Invulnerable Tides

by Minnaloushe

Tailed by an assassin, a feral lunatic, and Gawd-knows-what-else, a tempermental Southern rogue and a Cajun thief and charmer of dubious motives have to work together to survive- assuming they don't kill each other first.

8. The Calm Before

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

A/N: Hey. This is actually my longest chapter yet, and is slightly different- random in places, and I figure either too unsubtle or too subtle in places. In points it could be more than one chapter, and it's unquestionably a transitional one, so bear with me. There's also the matter of me being quite sick while writing it yesterday, though I was aware of little more than a headache at the time, and still quite sick today when I finished it, so before the screen starts swimming before my eyes I'm going to do my review response. But if it gets odd at any point (which I really can't remember if it does)- that's why. But I'm updating it now because, although sick, I, personally, like it very much, though I may get pelted with eggs for saying that. But- briefly- oh, whoa. Though I'm not keen on doing this 'cause it distracts from any evil cliffie I might throw in- which I didn't really, this time- my review response ended up so long it MUST go at the end b/c scanning through that would challenge a saint's patience. Anyway, must update this quickly, so I'm done rambling deliriously….Read on!

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He drove grimly, as if etching a lasting gouge into the road with every surge of the motor. He leaned too far forward, skittered too close to the edge, skimmed the cars they passed with none of the energy and enthusiasm driving her own brushes of death but with an urge to hurt something. If the bike had spikes that might gash the road, she suspected he'd have them out.

It was beginning to get on her nerves, especially since he wasn't saying anything. The slightly damp trenchcoat flapped continually into her face. As the wind hit them, it blew the tail end straight into her pale face made possibly whiter by the residue of dust. Every single blasted minute the damn thing slapped against her chin as it blew up and brushed against her cheek as it went down. When the material caught on her nose, she let go of his waist, face balled in frustration. Gripping tightly with her legs, she caught the tail of the trenchcoat and shoved it ferociously against the seat, holding it down as she would a bucking bronco. Triumphantly, she stood up slightly and sat directly on the damned thing. The ends fluttered pitifully in the winds and stayed put. Exhaling with the faintest measure of relief, she uneasily grabbed onto his waist again.

For the first time in miles, he looked over his shoulder. "Y' sitting on my coat," he said blankly. There was still some blood on his face, but Rogue suspected mentioning it would not improve his mood any.

She tilted her head to the left slightly, gesturing annoyance as she waited for him to make his point.

"Dat's gonna wrinkle it," he complained. "How'm I s'posed t' walk about, when de back of my coat's all crumpled, an'-" he switched lanes, gliding past a car with little boys who immediately glued their faces to the window, noses being forced into a pig-like shape and mouths dropping open as the motorcycle passed. Remy tossed a wave to them, Rogue rolled her eyes and looked away, "it'll prob'ly stick up 'stead of falling straight," he yelled sourly. The motor nearly drowned out his words but she caught the gist.

"Yeah? What d'yah prefer, the end of your coat ta be slightly mushed or me to go beserk?" Rogue hollered. She waited a beat for an answer.

It was a while before a disgruntled response returned. "I could take y'."

She shot a glare at his back. "No doubt, moron. But how much yah wanna bet ah'd inflict some kinda lasting injury first? Yah like kids?"

He looked back at her with slight alarm. "Not 'ticularly, but I'd very much like t' maintain de capability t' have 'em."

"Then the coat's staying where it is."

He shrugged his shoulders in answer, moving them uneasily as he turned sharply and sliding the coat forward, bringing her a smidge closer to him than she liked. Without a word to her, Remy scanned the area, looking for cops. With difficulty, he loosened his clenched teeth, working his jaw back and forth for a second. Slowly, after squinting for a moment, the corner of his lip rose in a slight smirk. He swerved the bike slightly back and forth as they headed up the highway.

Then, with a shake of his head that sent his shaggy hair flying about, he let out a rebel yell of "Yeee-hahhhhh!" With the outcry, he reared the motorcycle into a wheelie that forced Rogue to cling on tightly. Landing with a bounce, he revved it forward and sped away.

Her eyes danced as the motorcycle picked up speed, her two-toned hair lifting from her shoulders to streak back in the wind. Tendrils danced around her face like a halo, twisting about in wet strands that smacked against her skin without notice. Expertly, without any of the wild bounces or swerves that characterized her spins behind the wheel, the motorcycle sped dead ahead with all the single-mindedness of a bullet in its course.

The wind couldn't be good for him, of course. Through her gloves and sleeves, she could feel how sopping wet he remained, and, to her intense discomfort, at certain points where his coat shifted or her hands were forced by some bump or another directly against him, the soaked shirt seemed thin enough to lend the illusion she'd brushed by his skin. That stung, to her surprise, with an excruciating sharpness Rogue had ignored. Although it was certainly something she'd never think about in conjunction with this idiot, the reminder came, nevertheless… of all that she'd suddenly been denied. With this whirlwind of a new life she'd found herself swept up in, she'd forgotten the very high cost of…

"Was a pretty damn good fight, t'ough, non?" Remy shouted, turning his head back enough so that Rogue could see the glint of his garnet irises and definitely breaking her trail of thoughts. She gave him a disbelieving look, which she couldn't maintain as the pressure of the chill wind tugged at the corners of her face and pulled at her slightly open mouth. At her lack of response, he continued, though he kept his face more towards the road. "I been crazy 'bout de femme, sure, but got to admit, feel a bit- maybe more den a bit- better having kicked her a-"

"WATCH THE ROAD!" Rogue hollered, whacking him in the back as he turned his attention to it in time to veer away from a large truck. Its driver honked the horn at them and raised a particular finger as they passed, which led to Remy narrowing his eyes and struggling desperately not to grab for a card. His temper was definitely on edge.

"Moron!" Rogue repeated, cuffing his ear.

