Title: Long Way Down
Authors: M/G & B/C
Rating: PG for mild language
Disclaimer: Even though I wish they were mine, the characters belong to Marvel. If I was making money, I'd get sued. So I don't get a penny, got it?
Gambit stalked through the foliage, viciously swatting at the low-hanging branches. He had been absent-mindedly kicking a rock for about 40 feet now, but suddenly, with a final, powerful swing of his foot, the stone rocketed through the air. It crashed into the underbrush, hitting every stick on the way down and sent a rustling through the forest.
Po' petite...done not'in.
A solitary branch materialized in front of the Cajun's scowling face, prompting a violent tug that left the limb lying in the mud behind the relentlessly marching mutant.
Dey jus' need good folks... a chance.
It had rained a great deal in the past days, leaving pools of water and a settling fog on the ground. Gambit kicked another small rock into a puddle, causing ripples in the surface, which were promptly destroyed by the furious pace of his heavy boots. The constant New York rain would be turning into snow soon enough. Things were getting noticeably colder every day.
An' why don' dey care? Dey cain see.
Droplets of water fell from the dying leaves, and Gambit angrily wiped the cold mist from his face. The humidity in the forest remained high, despite the low temperature, and the rough gravel path was pitted with dingy puddles. The distracted Acadian stepped into almost every one, greeting each with a splash and a curse.
Ah don' belong dere, neit'er.
The dark ground was becoming more like a swamp with every step. One of Gambit's boots unexpectedly sank deeply into the mud, holding him back. He viciously ripped his foot away with a horrid slurp, and mud hurtled up, splattering as high as his auburn hair.
Dey don' know 'ow i' is not belongin'. Nobody know—
Gambit stopped abruptly, lingering on the thought. The ghost of a grin crossed his tense features as he turned back toward the mansion. Though the trees were dense, he could see there were no outside lights on. The other X-Men would be sitting around the fire playing cards or maybe lying upstairs to sleep off the aches and frustrations of the day's battle. The young Acadian quickly made up his mind and headed for the mansion's garage, anticipation quickening his purposeful gait.
Giving one last look into the dark trees, Wolverine grunted, then turned back into the Cajun's Spartan room.
What's up with that kid?
Or was he always like that?
With a disgusted snort that sounded rather like a growl, Logan strode quickly down the hall to his room and slammed the door.
He paced several times across the narrow room, then stalked over to the window and stared into the darkness but, finding no answer, he returned to his unmade bed and sat down heavily.
What the hell did I walk in on?
The old Canadian shut his eyes tightly, trying to come up with an explanation for the scene he had just witnessed.
"Dey need parents, else dey gonna..."
Wolverine shook his head in frustration. He'd already forgotten what the Cajun had yelled at him before flying from the second floor. It just didn't make sense.
He sat on the edge of his bed, absently extending and retracting his Adamantium claws. He meant to ponder the meaning of Gambit's words, but the situation was just too far beyond his understanding to stay focused on for long. With a sudden feral growl, Wolverine twisted sideways and stabbed his claws through the feather pillow at the head of the bed. He stared for a moment at the impaled cushion, half expecting to see a bleeding foe, before a wry smiled turned a corner of his mouth.
There's just too much drama in this ole shack.
Logan rose resolutely to his feet and strode over to his closet. Shoving aside a pile of flannel shirts with his foot, he discovered his beat-up leather jacket - more dull brown than the fierce black it had been in its younger days - and snatched it from the floor. It was time to take a vacation from the X-Men and forget about crazy Cajuns and egomaniacal teammates. It was time to shoot some pool.
With a flip of the page, Jean Grey began the next chapter. Curled up in the plush armchair before the glowing fireplace, Jean was reading A Tree Grows in Brooklyn; it had become one of her favorite books, and she was only half-finished.
With her left ankle bandaged and propped up on a stool, she reached out for her glass of red wine and took a careful sip. Usually the mansion was so hectic – the younger mutants were constantly tearing through the house, and even the older residents got into loud arguments, especially when Wolverine and Scott were both home.
Now, though, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata reverberated quietly through the room, the only sound joining the occasional crinkle of paper from the turning pages. It was the ideal night for a good book: perfectly comfortable and peaceful.
