A/N: I'll make this short and sweet. Marvel Playthings: Not Mine. Money: None. Coffee: One cream, two sugars. Reviews: Yes, please.

"Pack light," Remy LeBeau calls after Rogue as she slips into the mansion.

"Screw you, swamp rat," she sighs, as he chuckles, heading to the garage.

Rogue slips into her room and looks around. Quickly, before she can lose her nerve, she grabs her green coat and begins loading useful items into the plethora of pockets contained in the garment. She kicks off her tennis shoes, replacing them with motorcycle boots Logan had specially made for her. She smiles as her sock-covered feet reach up to rub the specially molded plastic contained inside--strong as steel, and not able to be manipulated by Magneto. Two different types of protection--Logan always thinks in those terms when it comes to Marie.

Shrugging the zip-up hoodie off her shoulders and letting it heap on the floor, she throws on her green coat, thrilling with the rush of excitement. She was running again. Into the night, she is leaving what she knows, to chase a ribbon of asphalt. She stops at her door, turning back to her desk. Grabbing a pen, she writes a quick note on the sheet of paper at the edge of the desk. She drops the paper onto her bed before slipping out and making her way to the garage.

Remy easily chooses the bike he wants to spend the summer with. Black leather and meticulously cared-for chrome, looking like it has never left the showroom; it is the odometer that tells Remy this incredible bike has been used hard, and that is the type of machine that likes it that way. Remy knows motorcycles, and this one is a gearhead's wet dream.

The keys are easy--they are with the bike. He looks around for anything that might come in handy while they are on the road. He finds nothing other than a gas pump. He looks at the fuel gauge--she is half-full. Quietly, he walks the motorcycle across the large X embedded into the floor to the pump to fill the rest of the tank. He is so intent on being silent that he doesn't hear Marie descend the stairs. Her quiet laughter brings his attention to the girl in the green coat.

"Where's your stuff, chère?" Remy asks.

"I'm wearing it, smart ass," Rogue drawls.

"Dat's my girl." Remy grins.

"Don't get presumptive, devil."

"We have to go," Remy says, nonchalantly ignoring Rogue's last statement.

"I'm just waitin' on you. How'd you ever get to be a thief? You must be the slowest boy on the planet." She smiles at the quirk of his lips.

"I wouldn't want to keep you waiting, petit fille." Remy replies, returning the nozzle to its notch on the gas pump. "Come on, Marie. The sun be up in a few hours."

"Yep, it should still be dark when we walk the bike out."

"Walk?" Remy questions, quietly rolling the motorcycle to the massive garage door.

"Logan's hearing," Rogue answers, shaking her head. "You have to stop underestimating him, Remy. Especially if you are going to steal his girl and expect to live to tell the tale."

"Don't worry about me, chère," Remy smiles easily as he throws right leg over the bike. On the other side, she does the same thing with her left.

"Ready to go?" Remy asks as the bike roars to life.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Rogue replies, pulling on the black helmet emblazed with an X. She knows it is Scott's; it makes her feel safer somehow.

As the bike pulls away, she can't help but wonder if, unlike the old saying, she can come back home here after her adventure is over. She watches the front gate of the mansion shrink off into the distance, her arms clasped tightly around Remy's broad chest, holding on to him for balance, praying to whoever was listening that he is up to the job.

--

Scott Summers' morning begins abruptly. He is shaken out of his slumber by the sensation of being pulled up and away from his pillow by his shirt front, which is clenched in a steely one-handed grip. He feels three thorny pricks of pressure against his throat.

"Where the fuck is she, bub?" Logan growls deep in his chest, his fury evident.

Struggling to clear his mind, Scott suddenly wishes he hadn't shared the second six-pack with the feral man the night before. Logan can't get drunk, but Scott can, and he did a damn good job of it last night. The hangover he feels is his reward. The blood oozing down his chest brings him back from his haze.

"Does it look like I have her hidden under my bed, Wolverine? You woke me up out of a dead sleep and into a hangover. You tell me where the hell she is."

Scott doesn't have to ask for clarification--this is about Rogue. Only Rogue can bring out the Wolverine in Logan without a physical attack. He feels the tips of Logan's blades retract from his flesh as Logan lets go of his shirt. Scott slumps over reeling from the shock and the alcohol-induced muddiness in his head. He brings his hand to his throat, pulling back a hand covered in blood.