"Hey!" Remy yelled back, hurt and trying to keep his hands on the road rather than reach to rub his ear. "'M very sore and very ticked off, an' y' t'ink yo'd have learned not mess wit' me-"

"Some people never learn," she said sweetly and somewhat absently as her eyes locked on the dark sky, faded from velvet black to a strangely muddy navy blue. Beneath the lightened backdrop, the smidge of moon looked oddly unreal.

"T'ought y' said y' were impressed," he returned somewhat huffily without having really heard her, speeding up even more.

"Hmm?" she responded in distraction, luxuriating in the whipping wind, even if it was a tad cold…. Rogue wondered if perhaps absorbing Bobby had made the cold somewhat less bothersome, or if she were just adjusting, but at this speed, how could she even care? His words had become completely unintelligible over the increasing roar of the motorcycle, although he seemed to be muttering something else. She debated hitting him on the back of the head just for good measure, but resisted the impulse, since her hand was frankly too sore and his head was probably in even more pain.

The rough, shadowy surface of the road, dull in the lightening night sky, stretched beneath them. It seemed for a moment as if the motorcycle was standing still and the highway rolled backward with ever increasing speed beneath the thick wheels, the whole world rotating underneath. The illusion vanished as the bike hit a bump and left the ground, soaring for a sheer instant and landing to screech sharply around the next bend.

As they turned, light blinded Rogue. Her instincts sent her into a state of alarm but it became apparent quickly enough that it was the sunrise, not the headlights of a police helicopter or a blinding spotlight. The golden-hued light, awash with highlights of orange, spread over them and glinted off the metal of the motorcycle, dirty as it was in places. It caught in Gambit's hair, tinting it a dark red, and probably in his eyes as well. The motorcycle wrenched to a stop, as from its high speed it whirled to the side as it horizontally slid along the road. Sparks shot off the tires in bursts. Before it tilted lower towards the ground, which they had no helmets to protect against, Remy pulled it to the side and it screeched piercingly against the rail as it painfully slowed. Neither winced as some of the finish scraped off. With the motor halted and it slowed enough, Gambit eased his booted foot to the ground with a stomp, halting the lasting momentum of the bike. Propping the bike against the rail in the painted off edge for pedestrians, he slid off and leaned back against the motorcycle, mimicking its slant. Rogue, mildly confused but too distracted to berate him for stopping, had no choice but to dismount along with him because otherwise her position on his trenchcoat would have sent him tumbling. As amusing as that sounded, it was overall not a good idea, so she too leaned against the motorcycle though without taking the least notice of her companion.

Enraptured, she gazed at the blazing ball of the yet wan light, thus far only a rim surfacing above the pine trees and failed to notice the fluffy clouds of a vibrantly pink tint against the dark blue sky. Remy, however, watched the clear sky carefully as the golden light melded against the dark sky to form a distinctly reddish hue which seemed poised to spread against the sky. However he attempted to force cheer, a glum frown spread against his face and he turned towards Rogue, rubbing his forehead. He paused slightly, tilting his head to look at the burning glints reflecting the faint hints of a light brown mingled in her deeply green eyes. She didn't notice him, too busy with her faintly judgmental appraising of the sunrise that framed his shadowed figure with a thin line of gold.

Not quite conscious of what he was doing, he reached to push a tousled strand of white away from her face. Rogue jerked back at once with a suspicious glare, her interest broken.

He gestured to her face. "Y' got dust right there, chere." He pointed carelessly.

Sourly, she fiercely rubbed her gloved hand against the spot he had indicated, and coughed slightly as a slight cloud of the dust that hadn't been whipped away by the wind emerged. Balling her hands into fists, she rubbed at her face and hairline further, squinting her eyes as she brushed away the traces of powdery grime that remained. "What's with yah?" Rogue demanded, earning a bewildered look in return. She clarified. "What's with the speeding up and the pulling over an'-"

The black of his eyes seemed to soak in all the light and remain even darker in this shade. He pointed at the sky. "Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky a' morn, sailor's take warn."

Rogue gave him an utterly blank look. "What?" She glanced at the sky warily, then back at him. "Ah think yah vision may be slightly off, Gumbo."

He glared. "Not'ing wrong wit' mon vision. Jus' 'cause y' eyes are brown-"

"Green," she corrected, glaring obstinately.

As if that fact wasn't already seared into his memory, he shrugged carelessly with something of a mean smirk. "Eit'er way, y' don' see de world in green, hmm? Sky's red. Storm coming. Nasty one. Was afraid of that, with the wind an' all. An' more den dat, we need suppl-"

"How'd yah know that?" Rogue persisted, folding her arms.

Remy shook his head. "De Big Easy's been a port city an' awful long time, chere. Look, as I was sayin'-"

"Don't call me that," she said with the slightest roll of her eyes. "Fahne, what kind of supplies?"

Remy stared at her, face expressing complete disbelief. ""T'ain't obvious?"

Her face tightened slightly in exasperation. She waited with little patience.

Shaking his head, he gestured at his outfit and his eyes. She considered this, taking into account his shirt of light material of now indistinguishable color from the blood, scorch marks, water marks, and occasional tears as well as his very noticeable eyes. Rogue's gaze ticked to her own shirt, trailed with blood from the rip in her shoulder and the residue of mud and dust, as well as her pants which were clearly not designed for riding on a motorcycle. Uneasily, her hand drifted towards the streaks in her hair. Their skin, at least, was cleaner than it had been before their previous stop, but Belle had rather spoiled that. "Ahhh," she said slowly. "Yah have a point. We're pretty scruffy lookin'."

Remy quirked an eyebrow at her. "Scruffy? Moi?"