So when the sharp footsteps came beating down the stairs, Jean couldn't help but cringe. It was Logan, wearing an old leather jacket and beat-up work boots. She removed her glasses and looked at her watch.
"Logan...where are you off to so late?" she inquired.
"Nowhere. Just out." He responded, leaving the room without looking at her.
Jean had come to expect this sort of response from him. But the defensive way he delivered it seemed unusual to her. Maybe it was her telepathic power, or maybe she was just good at understanding people, but she sensed something was wrong. He seemed tense and in a hurry.
But Logan's Logan.
She smiled, satisfied with her diagnosis, and turned her attention back down to her book, giddy to know what would become of her dear Francie Nolan.
Wolverine barreled down the stairs, awkwardly pulling on the old jacket as he went. It had been years since he had worn it last. Usually he hated admitting to sentimentality, but the jacket was like an old friend: he never rode his bike without it. Since joining the X-Men, though, he'd rarely felt the need to go chasing the wind – the Professor did absolutely everything to make even a drifter like Wolverine feel comfortable at the Westchester mansion.
Mebbe I've been sittin' 'round here too long. I jes' need some beer and nine ball to clear my head up.
Jean yelled to him from a deep chair as he reached the landing, but he dismissed her easily and headed straight for the door.
Stepping out into the calm evening, Wolverine was surprised to find it had cooled down substantially in the past hour and the air had become damp and misty. He briefly considered taking Scott's car instead, but discarded the idea when he reached the garage and found the McClaren already gone.
Cyke ain't got plans tonight...
Then Wolverine noticed muddy tracks on the far side of Scott's parking space. Without thinking, he crouched down next to them and wrinkled his nose.
Damn Cajun.
Wolverine straightened, deliberately grinding a battered boot into the dirty tracks, then returned to his motorcycle. He snatched his heavy helmet from the bike's handlebar and tugged it on as he swung his leg over the seat. Wolverine turned the key and was rewarded with the familiar rumbling of his beautiful machine. He tried to make himself smile at the thought of escaping the stifling atmosphere of the Institute, but managed only an angry grimace. His sour mood had returned the moment he'd caught Gambit's scent. Logan looked down at his beloved jacket and sighed heavily. It was going to be a long night.
Wolverine sped out of the garage, following the Cajun's trail. After a few wrong turns and a dozen slummy back roads, he found himself in Bronxdale, a small city only a couple miles out of Salem. Though it was only 10 p.m. most of the buildings were already dark. Wolverine maneuvered his way to the main commercial street, finding little of interest outside of a grocery store and a 7-11, and silently cursing himself for acting so impulsively, chasing after someone who, like himself, just wanted to be left alone.
Suddenly disgusted with himself (and hoping nobody knew where he had gone), Wolverine revved his bike's engine and waited impatiently for the light to turn green. There were no other cars in sight, and he felt distinctly foolish for not just speeding through the painfully long light. Wolverine was about to do so when he noticed Scott's car parked beneath a neon sign reading "Les trois débutantes" just across the street.
Disregarding his former ideas of leaving the Cajun in peace, he pulled into the parking lot and put down the kickstand. He told himself he was just checking the bar for a pool table, but he didn't believe that for a minute.
"A Sazerac, s'il vous plaît," purred the softly accented voice.
"'aven't 'eard dat one in a long time," the bartender said, grinning as he stared into the customer's red-on-black eyes, "Monsieur Remy LeBeau."
A bright smile broke across Gambit's face. "Nicholas," he said warmly, and shook his old friend's proffered hand.
"C'mere," Nicholas said, and tugged Gambit into an awkward embrace across the counter. After a few moments, Nicholas pushed him away, holding on to his shoulders. He shook his head, disbelief on his face.
"'ow did you know where ta find me?"
Gambit grinned mischieviously. "Ya 'ad a message in da paper las' week."
"Oh, mais oui! Di'n' know if personne woul' see it."
"It was jus' like we used in da T'ieves Guild. Remy recognize it ri'daway. You run away jus' a few years after Remy, n'est-ce pas?"
"Oui, ri'dafter you," Nicholas said fervently.
