A/N: Howdy. I've been tipped, by a very wise and knowledgeable guru of such matters, that it may be wise to shorten the length of my author's note by answering longer reviews directly by e-mail. So, if that's all right with those of you, who, like me, prefer to leave long reviews, I'll do that if you give me the okay, though my response for this time'll be below, and I'll try to get the asterisks indicating the end of the note and start of the fic up for those of you who skip my ramblings, 'cause they tend to disappear when I upload. And I owe an apology to anyone who couldn't review because apparently, anonymous reviews were unabled. Sorry, it just went that way automatically, and I apologize, because for some reason, that message has always struck me as discouraging and elitist, and it makes me sad to think it may have discouraged someone out there from reviewing because it took to long to log on, and I'm sure there's somebody out there who it did. But, pressing onwards, I'm very glad my last chapter went over well, cause I liked it lots. This one's definitely more talky, I guess, but I had fun writing it anyways and it's just as long. So tell me what you think, love it, hate it, approve or disapprove. All comments are welcome, even ones of only one word. So…
Thanks for reviewing to enchantedlight!
ishandahalf- Love at first sight is fun, but Remy's opinion of it is clearly a negative, and then it's just appearance-based, typically. Yep, I myself found it amusing that Rogue started a bar fight, and more amusing that you latched on to Bobby's line about Gambit staring. I mean slow-blooming in the sense that they're gonna have to work on standing each other first. And I just love having them bicker. It's fun to write. Yeah, being dead or maimed further than they already are is a definite relationship damper, though I'm not one to offer guarantees either way. Does that sound evil? I think it does. Mwa ha ha. I'm not, though. Not really. Oh, Rogue had a pretty good idea Belle, having tried to kill Remy, was his ex, she's just tormenting him, and testing his reaction by calling him his girlfriend. Yes, their goals are definitely in common, pissing off Belle included, and I liked how you pointed out how their lives are interwined. Good point. And the sandwich line just randomly popped out of my head while writing, so I was happy it cracked you up. Ah, I loved the sled bit, so I'm thrilled it came off as funny. Remy's thievery is definitely at a high point, he'd probably have to pluck a baby's pacifier from its ickle little mouth to trump his latest venture. But you thought I would kill Bobby! Honestly? While flattered you fear that I'd do anything to my characters, I regret horribly having to kill characters. In fact, until recent years I was in denial that in good writing not everybody gets a happily ever after ending. Partly since then you can't toy with characters anymore, but I'm adjusting. The comic book industry, likewise, has troubles letting characters go. But, don't fear, there's only one person who I'm killing for certain and anybody else would be spur of the moment, though that's not likely to lessen fear any, is it? Well, don't worry, I'm not going to go all West Side Story on you. Nothing too terribly tragic. And gosh, was I obsessed with Power Rangers as a kid! I still remember all their names! My cousins and I played them constantly and they used to fight over who was the Green Ranger! You know what's really sad? My brother and I watch Saturday morning cartoons, and he's been back on Power Rangers for the past year, and he isn't cute anymore, and he can't seem to find other work. They've even clearly got a much skinnier guy in the costume, and that's derived just from the commercials. Anyway, writing the ending was delightful, and I love the image of the chain of people after them, though Natasha isn't actually on their trail, Wolverine sensed her scent still on the jacket, though, but, as you can expect, SHIELD'll send someone. So, very happy to provide amusement, and I'm trying to catch that snowed bunny!
EmeraldKatsEye- I'm still working on the theme song. Someone skilled, I'm sure, could write Belle to be very likeable, to the tune of a book like Wicked or something. Problem is, it's hard to like both Rogue and Belle, and as much fun as Belle is to write, I like her firmly in the villain role. But better shades of grey than black and white anyways, right? Thanks for reading and reviewing, hope you enjoy this chapter!
UncannyAsianGirl- I have my very long response all written and will send it by e-mail as soon as I can get back online when my mother stops hovering over me like a hawk and using the phone! Ach! Right now I'm trying to just update this, but will send it ASAP. You may get it before this is even online. Thanks immensely for the tips, and I love all your comments!
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She couldn't help but thrill in the speed they were traveling at. There was nothing, she'd decided immediately, like being on a motorcycle. With the wind whipping by, the high velocity was keenly felt, and Rogue could practically feel the road under the bike, as it swerved expertly around the slow moving cars on the highway. This was the best!
Still, it would have helped if it wasn't snowing heavily, damp and thick, collecting on her uncovered hair, clothes, and the bike itself, as well as making the road slushy and slow, which sloshed upward at her every five seconds, as the motorcycle roared through it. It was freezing cold, but if the completely snow-covered hair of her traveling companion was any indication, at least she wouldn't have the worry about fellow drivers noticing the odd streaks in her hair
It might, also, have been considerably better if she didn't have to hold onto the waist of the young man in front of her, who she leaned back from as far as possible but was forced to grip somewhat tightly in consideration that she'd otherwise go sliding right off the end of the slippery seat. It would have helped, also, if he'd cease yelling pointless comments over the wind, apparently for the sake of listening to his own voice. And the wind kept flapping his damned trenchcoat in her face.
It'd also have been better if she could drive.
After all, he had a head wound, she thought to herself, glaring at the back of Remy's head. That had to be like letting a friend drive drunk, right? And that was bad.
"D- y' -ear dat?" he called back to her, most of his words lost in the wind's screams but his accent still hearable.
"No!" she shouted back, freezing, somewhat annoyed and not really wanting to speak to him more than possible since she had a strange urge to strangle him every time he opened his mouth. He showed no signs of stopping, ever, and her shoulder was killing her. She could use a break to change the bandage. Besides, they couldn't wait until the roads had cleared up? At this rate, it was doubtful Sabretooth would thaw, and Belladonna, wherever she was, shouldn't have any more luck traveling in this weather than they did.
He said something, tilting his face back, and she noticed he looked worried. Reluctantly, she edged closer to listen, distinctly uncomfortable. "Sirens, chere. Behind us."
He was actually being serious, rather than commenting on a woman in a vehicle they'd passed or on the vehicle itself. Nor was he asking an imbecilic question about her. Raising her eyebrows a smidge, she leaned backwards slightly to listen, turning ahead. As she was about to dismiss his comment, saying there wasn't anything, something reached her ears. Faintly, but steadily growing, there was definitely the ceaseless whine associated with flashing red lights. "Aw, son of a bi-" she cut off when she realized he wasn't watching the road, and instead shoved him forward.
"Watch de bruises!" he bellowed, indignant, but looking the right way again, swerved around a truck in time. "Dey can't catch -yhow, can't get t'rough de-" It was his turn to stop short as he noticed the cars ahead had come to a halt. There was a flicker of red ahead, lighter than the crimson of his eyes.
"Non," he groaned. "Don' tell me it's a police blockade."
His vision had to be foggy, Rogue decided, peering over his shoulders as he slowly maneuvered through the narrow spaces between a few cars. "It's an accident," she said, seethingly calm. A bit ahead, a car had smashed into the railing, from which trailed a slight decline, leading into woods. Police cars and an ambulance were gathered ahead.
He turned back as they found they were wedged between a few cars, the narrow space between the two lanes on the highway proving too much when one of the things blocking the space was a very large truck. "Dey're not after us?" Remy said, looking surprised and actually mildly offended.
"Doubtful," she said, sweetly. "Now, about yah head-"
"Y' not drivin'," he said firmly, turning his head and shoulders even more around, revealing the gash.
"Ah didn't say anything about that. Just thought yah should know, yah blood's freezin'."
Sullenly, he turned back around, snow falling from his hair to lightly sprinkle over his face. "Congealing," he said unhappily. "It' jus'-"
"An' that's just a fancy word for freezing," Rogue countered. "Yah should really have that looked at. Last thing yah need is brain surgery."
For some reason, that made him laugh, very hard, as he leaned over the front of the motorcycle, smoke billowing from the exhaust as visible as their breath in the cold air, as he let it run.
She eyed him. "Y'know what, on second thought, yah might benefit from brain surgery."
