. When Kitty tried to approach him, he merely shook his head, staring past out to the wide stretch of Louis Armstrong International's air field.

"Mr. Logan, what happened?" Kitty pressed.

"Why does Nightcrawler look like someone died?" Bobby asked.

Clearly, it was the wrong thing to say.

In a large puff of sulphuric-tinged smoke, Kurt was upon him. His blue fists twisted into Bobby's uniform, yanking him so close that his breath fogged with the cold. Kurt crouched over the seat, his feet straddling the armrests, his prehensile tail thrashing.

"Was bedeutet das?"

"Whoa!" Bobby yelped, icing up so quickly that part of Kurt's fingers frosted over. "Back off, man!"

"Nightcrawler!" Logan snarled.

Kurt turned slowly, his mouth twisted to bare his incisors. Yellow eyes darted around the cabin, until finally, drawing a shaky breath, he released Bobby.

"Es tut mir leid," he muttered under his breath, backing off. "I'm sorry," he ground out. "It's been a long day."

"And it'll be an even longer night for you if you don't get it under control," Logan growled. "Sit!" he ordered, and begrudgingly, Kurt turned and teleported back to his seat.

Kitty asked, "Did you find Rogue?"

Logan shook his head, keeping his eye trained on the blue mutant as if expecting another outburst.

"We were too late," Kurt muttered, wilting under Logan's scrutiny.

"What?" Kitty's voice rose another octave. "She's not… oh my god! Rogue's not dead?"

Colossus placed a hand on her shoulder as if to calm her.

"No, half-pint, Rogue's alive," Logan answered. "Got her scent all right, but Gumbo's got her mixed up in something bad." He nodded to the team's leaders. "I'm going back out there, see what I can find before the trail dies."

"She is still in the city?" Storm asked.

Logan nodded. "We ought to get to her before the police do, or worse."

"Worse?" Scott asked. "Wolverine, you need to be debriefed —"

"Later. Talk to the Elf. He'll give you the details."

Kurt swallowed, turning away.

"We tracked them all day," Logan continued. "But the Cajun's stink died out at the river. The blue one's nerves are worn out, so he stays. I'll be back before dawn."

Nightcrawler didn't acknowledge the statement.

"Jeannie? Take care of the kid. Half Pint, quit gaping. It'll be fine." He peered around them, and as an afterthought, Logan added, "You all look like hell." He stalked from the plane without another word.

In the fading light, Kurt's eyes shone a brighter shade of yellow as he glanced around his teammates, as if only acknowledging where he'd wound up for the first time.

"Storm?" Cyclops asked. "You'll accompany Wolverine."

The Weather Witch nodded, turning swiftly to follow. Leaving Logan to his own devices in the mood he appeared to be in was not prudent — not for anyone who crossed his path, and definitely not for Gambit. Perhaps with Storm's help, they would stave of an incident.

"Kurt?" Jean asked quietly. "Just relax, okay?"

He held up a hand, silently telling Jean he did not want his mind probed for the information. Slowly, his accent thickening with obvious grief, he began telling them what he'd seen.

—

The bathwater took on a milk-white cast, she'd sat in the tub so long.

The flesh of Rogue's knees, where they broke the surface, were dewy rose from the combination of the hot water and her vigorous scrubbing. There hadn't been the option of a shower, so she sat immersed up to the neck in the claw-footed tub, knowing full-well that the tips of her fingers were turning pruney the longer she refused to get out.

Getting out meant seeing the Cajun.

Getting out meant swallowing the ridiculous nervousness that had peaked not more than an hour ago, and facing the proverbial symphony of self-doubt, self-loathing, self-reprimand — and last but not least —self-restraint if she had to see him in the condition she was in.

She wrapped her fingers around the lip of the bathtub, gripping the porcelain like she'd drown if she let go too quickly.

A wet cloth hung over the side of the bath, and a bar of soap floated before her. She poked at it with her toe, watching it bob as she stewed — both literally and figuratively.

It hadn't been more than four days since the last time she'd been in this position; in a bathroom, prodding a bar of soap to see if she could fill it with kinetic charge. It felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then, and like Monday night, Rogue found herself thinking about Gambit again. Except, it wasn't quite in the same way.

She had let herself get coerced into taking an impromptu vacation, led on a wild goose chase for a stone she knew nothing about, for the sole reason that there was a sliver of hope that with it — like Remy — her powers would reach their plateau, and she'd gain complete control.

She had been attacked, seen two dead bodies, had her hopes dashed when they'd found the Botanica blown to bits, and had absorbed Remy not once, not twice, but three times in the span of a week.

He'd completely negated the efforts she'd exercised all year: not absorbing a soul. Keeping herself — and her powers — contained.

Gambit had managed to disarm her in less time than it took to realize what he'd accomplished. So much for strengthened resolve and all that other garbage Scott always talked about.

Her conscience twinged at the thought. She hadn't spoken to the X-Men since she'd called them from the phone booth in Virginia. It had been three days. She ought to get in touch, and soon, considering when they were left to their own devices, they tended to assume the absolute worst.

It wasn't like Remy was plotting to take over the world with her facilitating the conquest, but still, her emancipation could be easily misunderstood by those who didn't quite "get it." They just didn't understand what it was like to live like she did. None of them had any problems cozying up to each other; none of them ran the risk that they could kill another person with something as simple as a hug. Good intentions didn't mean plum dixie when you were the one responsible for putting someone in a coma.

Moreover, the X-Men didn't "get" Remy either. She did. A little. She thought? But for the most part, he was a riddle all unto himself.

What Rogue did understand was that Remy, as reluctant as he was to reveal too much of himself, had sought her out when his powers had been boosted. Previously married, his family's black sheep, an exile from his home; Rogue knew all that. It wasn't that difficult to empathize with, really, she just wished he was willing to give instead of forcing her to take those pieces of his past from him. It made the picture of the man she knew patchwork at best, and it made her feel like she was the thief in this relationship.

Wait.

Relationship?

Where had that come from?

Rogue felt the flush in her face, spreading quickly to the tips of her ears where it tingled.

"Ah'm so screwed," she breathed, vainly trying to ignore the million reasons that said it was a very, very bad idea to even consider it. Those ideas burst behind her eyes, a flurry of possible scenarios, many of which left her feeling hollowed out, used, and left discarded when Remy realized that the game wasn't fun anymore.