"So I assume you can't find Marie," Scott yawns, sitting up, looking at Logan.

"I can't smell her anywhere."

"The whole mansion? How good could your nose really be?" Scott asks skeptically, rubbing his head, attempting to remove the fog.

"There's two bunnies goin' at it in the woods by the front gate. My nose is half-decent," Logan answers flatly.

"Is Kurt still here?" Scott asks.

"Yep, he's in the attic." Logan grins. "Don't ask about Ororo. She's busy."

"TMFI, as Jubilee would say." Scott cringes. "Let's go check her room."

Scott opens the door to Rogue's room. Sunshine pours into the windows, forcing Scott to squint. He feels Logan push past him into the room, heading for her closet. Scott's eye catches something on the bed. He walks over and picks up the sheet.

Marie's Fall Schedule

Ethics – Prof. Xavier

Combat Tactics – Logan

Advanced German – Mr. Wagner

College World History – Ms. Monroe

College Into to Writing – Mr. Summers

College Lit.: Southern Writers – Mr. Summers

Scott,

See you in the fall

-Rogue

"Goddamn her," Logan growls.

Scott turns around, the piece of paper clenched in his fist.

"Her coat is gone." Logan grinds out.

"Maybe she's just on the grounds somewhere, wearing it." Scott says, trying to keep Logan calm. He knows that will be impossible if Logan reads the note.

"It's her running coat, Scooter. She was wearin' it when she walked into my cage fight in Laughlin City, and she took it to the train station when she ran. She's not here, One-Eye. She's gone." Logan narrows his eyes at the crumple of paper clutched in Scott's fist. "What's that, bub?"

Scott sighs. Options race through his mind--Lie; pretend it's nothing; talk to the Professor telepathically. He decides on none of these. Instead, he pockets the sheet of paper with a pointed question. "Is there anyone else in the mansion you can't smell?"

Logan gets quiet for a long moment, smelling the air.

Snikt.

"That fuckin' Cajun's gone too." Logan roars. "That bastard left and took Marie with him."

Scott nods, quietly feeling a quiet storm rage in his body more terrifying than anything Ororo Munroe can hope to produce. "It's time to talk to the Professor."

Charles Xavier is having a quiet breakfast with one of his favorite former students. Dr. Hank McCoy has brought him coffee and bagels, a special morning delivery courtesy of Warren Worthington, another former student and classmate of Hank's.

"So Warren just sends you bagels and Columbian coffee regularly?" The professor asks, taking a bite of the warm bread with half-melted cream cheese and lox, a taste for which he developed when Erik lived in the mansion.

"Usually about twice a month, Hank grins, holding a dainty china cup in his massive paw. "He considers it a kind of compensation." "Pardon?" Xavier inquires.

"I am Warren's Primary Care Physician. To be honest, I am his only physician. I refuse to let him pay me monetarily, so every few weeks, he makes sure that I remain well-fed."

"Ah, I see." Charles laughs. "So does he just send you food?"

"Usually he come to visit, as well. He had an early morning meeting today, so this was sent by courier, along with his regrets."

"Pity. It would have been nice to see him again."

"Indeed. I'm sure he'll stay for a chat when he comes in August for his physical. The doctors employed at Worthington Industries are a little put out that he would fly as far away as Glasgow just for a physical when they are only down the hall. But I have knowledge that they simply do not possess." Hank declares, with just a hint of superiority.

"In other words, a twelve-foot wingspan does not bother you," Charles quips, sipping his coffee.

"Exactly," Hank declares.

The heavy doors of Charles' office swing open violently and bang solidly against the paneled wall.

"Good morning, Logan," Hank says without turning around to look at the intruding man. He leans forward and flips two bagels in the air over his shoulder. Scott easily catches one and takes a hearty bite; the other encircles the middle claw of Logan's right hand. He retracts his blades and catches the bagel, too distracted to eat just yet. He crosses the room and lays his palms at the front of Xavier's desk, leaning forward to confront the Professor.

"We need to talk, Wheels," Logan says, the words rumbling in his throat.

"Obviously," Professor Xavier replies. He knows what Logan is angry about--the mental pictures are screaming from Logan's head. This is not a conversation he wants to have at 7:30 in the morning.