"Y'have no idea…."
"Ah'm thinkin' a lobotomy," she said, easing away from him since they were temporarily stalled, relieved to no longer be so close. It made her uneasy.
"Mos' people seem t' t'ink I'd be better off not t'inking, anyhow, chere. Adding y'self t' de list?" his voice was expressionless, and his face turned away.
"Potentially. Ah don't know yah're thoughts- though ah have a feeling ah would strongly object ta many of them-" she added fiercely as he looked over his shoulder with a smirk, "an' mah bother seems ta be more with what yah say-"
"Somehow, I don't t'ink y' de one t' be teaching me t' put a funnel between mon head and mouth."
"If yah're implying what ah think yah're implying," Rogue said grimly, poking him in the back with a gloved finger she reluctantly pulled out of the sleeves of the bomber jacket, "ah'm thinkin' y'all better backtrack mighty quick, or-"
"Y'll beat me up?" he questioned, bemused, swatting the snow falling around his face and keeping his eyes pointedly down as people in other halted cars looked over to see who was on the noisy but undeniably cool motorcycle.
"Don't think ah couldn't," she said grumpily, rubbing her thoroughly damp and hence currently very straight hair. It was going to frizz up when dry, she just knew it, and she hated the thought of this snide but good-looking idiot being around when she was looking horrendous. Not, she thought to herself, eyeing the dried mud on her pants, that she wasn't already looking atrocious. He, however, looked not in the slightest frazzled, despite the scuffs on his coat, wound, and the way his shaggy hair sagged rather pathetically on his face. "Ah faired well enough against yah girlfriend-"
"Ex," he said loudly.
"Fahne. Former girlfriend. Happy?"
"I'm sittin' in de snow, dere's cops ahead of us an' more pullin' in any second, I'm listenin' t' y', an' y' askin' me if I'm happy?" He sounded not only infuriated but incredulous she would even phrase it that way.
She glanced at the motorcycle, which she hoped her pants wouldn't freeze to. "Yep."
He paused as the cop cars behind the stalled line of cars pulled at last in, and a few got out, with flashlights. Not liking where this was going, he turned around, leaning back, not noticing Rogue nearly fell off the bike trying to lean away from him. "Enh, Rogue?" he called.
"What? Do my ears deceive me? Did the great Gambit actually just manage to remember my name? Gawd, ah'm ever so flattered."
"Non, chere, y'hearin' t'ings. An' sarcasm's de lowest form of wit. Check out de boys in blue an' tell me dey're hear ta help wit' de accident," Remy suggested, indicating with one of his ungloved fingers, which looked rather numb.
Rogue couldn't help rolling her eyes. "Sarcasm's not the lowest form of- aw…."
"What? What?" he ordered, tugging on her sleeve without looking. His eyes were busy looking ahead, scanning for any way out.
"They've got a ticket book….."
"Non! I was only goin' ten over de speed limit! Dey can't pull you over fo' that."
She was startled by this, having been keeping a wary eye on the speedometer and all other instruments, analyzing carefully for when she got her certain turn to drive.
"Remy, yah were goin' seventy five…."
It registered first that she'd called him by his actual name, for the first time, and then what she'd said. "Yeah? Whatcha point, chere?"
"Speed limit's fifty-five."
Squinting and pausing briefly to wipe his forehead, he blinked, not looking back at her. "Not sixty-five?" he said weakly, at last.
"LeBeau! How well can yah see!" she said frantically, horrified by this as a cop called something over towards them.
"Very well, actually. Apparently better than most people…."
"Ah mean now!"
"De snow blurs t'ings up a lil', y'know dat-"
"The visibility's not all that bad! Ah can see!"
Ignoring the shouts of the cop, who'd now spotted the motorcycle, Remy grabbed onto the handles once more.
"Don't even think about driving over that car ahead of us," Rogue said sternly. "It's too slippery and-"
"I wasn't t'inkin' dat till y' said it."
"Look, we'll just take the ticket and-"
"Don't have any ID, chere. 'Specially not a license fo' a motorcycle. An' de coppers, even de best of 'em, don't like mutants much. Not wit' all de stuff goin' on in N'York wit' dat boy in de red and blue jammies-"
"Lost me there, Cajun. What- never mind, the cop's about three yards away, so-"
He'd found a space. "Grab on, Roguey," he shouted, a card shooting out of his sleeve and into his hand even as he manipulated the steering deftly.
"What did yah just-" She snagged his waist just in time, as he peeled away. Unfortunately, they didn't go forward, turning a quick, tiny circle to pick up speed and then sharply right, slamming right through a tiny space between a car and the truck behind it. Doing so turned them straight towards the metal railing, which would trip up the wheel, stop the bike, and send them flying.
Before Rogue could manage to open her numb lips to insult his choice of direction, he let his left hand rise as he loosened his death grip on the handle, a blindingly bright aura of purplish red haze glowing about it, seemingly with darker specks circling. It was almost hypnotizing. Gracefully, his hand slid back, jetting forward to hurl the card directly into the metal.
She hadn't expected, from what she'd seen, that he could explode anything as thick as that low strip of metal.
As it exploded, the light temporarily dancing over her vision in dark spots as both ducked the shards of metal, she'd been proven quite wrong. They shot through the small cloud of smoke and flame without any difficulty, jolting awkwardly down the incline until they sped into the woods. The motorcycle had no difficulty, surprisingly, rolling over the stones and shrubbery, slicing right through the thick snow and showering them with it, but then they neared the big trees, where there was only a thin layer to slush through. Somewhat unsteadily, the bike weaved through the thick, mostly pine trunks.
"Impressed?" he questioned, the trees blocking some of the wind and their voices carrying with more ease now that they no longer rode in direct opposition to that rush of air.
"Try flabbergasted at yah stupidity! Ah can hear them call it in now! Two dangerous mutants, on a motorcycle, gone off-road! Get the chopper and go after them!" she shouted, severely annoyed, even more so as a branch he ducked brushed scratchingly against her face.
"Y' can hear dat?"
"Ah'm bein' figurative!" Rogue yelled, resisting the urge to hit him on the head only because she didn't dare let go at the speed he was going, having a feeling she'd tumble straight into the woods. "Mah Gawd, we'd be better off talkin' ta him!"
"No, don't t'ink so," he said briefly, not glancing over his shoulder.
"Well, why not? The police after us too, on top of everyone else? What could be worse than this?"
"Me blowin' up de squad car. Or anot'er car dere abouts," he said, not very loudly, but she could hear him now. Rogue wondered how long the woods went on, and if they were going in the right direction if they intended to get to the nearest road. The way the motorcycle was handling the terrain was startling. It was a bit alarming, how the snow didn't hinder it at all, and she was pretty sure that's what snow usually did to motorcycles.
"Why would yah do something kamikaze like that?"
"Stayed dere any longer, wasn't sure if I could help it. Particularly if de cop came o'er an' pissed me off, non?"
With difficulty, she managed to elbow him slightly as they swerved through the woods. "Gawd, ah thought ah had anger issues…"
"I didn't mean on purpose!" he shouted, squinting uneasily at the trees. He couldn't make out what direction to head in, unsure where to find a road. "Jus', tell me quick if any tree lights-"
"Yah can't control yah powers!"
Her voice was raised several notches too high, not to mention being near his ear, and he winced, painfully. "Can y' controls yo'rs?"
"Ah got mahne three days back! An' ah don't blow people up!" she shouted, seriously alarmed.
"I can't blow up people…."
"Ah feel so much better!"
"Anyway, it's jus' de bump on de head," he lied, feeling the itch of heat under his skin, energy demanding to be released.
Rogue, peering around him to see what direction they were heading in and at what speed, since his height prevented her from seeing over him, yelped, "WATCH OUT!"
Very narrowly, seeing it extremely late, he swerved another tree, large and moss covered. However, it clipped the very back of the motorcycle, scratching it. That wouldn't make its owner happy.
"How," she said icily, and loudly since they still needed to speak over the roar of the motor, as they continued to unsteadily rush through snow, "did yah manage not ta see the biggest honkin' tree in the forest?"
