Note: This story contains slash material. If you do not like or are offended by this type of material go away.
Disclaimer: All the characters mentioned below belong to whom they rightfully belong to. The plot, however, is mine. Feedback is always appreciated.
He stumbled and silently cursed himself as pain shot through his left side. He franticly grasped at a windowsill, steadying himself. How many dark streets had he walked down? He had lost track. But anything was better than the hell he had escaped.
Hesitantly he glanced upward and noticed a group of three or four men making their way down the street, towards him. With a slight nervous twitch, he licked his lips. He looked about himself with short anxious glances, apparently at a loss of what to do. Eventually, he came to some sort of resolution and focused his gaze upon the men who were considerably closer than before. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. He closed it and opened it once again, seemingly determined to force the words out.
"Allo hommes. Je vous montrerai un bon temps, pour un prix. Oui?"
The words came out in a croak and he desperately hoped they understood his language - he had have issues with that in the past.
The group stopped in their tracks a few feet in front of him when he spoke. He couldn't imagine what he must look like; red hair in a tangled mane obscuring his face, skin pale like death warmed over all wrapped up in a crouched and injured figure clinging to a store front spewing words they probably didn't begin to fathom. His fears were confirmed as one of the men elbowed another: "You guys understand this freak?" An echo of dark laughter floated through them.
He took another tremulous step forward, and with a sharp intake of breath he released it. He could almost feel the moisture suddenly drench the air and heat rise from the ground with his release. It was so simple to let go, like flicking a switch or unhooking a chain in his mind. But the sexual energy that now flowed through the air was almost impossible to rein in.
The man upfront took a half step backwards as his charm hit him like a storm front. He barely managed to restrain a chuckle, even in the hysteria that now threatened his mind, at his ironicly apt term. And suddenly they were there all around him, hands reaching, groping, fondling. If he knew how to release this power, this charm, in a trickle instead of a flood, as he thought he should know, he would. But no, as the first man began to lick the inside shell of his ear and another hand clumsily moved down his body, he only knew how to release the floodgates sending an overpowering aura of lust at anyone who came within a ten-foot radius. It was then, as his pants were feverishly unzipped, that he realized it was too much, that these men would never give him any money, that they would leave him here torn, broken, dying, and quite possibly still projecting, here on this street side until the first rays of day's light pierced his unseeing demon eyes.
Warren had been wandering among the Covent Garden streets for a while, lost in his thoughts. He had been through quite a bit lately and it was finally starting to catch up with him. He was here on business, and was almost done with a final budget meeting the next day. He had spent almost every night doing just this, wandering the sprawling streets of the West End of London, trying to locate his position on certain events. It did become a little dangerous later at night, after all the playgoers had returned home, but it did not worry Warren.
As he turned down another street, he noticed some men all hunched together in front of a store front down the way. It was pitch black out and with only a faint street light to illuminate the road he could make out only black forms but he was sure that whatever it was that they were doing - he wanted no part of it. He turned around and moved to leave.
Before he could go a strangled voice came from down the street: "Non, m'sieurs, non, arrêtez!" The voice was filled with such anguish that Warren turned right around and stepped forward, futilely trying to make out the features of the darkened figures. He knew that voice.
"Non!" The voice cracked halfway through the word and the person's obvious despair pulled at his heart. Without thinking Warren released his wings and swept down the street. Pivoting in mid-air, he descended onto the group something hit him as harshly and as suddenly as a slap in the face. His face suddenly became flushed and it seemed as if the air all around him was made of lead. The flush in his face spread throughout his body, and to lower regions, until his entire body was on fire.
He stumbled to the ground, disoriented. He had felt this before, but never, never, to this extent. Where had he... Gambit. He knew this felling of sexual manipulation only in the presence of that infuriating Cajun. But he... he was dead. Died nearly eight months ago in Antarctica. A whimper brought his attention back to the people directly in front of him now.
A shock of auburn hair. There it is right in front of him, the eyes deeply set back and squeezed shut, tear stains making stark paths of clean skin that must be buried beneath the grime. He peers at the men around Gambit for the first time. The men... oh God, he holds back the dry heaves that threaten to overtake him.
He grabs the one closest to him hits him hard with a left hook. The man goes flying into the wall, crumbling some of the thick brick beneath his head and passes out cold. In a rage of cold fury he turns on the others. Seeing death in his eyes the men back away, stumbling until they each stop, shake their head and then, looking around as if seeing their surroundings for the first time, they turn and run.
Warren takes deep heaving breaths and sets his eyes upon the huddled form of the Cajun lying in a fetal position on the side of the road. Without the presence of the other men the mood of Gambit's "charm" changed. The mere presence of this intrusive, manipulative force, infuriated him to no end but thankfully the sexual edge was diminished. He had never reconciled with the Cajun, even in death. He always thought his death justified and he had taken comfort in that Gambit had atoned for his sins. He felt the blood rush to his head as his rage returned. Perhaps he should make him atone for them right now.
In the back of his mind he knows he should not feel this intense anger that had overcome him so suddenly, but it could not halt his actions. With a growl of utter detest he violently turned the Cajun around ready to punch him right in the face, see the blood flow... Gambit's eyes cracked open and in them was an emotion so essentially un-Gambit that Warren almost stepped back a step. Terror, pure and simple terror.
Gritting his teeth, his lips pulled back into snarl, Warren managed force his words out between clenched teeth "Stop it. Now." Gambit's eyes began to shift in panic as he tried to squirm away from Warren's arm that held onto him like an iron clamp. The overwhelming desire pummel Gambit did not decrease. Gripping his arm even tighter on the Cajun, Warren attempted to keep his rage out of his voice, "I said stop it. Now."
Gambit closed his eyes and burrowed his head between his shoulder and the wall at his back. Suddenly, it was gone and the Cajun's body went limp. He looked at Gambit and really saw him for the first time. His face was pale and gaunt and dark trenches of skin burrowed beneath his eyes. Bruises covered his skin, which was scantily clad, including one where Warren's hand gripped him.
What had possessed him to... he stopped that train of thought. This wasn't the ideal time or place to ponder this, not while Gambit laid half nude and passed out on a West End street. Taking a deep breath, he realized that he would have to take Gambit back to his apartment, he couldn't take him to a hospital and he couldn't leave him here in the middle of the street no matter how much he despised the man. He sighed, it was going to be a long cab ride home.