--

Mile after mile, the pair race chasing the dark as the morning sun slowly awakens around one wickedly fast motorcycle. Looking around, Marie knows they have long ago crossed the New York state line. She knows every city and county that now greets the sunrise with their dust. The only thing that she does not know is where they are headed.

"Do you even know where we're going, sugah?" Rogue yells the question as to be heard both through her helmet and over the rush of wind.

"Don't you trust me, chère?" Remy asks with a chuckle. He was wearing a less constrictive helmet that left his face free, unlike Cyclops'.

"I ran away with you, didn't I?" Rogue drawls. "Don't press your luck."

"There's a safe house outside Chicago. We goin' dere."

"Why there?" the girl asks.

"It's a good rest stop. Nice place to get lost for a while, if you get my drift," Remy answers.

"Chicago it is, then," Rogue agrees, as the road lulls her to sleep with her head resting against Remy's back.

--

This is quite possibly the most important day of Alex Summers' life, and for the first time since college, he is running late. He scrambles around his apartment, grabbing keys and stuffing papers into a briefcase. Spinning around, he grabs his keys from the kitchen table and takes long strides across his apartment. In one smooth movement, he unlocks, opens, swings his briefcase containing his computer and dig papers over his shoulder, exits, turns, and locks the door, all without upsetting one drop of steaming hot coffee.

Dashing down the staircase, he rushes out into the early morning light. Turning his attention to his briefcase, he never sees a large man step directly into his path.

--

"Here we are." Remy says, pulling the bike into an alley behind a strip of restaurants and half-dead businesses.

"Home sweet home, I see," Rogue jokes, admitting to herself that it really isn't that bad of a place to stay.

"It ain't that bad," Remy sighs, reaching up to grab the bottom rung of the fire escape and pulling it down to them. "After you, chère."

Rogue gets half way up the ladder before turning over her shoulder to look at Remy, who was still on the ground. "You comin', darlin'?"

Not yet, the man thinks to himself. "Just enjoyin' de view, beautiful girl," he calls aloud.

Remy makes short work of the ladder before pulling two long thin instruments from his trenchcoat. Rogue's eyes narrow.

"Is this really yours?" she asks. "Where's the key?"

Remy looks at her with his best trust-me smile. "It's a Thieves Guild safehouse. Who needs to try and keep up with a key?" Remy easily pops the lock of the door.

"After you," he says bowing lightly.

Rogue shakes her head a little at the man as she steps inside the modest one-bedroom apartment. It is not much to look at, but it is moderately furnished--not really meant for someone to stay long, but to be comfortable enough when they are here.

"Why don't you go wash off the road dust?" Remy offers. "Remy gon' find us some food."

"All right," Rogue agrees, shrugging off her coat and draping it over the arm of a chair.

"There's some clothes in the closet. Don't know what's there, but if you want to change into something, it's there."

"Thank you, Remy," Marie replies, laying a gloved hand upon his cheek before turning toward the bedroom.

"My pleasure, chère," Remy replies, barely above a whisper, as the bedroom door clicks shut.

--

"Scan the grounds if you don't believe me, Chuck," Logan says. "You'll know they're gone."

"I already have," Charles says calmly. "You are correct."

"Now the question remains," Hank says, licking cream cheese from his blue-furred fingertips, "How did she manage to leave?"

"We should take a quick inventory of every vehicle in the mansion," Scott says, slipping into leader mode with alarming ease.

"No need, Scott," Hank says, rising from his chair. He walks over to the display panel in the wall, punching a few keys.

"Look," Hank says, indicating the image on the screen, taken hours before. The four men watched Rogue and Remy quietly walk Scott's bike out of the garage and out of the frame.

"That's my girl," Logan grins with something akin to fatherly pride.

"Jesus Christ," Scot yells, exasperated. "What is it with you people? Can't anyone walk out the front door of this place without taking my cars? There are forty-seven different vehicles in this place. It's practically a damn showroom. Why does everyone take my stuff?"

"You do have the best toys, Cyclops." Hank grins.

--

"Gott im Himmel," Rogue breathes.

Remy turns, startled. He thought that she was still in the room changing. Remy heard the shower shut off about five minutes ago, but he never heard her pad her way to the kitchen, feet on hardwood making less of a noise than gauze on marble.

"I didn't know you were there," Remy says, attempting to keep his voice light, and failing.