He didn't answer, too busy mulling several things over. One of those things currently included dropping her off the bike into the middle of a bush and driving off laughing his head off, but it was only a passing thought. He actually disliked the choice he knew he'd have to make more than that one.
"Yah better not tell meh yah just nearly sent us to the hellgates for dramatic effect," Rogue told him dangerously, her mind still picturing her narrowly escaped fate as a skidmark, on a tree, on the East Coast, of all places.
"Can't see," he told her reluctantly.
She went deathly, dangerously silent.
Feeling pressed by this to continue, Remy, miserably, admitted, "Too much blood drippin' in mon-"
"Pull over. Ah'm drivin'."
"Bad idea t' pull o'er just now," he insisted, glaring at the hazy woods before him. "I t'ink it might work if y' just wipe m' fore-"
"No."
"Somehow, I saw dat comin'. Climb in front, den," he said, eyeing the snow.
"What!"
"We stop dis t'ing in de snow, who knows if it ever start up again. Took a gamble goin' into de snow, but it's jus' stupid t' stop dead in it. Right now all we got goin' fo' us is one fine machine and momentum. 'Course, y' could jus' give me direction-"
Promptly, she let go of his waist and grabbed onto his shoulders, pulling her legs up until she was half-standing in a crouch on the back of the motorcycle, gripping his shoulders tightly enough that had her nails been long rather than cut to the quick, they would have dug right through his trenchcoat into his skin. Shocked, he shouted, "Sit down, y' daft fille!"
She ignored him as well as the bobbing and jolting of the motorcycle and quickly tried to decide which leg to move over. Not the right, since then she'd end up backwards, facing him, so very unsteadily, she lifted her left leg over the right side, awkwardly, and managed to get her foot on the other side of the bike. Unfortunately, only her foot, since the rest of her, without balance, started to teeter over the right side.
Somewhat astonishingly, Gambit let go of the steering to grab her and pulled her the rest of the way over, grabbing it again and scooting back just in time for her to end up in front of him rather than on top of him. "Y' gonna have t' learn not t' listen t' anyt'ing I say," he muttered, as her gloved hands went just on the inside of his on the handles. "I would've pulled it over if I actually t'ought y'd try dat."
"Ah don't like waits," Rogue said, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Cody's voice had popped up frantically in the back of her head and was listing the multiple ways one could die in falling from the back of a speeding motorcycle. "Let go, swamp rat. Ah've got it."
Slowly, his grip slackened, and one by one his fingers released from the handle bars. "Y' absolutely out o' y' mind," he hissed, while holding the cut on his head shut, his balance on the moving motorcycle without a grip not a problem. "An' I've known one too many filles who've been slightly unhinged, so don' do anyt'ing like dat again."
She ignored him. This was more like it, she thought, beaming internally. Of course, this meant the snow being hurled about by the thundering motorcycle was hitting her first, but the aching cold could be dismissed. She could feel the power in her hands, the smooth control hers to wield. The speed was controlled by the pressure of her right hand, and the metal of the throttle hers to pull back. The motorcycle hummed, her feet precisely fitted against it, turning with the curve. She could, of course, have used thicker pants, but everything else was perfect, even the heat emanating from the motorcycle. Well, if she allowed herself to forget she had a passenger.
She sliced through the snow with ease, turning with the motorcycle as she swerved past one tree, then looped by another, feeling the slight incline they were heading up. An incline meant more road, possibly, and going straight seemed to be the best policy. Her hand pulled slightly more tightly on the throttle, and humming, the speed picked up, slightly. Then slightly again, until soon it seemed to be constantly accelerating.
Gambit's hands shot very quickly around her waist, forgetting his cut, as, despite all the balance of a cat, the motorcycle threatened to move right out from under him.
"Watch yah hands!" she growled warningly, preemptively, not trusting him as far as she could throw him, which wouldn't be far at all.
"Y'd have t' be a smidge older, chere, fo' y' t' be worryin' 'bout de whereabouts o' my hands," he said smoothly, voice too close to her ear. She jerked her head forward, eyes narrowed, ignoring him entirely as the ride took her over. She felt a silly grin spread across her face, but couldn't help it.
They raced through the snow now, in spots where it was more solidly packed practically gliding over it. They hit a rock, and for a moment sailed through the air, before landing with a roar again. She had none of the expertise or grace Remy had in steering the bike, but she had enthusiasm, speed, and great control to make up for it. And it helped that she could see.
"Y' have a license, right?" he asked in a shout, as they looped through a series of trees, bending a bit startlingly too close to the ground.
Actually, no. She didn't even have a permit. There'd been a problem there, being that Irene refused to take the test. Rogue had sort of a problem with any sort of vehicle, which had been plain when Ms. Darkholme had taken her to Florida one winter break and taught her how to jet-ski. That had sort of canceled any hopes of them letting her gain any form of permission to drive anything without the woman's intense supervision.
It wasn't a problem, really. More a need.
For speed.
They zoomed past a startled group of deer, Rogue having to swerve sharply and nearly crash into a shrubbery to avoid whacking several does, and soon they could hear the steady swish of cars and see the fringes of a highway, lit by the glowing streetlamps and dusky light of the crescent moon.
"Yeehah!" Rogue cried, pumping a fist into the air, unable to restrain herself, as she zipped it towards the highway, the speedometer slowly jerking farther in this constant state of acceleration. She wondered how much faster it was possible to go when on the steady road rather than bumpy, snowy ground.
The motorcycle skidded onto the road, leaving skidmarks.
Remy didn't think he'd been this alarmed a girl since seeing the deadly look in Belle's eyes when he'd proposed, badly.
In fact, he didn't think he'd ever been this alarmed by a girl.
''''''''''''''''''''''''
Bobby was staring blankly at the television, as he had been for the past few hours. It probably wasn't healthy, as he couldn't remember what show he'd been watching an hour ago, nor was he really aware what show he was watching now, except that the girls were very good looking and seemed to have some sort of powers. Though he doubted they were mutants, since they were fighting demons.
He wondered what Rogue and Gambit were doing right now. Probably, he suspected glumly, fighting porky bouncers with brass knuckles, blackjacks, coshes and all sorts of other wicked looking things he'd read about but wasn't sure what they quite looked like. In all likelihood, he suspected, his acquaintances would win and then deprive them of those fun little instruments for use in a later bar fight, or against Sabretooth when they caught up with. Or against Remy's assassin girlfriend.
He wondered whether she dressed like Le Femme Nikita or that girl on Alias and whether she was as good-looking as Rogue.
He was so out of it, full of self-pity for missing out on the adventure, just because of his family, he didn't hear the doorbell ring. Bobby was too occupied casting a resentful look at his dog, sleeping cozily by the fireplace, as one of the ties binding him to his house.
He heard his brother's feet pounding to get the door, which opened creakily, but that didn't mean he was listening. It didn't register.
Nor did the voices from the hall.
"Bobby! For you!" his brother Ronny bellowed. No response, so he came in, to where his brother was slumped, in a seeming stupor.
He waved a hand in front of his older brother's blue eyes, but it didn't register. "Bobby!" he bellowed. Getting no response, and somewhat pleased at the opportunity, he hit his brother with the flat of his hand, smack on the head.
Bobby, coming to life, lunged for him, toppling the couch backwards as he leaned heavily against it.
Ron backed up quickly, jerking his thumb to the door. "Company."
He rubbed his hair. "Female company?" he asked hopefully.
His brother shrugged, not caring enough to give an actual response.
Bobby raced for the door. He had to admit, he was entertaining a fantasy where Rogue and Remy had come back to plead for his desperately needed help. And another, smaller fantasy with a really good looking blonde in an outfit like Halle Berry's Catwoman suit coming to demand where Rogue had gone since she wanted to kill her, and then he could tag along to watch the two of them fight until he very nobly ended the fight. But that was a very small fantasy, and he wouldn't admit it to anyone, and would be deeply embarrassed had there been a telepath around.