Shit. Had it stopped being fun even before she'd even met him?

How was this any worse, she asked herself.

She'd seen how easy it was for him to shift in personality. From seducer, to vindictive bastard, to the intense, driven mercenary who thought it was good fun to crack jokes with her in the midst of a fight with people who were trying to kill them. He was more of a rogue than she was, and Rogue had the distinct impression that he was just warming up.

Their scrap in the swamp that morning had practically been foreplay, for heaven's sake!

Rogue shuddered, though not unpleasantly, as she sank lower into the tub. Her chin dipped into the water, and she stared fixedly at her toes poking out of the placid surface at the far end.

In the simplest terms, she understood that he blamed himself for a lot of things that he still wasn't willing to share with her. The thought left her nettled. He'd been doing his best to convince her that he cared for her in whatever misguided way he was capable of, but truly, he'd missed the point: He'd be happy to receive if she was offering a little more than friendship, but he wasn't willing to share himself — at least, not in the way that would get her to trust him fully.

"Stupid swamp rat," she muttered to the empty bathroom, her voice sounding louder to her own ears, making her feel marginally crazier than she had been to begin with.

Maybe he couldn't share himself like that. Maybe he'd trained himself not to. That would explain the offhanded way he responded when she'd tried to bring up Belladonna. It didn't feel like dishonesty, just… an absent bit of information. As if in not revealing that part of his past, he could pretend it didn't exist.

Rogue couldn't touch anyone physically, but Remy wouldn't let himself be touched emotionally. They really were alike in some ways.

At the end of it all, she found she really didn't know that much more about him, and the thought unnerved her almost as much as the silly streak of acrobatics her stomach did when she thought about him sleeping next to her all night… in the same bed.

She'd slept with Remy.

"Oh my gawd," Rogue moaned, squeezing her eyes shut and submerging. Rogue held her breath, her ears filling with the impenetrable, comforting hum of quiet. A bubble escaped her nose, and the underwater silence pressed in around her — but it didn't stop the incessant, roundabout chatter in her head.

He was trying to break her down, get by her defences. He'd said he would, but Rogue had been so adamant about fighting him, it had sopped her energy. The one instant she'd let her guard down, he'd waltzed straight in.

She held her breath until her lungs began to burn.

Reluctantly, she admitted to herself again that it had felt good in his arms. It felt even better knowing that regardless of the inherent risk in being close to her, Remy wasn't giving up. It would be a heartening thought — flattering even — if he didn't act like such a cornpoke jackass swamp rat with a nasty chip on his shoulder when she'd tried to give him a real taste of his own medicine.

Her vision spotted with black dots, and Rogue shot back up, gasping for air before she drowned herself.

He could dish it, but he certainly couldn't take it.

She pushed the hair back from her eyes.

The thought emboldened her. What had it been? She strained to remember: when she'd said she was going to go back to Bayville, he'd started acting funny. Remy had fed her the same lines that he'd probably used on a hundred other women, and because of that, she'd retaliated. They'd snapped at each other consistently until that morning when she'd woken from the dream of Julien's murder.

As sorry a state as it was to resort to physical combat, the fight had helped. Knocking him into the swamp would have been a promise well kept, if he hadn't taken her down with him.

Rogue sniggered, the sound echoing off the walls.

If they were this bad facing off with one another, she couldn't imagine the possibilities if they actually teamed up. The X-Men wouldn't stand a chance. She grinned, thinking of Scott going apoplectic at Gambit's antics. The pair of them could probably damage the Danger Room enough to get them out of training for at least a week.

Rogue sighed, slapping the water with her hand, finally fed up with the train of thought. She was supposed to be angry with him, but why in tarnation could she not stop smiling?

She had to call the Institute, just to check in. Doing that meant getting out of the tub, and getting on with facing him. She could do it, she decided, swallowing the nervous bubble of apprehension that accompanied the thought. She would just avoid him as long as possible until they figured out what to do about finding the stone. She would not mention the whole covert sleeping together thing.

Rogue stood, snatching a nearby towel of a small rack near the tub.

Her legs, thankfully, felt a little less wobbly.

She could do this.

The Cajun had nothing on her.

Not a thing, she assured herself, drying as she walked, and collecting a thick, white, fluffy bathrobe from off the back of the door. Her clothes were ruined from the impromptu swim in the bayou, but Mercy was nearly her size. Rogue supposed she might not mind it if she borrowed clothes. And if she could find the girl's room without running into Remy on the way? All the better.

Rogue ignored the nervous flutter in her stomach, wrapping the robe around herself and cinching the belt tightly at her waist. Her wet hair hung over her shoulders, dripping into the collar. She snatched up the towel and went to work on it, not even minding the stubborn way it began to curl around her face.

He may have been truthful about caring for her. Maybe, just maybe it was genuine, she thought, but that didn't mean she had to moon over him. Then again, Remy may have been trying to coax his way into her heart and bed too — but then why hadn't he tried to make a move on her that morning? He was crazy enough to try something like that again.

Again.

Rogue stopped fussing with her hair. The thought sent a warm wash of hope through her chest.

Staring at her reflection in the large mirror over the sink, she drew a shaky breath.

Would he stick around if they actually found the stone and she had the chance to use it?

Would it even be permanent? She didn't even know the extent of her powers, much less what that damned rock could do to her — but if it meant that there was the possibility of not being so damned afraid of herself, she'd leap at the chance.

She wanted it, she decided suddenly. She craved control with every weakened muscle, every inch of her deadly, cursed body that she could lay her hands on.

That Remy could lay his hands on.

Rogue flushed brightly, biting down hard on her lower lip, embarrassed that she could even think it. Before her imagination could drag her away, she swore, once, loudly. Why the hell didn't this place have a shower with a cold-water tap?

She opened the bathroom door, still grinning a little to herself and working the towel through her damp hair.

"Bonsoir, chére."

Rogue froze, the towel dropping limply in her hands. It slapped to the ground a moment later as she faced the intruder:

Gambit stood in the doorway, his heel propped against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest, looking particularly smug.

"Don't ya ever knock?" she snapped, feeling the cool air coming from the hallway wrap around her legs, cooling her toes on the warm wood floors. How long had he been standing there?