She shook her head disgustedly, though was forced to admit he was right. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, and all the signs of trouble indicated by his rather messy manner of dress, his damp hair still fell in careless short loops about his features with a wind-blown grace that was certainly not fair. His trenchcoat, as shabby as it might appear off him, hung about him with a presence. It clung to him here and there and billowed at the bottom only, while each wrinkle and slightly overlarge section such as the sleeves seemed exactly in place. He knew it, too. If anything, he was dishabille. Scruffy, perhaps, but with bags and bags of style. It was hard not to hate him a little for that, especially when she felt like something some evil little cat was forced to give over after trotting proudly in the door with its conquest in its mouth. Rogue chose to ignore his slight smirk and simply shoot a look of contempt.

After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued. "So I t'ink we best cover much ground as we can, den find some town t' bunker down in till de weather passes. Only ot'er option'd be t' try t' run it out, but dat don' sound good t' me." He paused, seeing her expression. "Yes, I'm sure de weather'll be bad." Remy, viewing her skepticism with exasperation, pulled out his metaphoric ace. "Might mean blizzard."

Rogue froze. Hurriedly but glancing at the clear sky with a small amount of anxiety, she said reluctantly, "Yeah, all right, a town sounds okay. But…"

His eyes darkened. "Belle be tied up, Sabretooth don't move dis fast since I blew up his 'cycle- pity, too- an' if yo' wicked mères send somebody else after y', den dey'll show up anyway. An' c'mon, y' honestly t'ink dat of all places, we'd die in New Hampshire?"

"How come we're not moving, then?" Rogue said, gesturing broadly at the bike and the horizon.

He shrugged. "Figure if I take a detour, ought t' tell y' first 'cause ot'erwise y'll hit me."

"Ah will not!" she snapped, offended.

"Sure y' would. T'ink about it. An' I don' t'ink I can handle bein' hit by anymore women 'less I've had a good few more drinks." He stopped himself, considering. "Whatever town we find better have a bar."

Her eyes filled with a mixture of horror and supreme annoyance.

"An' a Cat'olic church," he mused.

"You're that concerned about making church on Sunday!"

"Hmm? Non! Haven't been t' church in- awhile. Priests speak Latin up here, t'ough, non? Not de masses anymore, but still know it, non?"

"Ah'm not Catholic," she answered, shaking her head as she adjusted the bike. It seemed an unspoken agreement it was her turn to drive, since he didn't object. "Still, though, ah think it's a really, really bad idea."

"Why?" he asked innocently, making no move to get on the bike as the sky failed to lighten further even as the sun rose. The clouds seemed surprisingly thick behind his head.

"Remy…." she said delicately as he started the motorcycle up again for her with his remarkably nimble long fingers. "Ah'm thinkin' we're not the ideal pair ta be askin' a priest for help."

He smiled sardonically as he leaned back against the rail, ignoring the cars flashing by. "'Cause I'm le diable blanc?" His face betrayed no tension despite the venom in his words, but a large orange plastic tag on the metal railing there to show its position in the dark began to glow a bright pinkish shade.

"Gambit!"

Sullenly, he folded his arms and opened his mouth to say something. Rogue, annoyed at his obliviousness, snagged the sleeve of his trenchcoat and wrenched him away from the railing and both toppled over, the running motorcycle flopping with them. The plastic exploded loudly, sending a burst of heat, light and smoke into the air.

"Ah, crap…" Rogue began as the sound died down, only to snap her head in the direction of a siren very close by as it was switched on. Stumbling to their feet, the two propped the motorcycle back up, careful not to bump the throttle, as a door snapped open behind them.

Remy whirled around, putting a hand up to his suddenly squinted eyes as if blocking out the sun as he whirled around. He flashed a quick smile. "Can we help y', officer?"

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The last time she recalled feeling so much pain was when Julien had broken her arm as part of an object lesson on how to handle it and work through it. The thought of Julien stabbed her with pain in the heart. She'd failed him. She'd been humiliated! Her anger overcame the pain as her eyes fluttered open.

"Gahh!" Belle yelped involuntarily as her eyes opened on a man with a distinctly unpleasant smile who seemed to be sharpening his knives on a nearby rock. She took stock of the situation quickly. She was facing the motel through what appeared to be bushes and trees, able to see it was swarming with cops who were examining her expensive rented car. Quickly, she tried to take stock of the situation, despite her spinning head and her legs, searing with pain. Her mouth was free, but her hands and legs were very tightly bound. Trying to look, she determined her bonds were… bedsheets. She'd kill Remy! Tying her up and leaving her for the cops!

"'Afternoon," the man said in a pleasant tone that wasn't very pleasant at all. Belle knew that tone well enough. It was the sort used by men who'd call you friend, ironically the men least likely to be friendly.

He turned from where he was crouched by the rock, standing straight to reveal he wasn't very tall at all. Belle's perfect eyebrows lifted slightly, dismissively. His eyes assessed her just as coolly. They were hard, mean eyes, very nearly black, at least examining her. They said very plainly they didn't like what they saw in the least and that she'd better not try anything, or else. There was no need to ask 'or else what?' His eyes answered the question readily enough. If they hadn't, there were always the three thin, almost triangularly shaped blades which reminded the assassin at once of claws that with a sound somewhere between a squelch and a snap slid back into his hands. His face might have been handsome once, if he had ever had a youth, but his eyebrows were a shade too heavy, nose slightly too squat and broken, for it to be called that now. It was an interesting, expressive face, though Belle would have preferred to simply cut it up with her daggers. He could easily be considered attractive, if not handsome, from the intensity radiating from his eyes and the wiriness of his frame, but Belladonna found herself reminded inexplicably of a dog she'd always wanted to kick. His hair was potentially unfortunate, so dark as black as to be nearly blue, and stood straight up which wasn't particularly extraordinary except for the two thick locks on each side which remained higher than the rest and curved slightly inward after a slight initial outward tendency.

He settled himself on a rock, with plastic utensils, a tray wafting the scent of cooling cooked food and a suspicious glance at her. "Cajun," he commented briskly, and it took her a moment to realize he meant her rather than the food. "And an assassin. Awful far from home, aren't ya?" His voice was a low and deep, with a growling resonance to every syllable. Awaiting a response, he stabbed at a thin piece of meat with his knife and bit it directly off it.