"Jesus," Rogue whispers again, as the man in front of her turns to look at her horrified face.

His breath is trapped inside his chest at the sight of her. Standing in a black silk wrap-around shirt and a pair of jeans well worn in all the right places, she simply embodies everything he left behind. They were once Bella's clothes. Bella is the reason he ran the first time, and here is Marie, a reason to run again, only, unlike Bella, she is running with him.

Slowly she makes her way to him. Marie reaches a hand out to a nasty gouge on his shoulder. "Where...how...what happened?" she stammers.

"I have the scars to prove that love has had its way with me." Remy's breath comes out in stiff pants. His mind is screaming to get it together. His body appears unwilling to honor such a request.

"They must have hurt." Rogue winces, using a gloved hand to trace the crisscrossing scars marring the landscape of his right shoulder. "Where these made at the same time?"

Remy nods. "I was to marry the daughter of a rival guild, the Assassins, to bring an end to the fighting. Her brother didn't like the arrangement. He challenged me to a duel. He... lost. I was banished. That X on my shoulder is to tell anyone in either guild that I was thrown out."

Remy gets very quiet for a moment, allowing himself to get lost in the feeling of her black leather gloves on his scars. "Remy can never go back to New Orleans. They see me, they kill me."

"Then we will never go there," Rogue says, just loud enough to hear. "No wonder you thought Xavier's was a good idea."

Remy chuckles a little at this. "I guess you're right, chère. You want to go out?" he asks, taking both of her hands in his.

"Sure," Rogue answers.

"I know a great little place a few blocks from here. We could go."

The girl smiles. "That sounds nice."

--

The scent of Hank's last sip of coffee seems marred somehow. Another sharp sniff turns acrid and metallic in his nostrils. His eyes sweep the occupants of the room, finally resting on the three oozing puncture wounds in Scott's throat.

"My stars and garters," Hank gasps, upending his chair, trying to make his way to Scott.

"Oh," Scott says, words obscured by a mouthful of bagel. "It's nothing, I'm fine. I've nearly stopped bleeding now."

"Good heavens, Logan," Xavier says exasperated, reaching down in his desk drawer for a first-aid kit.

"What did you do to him, Logan?" Hank asks.

"I was... upset." Logan replies. His nose told him exactly what Scott had said--the bleeding is nearly done.

"Logan, while I appreciate your distress, I cannot have you attacking members of this house." Xavier begins.

"Can we please get back to what is important?" Scott yells over the confusion. "There are two students missing, having left with a modified motorcycle. They left five hours ago, and we have no idea where they are going."

The group calms down at this. Hank is the first to speak up. "You know, they are almost of legal age. We may have to accept that they may not be coming back."

"Oh, she's coming back," Logan growls, "if I have to track her down myself."

"Logan," Charles says soothingly, "as much as we all love Marie, you have to know that there is not much to do if she decides to leave."

Xavier's madding calm makes Scott snap. Crossing to the large desk, he slams the sheet of paper on its top.

"She's coming back. She said she is. I'm going to go get her before someone else gets her first."

Charles gingerly picks up the crumpled sheet. "I'll get Kurt and Ororo down here. Finish breakfast, and I will try to track them with Cerebro. Then we all will decide what course of action to take."

"Well, now we can find out if the carpet matches the drapes," Logan mutters offhandedly. Scott cringes as Hank chokes on his coffee.

--

"Mr. Magnus requests that you cancel your meeting with Warren Worthington and meet with him this morning instead."

The tall man towered over Alex, who was sprawled haphazardly on the pavement, papers and dig maps skittering on the wind in the alley next to his apartment.

At six feet, Alex Summers is not a small man. Years of archeological digs have carved hard muscles onto his frame. Alex takes a good look at the bestial man standing over him. While the cut of his navy-blue suit is impeccable, it is the look of the man wearing it that is wrong. This man, with a face that makes Grizzly Adams look like a young urban hipster in comparison, is not at ease in this three-piece suit, or in the middle of Hell's Kitchen, or any other such densely populated neighborhood, for that matter.

"Uh, I'm sorry, Mister..." Alex pauses.

"Creed." The large man answers, not liking where this is going. The blond man is to come back unharmed and that is no fun, especially if he is going to protest and make this difficult.