He cocked an eyebrow, his gaze lingering a shade too long on the v of skin left exposed by her bathrobe. Rogue glared, yanking the soft terrycloth tighter to her chest, and Remy smirked.

"Pardonnez moi." Bemused, he backed into the hall, shutting the door before him.

Rogue waited, glaring at the now-closed door and trying to swallow the fresh, anxious ripple of surprise.

Three sharp raps resounded not more than a second later through the oak, and she forced her features into a scowl.

"Ah'm dreamin'," she said, exasperated.

"Non, I'm as real as they get, p'tit," Remy yelled through the door. "But if you need a pinch to make sure you're awake, y' best wait for me otherwise I'm gonna feel mighty gypped. Can I come in now?"

The door creaked open a few inches, and Gambit stuck his head in, grinning. "I brought un p'tit souper. Bit of a snack?"

Rogue had just enough time to catch the quick flash of teeth, the dimpling of Remy's left cheek, before he ducked around the corner and retrieved a tray of food. Dinner — breakfast, really — considering the hours they were keeping.

"C'mon." He tilted his head to the bed, giving her a bemused once-over when she didn't move; half-glaring and half... something else.

It occured to here that she'd never seen Gambit wear anything other than his uniform.

Remy set the tray down at the foot of the bed.

"Quoi?" he asked, fully aware that she was gaping at the worn-in denims slung off his hips, and the tight, white t-shirt that appeared painted across his shoulders. He fixed her with a smile so sly it was vaguely obscene.

Rogue cleared her throat, trying to restore her mettle to its original, disaffected state.

"Food's over here, Roguey," he hummed, his accent thickening. "Course, you can take a bite outta Remy anytime y' like."

Busted.

The shag of auburn hair that fell into his eyes was longer than she'd remembered, but she hadn't expected the sudden, brash compulsion to run her bare fingers through it to see if it was as soft as it looked.

He was enjoying her appraisal a little too much.

"Ya stayed with me," she accused, keenly aware of the burn she felt in her face as she stalked around to the opposite side of the bed, putting as much distance between them as she could.

Remy shrugged, flopping gracefully and kicking his legs up. His feet were bare, the t-shirt riding up just a little to expose a sliver of toned muscle. She tore her gaze away, settling herself on the edge of the bed.

"Was cold in m' room." Displaying a lazy, slow flash of perfect teeth, the smile he fixed her with was a little bit wolfish. "Besides, I didn't want you t' wake up in the middle of the day alone. 'Specially not if y' had another dream."

Rogue tried to scoff, the sound clipped. "Ah'm a big girl, Remy. Ah can take care of myself."

"I know, chére. Not offering to fight your subconscious battles, only t' be here when you need waking up. Seemed like you appreciated the gesture, at least." He shrugged. Out of the corner of her eye, Rogue caught the movement; saw the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Considerin' how comfortable y' were and all."

"Damnit, Remy!" she snapped, turning to face him fully.

He smiled; a full-blown, megawatt beam of a grin that brought the heat back to her cheeks. He motioned for her to come closer as he dragged the tray between them.

"Ever heard the expression make love, not war?" he teased. "S' fine, p'tit. I'm just messin' with you t' enjoy the expression on your face a lil' longer." In a conspiratorial whisper, he added, "It's a rare treat t' see such a belle femme the colour of a tomato."

"Hush up, Cajun," she muttered. "This tomato would sooner chuck ya out a window if ya don't stop runnin' that mouth of yours."

He chuckled, lifting the covers from the food. "C'mon, beb. Gotta get some energy. We got a long night ahead of us."

The smell of pan-fried rice calas, andouille sausage, and sweet potato greeted her. Remy lifted another cover, displaying the thickest, brownest gumbo that she'd ever seen spooned over a bed of rice — chunks of carefully sliced okra and shrimp topping it off. Finally, he nudged a large, steaming cup towards her. Taking a sip, she nearly moaned.

"Chicory coffee," she breathed. Her stomach rumbled in appreciation. "Who'd ya have ta bribe ta whip this up?"

He cocked an eyebrow. "What good's a man if he don't know what the inside of a kitchen looks like? Really, Rogue." He tsked her, handing her a fork. "Y' come to my house, y' gonna eat my cooking."

If the utensil was a peace offering, she might've hesitated further, but there was no guile: careful not to brush his fingers, she took the fork, noting that Remy wore gloves despite his civvies — the same pair with the oddly placed finger holes, his wrists cuffed off with two large leather bands.

"Go on," he encouraged her, waiting.

Rogue took a bite of the sausage, her head rolling back on her shoulders as she groaned.

Remy smirked, satisfied. She could feel his gaze on her, but unwilling to acknowledge just how awkward it'd be if she played into it, Rogue didn't look up, choosing instead to tend to her empty stomach.

Halfway into the gumbo, she looked up, licking her lips and tasting the rich roux and spicey grit. It looked like mud, but tasted like heaven.

"What do ya mean we've got a long night? What are we doin?" she asked between bites.

"There's a certain stone we need t' be getting our hands on," he said. "But first, we gotta find the thing." He shrugged, one-shouldered. "I might have a lead."

Her chewing slowed. "Are ya suggestin' that we're gonna steal it?"

"Think of it like… acquiring stealthily." Skewering the bite of sausage Rogue had been aiming at, Remy grinned around the mouthful. While the silence stretched, she couldn't help but notice the way his mouth moved. Gaze half-lidded, he returned the favor.

She restrained the impulse to fidget, though it proved downright difficult to tear her attention away. It was a pretty mouth, she decided, measuring the slow trail of his tongue as he licked the sauce from the corner. Not pretty in the girlish sense, but it was a full mouth, with an impossibly soft lower lip. Idly, she wondered if after the spicy food, would his kiss burn with it. She repressed a nervous shudder, trying to force the thought from her mind, and failing just the same.

"Chérie?"

Shit. He'd been talking.

"I said," he continued. "Lapin's gonna do some research while I do a bit of recon. We're gonna set everything up the way we normally do; run some scans on the records before we do anything in the field."

"How —" Rogue paused, clearing her throat and focusing on the food, anywhere but on his mouth, his jaw, his eyes. "How do ya normally set things up?"