Leaning against the wall, having stepped into the house uninvited and shut it against the cold, a young man waited, eyes half-closed and firmly focused elsewhere.
Namely, on the lighter he flicked continuously in his hand.
Bobby stopped, bells of paranoia going off in his head. "Can I help you?" he asked warily.
The other looked up. His features were good, and he could have easily been called handsome, except for the painful reddish orange shades of hair which Bobby could not bring himself to look at, as it made his eyes hurt. There was a look in his dark eyes, too, that made Bobby want to step back, as the only time he'd seen that expression was in the very hyper dog which had once belonged to an neighbor which thought it was fun to bite things, especially the fingers of young boys, and didn't see any harm in it. The grin which lit up his face was a very pleasant little smile, and yet, oddly, it made Bobby Drake want to shove him outside and lock the door.
"Funny," the lighter snapped open, then shut, "'s what I came t'ask yeh, mate." Oddly enough, his 'I' came out like an 'Oy'.
Bobby tilted his head at him, lifting an eyebrow. "You came to ask if you could help me?"
The man- well, not too much older than Bobby, but the years were enough of a difference that Iceman, whatever he may call himself, was a boy, and this was definitively a man, however young- straightened, revealing he wasn't all that tall, really, and quite lean. He flicked the lighter open again. "Needn't nitpick at my wordchoice, boyo, yeh get the gist of it." Again, Bobby noted, his 'my' sounded more like 'moih'.
Bobby folded his arms. "That an Australian accent or a lousy imitation?"
He snapped the lighter shut. "It's surprising how many times I've been asked that," he complained, sounding offended.
"Probably 'cause you sound like the Crocodile Hunter, dude."
"Him! No real sodding Australian'd watch that bloke," the man said in disgust, flicking his lighter open. Bobby's eyes followed the flame, as did those of the man himself.
"So…" Bobby said suspiciously. "Why have you come to my house? I somehow doubt you've jumped halfway around the world just to visit me. I also doubt I'd be flattered if that was the case."
His brother leaned around the corner. "'S he a nutcase, Bobbio? Want me to call the cops?"
The man glared witheringly at him. "Bugger off," he told him.
Ronny wasn't sure, but determined he'd probably been insulted. His gaze flickered to his brother.
Bobby dismissed him with a wave. "No… he's, um, an exchange student."
His brother stared at him. "We go to the same high school, Bobby."
"Not at that school," the man supplied.
"Yes, not our school," Bobby said hastily. "At… Boston College! He's, uh, studying abroad."
He considered this. "He's here why?"
"Tutoring!" the Australian said brightly, flickering the lighter again. Bobby winced at the metallic clink.
"You're failing something?" his brother said, laughing. "Oh, dear, we are in trouble." Throwing his head back, Ronny headed upstairs, still cackling. He couldn't wait until his parents got home.
"I could kill him, 'f'y' want," the fellow offered, closing the lighter. "Fer free. I'm no mercenary, I'm a purist."
Bobby had the scary feeling he meant it in earnest, and very quickly shook his head.
"Sure?"
"Very. Ah, dude, can you quit it with the lighter?"
It snapped shut. "Sorry? How's yeh mean?"
"Stop flicking it, maybe?"
The Australian considered. "Oh, that. No." He flicked it open and shut again, then with another click, kept it open, letting the tiny flame burn.
"Look, what do you want?" Bobby asked after a moment, exasperated. "Is this about a, a certain Cajun fellow with a gash in his head?"
The Australian looked mildly interested. "Someone shot Remy in the head?"
"Noooo," said Bobby very slowly, now becoming mildly alarmed.
"Oh. Suppose that's for the best. Would be amusing, though. Bloke can't do much against a gun. Yes, it is, I reckon. Ask another," he said, bemused, waiting eagerly for another question.
Bobby looked at him very nervously. "Let's try who are you and what'll take to get you out of my house."
The lighter flickered shut and open again. "Pyro."
Blue eyes went to the lighter, then up to the fellow's face. "That a name or a job description?"
The steady, unwavering grin widened. "More of a character trait."
"Greeeaaaat," Bobby said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's really good for you."
"Yes, it's positively grrrrrrreeeaat!" There was no sarcasm in this.
The boy nodded, face forced to remain severe by biting the lower lip. There was something comical about this fellow, but he felt it would be hazardous to his health to laugh at the man. Very, very hazardous. But it was just an impression.
"And, erm, the second half of my question, Dundee?"
Pyro considered. "Leaving your house? Well, mate, that'd prob'ly involve yeh being dead, or I being dead, or I learning the whereabouts of one Remy LeBeau. And I'd suggest you don't tell me you don't know where."
Bobby, in turn, considered this. "Tell me, do you know who I am?" he at last said, in what he hoped was his best impersonation of James Bond's Dangerous Voice.
"Yep. Took me all of five seconds to set the darling Pussy loose from the evil ice block you bound him in."
Bobby groaned. "Aw, man, that wasn't good!"
Pyro looked surprised. "Why?"
"He wants to kill Gambit! And… hey, for that matter, probably so do you, so maybe for you it was good…."
"I don't want to kill him! He's my mate! Why'd I want to kill him for?"
Bobby eyed him carefully. "His mate- I'm taking that to mean buddy, just to clarify- huh? Then how come you don't know where he is? How come you set Sabretooth loose?"
Pyro flicked his lighter again, waving it like he was at a rock concert. Eyes not on Bobby, he answered, "Oh, simple. The Kitty sees to it my salary's paid when they've got a job for me. Kitty be frozen solid, there be no paycheck, no paycheck means no nice lovely toys."
"Riiiight. So you and Remy would be friends how if you work for the folks who want him dead?"
Pyro blinked. "They want him dead now? That's new. Wonder how much they're offering?"
Bobby, getting swiftly bored, held out his hand and sent a small blast of ice towards the lighter, freezing the small flame solid. "Look, dude, I'm not buying it, and I suggest you get the hell out of my house."
Looking crushed, he stared at his lighter, eyes lowered, and very slowly and deliberately lopped off the frozen flame with one finger. Shutting it and opening it again, he raised his eyes, which were now hooded, the smile gone. Bobby's gaze went to the renewed flame. "I tried to be nice," he said dangerously, cupping the lighter in his hands. Bobby lost sight of it, but the bright orange glow emerging from between the man's fingers could not be of the good.
"Boy, am I dumb," he said quietly to himself, resisting the impulse to hit himself on the head as he began to rapidly step back. "Um…" he raised his hand as he would in school, meaning to scramble through a hasty apology, but then Pyro raised his right hand, revealing a ball of fire which flickered in sheets of flame.
Bobby wondered if he could freeze it before it was flung at his face. Wisely, he dove for the living room rather than attempting it, determined to get behind the coach. The fireball danced after him, leaping from Pyro's hand to crash into Bobby's hockey bag, sprawled in the hallway. It immediately was enveloped in flames.
"Not my gear!" Bobby yelped, forgetting the coach as he turned to ice over his bag, leaving it smoking. Streaks of fire shot towards him, and he ducked, trying to freeze the fire simultaneously. Instead, the a thin sheet of ice began to coat the ceiling with a crackle as the flames hit a pile of fabric on the coach.
"My mother's crocheting!" he shouted in abject horror, moving to freeze it, then stopped. He wasn't all that keen on those sweaters and scarves, as they itched something awful. Guiltily, he ignored it for the moment, peeking around his father's large chair, as the flames rose higher in a quick crackle. Reluctantly, he turned and froze it.
Pyro had his lighter open, and the tiny flame streaming from it into his hands formed a shape of some sort of fire-beast, which he seemed to be about to send straight at Bobby.
Quickly, Bobby looped an arm around the chair to freeze it. Plummeting to floor, the ice exploded instantly with a loud crash. "Jeez!" he bellowed, back up against the chair. "This is not cool! This is my house!"
"Only for the next couple of minutes, mate," came the voice calmly. With a start, Bobby jerked away as he heard the sound of something catching aflame. All around him, sparks were arising around the furniture, looking poised to erupt into flame.