She remained silent, struggling to master the pain and to assess the best way to manipulate this man. His dark blue T-shirt demonstrated his definite musculature, even though most of it was hidden by a black jacket of perhaps jean material. He sat with coiled strength, even in his mock casual pose. Belladonna wasn't afraid of him, but somewhat curious and mildly concerned. She was, after all, in a disadvantageous position.

"I wouldn't suggest squirming, darlin'," he mentioned mildly in a way implying she was anything but. "Your friend did a mighty nice job there, I reckon, assuming his intention was to make the knot more damn painful every time you move." He skewered another piece of meat with the plastic knife and slid it off into his mouth.

She looked up, blue eyes blazing through her sheet of very mussed blond hair. "Dis'd be de point where y' suggest de easy way or de hard way, non?" she spat. "Seeing as y' got no ami to play good cop, bad cop with, hmm? Get to it. I don't hold wit' small talk."

He shook his head slightly, and apparently finding the plastic knife too weak as he attempted to embed it in the piece of apparently take-out or leftover steak he was slicing up, extended the middle claw from his left hand with a wince-worthy sound suspiciously reminiscent of 'snikt' to do so. "Sorry, darlin'. I'm not familiar with easy ways. And I doubt I've ever been a cop. Let alone a good one." He bit the perfectly sliced meat off, chewing calmly. With his left hand, he reached over to pull out a dagger he'd found, which had apparently been discarded.

"Dat's mine," Belle managed in a growl.

Appraisingly, he fiddled with it. "Steel," he commented lightly. "Admantium leaf at the tip. Cost you a fortune, I suppose." He paused without consciously thinking about doing so. "More likely cost Papa Boudreaux a fortune, come to think of it."

"Y' some kind of bounty hunter?" she hissed, becoming seriously annoyed as her attempts at releasing her wrists from behind her back resulted in the tightening nearly cutting off her circulation.

"Nope." With the extended claw, he casually lopped off the steel to leave the admantium coated tip. As another fellow might whittle wood with a sharp knife while speaking to a prisoner, he casually began to peel off the coating of admantium, the hardest known metal in the world, without much more difficulty or resistance than he'd have in peeling an orange. That left, of course, no doubt in Belle's mind of what the claws must be made of. She forced herself to keep from gulping.

"Why are y' after me?"

He looked up with a menacing grin. "Ya flatter yourself, darlin'. I haven't got an interest in one hair on your head, which may be pretty but ain't half so much as I'm sure you think."

"Petit démon poilu," she muttered. "My employer, den, hmm?"

"I do speak French," he observed. "And nah, though I am tempted to kill you simply for havin' Raven's number on you, seein' as that's not gonna end well."

Her jaw clenched. "Y' dared search me!"

His expression was bemused as he munched thoughtfully. "Don't worry, darlin', I may not be a gentleman but you're certainly not my type."

"Dieu, jus' tell me what y' damn well want!"

He toyed with a pair of keys in one hand while wiping his mouth with the other. "Nice car," he added absently, ignoring her fuming expression. "Reaches 113 miles per hour. Sleek. Bit lower to the ground than I like, but not bad."

Belle let out a stream of curses in French before she settled for staring at him angrily.

The man leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "I'm sure you're a smart girl. Probably not clever, but smart I can see. Wily. I'm really beginning to dislike wily women." This was, in fact, potentially the understatement of the year, as the aura of menace beneath it implied. "So I'm gonna tell you something, and then you're gonna tell me something."

"A good hair salon?" she suggested venomously. "Perhaps after you question if I feel lucky… which, by the way, I h-"

"The name's Wolverine," he said quietly, beginning to cut up a potato.

She stopped dead, staring at him with all the threatening power of Bambi, with his leg caught in a trap, facing a good-sized military tank steamrolling through the forest.

He smiled. "Now, if you'd oblige in tellin' me about the jokers riding my bike…"

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The police officer stared at Gambit in disbelief.

Rogue buried her face in her hands.

Remy, becoming seriously alarmed, clapped the man on the shoulder again. "And y' certainly gonna let us go, non, mon brave?" His tone was smooth and quite suave, though slightly less confident than he had been the first time around. He gave the man a very innocent look.

The blond man, not much older than Remy, stepped away in sincere alarm and drew his gun quite quickly. "Step away and place your hands on the vehicle."

Gambit looked immensely confused and slightly worried. "Sorry, what was de last?" he said, staring at the gloves on his hand which covered some fingers while leaving others uncovered as if they were devastating weapons, which they were, as he raised them slowly in front of him.

Rogue stepped up, holding her hands in front of her face innocently. Gambit noticed with a tad of approval that they were uncovered. "Ah'm sorry, officer," she said in as panicked a tone as she could muster. She shot a death glare at Gambit. "Mah friend here thinks he's a Jedi Knight."

Remy didn't like this at all. "Do not," he muttered.

"Oh really?" Rogue hissed in dangerous tones. "How else would yah explain attempts to influence the mind of this gentleman?"

"I'm a hypnotist," he hissed back in equally alarming tones. "Hence de contacts. An' dis be my lovely assistant-"

Before the thoroughly confused policeman could blink, Remy knocked the gun aside and Rogue clamped her hand on his throat, removing it at once as the man crumpled to his knees and to the ground.

"What'd yah think you were doing?" she hollered, once she'd beaten the voice of the startled man back without a great deal of difficulty.

"I charm folks," he managed, looking shocked. "Usually works. 'Specially on women. Granted, 's been a bit off…"

"A bit off?" she repeated in utter horror, looking apt to hit him. He backed up before she was in a mind to. Rogue shook her head in disbelief. "Don't do that again. More apt to get us killed than you blowin' us up!"

"Don' give me orders," he said warningly, eyes dangerous.