"We got the equipment downstairs. Lapin's a genius when it comes t' computers, if he can't find this Maman Brigitte femme, then she's a figment of of my imagination."

"Ah know your imagination's real vivid and all, but Ah sure don't think ya hallucinated that entire thing."

"Non, but something doesn't sit right about it. Folks in city can disappear if need be — plenty of cracks to fall through if you're slippery, if you follow me."

"Guess that's why she liked ya so much."

"Same reason you do, huh, chére?"

Rogue nearly choked on the forkful of gumbo she'd just bit down on. Coughing, she scowled at him, her eyes tearing as she reached for her cup of coffee to wash it down.

Remy grinned, dangling his fork off his fingers and munching as if her reaction was exactly what he'd been angling for.

Rogue favoured him with her most vicious glare. It lasted all of ten seconds before something sparked in Remy's eyes; the pupils glowed, flecks of lighter scarlet mingling with the red, turning his irises to embers. They almost danced; a firelight glow that brightened his entire face.

She found she couldn't deny it: mischief looked good on him.

"Don't try that charm crap with me again," she muttered. Their shared plates became her only focus while the slow, smouldering gleam of his gaze lit a blush in her neck that crept all the way into her hairline.

The silence grew, punctuated only by the light clink of cutlery and the occasional interference of his hands as their utensils crossed when he reached over to get a bite of something on her side of the tray. Remy might have been perfectly at ease, but the knot in Rogue's stomach was tightening, turning her hesitant and awkward, knowing what his quiet appreciation was doing to her.

It was as if an unspoken agreement had passed between them — a sliver of shared understanding that made the air between them thicken. For only two feet of space, it was much too far a distance, and still, not close enough.

If they'd been playing a game of cards, she thought, she'd be holding on to the worst possible hand imaginable: If she folded now, if she cashed in, she'd leave the game with no less than she started with. If they kept going the way they were, admitting that she cared for him meant she actually gave a damn about the stakes they were playing for.

The wager was her own damned heart as much as it was about her powers.

"So," Remy said after a stretch, his voice steady, though a notch lower than before. She found she was unable to do more than glance at him without feeling horribly embarrassed for not countering his statement. "What are y' gonna do, when we find the gem?"

Rogue set her fork down, pushing away from the small tray to lean against the headboard. Pushing away from him, more like, with just a shred of reluctance in doing so.

"Ah'm gonna squeeze the hell out of that stone," she said under her breath. "Ah'm gonna hold on ta that damned thing until Ah know that it works."

He nudged the tray into her knee, sliding down on the bed so that his shoulders were propped against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him.

"And then?"

Rogue sucked in a breath. "How long did ya have ta touch it for?"

He frowned, his eyebrows furrowed. Even though the expression should have been comical, the focus was nearly unnerving. "What are y' getting' at?"

"In your memory, the one ya gave me, ya touched the gem for a few seconds. Ah was thinkin' that maybe if ya held on longer, if ya hadn't blacked out… when ya touched me, Ah wouldn't have absorbed ya. Maybe a few more moments would have pushed your powers to the next threshold."

"Y' don't think whatever change the gem can affect in you's gonna last," he surmised. "You think that if I hadn't passed out when I did and let go of the stone, m' shields wouldn't have failed me last night. You think I didn't hold on long enough t' make the changes permanent."

Unable to stop the defeated plummet her heart took at his acknowledgement, she nodded.

"Would it matter?" he asked. "Whether it was for a few days, or forever, chére — There are some things you can't pass up when the opportunity comes a knockin'," he said. "Would you rather live y' life not knowin' what coulda been because you weren't sure? Merde, fille. No one knows the way the cards are gonna be dealt. You just gotta play the hand."

"Or keep an ace up your sleeve."

She felt his smile. It was a warmth that bathed her left side in a delicious afterglow. Unable to help herself, she faced him, taking in the full effect of that radiant gleam.

"Y' know me better den y' think." He nodded, both impressed and pleased at the same time. Rogue flushed, grinning a little to herself. Maybe there was some truth to that statement.

"The Professor said that there might be a chance that my powers are tied in psychically," she continued quietly, feeling the shift of the bed beneath her as Remy moved the tray to their feet, edging closer to her so that his knees brushed hers, sitting up further. She peered down at him, only to see that he was studying her face, listening intently. "Telecognitive was the word he used. It ain't the same thing as Jean's telepathic abilities, but there's a mental aspect there that he thinks Ah can use ta my advantage."

"What do y' mean?" Remy asked.

Rogue exhaled, wincing with a small, self-deprecating grin. "He said my head's like a filing cabinet. Every time Ah absorb someone, that part of them Ah tuck away gets locked in there. If it's a mutant, and Ah use their powers, it gets depleted after a while. There just ain't anything left ta use after a stretch. Professor Xavier said that… when Ah get control, Ah might be able to tap inta those abilities again; call up whoever Ah absorbed at will."

"Pick and choose," he supplied. "S' like a buffet."

"Thanks, Cajun," she said wryly, though not unkindly.

"You can go around and absorb whoever y' like t' test it out, but that's a secondary consideration, isn't it?" Remy asked.

"To what?"

He leaned in. "Y' gonna be able t' smack me bare-handed."

She peered down at him, surprised and a little taken aback. "Is that what ya want me ta do, first thing? Deck ya? Remy, Ah…" What was she supposed to say to that? How could he even think it?

Rogue shut her mouth, stumped. The realization hit her like a freight train. She wanted to touch him all right, but the impulse that came to mind first and foremost had nothing violent about it.

The blush prickled across her cheeks.

"Ya gonna be there with me?" she asked.

The brilliant flare of crimson in his eyes should have been answer enough.

He didn't hesitate. "No doubt. No question."

"Even if Belladonna comes waltzing around the corner?" she asked, masking her uncertainty with the thin cover of humour.

"Mignonne, if Belladonna came waltzin' anywhere, it'd be safe to assume there was probably some very bad shit about t' go down," he said. "I'd be runnin' with you thrown over m' shoulder, no less."

"Gee, thanks, Tarzan. Why don't ya just drag me by the hair?"

"And miss the opportunity for heroics? Naw. You still think I'm a criminal, gotta convince you of the opposite somehow." He afforded her a cheeky wink.