"Mr. Creed, please give Mr. Magnus my regrets, but I have been waiting over a year for this meeting with Worthington, and now I am going to be late." Alex says, grabbing the last map and depositing it neatly in his bag. "And since Mr. Magnus knows where I live, I am sure we can get together for a meeting at another date."

"I have no time for this," Mr. Creed says with a sneer. "Here are your options. You can either go to meet Worthington and beg for even a piece of what you need or you can come with me now and Mr. Magnus will hand you a blank check for this dig. He told me that. It's your choice." Again, Alex notes, this doesn't fit the man. The words were not his. He has been told what to say.

Alex stays silent, trying to decide what to do. Finally, he sighs. "Fine. I would love to meet with Mr. Magnus this morning."

"I thought you might." The large man says, indicating a large town car parked at the curb. Alex opens the back door and climbs in--to where, he does not know.

--

"Alright, what do we know?" Ororo asks calmly, legs crossed, eyes never leaving Kurt's body as he and Scott pass each other in their pacing.

"How could she leave?" Kurt asks. "This is the best place for her, ja? She is not safe."

"Let's not forget, she's probably still got Scotty-boy's mutation." Logan adds, feeling the itch to go. Marie was out there, and he needed to bring her home.

Charles comes back in. "They are both outside of Chicago. They are both fine. They are in a Thieves Guild safehouse. Don't worry, the Guild isn't going there anytime soon. I checked."

"Why would that be a problem?" Kurt asks.

"They'll kill him," Logan answers.

"And Marie, for sport," Scott adds.

"I'd like to see them try." Hank replies.

"How is their training?" Ororo asks.

"Rogue's been training with me," Logan says. "She can handle herself."

"Remy has lived on the streets most of his life. He's good," Charles answers.

"And we do know that Rogue, at least, is coming back," Ororo starts. "Why not keep an eye on them with Cerebro? Let them go."

Charles grows quiet as the room explodes with the sound of angry voices all yelling at one another, placing blame and hurling accusations and insults.

"Logan and Scott will go and find her," Charles yells, both aloud and in their heads. The room falls silent; Scott cringes, holding his still hung-over head.

"I will go too," Kurt says resolutely.

Charles shakes his head. "No, Kurt. I'm sorry, but I am still trying to run a school. I need my teachers here."

"I'll let you know when we find her, Elf," Logan says.

"Why not let them go for the summer?" Ororo asks again.

"I have heard some things that I do not like," Xavier says. "Unfortunately, they revolve around Magneto and the Brotherhood. I would like to have two of my two most powerful students back here. Call it piece of mind."

Scott and Logan both stand.

"I've already transferred their coordinates to your car, Scott," Xavier says, turning his wheelchair to face the two men.

Both men nod.

"And please, be careful."

"Yes, Dad." Logan grumbles, opening the heavy office door, followed by Scott.

--

Standing in front of the large, ornately carved doors, Alex's heart pounds hard in his chest. Mr. Creed walks to the doorknob and tries the handle. Nothing happens. He takes a few steps back to stand next to the blond man once more.

"Don't you have a key?" Alex inquires.

"No need," the man-mountain growls.

The doors swing open, and a statuesque woman walks out. Alex can do nothing but watch her come up the rich claret carpet towards him. She is wearing a fitted purple button-up shirt over black pants. It is not what she is wearing that captures his attention; it is an incredible face, framed by long, cascading green curls that wind their way down her back, that leaves an indelible impression.

Alex watches dumbstruck as she brushes past the two men. He turns to look over his right shoulder to watch her walk out of the expansive mansion.

"Who...?" Alex starts. Finding that even with advanced degrees, he cannot put the end to that sentence together, instead he blurts out his real question. "Is that Mr. Magnus' mistress? His daughter?"

"Her?" Creed questions enjoying the show as much as the other man, a wild look crossing his face.

"Which is it?" Alex prompts, hoping for a small clue to the woman's identity.

Creed swings his attention to the man once more as the heavy door closes. "She," he pauses for emphasis, "is none of your business."

The door clicks open. "You can see Mr. Magnus now," Creed says curtly as Alex walks in. As the door swings shut, Creed turns away, ripping off the suit's jacket, shirt, and tie. Bits of now shredded fabric dance in the air. His obligation to Erik is complete.

The Italian wool suit never stood a chance.