Bobby thought quickly. He could probably freeze most of them, or manage to freeze the man himself, but he had a very nervous feeling about the size of the fires this Australian could control. Remy spoke French, just like the French-Canadians, so it'd be believable to tell Pyro he was going to Canada, right? He only had to remember the name of one of those French cities… "He's going to Quebec!" he called loudly. "Or-or maybe Montreal!"
"Pick one, matey," the voice said, friendly again.
"He, uh, hadn't decided yet! He, uh, was going to head, um, wherever more suckers were being born every minute!" Bobby called desperately. He liked his house. He felt pretty confident he could beat this guy, since ice trumped fire, he was certain. But he was very fond of his possessions and not keen on the idea of them going up in smoke.
The fire around him evaporated with a disappointed 'puft'.
"Yagh!" Bobby shouted, as he looked up to see Pyro's face peering down at his crouched position over the top of the chair. Annoyed with himself, he straightened, walked over to his hockey bag, and began to methodically brush the ashes off. Bobby cast a glance at Pyro, who was now settled pleasantly, hands folded over his lighter, in the comfortable easy chair he'd been hiding behind.
"Reasonable enough," Pyro decreed, grinning again. "If yeh lied, 'course, I'll come and watch yer folks dance about with a merry case of hotfoot."
Bobby doubted he meant when a person stepped in water. "How'd you find me?" he demanded, highly annoyed and somewhat worried other crazed mutants would be showing up at his doorstep. "Aw, my jersey's smoking! They make us buy those!"
"It's yer mummy's money," Pyro pointed out, stretching back lazily and pushing the arms of the chair back so that the footrest popped out. "Pussy Willow gave me a name, an' I copped a description from a few obliging coppers, and it ain't too hard to follow Frosty the snowman. Shouldn't have gone testing yer powers on the streetlamps, mate. Golly, I had less trouble finding Remy."
Forcibly restraining himself from commenting on the 'golly', Bobby swallowed his sarcastic remarks and inquired, "Now that we seem to be getting on so jolly well, what do you want with him?"
Pyro blinked innocently, elbows sticking out as he eased his hands behind his head. "Forgot his effects."
Bobby stared at him.
Pyro gestured. "Y'know, his little baggie full of some clothes, extra decks, thieving stuff, his music-"
"What kind of music?" Bobby demanded, suddenly interested as he let his charred jersey drop.
Pyro laughed, somewhat wildly, at last stopping and making a face. "Junk." Seeing Bobby's expression, he elaborated. "This twittery Krauss girl, Harry Connick Jr.- I hate the man, Gambit kept playing it when we were br- doesn't matter, some woman named Holiday, Armstrong, Sinatra-"
"Country and swing!" Bobby cried, horrified.
"Well, to be fair, 's'really lots of jazz," Pyro added, tilting the easy chair even further back.
"Nothing modern?" Bobby said, shaking his head.
Pyro shrugged. "It's criminal, I know. Y'know, he's never even heard of Olivia Newton-John?"
"Who?" Bobby said blankly, then quickly backtracked at the man's murderous expression and the sudden snapping forward of the chair. "Pulling your leg, man, I mean, that's just wrong. Everybody up here loves her. It's those dumb Southerners."
"Australia's South of here, mate."
"American Southerners, only, I mean. You're way aways from here. And, uh, you were willing to killing me so you can return Gambit's stuff?" the boy added somewhat indignantly.
Pyro looked surprised. "I'm pretty much willing to kill you anyhows. Plus, there's a bit more to it than that. He's only sometimes my chum, mate."
Bobby watched the man stand up, ice blue eyes flickering about the room. "Uh, so, nice meeting you?" he squeaked.
"Quite a delight, alright. I'm sure we'll run into each other again. Bound to happen, right?" He twirled the lighter between his thin, tanned fingers.
Weakly, Bobby nodded, and opened the door for him. Pyro reached out and pumped his hand. It was a struggle to keep from icing over the other's palm, just to see how he'd react.
Jauntily, Pyro stuck a cigarette in his mouth, not lighting it yet. He made a disgusted face as he headed out the door into the snow. "Ooh-de-lally, ooh-de-lally, golly what a day," he sang to himself, though his lips still held the cigarette in place. Without looking back, he waved to Bobby, who stood poised to freeze anything should Pyro decide to incinerate the house. After a long minute, he closed the door, rubbing his head in shock.
There was a soft cough from inside the room.
Bobby looked up. Part of the room was still smoking, and in a corner, his brother stood, mouth wide open.
Bobby took a deep breath of the air and tried not to choke as he inhaled a little bit of smog.
Ronny was still staring at him, not moving to take the opportunity to pound his brother on the back, and Bobby wondered how much he'd seen. Definitely too much, he decided from the expression.
"Enh," Bobby tried, "that was a bit queer, I suppose?"
His brother gaped.
"Queer as in the sense of uncanny, that is. Not in the other meaning, since if I already have some explaining to do it'd help if I didn't have to clarify any misunderstanding's there," Bobby added quickly, laughing weakly. "Heh heh heh," he choked out somewhat hysterically, or blink.
His brother didn't move, or show any sign of moving, nor did his mouth show any sign of closing.
"Uh… yeah. Heh heh heh."
'"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
"Bum a light?" a young man's voice suggested to a few of the pretty young girls sneaking a smoke outside a diner, completely ignoring their male companions.
He held out his cigarette, as they took in his scrappy clothes, cuts, trenchcoat, and rather dark hair which had been thoroughly blown straight up in waves which looked as if they might never fall straight again.
Unable to think of anything to say, and staring at his red-on-black eyes which made him look as if he might have stepped out of a badly taken photograph, the girl merely held out the lighter.
He took it, glancing over at a girl standing relatively nearby, just out from under the porch, staring up at the black sky with an exhilarated expression. Her hair, too, was likewise windblown, somewhat straight but mussed, clinging all about her face. He shook his head, handed the lighter back over to its owner, and sauntered back over to his traveling companion, blowing smoke out through a corner of his mostly closed lips.
Rogue stared at the crescent moon, the stars around it dim, though the constellation Orion was somewhat bright. The snow had stopped falling, leaving the cold but clear skies. Thin streaks of cloud stretched across it, and she leaned against the motorcycle, waiting. She was annoyed that he came back with a lit cigarette and not just confirmation the diner was safe to briefly stop at.
Silently, he stood next to her, following her gaze. With the perfection of experience, he casually drew the cigarette to his mouth and let the smoke sift into his mouth as he likewise drew breath. She glared at him.
He noticed, but didn't look over. "Not a word 'bout lung cancer, p'tite."
"Ah'm not petite. And ah wasn't going to say anything about that." She waited a beat. "Ah'm considering emphysema. An' second smoke. An' the matter of yah havin' a habit like that not bodin' well for yah overall character."
"Somebody addicted t' speed ain't one t' be criticizin' a fondness fo' cigarettes," he responded readily. "Can't blame me a smoke t' calm mon poor shot nerves, non?" He turned his head slightly more in her general direction. "What y' lookin' at, chere?"
"Don't call me that," she said immediately. "And at the sky, genius." There was the merest instant before she recalled his earlier comment. "Ah'm not addicted ta speed, either."
"Non?"
"Yeah, non," she responded defiantly, folding her arms.
He shrugged and drew the cigarette away from his mouth briefly, tapping a few of the ashes off."Fine, den. Guess y' not one fo' makin' small talk."
"Not large talk either, for that matter," she added, still not looking at him.
"Hmm. Seems that we still be chatting, t'ough. What d'ya make of dat, chere?"
Rogue didn't dignify that with a response, turning her face away from the smoke with a light cough.
He waited a moment, rather obnoxiously taking a long draw of breath to smoothly exhale a cloud of smoke. Enjoying her apparent discomfort as much as the cigarette, he didn't notice as the cigarette lit up in a bright, consuming reddish glow in his ungloved finger tips. "Diner's safe if y' exclude de hazard de food presents to a body," he said, letting his hand dangle as he paused to speak.