"Ah think you're a deviant," she corrected. "A little too insane for your own good, maybe, but Ah think Ah can deal with that."

Remy's eyebrows shot up. When Rogue glanced up, she found his smile reached his eyes: turning the irises to embers.

"Mebbe I'm gonna have t' stick around when this is all over," he said mildly. "Lead you on over t' the dark side and show dem X-Men of yours how t' have a little fun, n'est ce pas?"

His expression betrayed him, however: Remy looked as if he might start doing back flips.

Rogue cleared her throat. "You would be welcome, Remy… at the Institute." Trying to make it sound offhanded, and failing, she fumbled onward: "If ya can't stay here that is, because of everything."

"Charles made me an offer once, when we thought Magneto had died fighting Apocalypse."

Rogue stiffened, sitting up a little straighter against the headboard. The Professor had tried to recruit him? Piotr had come back after some time spent in Russia, taking care of his mother and sister, but she hadn't known about Remy.

Remy glanced at her askance, his expression unreadable. It was as if he knew exactly the thought pattern she was processing: he had an opportunity, but he'd declined it. It stung, but wrestling with the feeling of rejection before it could become rejection was somehow worse.

Not wanting to prolong the torture, allowing it to grow into something that would keep her up later thinking about it, she asked finally, "Why didn't ya take it?"

Not meeting her gaze, Remy dangled the fork between his fingers, examining it as if it were the most interesting thing on earth. "Familial obligation had t' come first."

Rogue blinked away her surprise, pushing the breakfast tray past her feet and drawing her legs beneath her as she turned to stare. "You coulda come back with us," she said. "Ya could have gotten away from all this."

"I know," he said, peering up at her through his fringe. From where Remy had slumped beside her, she towered over him, and not for the first time, Rogue was aware of the acute discomfort caused by sitting so near to him. Idly, he reached over, fingers brushing against her leg, causing her to jump, and tugged lightly on the belt of her robe. He drew the end to his stomach, flipping the terrycloth between his fingers. Remy didn't drop his gaze, though Rogue was hyper aware of his fingers working over the belt, along with the light tugging at her midsection that accompanied his idle hands.

"But at the time, I was trying t' fix things," he said.

"Even though they kicked ya out?"

He nodded. "Even though."

"Why is it so important to ya?"

Remy fixed her with the same level stare, his gaze unwavering as he took her measure. Her gaze dropped to his hands, working over the end of the robe's belt, and then back to his face. He gave no impression that he was thinking of a cagey response. Fighting not to turn away, Rogue waited.

She always seemed to be waiting for him.

"Ya walk away from everythin', but not this life."

"Can't walk away from the things that make you who y' are," he continued for her. "Try to, and sometimes you make it out with a scrape or two, but the getaway ain't always so clean." He paused. "I left a mess behind for Jean Luc to mop up. It's my fault the war between the Guilds continues. I might not like Jean Luc too much, but he's still my family. There's honour in that — in seeing things through to their bitter end."

"Ah thought there wasn't honour among thieves."

"It's a unique sort of thing. Rare commodity." Remy shifted, sitting up a little straighter so that if Rogue shrank down into the pillows, they would be at eye-level. She did.

"Are ya still tryin' ta… you know… fix stuff?"

After a moment, he nodded.

"Don't lie ta me, swamp rat," she warned, watching his expression for anything that would belie what he was telling her.

"Merde, fille! What's it gonna take? Do I have to kiss you again and let you see for yourself that I'm tellin' the truth?" he asked, only half-joking.

Stomach dropping at least two inches at the thought, she opened her mouth to warn him off the idea — to tell him he was tempting fate, but she stopped short: her attention snagged on the way his gaze dropped to her mouth, as if he were considering it.

It wasn't a particularly bad sensation, but it did a number to the composure she managed to maintain since he'd shown up in her doorway. "Ah didn't mean that as an invitation —"

An infuriating twist of his mouth curved his lips upwards. She watched it happen, too.

"I'm kiddin'," he murmured, leaning closer. Rogue pulled backwards in the same motion, her head hitting the headboard with a sharp thud.

Wincing, she managed, "Ah wouldn't risk it." Balling her hands into her robe sleeves, Rogue used her knuckles to push at his shoulder. "Lordy, why do ya have ta be so damned persistent?"

"Why do you have to regress each time we take a step forwards?" he challenged. "Let's not go back to that, chérie. I know that it hurts to keep denyin' it to yourself, so please… clear the air with me, just this once."

Her breath caught. The scent of his cologne was a rich swirl that filled her mouth. She shut it promptly, not liking where this was going. They didn't have the stone yet, which meant she couldn't touch him without running the risk of causing him some serious pain. It figured he'd be masochistic enough to try anyway.

"We're friends, swamp rat. That's it. Ah think that's enough," she forced the words out despite the bitter aftertaste.

"There benefits included with the title?" he teased.

Admittedly, it was getting increasingly difficult to stay pissed at him when he made her insides squirm whenever he looked at her.

"'Don't lie t' me,' river rat," he parroted, his voice husky despite the obvious effort to unsettle her.

"Don't make me make that decision, Remy," she returned. "Ya know Ah can't." Not yet, she added mentally.

"Didn't stop y' this morning, so why now?" he returned.

"Why can't you tell me what ya need ta do so badly ta make up for what ya done?" she shot back.

He fell silent, scrutinizing her. After a moment, he looked down at his hands, at the belt of her robe pressed between his thumb and index finger. He tugged on it with an ounce greater insistence.

"Why's it such a concern to you?" he asked. "Good Southern gal like yourself would mind her business, if she recalled how things were done this side of the Mason Dixie."

She bristled. "Ah don't give my trust blindly, Cajun. Ya gotta give me a reason ta have faith in you." It was the truth.

Fine. She wanted him. She could admit that to herself. It didn't mean she had to tell him that, though. If he was serious, he'd better be willing to run the gamut. There had to be something backing his advances, something solid so that she could understand what it was he was after.

"I'm not your mother." It sent a shiver down her spine, understanding how quickly his demeanour could change. She shook it off, trying to be discreet and failing. He noticed. "Of that I guarantee, Rogue."

"I know," she said finally, and with only a drop of hesitation, she placed a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. "And Ah'm not another person you can use ta put your past behind you."