Gambit chuckled. "'oped ta fin' y'again. S'jus' been so busy lately," his face fell. "Di'n' 'ave time ta come fin' ya."
"Ya look like ya jus' foun' a gator in yo' bed," Nicholas said seriously, gazing into his friend's troubled eyes. "Ah'll ge' us some Sazerac an' we can ca'ch up on de ol'dimes, eh?" he smiled lightly.
Gambit took a seat at a booth off to the right of the bar and looked around. The paneled walls looked golden in the dim light, and were surprisingly devoid of decoration. The entire bar, in fact, was sparsely furnished. Patrons sat at booths or on the rough benches that surrounded unfinished tables. It definitely wasn't high-class, but it felt like home. Gambit smiled contentedly. A flurry of French words floated about the small room where he finally had the chance to spend an evening with a friend from his days in the Thieves Guild. The feeling was almost overwhelming. For the first time in years, he belonged.
Gambit was shaken from his reverie by the thud of the heavy glass Nicholas placed in front of him. He blinked several times and realized Nicholas had seated himself on the opposite side of the booth.
"T'ought ya fell asleep dere," he said, a twinkle in his brown eyes.
"Non," Gambit said dismissively, then sipped his drink, giving an appreciative nod. "S'very good."
Nicholas shrugged modestly, unable to hide a smirk at his pathetic acting.
"De customers seem to t'ink so."
"Moi aussi," Gambit said, proving his point by taking another swallow of his cocktail.
"C'est bon," said Nicholas with a grin, trying to break through his companion's distracted demeanor. "You 'ave a lotta tell me, homme." He rested his arms on the table in front of him.
Nicholas's smile was infectious, and Gambit found himself grinning broadly despite his previous sour mood.
"Not'in' special. Ah lef' da Guild an' come up 'ere. Foun' dis buncha mutants. Dey 'elp people, an' dey le' me move in. Now Remy jus' 'elp dem 'elp people."
Nicholas snorted at Remy's offhand tone, but his dark eyes danced in amusement. "Oui, soun's like somet'ing you'd do. 'ow is it for ya?"
"S'okay," Gambit replied brusquely, his expression unchanging.
Despite the discourteous reply from his usually well-mannered friend, Nicholas was unruffled, instead waiting with an attentive expression for an elaboration.
He didn't get it. Gambit held his glass to his mouth pensively for an instant, then replaced it on the table with studied care.
"Wha' 'bout you, Nicholas?" he said, forcing his practiced teasing grin to his face. "Looks like you done well f'yourself."
"Ah only got what you see 'ere," he said, "but s'my own an' Ah like dis place. 'aven't seen many've de ol' boys, d'oh. Ah don' t'ink dey got out." He frowned slightly. "Ah 'ear da Guild's gotten bigger."
Gambit felt his vaunted poker face cracking and quickly brought his glass up to cover it. He saw Nicholas's confusion over the rim and decided there was no point in letting his brooding ruin what should be the best night of his new life.
He was still contemplating what he should say when the table shook and Nicholas was suddenly lying on the thin wooden plank, peering up at his downturned face beneath his chestnut bangs.
"You gonna tell me wha' da problem is, mon ami?"
Gambit laughed weakly and sat upright.
"Alors," he began, and furrowed his eyebrows. "S'jus'...di' Jean-Luc really care 'bout us?"
A look of perplexity painted itself on Nicholas's face and he sat up.
"Quoi?"
Gambit paused again before answering, shifting his jaw to one side, then running his tongue over his teeth. With extreme effort he finally answered.
"When Jean-Luc took us in, did 'e jus' want us ta steal, or did 'e really care 'bout us?"
"Where'd dat come from?" Nicholas asked, his uneasy expression betraying his concern.
Remy sighed heavily, knowing he would have to finally say all the things that had been plaguing his mind since the day the first kidnapping began. But he finally found someone who would understand, and so resolutely explained his worry.
"Alors, dere's been all dese kidnappin's lately, an' it don' seem no different from wha' Jean-Luc di'." a distressed grimace crossed his delicate features and he felt on the verge of tears. He already despised himself for thinking badly about his adoptive father, but hearing the words coming from a mouth that sounded incredibly like his own voice was so much more painful.