"Yeah? 'Cause doing things your way's going sooo well!"

"Still alive, non?"

"Barely!"

He glared. "Don' get picky, now…"

"Picky? Ah've got another damn voice in mah head and it's your fault!"

"How should I have handled dat, den?" he asked with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

"All yah had t' do was knock him out when yah got close!"

"Pardon me fo' not t'inkin knockin' out a copper was de best idea!"

"Ended up that way anyways, didn't it?" Rogue pointed out.

"How'm I s'posed t' know dis time it won't work? 'S been workin' fo' me for years!"

"Used it recently?"

"…no…."

She jabbed a finger at him. "Why, when yah can't handle yah other power, w-"

"I 'andle it fine," he said, voice sharp as a scythe.

Rogue, mouth closed and small and eyes narrowed, pointed wordlessly to the exploded orange tag. "It was stupid," she spat, and then slowly shook her head as she pulled her gloves back on. "Ah mean, c'mon, he thought you were hitting on him!"

Remy, next retort forgotten, clamped his mouth shut. His face flashed through a series of expressions, from horror to bemusement to annoyance and finally to simple weariness. He clapped his hands to his face, then slammed one fist down against the motorcycle seat.

It popped up.

Both stared as the rear of the leather seat lifted to reveal a compartment that hardly extended to any depth at all. Slowly, Remy reached in. Rogue, leaning over his shoulder, peered at the contents as well. It was taken up mostly by a thin, neatly folded and musky blanket, but there were some personal effects.

Remy began immediately to rifle through the wallet, while Rogue slowly fingered one of the slim canisters within. "Hey, Cajun," she said in a tone not half so snappy as intended to be as she examined the rest of the compartment. "What kind of fellow or dame'd have polish for blades but no knives?"

Gambit considered, glancing down at her. "Maybe 'e carries a lil' Swiss army knife," he said hopefully. He took the jar and handed her the wallet, having no interest in it since it contained no cash. His eyes widened. "Merde," he muttered.

"What?" Rogue wondered, examining the worn picture of a pretty Japanese woman and replacing it with care.

"Dis be what Belle used to get blood off her blades…"

"Yahh!"

"Yeah, I know- what?"

Silently she handed over a folded and less handled picture of a familiar looking woman with red hair and green eyes.

Remy whistled slightly, then noticed the government issue black outfit she was wearing. "Oh, c'mon," he said to the world at large. "Dis ain't fair…" He looked at Rogue.

She folded her arms across her chest. "Ah don't care," she said defensively. "Ah'm keeping the damn coat."

Remy looked at the sky, then at the used cloth for cleaning in the compartment. He shut it quickly and took a quick look at the motorcycle, particularly its tires, and noting once more it was rather exceptionally tricked out. He stared at the sky again, with a deflated look. "We better get goin'," he said hastily.

"Yes, let's," Rogue agreed. She cast a glance at the policeman. "Put him in his car first?"

"Yeah. Good t'inkin. Let's make it quick, t'ough."

"Oh, yeah…."

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When the wind reached a fever pitch, sounding like a pack of wolves, and the sky above had darkened to a frightening gray that masked the twilight, they pulled in to a small town that looked like it might be suitable. It became immediately apparent to Rogue they wouldn't be staying when Remy pointed out miserably there was no bar, just a few restaurants that served drinks. He did unsubtly suggest stopping there quickly to perhaps grab a bite, but the expression on her face deterred him from pushing the issue further.

It was essential, though, that they stop for gas.

"We fill and run," Remy instructed by her ear as she uneasily parked. Stopping she was less secure with.

Leaving the motor on, she set her feet against the ground to keep the motorcycle steady. Rogue nodded at the cars ahead of them already filling up and those waiting to. "Can't, there's a line," she said, pointing out the obvious that he was failing to observe.

He winced as the shouts from inside the car ahead of them reached their ears. Rogue glanced at the kids, who were walloping each other soundly and whose mother, filling up the glass, was making threatening gestures from outside.

Remy's eyes flickered over to the convenience store. "Dis could be a while," he moaned as an old lady got out of her car to begin pumping her gas. He glanced at Rogue. "Feel like a candy bar?"

Innocently, she looked down and back up before turning to look at him. "Well, ah don't reckon ah have a crunchy center…"

"Adorable," he said flatly, jabbing her lightly in the back. He slung himself off the motorcycle with ease. "What d'yah want?"

Her eyes crinkled as the screams from within the car ahead of them rose to a fever pitch. "Oh, no," Rogue said dangerously. "Ah am not gonna sit out here listenin' ta the Addams family there while you stuff yah pockets with Three Musketeers bars. Ah'm goin' ta park, and then we'll go in- together- and wait till the line dies dow- what?"

"Always liked T'ree Musketeers bars, when I was lil'," he said, eyes hazy. "Dey're French, y'know-"

She pulled the motorcycle away rapidly to park it, which she did neatly if her popping the tire up over and onto the curb was discounted. He put his hands in his pockets, waiting for her to come back. Rogue hustled over, arms folded to block out the cold and with a suspicious look on her features. "If yah stealing the gas, no stealing the food," she ordered. "Anyway, ah've got money."

He shrugged innocently and followed her in, then bolted immediately to the cold drinks section.

"Ah'm not paying for that," Rogue muttered, as Remy began to examine their alcoholic beverage selection. She studied the potato chips, studiously attempting to ignore the little girl with the high pitched voice insisting on some ridiculously priced trinket.

"But the pig pooos!" the girl wailed loudly. Her mother, in jeans, was likewise ignoring her and attempting to pay the large, bear-like man behind the counter.

Rogue, one eye on the cars getting gas, examined the selection of cinnamon gum. Noticing the man behind the counter watching her with a mistrustful glint in his eye, she made sure her hands were visible and a good distance away from the goods.

Gambit sauntered over, holding several cardboard cases in which clinked six-pack assortments of beer and Guinness. He grinned widely as she stared at him murderously.