There it was, thought Rogue, in a nutshell. Remy's history in the Guild was a huge problem for him, so much so that it would be a problem for them both if he couldn't get beyond it. Nevermind what "it" was.

Her touch was feather-light, uncertain, and just as quickly, Rogue thought better of it and attempted to pull her hand back. Remy was quicker, snagging the cuff of her robe and drawing her back to him gently. She didn't fight it as he twined his fingers around her wrist, pulling the sleeve down to cover her hand as he placed it on his chest, over his heart.

"I know." He said it like a promise. Something burned behind his eyes; an inscrutable determination that Rogue couldn't tear away from, though she tried. "And believe me, if I could tell you…" He trailed off, sitting up though not breaking his gaze, and not releasing her hand as he slid his fingers between hers through the terrycloth. "If I could..."

"But ya won't."

"Chére, you've got your own darkness to worry about. Let me have mine."

Beneath her hand, the steady rhythm of his heart was strong, steady, and even. It didn't falter, and his gaze stayed level. He was telling the truth in the simplest terms without really telling her anything. It hurt. As much as she didn't understand his intentions, he didn't trust her with his past. Maybe it hurt too much. Maybe he was ashamed of it. Maybe — maybe behind all his swagger, Remy was afraid of who he'd been, and maybe facing it so that he could become the man he was trying to be was the trial.

"There's more than what Ah saw than just that memory of Belladonna." She didn't phrase it as a question, knowing that with the slight increase of his pulse, it was true.

Remy didn't respond, his face a perfect, neutral mask that gave no indication of just how bad it could be; just how many horrors lurked behind those red eyes — Many, Rogue guessed, and some were undoubtedly fresher than others.

"Battle scars?" she asked.

"Something like that."

She pressed no further, though she shifted her weight a little, leaning fractionally closer to him so that she could sit without toppling into his lap. Remy offered no sign that he was ready to release her hand. Her shoulder brushed his, drawing his gaze away, to the arm she supported herself with, and to the slight dip of the robe at her neckline.

"Some scars you can't see," he said, his gaze drawing a searing line over her exposed collarbone, the column of her throat, and coming to rest on her mouth for a second longer than he should have. "Not on the skin." It was almost a whisper the sound was so hoarse. He cleared his throat, and slowly, his other arm snaked out, slipping to her waist in a movement so fluid Rogue only registered it once she felt the heat of his hand on her hip.

"Ah keep mine hidden too," she said weakly. It brought the heat to her face, or perhaps knowing that Remy's touch was slowly sliding around to her back, drawing her forwards, her knees sliding over his as he turned beneath her. "But Ah don't punish myself for it half as much as ya do."

The robe, though it was long, was slowly slipping apart over her legs where it caught below Remy's knee.

"Not bein' able t' be close t' y', chére — that's punishment enough," he murmured, his breath a slight puff against her mouth.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widening as she understood:

"Oh, no. Remy, I am not your penitence."

That's what he had meant when he'd said he was atoning: helping her gain control — finding the stone — was his way of repenting for the things he'd done.

"I'm sorry, Rogue." His eyes shone, a brilliant shade of ruby that slivered her defences. He knew what he'd been doing all along. He'd told her, and Rogue had listened — but she hadn't really heard him. It appeared he wanted to say more, but he stopped himself.

Suddenly, it didn't matter. His past, what it was exactly she'd been trying to force out of him all this time — those dark things that lurked just beyond the thin film of his freshest memories — those burdens, whatever they were, no longer mattered:

Through her, he thought he could make it better.

"What do friends do if they can't show each other their hurts, mignonne?" he asked, settling next to her, their legs intertwined.

He'd swaddled her in the robe so that he could hold her to him without risking contact. It was precarious — dangerous even — and yet…

She fisted her hand into his shirt through the robe sleeve and shook her head, not trusting her voice entirely to remain even. It was bittersweet, knowing what he meant to do, knowing that even though he was helping himself release the things that had caused him so much pain, he'd be helping her too.

"Ah don't think they're really friends ta begin with," she said. His breath caressed the shell of her ear. "They're much more."

She sniffed, laughing nervously, and patted down the twisted fabric of his t-shirt. His hand slipped to her wrist, holding it loosely to him, no longer afraid that she would try to tear away.

He had her.

"But they understand each other, non?" he asked, his head dipping low and his mouth nearly brushing her jaw. Rogue shut her eyes, the skin on her legs erupting in goosebumps. Damn.

He'd gotten her good.

"Sometimes." It came out as little more than a puff of air, so quiet that it was nearly lost beneath the shift of the sheets below them as Remy turned her, tucking her legs between them, her feet catching in the linens. Gingerly, she moved them so that her heels rested on his opposite side, her calves brushing his lap, and the robe collecting below her, riding ever higher up her legs.

"What about the rest of the time?" he asked, his hair brushing her cheek as she felt him move to look at her face.

"It's a gamble," she managed.

Her eyes fluttered open. Remy released her hand, slowly dropping his palm to hover over the expanse of exposed knee in front of him.

"Are you willing t' try your luck with me?" he asked.

His fingers were steady, but so close to her skin that she could feel the heat radiating from his palm. Fear lanced through her at the sight, but she didn't move. His mouth was at exactly the right level to kiss. She left her hand on his chest, fingers working their way out of the sleeve and pressing him backwards to a safer distance. It did nothing, other than to serve as territory for wandering fingers. It wasn't possible to have pectorals that hard. She blushed again, her lips parting to suck in a sharp breath. She couldn't seem to get enough air.

"I don't know what's happenin' to me, Rogue. I don't know how long the effects of the stone will last, but you've gotta understand me when I say that it wouldn't matter either way. Powers or no, girl — extra level of protection or not."

"Ah thought about it." He was so close. It was just like the cemetery, but there was no challenge to it this time. It was an open invitation.

Awe hell, she thought, pressing her knees together, flinching at the ripple of warmth that flooded her limbs, making her mouth dry and her limbs heavy.

"Maybe it's not the stone at all, or how long ya held onto it. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered. It could be me," she said. Her voice wouldn't stay steady. "Ah've touched you more than Ah've touched anyone in a year. Maybe it's me," she repeated, uncertain. "Maybe Ah'm takin' the edge off your powers."