Nicholas interrupted his self-hatred.
"Remy, wha's wrong with you?" he chided in a soft voice. "Ya know 'e loved ya like 'is own kid."
"Oui, je sais, but dat doesn' make it right ta take li'l kids an' make 'em inta t'ieves!" Gambit said loudly, not caring that everyone in the bar was staring at him.
"Remy," Nicholas began, but was cut off by the loud roar of a motorcycle as a patron sped out of the parking lot. When the rumbling subsided, Nicholas began again. "S'in da past, mon ami. Don' worry 'bout dat anymore."
"Non!" Gambit exploded. "S'not over. Tu viens de dire que la guilde grossit toujours! Dey still robbin' des petits of dere child'oods!"
Nicholas looked upset, but more than a week of anger had finally found a release and Gambit continued his outburst unchecked.
"Ah already decide ta go see Jean-Luc an' stop 'im 'owever Ah can, even if Ah 'afta blow de 'ole place to 'ell."
The anger brought a fierce look to Gambit's thin face and he sat for several minutes drawing quavering breaths while his friend silently stared into his empty glass.
A large group of men pushed into the bar, greeting friends loudly and throwing the other patrons off of bar stools to monopolize the counter space.
"Looks like Ah 'ave some work ta do," Nicholas said, unable to hide the relief in his voice.
Gambit suddenly looked into his friend's eyes, feeling horrible for wasting their time together, an apology brimming on his parted lips, but Nicholas silenced him with his quick smile.
"Ah tell ya what. De weekend a busy time 'ere, but you come back Monday night an' we 'ave some more Sazerac an' you tell me dat story 'bout da time ya got caught stealin' dat bearskin rug, d'accord?"
Remy smiled and nodded, a silent thank you in his eyes. With a grunt he pushed himself to his feet and stepped outside. His disappointment at his angry outburst was fading, replaced by his excitement at the prospect of a long night of reminiscing come Monday. It was just like his old friend to use his charm to smooth over even the most heinous breaches of manners. He smiled to himself as he climbed into the car. Nicholas hadn't changed a bit.
Wolverine entered the dark manor and closed the door silently. He turned in the direction of the staircase, taking a few laboriously soundless steps before he realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly and cast an apprehensive glance around him, hoping he nobody else was near to rope him into a late-night life confession or something. When he finally felt at ease, he tried to climb the stairs quietly, not wanting to awaken anyone, but stealth wasn't his style. His heavy boots echoed throughout the hall and every step seemed to have a creaking board. He grimaced and opened his door.
Once inside his room, Logan tugged off his jacket and tossed it back on the heap of flannel shirts covering his closet floor. He jumped into his bed, embedding his face in the ripped pillow, but quickly lifted his head again to spit out a feather, watching it flutter lightly to the ground.
Wolverine yawned, throwing the aroma of beer back into his nostrils.
Wha was the name of tha' bar? "Lez troy..."
He replayed the scene in his mind. The bar had been crowded enough for him to find a table where he could sit unnoticed by anyone, most importantly Gambit. Despite the noise and bustle, though, he had heard every word of the Cajun's conversation as if they had been talking to each other.
Din't know Gumbo knew anybody else 'round here...
Logan turned over and looked up at the ceiling, hands behind his head. He could feel the warm air from the heater brush against his hair. Usually a night of pool left him contented and tired when he returned to the manor, but his first excursion of the night had weighed too heavily on his mind to let him enjoy his game. He closed his eyes, hoping sleep would overcome him. But it didn't.
We don know nuttin' 'bout 'im. Maybe tha's why I followed 'im...
He bit his lower lip, staring into the white plaster.
Why 'm I thinkin' so much?
Wolverine shot out of bed and walked over to the light switch, flicking it off and plunging the small room into a cool darkness. He shuffled back, stumbling over a pair of jeans he'd absently discarded there a week or two ago. He kicked them out of the way and stretched out on his bed.
What was he doin' in there...? Stop!
He forced his eyes shut and tried to turn his brain off. It wasn't hard; sleep was finally gaining on him quickly.
Wha' was he talkin' 'bout in there?
And before he could tell himself to shut up again, he fell asleep.