She gave him an annoyed look. "We can go in, then? We're wastin' time."
He flashed a grin at her. "Don't allow smokin' in dere, chere. Y' might want ta wait."
She opened her mouth to reply, but the sudden, small puft of explosion from the cigarette in his hand interrupted her. He dropped the burning bits of paper, wafting scents of tobacco, at once, cursing under his breath and waving his hand wildly in the air. It had left a smoldering hole in his glove and a patch of reddened skin.
"A first aid kit'd come in handy round yah," Rogue commented, watching him without much show of concern.
He looked up from his hand, eyes glinting. He jerked his head at the scrapes that littered her face, slight little marks of red or bright white against her pale skin, and those were only the visible injuries. "'Round us, chere," he said impishly. "'Round us."
"'Least it rid us of that thing," Rogue said, eyeing the cigarette's remains. "Can't hold one of those, how're yah gonna hold a sandwich, pray tell?"
He pointedly ignored her, grabbing onto her arm and beginning to steer her inside. Immediately, she yanked his arm off, eyes blazing. "Enough with the manhandling already!" Rogue spat, feeling like ripping his arms off.
"Most femmes don't mind bein' manhandled by Gambit," he told her, eyes winking with hard laughter.
She shoved him further away from her. "Don't tell me yah actually just referred to yahself in the third person," Rogue groaned, unable to believe this.
"Most femmes don't mind dat, eit'er," he said quickly.
"Yeah, well, most femmes probably don't see past yah looks," she drawled, shaking her head at him.
"Ah, so y' admit dat I'm good-lookin'," Remy said, raising his eyebrows.
Rogue, having met enough cocky slimeballs in high school, didn't flush, put one hand on her hip and blatantly met his gaze. "Didn't say anything 'bout them bein' good, now, did ah? Have yah considered how much time we're wastin' here, anyhow?"
"Dodging the topic," he noted.
"So're yah," she countered. "Two, in fact. Yah powers, going inside, and Gawd knows what else. Unless yah hoping Belladonna'll catch up to us?"
He scowled. Slowly, he indicated his eyes. "Not big on crowds wit' dese out fo' all de world t' see, chere. An' besides, we not only got a real good 'ead start, but de t'ing 'bout bein' on de run, it's not a sprint. 'S a marathon. Y' not only gotta set a finish line, but y' got t' rest long de way. Sign bit back said dere's a motel up aways. We get some food, we'll crash dere fo' de night. An' work out some plans, non?"
She looked at him suspiciously. "Who's gonna pay?"
His eyebrows rose still higher, and he shook his head ever so slightly. "Wouldn't trouble y' head o'er dat, chere. I got currency dat's good wherever y' go. Y' hit de ladies' room," he said, jerking a thumb, "an' I'll get us some food." He paused before turning towards the diner, though. "Why so concerned 'bout Belle, chere? She ain't de tracker, an' we went t'rough de woods."
Yeah, Rogue thought to herself, but there's a woman who can tell her exactly where we're going to be. She didn't know whether to tell him that, though, or how to, considering he'd probably drop her like a hot potato in that case, and right now, however much of a jerk he was, he knew what he was doing. Loathe as she was to admit it, she hadn't the faintest clue. Her indecision must have shown on her face.
He sighed, shaking his head, recognizing, as a professional liar himself, that there was something she wasn't saying. He couldn't fault her, though, there being many things he wasn't saying.
Rogue moved to head into the diner, but he stopped her. He gestured to the large, square bulge of the book partially sticking out the side of her bomber jacket. "Don' walk in dere wit' dat, chere. Dey'll t'ink y've stolen somet'in, wit' us lookin' de way we do. Last t'ing we need's more trouble, non?"
Her temper flared, but she forced it back, and with extreme, sullen reluctance, she drew it jerkily out, having wedged it in there quite tightly.
He held out his hand. "Here, give it t' me."
The look she gave him suggested that was unlikely.
Not wanting to bother with an argument, he, barely touching it, drew the side of his trenchcoat, which hung to his knees, open, revealing a lining filled with multiple, thin pockets, including a deep, wide one near the bottom. It gave her a clearer view, as well, of his shabby black shirt and scuffed black jeans, which had the look of being washed a few too many times. "Ot'erwise, y' can leave it sitting on the motorcycle," he suggested. His face betrayed no interest in the book, only annoyance.
It didn't take long to consider. She didn't trust him, but he had a point, and the book was extremely uncomfortable and dug into her side. She handed the book over, and Remy, without even looking at it, slid it into his trenchcoat, which, once loosely arranged again, rendered the rather thick book relatively invisible.
"Yah better not blow it up," she warned venomously.
Looking offended, he indicated himself innocently as if to say 'who, me?', then gestured for her to go first.
Rogue did, but slowed her step until she was next to him. Frankly, she didn't trust him, and didn't like exposing her back to him, even though she knew that was ridiculous. Neither was she eager to head to the bathroom, leaving him out of her sight, in possession of the book and the only one capable of starting the motorcycle up again, but, really, her choices were limited. She especially didn't like that it had been his suggestion, so she hustled back immediately.
He was on the pay phone when she walked out, which automatically gave her the urge to (try to) kick his ass. At once, though, Gambit looked up, beckoning her over, no trace of guilt or any sign of looking to hang up.
"Je fie vous remplira votre fin de l'arrangement.," he said rapidly in French as she drew near. He gestured a quick 'one moment' sign at her, handing her a doggy bag, rather box in a bag, full of something warm, which made her wonder suspiciously how he'd gotten it so quickly. "Bon. Vous avez un accord.." With a click, he hung up, giving her a wan grin.
"Who were you talking to?" she demanded, eyes narrowed and hands slightly curled.
"Mon cousin," he said readily, though with an unhappy expression. "Don't want anyt'ing t' do wit' mon… family, but he's up in Quebec. Canada. He's got some stuff I need. Meaning dat if y' don't have another destination in mind…"
She didn't have the slightest clue, but she wasn't going to tell him that, though she suspected, from his cocky expression, he knew. Noncommittally, she shrugged. "Quebec sounds fine."
He looked at something to the left, blinked, and quickly nodded. "C'mon, let's go," he said swiftly. "We move quick enough, it'll still be warm when we stop fo' de night. When's de last time y' slept, chere?"
On the train, she thought. For a bit. She wasn't keen on going to sleep again, either. "Don't talk to meh like ah'm twelve," she snapped as they walked out of the diner. "When's the last time you slept?"
The bell chiming behind them, they stepped out quickly, as he responded, even as he nodded casually at the smokers, "I don' sleep."
Even though he'd hustled out of there at once, she still heard the phone explode and caught his wince. She gave him a very uneasy look as they rushed over to the motorcycle as a commotion arose inside. "It even safe to be around yah?" she questioned doubtfully, jumping on as he eased his leg over.
In answer, eyes hard, he whirled partway around, hand smoothly heading towards her cheek. Horrified, she grabbed it in desperation before his ungloved fingers touched her chin, swatting it away. She wished they hadn't tossed aside the stupid helmets, which had been custom made, one being too large, the other too small, and neither doing any good, since at least it would have covered her blush.
He nodded, expression hard, tight, and harsh. "Dat's what I t'ought."
"Yah got a death wish?" she shouted, angry at his stupidity and his confirmation of her own powers, as he revved up the motorcycle.
"If I do, so do y'," he muttered, pulling away with a screech before anyone thought to call in a bomb.
They didn't speak again until, several miles later, they spied a grungy looking motel with a blinking sign, including a few letters which didn't light up.
As soon as it was in sight, Remy swerved off the little road into the woodsy area, cutting the motor. He gauged the distance between the motel and the spot, and, satisfied, nodded. He extended a hand to help her off, which, as expected, she ignored, dismounting from the other side. Quietly, with Gambit directing their movements with gestures, they shoved it into hiding under branches, but in such a way it could be accessed and tear away with ease.
Rogue looked at him. "Somehow ah doubt we'll be payin' for a room."