"So I go back to the way I was before. Does it matter? I don't need to be able to blow up leaves if it means I could be close to you like this, just one more time." He wet his lips. His heart hammered beneath her fingers. The sensation was intoxicating.

"One kiss," he said, his voice hoarse. "Just one, chére — all a joker asks to ease his heart and mind, because I can't help but think that if you hated it the first time, you wouldn't be here with me now."

"Ah didn't hate it," she said quietly, the sound catching. "Ah hate that Ah hurt ya. Ah made ya run, and there wasn't anything Ah could do about it other than let ya go."

"Don't go takin' the blame for me," he said warningly. "You didn't make me do anything. You did nothing wrong at all."

It was difficult to breathe with him so close. Still, his hand hovered, caressing the air just over her thighs. She watched his fingers, both with caution and the plummeting sensation that if she moved so much as an inch, the fingers exposed by his oddly cut gloves would graze skin. Would she absorb him? She didn't know. The thought excited her as much as she feared it.

"Why aren't ya afraid of me?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Why doesn't being this close ta me scare ya?"

She was stalling, drawing it out in the same way that the tightening in her belly was turning into a pleasurable pain. Remy shifted, his gaze trained on hers once more; the red of his irises had darkened, the pupils widened with want. She wondered if hers looked the same to him. Rogue swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Remy's lips were achingly close.

"I'm more afraid of what you do to me already, rather than what your powers could," he said, a new strain in his tone she hadn't heard before — as if it hurt him to hold back.

She felt it beneath her hand on his chest, a vibration so low it could be mistaken for the purr of a large cat.

"You're no different than anyone, Rogue," he continued. "Other than the fact that you make it extremely difficult to focus on anything else when you're nearby. I don't see you as anything but normal, and I'm not gonna treat you any different because you've got something special in your bones. I'm just gonna treat you, if you let me."

"It's in my head," she said quietly, her voice strained. "That's where the problem is."

"I'm asking for the whole package," he replied, his mouth hovering desperately close to hers.

"Ah'll hurt ya," she argued. "Ah done it once, what's ta say Ah won't again?"

"It's a grim thought, chére — but I can think of a million different things I'd rather live without than not knowing what coulda been because I passed on the chance. It's the sorta pain that don't go away — not knowin'. I take my chances."

There was more to this than just them; than just their powers and consolidating old debts. It meant she'd relinquish a part of herself that she kept locked up, barred away, and safe from possible injury.

What damages was he capable of if she let him have that part of herself?

"It's a good sorta pain, Roguey." A smile tugged at his mouth, fading fast.

She knew that kind of pain. It was sharper than any knife and more attractive than anything she'd ever known before. It was the sort of sadistic craving that could do nothing but sting. Rogue was certain now that it was the best sort of ache.

She swallowed, her elbow buckling. Remy caught her between the shoulder blades, easing her gently to the bed. Her heartbeat caught, faltering as she felt the press of his palm on her thigh. Rogue forced herself to bite down on her lower lip to stifle a gasp, as if by not breathing, she could force control over her mutation. She exhaled a moment later, shakily, as she realized she felt nothing more than the press of his gloves.

No fingers. No skin.

No control.

"The things I'd do to be inside you," he murmured, leaning over her, his arm supporting his weight. Rogue flushed, her eyes widening with the admission. Had he always been so bold? Seeing her shocked expression, he chuckled, correcting himself: "Inside y' head."

"Ya done a fine job of wormin' your way in there so far," she breathed, unable to uncoil the thick knot of tension that drew tight at her core with his words.

"But I don't know any more or any less than what y' give me, chére." His hand moved, dragging up the expanse of exposed thigh, bunching the thick terrycloth at her hip. Gently, he pulled it back in place, covering her modesty without dropping his gaze from her face.

"You either, Cajun," she breathed, swallowing as she felt the press of his fingers once more, sliding over her hip to her waist, her ribs, brushing over her arm and sliding down from her shoulder, across her chest and beneath the lapel of the robe. If she flinched, it was involuntary; accompanied by the low, ardent throb that made the muscles in her stomach tighten. There was an intimacy to the caress. Though he didn't press his hands to her breast, he elicited a shudder from her just the same.

"What can I give you?" Remy asked, his voice throaty. Slowly, his hand moved down her sternum, resting on her heart. "Tell me, Rogue."

Her eyes half-shut, Remy hovered over her. She felt the weight of his leg slide between hers, the soft brush of worn denim against her bare shins, the warmth of his body as he slid over her, sinuous and demanding. He smiled, a slow rush of warmth accompanying the heated glow of his eyes as he settled against her, making her breath catch.

God, this was so dangerous, she thought.

Why in hell was it turning her on?

She didn't have an answer. She couldn't. She wouldn't ask for it.

Rogue breathed deeply, finally realizing that her arms were flopped out to either side of her head. Her fingers flexed, unconsciously yearning to spread over his broad shoulders, to feel the waves of muscle down his back, and to wrap into his hair. She wanted to feel the roughness of the stubble on his jaw, to rub her thumb against the small patch of auburn below his lower lip. She wanted to run her fingers against his mouth, that soft, inviting cup tinted with the rush of blood below the surface. She wanted to drink from him, taste him again. Had she already forgotten his flavour?

Rogue wet her lips, shifting below him and deciding as she arched further into his hand that nothing that felt this good could be bad… and to hell with it if it was.

Did he feel the quickness of her pulse? Did he know that her breaths were getting shorter the closer he came?

"We have t' know, chérie — if it'll last."

"Remy." It was nearly a moan — not quite, but close. "If Ah could touch ya the way your touchin' me now, even if it was only for a few minutes — Ah swear Ah'd take that chance."

"Y' want it, p'tit?"

She nodded. Remy's eyes danced, burning so brightly that she almost wanted to turn away. Rogue didn't. If he could watch her face through this, she'd watch his.

"Ah want control," she whispered, feeling his hand slide lower, tracing a heated course over her stomach to rest over her bellybutton.

"What are y' gonna do when y' get it, Rogue?" he asked for the second time that night, his tone laden with the heaviness of suggestion, and the sweet, narcotic lull of desire. She could practically taste it on his breath as he leaned over her mouth, lips grazing hers and making her shudder. She drew backwards, her arms coming up to rest on his shoulders. She turned her head to the side and exposed her throat, avoiding his mouth while she still could.