The mother turned to go, adjusting her coat, and in response the little girl threw herself to the floor, beating her fists and screaming. Embarrassed, the mother flashed them an apologetic smile as she vainly attempted to pull the hollering little girl to her feet.

Rogue looked at the mother, who rushed to grab the aforementioned pig from a nearby rack, with thinly veiled contempt, when Remy, not paying the slightest attention to the woman and child, suddenly thrust the cases at her and went back for more. Rogue's vision was suddenly blocked by dark bottles of beer sticking out of the thin cardboard containers, and she momentarily swayed. She caught her balance and went straight after him to refrigerated section to the side.

"Where are these supposed ta fit on the motorcycle, pray tell?" she demanded.

He looked up. "Weat'er's gettin' bad. We stay here, I need means of gettin' drunk."

She gave him a look.

"Takes a lot t' get me drunk," he clarified, pulling out a case of Budweiser with a distasteful look.

Rogue thrust the beer back at him. Rather than staggering under its weight, he merely shrugged and headed to the counter with the containers balanced perfectly on his arm. "You de one said no stealing," he whispered, highly amused.

He planted the bottles in an uneven stack on the counter, beginning to quietly count them up when from the other side of the stack came a rough clearing of the throat.Rogue's head shot up.

"I'm sorry. I'm going to have to ask you to leave," the man said gruffly, eyeing Remy with distaste.

Gambit stiffened. "Why's that?" he asked tightly.

"I won't have mutants in my store," the man behind the counter replied firmly.

Remy didn't deny it. His hands snaked deeply into his pockets and his face took on a hard look. The woman looked between the young man and Rogue with a mixture of horror and fascination, and the little girl fell semi-silent as she began to stage-whisper in her mother's ear.

"Our money's good as anybody else's," he said flatly.

"No. I'm afraid it's not," the proprietor responded, voice taking on mildly dangerous tones.

Rogue leaned back against a stack of magazines, staring at the tiles on the floor until the little girl's pointing got on her nerves and she glared directly at her with as much disdain as she could muster.

"'S cash, ain't it?" Remy insisted, voice growing harsher and entering a lower range.

"Won't sell to you, mister. Now I'm asking you nice. Don't make me ask otherwise," the man said icily. His hand stayed below the counter. Rogue followed his movement. She'd stake her life he had a rifle down there, or at least a baseball bat. She sighed and blew her hair out of her eyes.

The door opened with the ringing of a bell. The kids who had been screaming before rushed inside, pushing and shoving each other, followed by a no-nonsense woman who ignored the previous occupants of the store and the tension. She grabbed her children, spoke to them in low tones, and they quieted sullenly immediately, trickling throughout the store.

"I don't want trouble here," the man added roughly.

"We just pay for dese and go," Remy suggested, voice oozing with venom.

"No," the owner said harshly. "You're not welcome here. I'm not about to treat you circus freaks like everyone else, especially what with today's disaster."

Rogue's attention was suddenly recaptured. "What?" she snapped, looking around for an edition of the paper. The front page had something about a local congressman, so she immediately dismissed it.

She was ignored. "Get out," the man snarled. "And that's the last time I'll tell you."

The woman with her little girl, still holding the forgotten plastic pig, nodded approvingly.

Gambit started forward, but Rogue's arm snared his in her surprisingly vise-like grip. "Don't," she said, looking evenly at the man. She turned her gaze to Gambit. "Forget about it. They're not worth it."

His eyes smoldered for a moment with anger, then he checked himself and to her shock, grabbed her gloved hand. "Alright, den," he said simply, leaving the intended purchases behind and reaching for the door.

"Muties," a little voice piped up insultingly.

They turned. The little girl was making a nasty face at them, and blew a raspberry. "You're all going to H-E- double hockey sticks," she said satisfactorily. Her mother grabbed her fearfully, throwing her purse in front of herself as if it could stop whatever they sent at her child.

Remy and Rogue exchanged disbelieving looks.

A small boy fighting with his brother over buying Lays potato chips or Doritos had paused to look. "Ahh, go to hell yourself," he told her, then turned back to pummeling his sibling.

Shaking his head, Remy threw open the door, tugging Rogue with him. He paused only to wave at the little boy, then turned towards the motorcycle.

"Jackass," she muttered as Gambit cursed in French. She slowly slipped her hand out of his grip as they neared the motorcycle. He stopped, then paced in place, glaring at the owner watching them through the window.

"Why dey hate us, Rogue?" he asked furiously. "What we done t' dem?"

"Ah dunno. Scared, ah guess." She shrugged. "We're supposed ta be they're replacements. An' nobody wants to be replaced."

"Next generation replaces 'em anyways," he pointed out as he started the motorcycle running again. "We're dat, ain't we?"

"We've got powers they'll never have-"

"So did Cap'n America, didn't see anyone runnin' 'round tryin' ta lynch him!"

Rogue struggled with this as she stopped Remy from moving towards the gas pump with a furious intent. Her head dropped thoughtfully. Not very long ago at all, she'd thought she was one of the ordinary folk. "Yeah, but… he was one of them. The… he was still human- ah think. Them at their best. We're… well, they look at us and they know we'll be the one kickin' dirt on their graves, even if we don't meant ta, if what they say on the news is raight. Everything they're used to'll never be the same 'round us… they're just scared t' death of us, Remy. Can't do nothin' 'bout that. What ah'm worried about is that somethin' might have happened we don't know about, an' if they start runnin' even more scared than they are now… well, people've got scarier things than lynch mob up their sleeves."

He nodded soberly, and cracked a weak smile, ignoring the people peering out at them, probably poised to call the cops. "Y' pretty clever, Rogue. Fo' a fille."

She unfolded her arms at that. "Ah'm sorry?" she replied dangerously.

He laughed slightly as he straddled the bike. "My turn drivin'. I meant y' age, chere, not dat y' a femme. Let's book."