He didn't even bother with an innocent look. "Right. An' somehow I doubt I'll be gettin' de sort o' female company I'm accustomed to at any point o' dis lil' vent- ouch!" he mumbled indignantly, red flashing in the dark as he glared. She'd socked him in the arm, quite hard.
"Stop wit' de hitting," Remy said, looking wounded. "Or I could easily get t' dislike y', chere."
"Then no comments," she hissed, looking apt to try to hit him again.
He made a face, beckoning her to follow him towards the motel. He moved like a cat, soundlessly emerging from the little patch of woods, while Rogue cringed as twigs crackled under her feet. "Y' jus' make it so easy," he complained, gaze flickering about, as he pointed out to her one sole security camera as they neared the building. The rooms were actually on the outside, the doors accessible by just heading up a long, straight staircase, and he looked disappointed at how easy it was. Then he noticed that the bottom of the stairs fell right under the security camera, and, heartened by this, began to ponder.
"Ah do not make it easy!" she insisted, keeping her step in time with his.
"Hmm, really?" he said absently. "Try dis one- y' an awful physical fille, chere, wonder-"
"Don't think about finishing that sentence."
"See? Easy." Considering the range of the security camera and rather than heading to the base of the stairs, he grabbed onto the railing, above his head, and swung himself over some scruffy little bushes up onto the stairs, soaring straight under the railing. She noticed that after standing, in perfect balance, he grabbed onto the railing again before turning to her, as if… she watched a faint flicker of light disappear from the railing as his hand latched onto it. He extended his hands down to her, leaning over, and with reluctance, she took them. The railing was too high for her to reach herself, even if she jumped. Without much difficulty, he yanked her up, pulling her under the stairs, and looked startled as intense pain flashed across her features. She grabbed onto her left shoulder, forcing the expression off her face. Rogue, looking at him, noticed the faintest trace of sweat was fading from his brow, definitely preceding him pulling her up.
Remy opened his mouth, poised to ask what was wrong, when Rogue, suspecting what he'd ask, whispered rapidly, "Got skewered. One guess whose knife." Her gaze flickered to the undamaged railing, but he didn't seem to notice.
He shook his head, a faint trace of sympathy, but not much, crossing his features. "Odds are de place has a hot shower," he recommended. "It'd prob'ly help."
"Yah'd know, ah suppose."
"Implyin' experience wit' motels o' wit' wounds, chere?"
"Figure it out."
They trotted quietly up the stairs, staring at the closed doorway. Remy considered each, stopping at last in front of 17, which he felt reasonably certain was unoccupied. He reached for his lockpicks, preferring finesse to force. It not being an electronic lock, it was a moment's work for him to receive the triumphant 'click'. He glanced at Rogue's unsurprised expression, and shook his head ruefully. "Should prob'ly have mentioned, I'm somet'in of a t'ief."
"Mah gosh, realleh?" she gasped, hand going to her throat.
"De sarcasm was uncalled for," he commented, gesturing to the dark room and flipping on a light. "Y' could stand t' be a little more impressed."
"If yah were ta say that while displayin' the Mona Lisa or the British crown jewels, then ah'd be impressed," she said wryly, looking at the dingy room without blinking.
Remy casually blew some drooping strands of hair out of his eyes. "Can't steal t'ings like dat, chere," he informed her, checking for ways out and finding only a dirty window in the back. He shut the door and pushed a chair in front of it, as well as the TV and its stand. "People notice. Y' can't get replacements."
"Yah're more than just a pickpocket or some petty thief." It was a statement more than a question, but Rogue was only guessing, having seen from Belle's memories he hadn't always dressed so shabbily.
"I was." He looked up, noticing her lowering the blinds before he had to.
"Ah never read about any big robberies. Ah'd hear about convenience store robberies and car thefts, but no…" she considered, grasping for a word.
"Heists," he suggested, and she nodded, looking at the bulky, old-fashioned heater. "Y' can turn dat on, the management won't notice till de bill's come." Instantly, Rogue flipped the heat up, all the way, waiting for the blast of cold air to become warm.
"Can we stay here?" she wondered. "Are we… able to stop?"
"After all dat ground we covered, we'd be dead if we couldn't get a few hours rest. Four, no more, sorry, chere. De motorcycle may be faster, but we can't sleep on it," he added, pulling his trenchcoat off and flopping on the dusky coach. He found a taped-up remote and flicked on the TV, a very bad, relatively soundless picture emitting. He just as quickly flipped it off.
"How come ah never heard of some big heist before? Or never heard 'bout folk getting assassinated?" she wondered, turning the hot water on in the bathroom. The shower, at least, was clean. Assuming it'd be a while before it warmed up, she walked back out. "Caldecott County's not far from New Orleans."
"We're 'too good' fo' y' t' hear 'bout our doings, chere."
"So yah're some kinda hotel burglar?"
He performed the difficult feat of choking on the air.
"Guess not," she responded, looking at his outraged, reddening expression.
"Y' know what dat is?" he demanded of her.
"Sure ah do. Ah read fiction, after all. They're supposed ta be the most successful thieves in the world, since their thefts are hardly ever reported," she said tartly, the run of the water providing background noise for their conversation.
"Well, dey are," he said sourly. "Don't suppose y' know why?"
She looked at him innocently. "Let's see, how did the book put it- handsome, dashing, good dancers- though typically older gentleman- an'-"
"I don't t'ink I want t' know the rest o' what y' book said," Remy finished, his face actually flushing a dark shade, looking somewhat angry. "Dem, dey're just glorified- well, dey're predators lookin' fo' nice, lonely, old rich women wit' lots o' jewels- an' y' actually t'ought I- me, Remy LeBeau- was one o' dem!"
She looked at him, delighted she'd gotten a rise out of him and somewhat skeptical of his indignant state. "Yah've never once- not once- manipulated a woman to steal something from her?" Rogue wondered.
He looked for a moment as if he might sag, but didn't. "Once," he said tightly, his eyes full of fire. "Only the once."
Warmth was now beginning to steadily fill the room, from the heater and from the bathroom, beginning to steam. "Yeah? Then what were you? Not an embezzler, doubtfully a confidence man, not a counterfeiter of any kind, and probably not some kind of big heist fella y' see in the movies, which leaves-" Rogue tilted her head at him, "pretty much a cat burglar."
He rubbed his head. She was giving him a headache. "Pretty much. Dieu, what d' y' read?"
"Nothing happy," Rogue said calmly, unzipping her bomber jacket and eyeing the bathroom. "Water's not poisonous?"
"In all likelihood, no," Remy said, examining the scrape on his head in a dirt-covered mirror.
"All right, then. Ah'm lockin' the door. Don't yah dare pick the lock, or peek through the keyhole, or do anything obnoxious," she threatened.
"Not'ing dat'd make y' hit me, y'mean."
"In short, yes."
Gambit managed a glare at her. "Y' really don't t'ink much o' me. I'm not gonna peek in on some fifteen-year ol' brat, as if I'd peek in on any femme-"
"Sixteen," she countered, dangerously. She was used to being told she could pass for older, not younger. "And you're not one ta talk."
He looked up, sharply, offended. "I, at leas', can damn well drink," he insisted, adding, wisely, "Legally!"
She scoffed, shutting the door. "Yeah, maybe in Canada!"
"'M twenty-one!" Remy shouted through the door, fuming. He, too, was accustomed to people, particularly women, assuming he was older than he was. He instantly regretted it, not wanting to reveal any more about himself than absolutely necessary, and a difference of five years, give or take, was not about to afford him a great deal of respect. He then hoped they hadn't been too loud, because they last thing they needed was someone hearing their ages through the motel walls and calling the cops on him. It wouldn't be easy to explain that situation.
Rogue, a bit alarmed by the condition of the soap, shampoo, and the rest, rinsed herself quickly, at last getting the dried mud from her jump from the train thoroughly off her. She couldn't do much with her hair, and had no choice but to relatively leave it tangled, assuming it'd be dry by the time they left. At least, the towels seem clean, and she dried off rapidly, scrambling back into her clothes, however uncomfortable and dirty they might be.