Bad idea.

"Stop teasin' me, Remy," she whispered, hating herself and wanting him just the same.

She felt his lips; the hot, swirling press of his breath against her collarbone. It was light and moist, a kiss so quick that it was over and done even before she turned back to him.

The grin he favoured her with could have melted every ice flow in Antarctica.

Lazily, he cocked an eyebrow. "I haven't even started teasin' you, mignonne."

"Did you just…?"

A small conspiratorial smile. "You feel that?"

Rogue sucked in a shaky breath. He'd kissed her, and she hadn't absorbed him. Nothing. She racked her brain, searching desperately for a whisper of something — a memory, a thought that was too cocky to be one of her own. There was nothing.

She nodded, her eyes wide. Remy's fingers twined casually in her hair, the other hand moving beneath the lapel, using the robe as a cover to cup the side of her face. That was as close to being careful as he was willing to get.

"The way I see it, last night might've been a fluke. Maybe it just takes a bit more concentration on my part to hold up the shields. Maybe…" he breathed, brushing the corner of her mouth. "You bewitched me into losin' myself for just a little while, and I let go of the control I needed t' keep it up."

"Only one way t' really find out," she breathed.

Rogue wet her lips, her breath coming erratically. He was going to kiss her. Oh man, she though, oh man oh god oh…

"Oh, merde!" The lilting, feminine voice in the doorway yipped, startled.

Remy winced, pulling back a few inches as Mercy laughed outright. "Désole, you two. You think in a house full of thieves more people'd lock their doors. I'll just… ha… oh mon dieu —"

Remy smirked down at Rogue, not at all perturbed that they'd been caught in such a compromising position. Mortified, she couldn't move. Her face was on fire. Her ears burned. Her heart jammed against her ribs, threatening to burst from her chest.

"Take a raincheck?"

The look in Remy's eyes sent a tremor straight down to Rogue's toes. She had to force herself to breathe again, still lying in the same place, suddenly colder from the loss of contact as Remy shifted, but just as enflamed as she was before. He'd covered her, but the robe was now smothering — the fabric itching her skin. Her pulse beat in her temples as she drew herself together.

"Ah… Remy? Henri's waitin' for ya downstairs," said Mercy. "Said he's gonna go with ya t' the Quartier, pop by the Assassins t' see if they cookin' up somet'in' stupid."

Remy didn't tear his glance away from her as he answered his sister-in-law,

"Attends, Merc. I'm coming."

An extra few inches of distance wouldn't stop the thready swell of wanting to be touched by him again, and that was clear in the way that Remy was hesitating. He would have kissed her. He would have risked getting absorbed all over again; sacrificing his memories and his secrets for just one more touch.

She barely registered Mercy as she took a tentative step into the room, a bundle of clothing held in her arms.

"Brought ya some clothes, girl," she said. A feeble peace offering. "Even got some gloves. they might be a bit small, but y' know, beggers can't be choosers. Merde, talk about awkward," she chuckled, more amused than anything else. And yet, she still wasn't leaving.

Rogue waved it off, covering her mouth, trying to hide her face. She mumbled something that she supposed might've passed as a thank you but please get out.

"I'll be back by midnight," Remy said. Rogue swallowed. Her ears popped. What did he just say? Damnit, why did her head feel like it was stuffed full of cotton?

"What?" she croaked, finally looking between both thieves and sitting up. Mercy offered her a knowing smile, setting down the small pile of clothing on the foot of the bed. She collected the tray of leftover dinner, trying to busy herself while eavesdropping at the same time.

Remy slid off the bed in one fluid sweep. "Got a couple of things to take care of in the Quarter. Emil'll be downstairs waitin' for you; should be set up by now."

Rogue couldn't believe her ears. She shook herself, trying to understand what he was saying. "You're going back into the French Quarter tonight? What about the Assassins? Shit, Remy —"

"It'll be fine, chérie. they can't touch me if they can't catch me."

"Ah'm comin' with ya," she informed him, flipping her legs over the side.

"Non, you're not."

Opening her mouth to give him a verbal lashing — to tell him exactly what's what and that he hadn't stolen any final goodbye kisses, if that's what that was all about — but he stopped her: "It's more important that you help Emil."

He meant the stone. The look he gave her was so intense, so serious that Rogue nearly felt her knees give.

"Divide and conquer," he insisted.

Slowly, she let out a breath. Nodded. She felt like punching things. Walls. Pillows. Maybe Mercy, a little bit.

"Cajun," she said bracingly. "Ya do something stupid ta get yourself hurt, and I'll kill ya myself."

He grinned; a cocksure half-smile that pulled at her so easily that Rogue nearly hit him out of sheer frustration. Smooth as anything, he slid beside her, his fingers grazing the small of her back as he dipped his head and whispered in her ear, "Toi pis moi, chére — we've got a score t' settle."

She shivered against him, leaning into his touch just a little.

And then he was gone; out the door behind Mercy without a backwards glance.

Translations: French to English

C'est impossible: It's impossible.
Pére: father
Comprends: Understand?
Bonsoir, chére: Good evening, chére
Pardonnez moi: Pardon me
Merde, fille: Shit, girl!
Quoi: What?
Sans doute: Without a doubt
Désole, vous deux: Sorry, you two
Mon dieu: my god
Toi pis moi: You and me

Translations: German to English

Was bedeutet das: What does that mean?
Es tut mir leid: I'm sorry

Post Script:

- Deuces Wild: A form of high poker in which the 2s are wild (that is, a 2 can represent any other card for the purpose of forming a better hand: a deuce can pair any other card, fill the "hole" in a straight, make the fifth of four cards to a flush, and so on); usually played as draw poker.

- Ace of Spades: There are a couple of reasons for this choice — in the last chapter, while discussing his past with Belladonna, Remy claimed that the Ace was the one card Rogue threw out because she said the Joker described him better. If the Ace is recognizable by Bella as something that defines Remy, this should indicate that it's how she used to know him. I didn't know if that was obvious at all, since we don't get Belle's POV and her input (and we probably won't over the course of the concluding chapters.) and that makes for limited explanation. (Have I also mentioned that it's the death card? That too.)