"We gotta find out what's happening in the world," she told him as she hopped on.

"Bars 'ave TVs," he offered hopefully. "'Least de proper kind does."

She sighed but didn't argue.

"Good," he pronounced as he peeled away. His voice darkened slightly. "'Cept we better be lookin' a helluva lot better, 'cause we really don' want a repeat performance o' dat!"

They drove through the town quickly and quietly, looking askance at the cars and houses. Though neither would admit it, both were mildly shaken by their last reception. The wind rippled the frost-covered grass before the houses, which seemed dulled to a dimmer shade by the color of the sky. The stormy darkness coated the scene before them as a film lens from a noir movie would, which added to the eerie silence but for the whir of the cars and the wind's howl to send an unwelcome shiver down Rogue's spine.

Remy slowed the motorcycle slightly as they neared a series of fast food restaurants with drive-throughs. His eyebrows went up slightly. "Y' still hungry?"

"Yeah…" she agreed reluctantly.

With a quick burst of speed and a bounce, the motorcycle zoomed into the parking lot of the Burger King and paused before a slim trail of planted shrubberies separating the lot from the McDonald's adjacent to it. Several cars were already lined up. Remy waited till a station wagon had paid the money, then pressed full down on the accelerator to jerk the bike forward and send it flying over the greenery and curb. A quick turn sent it skidding sideways to a stop, where it couldn't be seen by the windows, though it was probably heard. Immediately, someone in the car behind them began to yell, but the motorcycle reached the window first.

A young girl held out a bag, staring at the motorcycle and its driver with interest and looking at Rogue with no small measure of jealousy. She blinked. "Uh, two chick-"

"Dat's us," Remy replied swiftly, extending his hand for the bag. He smiled at her.

"Um…" Looking a little befuddled, she blinked again and handed it over. "Thank you, have a nice day?"

"Good t'ing didn't have to wait," Remy mumbled as he handed the bag to Rogue and peeled away, swerving around other vehicles.

Rogue, despite herself, was amused. She peeked in the bag with relish.

Remy paused. "Oh, and dese," he added, freeing one hand from the handlebar to reach into his pocket.

He handed back a considerable pile of Three Musketeers' bars.

She laughed slightly as she began to keep her eyes peeled for another gas station.

""""""""""""""""""""

It took a considerable while to follow road signs to an appropriately sized mall. They had passed a Wal-Mart, which were indeed everywhere as part of their executives' plot for world domination, but Gambit had objected. If you were going to steal, you might as well steal something with class.

The sleet coming from the sky, which practically radiated black, was making them both miserable, but particularly Remy, who'd really had enough of being damp by now and who insisted they attempt to keep dry with their coats, as being wet would make things more difficult. The wind had other plans, though, sending the thick globs of frosty water in chaotic directions which continually ended up being that which would best hit them in the face.

Remy pulled the motorcycle into the crowded mall, then whirled around very suddenly, quite intense. He paused to pull his trenchcoat up over his head so as not to get his hair wet again, not wanting to catch cold. "All right. Y' shoplifted before, right, Rogue?"

She'd already had her bomber jacket off and draped over her head and shoulder. Rogue glared at him from underneath it, feeling like a drowned rat. "No."

"Not ever!"

"No! Ah mean, yes! Never, all right? Why would ah bother? Especially with clothes," she added scornfully.

He paused, frowning. "Okay, den. Y' remember how dressing rooms work, chere?"

"Would a POW remember their internment camp?"

He considered, tilting his head. "Ah, I see. Y' hate shoppin', non?"

"Oui," she gritted out sardonically, staring at the white series of buildings lit up with lights with loathing.

Gambit shrugged, which was a difficult feat with the trenchcoat pulled over his head. "Didn't feel right 'bout leavin' de bike anyways. Y' stay 'ere, I'll steal t'ings."

She sat up straight. "Hell, no! Yah'll pick out something-"

He looked her up and down. "Green, black, an' y' want it t' cover y' up." He flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Don' worry. Won' deny I'm a bastard, but 'm not cruel, chere." He hopped off the motorcycle, pulled his trenchcoat back on properly, and scanned the area. Remy nodded his head in a certain direction. "Dere's some shelter o'er dere. Meetcha dere in a flash." He lifted his brows at her and jogged off towards the entryway, hurrying it to a sprint as the cold sleet struck him.

Rogue blinked. To her amazement, she found herself hoping she hadn't hurt his feelings. Revving the motorcycle, she picked up a rush of speed as she headed over to the covered floor of the concrete parking ramp. She shouldn't care. She pushed people, and Remy was the sort who pushed back. He was easy to misread though, and frankly, he was doing all too well at keeping her in the dark. He hadn't really told her anything real about himself. She didn't even know the name of the cousin they were to meet in Quebec. By the same token, he knew almost everything there was about her that was of any factual importance. It made her uneasy, not to really have her secrets protected.

She stopped the motorcycle and stared at the dirty concrete above her head. She didn't know him. She didn't trust him.

And yet she couldn't think of a single word he'd spouted from his lips, which had undoubtedly spun more than their share of lies, that she hadn't bought.

That annoyed her.

Ah don't like him.

Rogue had a sudden, mental image of Bobby Drake rolling his eyes, and a fainter voice replied, That's 'cos you digged her and you're thinking she digs him.

"What?" Rogue snapped dangerously.

I didn't say you do, just that's why he doesn't. Heck, Cody doesn't even like me much, do you?

If he says dude one more time…

Please, man. I play hockey. I check people. You punt. You think you're gonna take me?

"Don't even think about trying to start a fight in my head. You're just… thoughts!" Rogue sputtered.

Yeah, well, didn't you ever watch cartoons, Rogue?

She watches cartoons….

I'm not talking to you, Irene! Thoughts argue all the time! Devil on the left shoulder, angel on the right…

It's the othah way around.