She threw open the door to find Remy sprawled on the bed, trying to properly light a cigarette using only his powers to smolder them slightly, and with Destiny's diary, closed, propped on his chest, his fingers toying with the cover as he apparently debated whether or not to open it. Guiltily, he jumped as she exited, then at once regained his cool manner.
Rogue, glaring, snatched it away from him possessively.
"Little over-attached t' y' diary, chere," he observed, sitting upright, though still in a lounge position, one leg stretched out. "Only t'ing y' t'ought t' bring wit' y'?"
Shooting him furious looks, she continued tugging her fingers through her hair, and tossed him a sopping wet washcloth. "Ah wouldn't keep a diary," Rogue told him, scandalized, and at his clearly clueless expression as he picked up the washcloth in one hand and eyed it, explained with exasperation, "For your head!"
"Didn't know y' cared," he said, smirking, as he tossed it over his face, covering his features. Seriously, he then began to rub the cut, reopening it for the sake of avoiding infection.
"Here," she said gruffly, tossing him a partly rolled-up Neosporin and some Band-Aids which she pulled out of her pants pockets.
Surprised, Remy took them, looking up. "What d'y'know, y' good fo' somet'in."
She ignored that, rubbing her shoulder, then began to ball up her bomber's jacket like a pillow. Rogue looked at his position on the bed, and, very pointedly, stepped away and began to settle herself near the heater on the floor.
Chuckling slightly and brushing the remains of his cigarettes off, he got up and gestured to the bed. He looked twice at the grungy comforter and sheets, then ripped them off quickly, leaving the mattress. Stepping into the bathroom, he tossed several of the large, dry, surprisingly fluffy towels onto the bed. "Here," he said, in a rather annoyed way, gesturing dramatically and giving a fluid bow. "Yours. Mon Tante Mattie'd die jus' t' come an' haunt me if I let a fille take de floor in such a circumstance."
Her mouth quirked up in a slightly surprised manner. "Hmm. Chivalry may be dead, but the very thought o' Southern aunts can prod it into resurrection," Rogue commented, climbing onto the bed.
"Y' know a French word or two after all, chere" he said, less than impressed but managing to feign so.
She pulled a face at him. "Yeah, eighth grade French. Oui, bonjour, merci beaucoup, beaux… mere, pere, fille, homme, and… chere- which yah'd better not call meh again, since ah'm a far cry from a dear anything," Rogue added in a warning sort of voice. "Particularly ta you."
He only yawned.
"Y' should put y' boots back on," he warned her after a second, as he sat down by the heater. "'Case we ever have to leave in a hurry. Not comf'table, per'aps, but smart."
Thinking about that, Rogue at once began to yank her black hiking boots onto her socked feet, after knocking some of the mud off them.
"We'll need t' pick up some spare clothes," Remy told her, leaning his head back against the heat, the washcloth still to his forehead. He could use a shower himself, in a bit.
"And a toothbrush," Rogue added, arranging the towels on the mattress and leaving a few to pull over her. She grabbed the bomber jacket, as well, to use as a 'blanket'.
"Yeah, an' ot'er essentials."
"Ah wonder what yah find essential," Rogue said, suspicious of his tone of voice.
"Y'd be surprised." He waited a beat. "How long y' suppose this arrangement'll last?"
Uncomfortable with this turn of conversation, she looked over. "Anxious ta get rid of meh, huh?"
"May shock y', but no."
"Mah powers are useful ta yah, then."
"Mayhaps. Look, who's payin' enough t' get Belle after y'? Assassins… dey run errands fo' dangerous people. Politicians, usually. Who want y' so bad t' shell out that kind o' cash?"
Rogue looked at his serious expression. "Why's it matter?"
"No one can run forever." He looked at the ceiling. "No' even me. Sooner or later, yo'll have t' consider what'll make de folks get off y' back. Better t' start t'inkin now den when y' reach de end o' y' rope." He paused, and Rogue knew he was watching her, even though he seemed to be studiously examining a cobweb in the corner. "Who want y' dead?"
"Who wants you dead?" she countered immediately.
He resigned himself to the childish phrase, "I asked first."
"Ah… ah think she was sent ta bring meh back, but with no objections to killin' meh," she said slowly, lying back.
"Back?"
"Home," she said simply.
"Y' family…"
"Nah. Mah foster mother, Ahrene. She's…" Rogue hesitated. "She's a mutant, too. She tried ta drug me, n' then kill meh when that failed."
"Ah," he said softly. "When y' powers kicked in?"
"Yup."
"She rich?"
"Nope. But, mah other guardian… if yah could call her that… she might be. But Belle's not being paid," she said, frowning as she struggled to recollect it.
"Oh, dat's worse," Remy groaned. "Den it's a matter of integrity. Oh, no…"
"Yah know how ta cheer a girl up, all right."
She heard the sound of him running his hands through his hair, and shifting nervously. "Why're we havin' this conversation, anyways?" she wondered.
"'M makin' an effort to get along."
"We're getting along," she said immediately.
"No, we're no'."
"Sure we… oh. No, we're not," Rogue considered, eyes flickering closed. "Sorry. Ah seem to want to contradict anything yah say. Where were we… oh, right, who wants yah dead?"
"Don't know."
"Liar."
"Non, chere. Jus' a question o' not knowin' which o' de particular people who'd like ta see me dead is de one sendin' Sabretooth after me."
Rogue took this in, yawning. "Mmm-hmm. And what'd yah want at that school, Gambit?"
He looked up and over. "Same lady gave y' de bomber jacket tell y' dat?"
She didn't answer.
"Merde. Knew dey seemed government." He paused a moment to take this in, then returned to the question. "I demanded asylum. Dey told me t' get t' one."
If he was lying, which Rogue suspected, he was highly good at it, which she also suspected. He wanted something solid there. Something, in all likelihood, to get somebody large off his back.
There was a long, long pause in the dim room before Remy, clearing his throat, spoke up again, asking the question he had to ask. "What d'y' want out o' running, Rogue? Sounds like y' folks didn't want y' dead right away. Y' jus' wanted t' live, y' would have stayed."
Rogue took that question seriously, tired as she suddenly was, maybe because he'd used her name. She didn't really know. She wanted to help Cody, if she could, and she already had a feeling that she'd want the voices out of her head sooner or later. Freedom didn't really exist, did it? There were always limitations to it, and that would sound silly. Being normal… that wasn't quite right either. She didn't fit in as normal. She wasn't even good at trying. But then, she'd never had her chance to be normal in the first place, had she? She'd always been stuck wearing her gloves and been warned of dangers. She'd always been tied down by Irene's wishes and concerns. She wanted to travel, and she supposed there was a part of her that wanted adventure. Not dying, though. That wasn't good. And… there was a part of her that recognized she needed help. She'd had to come find Gambit, hadn't she? She'd had to rely on Cody's moves, and Belle's, and Bobby's.
She didn't want that. But she had to face facts. She wasn't tremendously tall, or strong, and her powers did her no good unless she could get close, and even then she was just borrowing the strength of someone else.
"Chere?"
"Self-reliance," she muttered at last. "Dumb question, Cajun. Better have an answer yahself, 'cause since y' had me answer, it's yah turn now. What's it yah can't find in New Orleans?"
He hesitated, though he knew the answer. "Peace," he said simply, at last.
Rogue, voice muffled slightly, murmured, "'M sure Sabretooth'd be glad t' oblige yah…"
Remy laughed for a minute at that, yet in a surprisingly sober way. "Man like me, chere, he ain't gonna find no peace in death."
He waited for her response, but got none. "Chere?" he asked softly, after a minute.
She was already asleep.
Sighing, he looked at his watch, and leaned back against the heater, rubbing his neck. He had too many bruises. He should probably take his own advice and take a hot shower, though hopefully it wouldn't wake her.
That was probably why, in an hour or so, with the water running, he didn't hear the screech of a shiny black car pulling up in front of the motel, or the sound of high heels hitting the pavement.
Along with the sound of a crossbow being loaded.