Who cares? And it's not. I'm right. But, as I was saying…

"Shuddup," Rogue ordered, rubbing her forehead. A few giggling teenage girls coming out of the rain towards their car skittered away from her.

Even me, Rogue? The Bobby-psyche made a mock whimpering sound. But I've only got these idiots to talk to since you've got the French babe locked up tight-

"Cajun," she corrected, wincing. She seemed to be surrounded by blackness, and she could practically see hazy outlines of the two, arguing from sprawled, seated positions.

Same difference.

One's from New Orleans, an' the other's from France. How come ah'm the idiot again, Bobby?

Because everyone know it's the football players who are the lunkheads, all right? Now excuse me, I'm having a conversation here. …Do you watch The Simpsons, Rogue?

She didn't answer.

….Ah like the Road Runner.

The one that goes meep, meep? No! Wile Coyote, all the way. He's going to eat that bird someday.

That's awful!

Rogue? You with me on this?

She was wincing and clutching her head. "Yeah, yeah, an' Sylvester deserves ta eat Tweety and Tom should eat Jerry!"

Or is it Jerry who should eat Tom? Never could tell them apart….

"Y' all right, chere?" came a concerned voice, and suddenly a real, solid grip landed on her shoulders. The voices scattered into the depths of her head.

"Rogue?" he insisted, getting her to look straight at him.

She rubbed her eyes slightly, and pulled away, straightening. "Yeah, ah'm all right." She stared at him. "That was fast."

He pulled a face, surprised. "No, it wasn't."

Rogue, someone's fiddling with your head. Otherwise you wouldn't be hearing us so loud…

Yeah, there's a couple times ah've been shouting and not getting through…

There's someone else in here…

They're distracting yah with us…

"The psyches think somebody's messing with mah mind," she burst out furiously, rubbing her forehead as if that would help.

Remy's face clenched. "God damn spooks- was afraid o' dis. De psyche t'ing 'um, dey're de residue of de minds y' absorbed, non? Can y'-"

"Ah can handle this," she told him, face furious as she rose to her feet. She closed her eyes tightly. "Got enough in mah head already…"

She couldn't see the bewildered look he gave her. "Can I help?"

"Ah've got it," she said tightly. "Jus'… jus' keep me from toppling over, all right?"

"Dat I can do…"

His voice rang hollowly, from a distance, because suddenly she seemed to be standing on grass, near a river, even though it was dark. She blinked, but she didn't really feel herself blink anymore than she would in a dream. She whirled around and saw behind her, shrouded in the darkness, a familiar looking house with a freshly painted swing dangling from a live oak tree with crisp ropes.

"So this is mah mind," she said flatly. "Cheery."

"Oh, I don't know, it grows on you," Bobby's voice rang out. Rogue whirled with the same odd sensation of not really turning to see a slightly translucent version of the boy she'd met, dressed fully in iced-over hockey gear, including skates and helmet. A rather more solid-looking Cody waved uncertainly behind him, in a sweater and jeans.

"This is just scary," Rogue muttered, staring at them.

"Your mother-person's around somewhere," not-the-real-Bobby commented. "The cop's been trying to shoot us, the bouncer-lady faded away, and the assassin's behind that door."

"What door?" Rogue asked suspiciously.

"That one," Bobby-psyche answered, and pointed to a dark, heavily bolted door with nothing behind it or around it that hadn't been there a minute ago. "You'll probably have to deal with her eventually. She swears at us every once in a while."

"What about the, uh, spook?"

The two psyches exchanged looks, which Rogue felt shouldn't have been possible.

"Around?" Cody offered lamely, shrugging.

Rogue's eyes narrowed and her fists balled. "That's not helpin' any," she muttered. "This is mah head," she yelled to the darkness at large. "And ah know which thoughts aren't part of it!" That was a lie, but it sounded good.

"Otherwise we probably would be part of your actual thoughts rather than psyches," Bobby suggested eagerly. This earned him looks. "Hey, part of my mind is awake during school," he said defensively.

Rogue closed her eyes on them, ignoring this as well. She stared at the darkness on the inside of her lids. It's all just a way of dealing with it… she told herself. Voices that weren't supposed to be there… putting them all in one place is the only way to keep from going crazy.

She tried to zero in on what was out of place, focusing on all the thoughts she had at the moment that she could find. Images flashed through her head- Irene, the motorcycle, Gambit, a train, knives- lots and lots of knives, some she didn't remember seeing, the Musketeers of the movie she'd seen, an old picture of Captain America, Capta- that was wrong. She didn't have a brother who she'd played make-believe games with as a child who always insisted on being Captain Britain and never gave her a turn. That was Wrong.

She opened her eyes, but didn't feel them flutter open, just saw a vague image of Bobby and Cody starting in surprise that she dismissed.

She swiveled without feeling any real ground beneath her, and shoved against the darkness. A young woman with shockingly purple hair tumbled away and onto the ground.

Rogue stared at her, shocked.

"Youch," she exclaimed in a tone that suggested she was indeed in pain, along with her expression. "Good show," she commented in a voice with a recognizable British accent that rang in Rogue's head.

She blinked, and was staring at the concrete, still listening to the voice. It had a supreme clarity none of the voices in her head did.

'You shut me out good and well,' the voice said in a tone that sounded supremely annoyed and not a little bit put-out.

Remy, she realized, was staring at her with a measure of alarm, and had his hand much too close to his cheek, as if he were debating letting her absorb him, which, she suspected, he probably was. Rogue batted his hand away, giving him a stay-out-of-this look, or at least what she hoped was one.

'Would you believe I was actually trying to help you?'

"No," Rogue said tonelessly.

'Well, it's your own fault, then. Though I suppose if your defenses can handle me, they can handle anyone," the voice said with the faintest touch of smugness, which it dropped as soon as it realized it held it. 'Frost'll take an interest in you sooner or later though. Considering your company- who is quite scrumptious from what I sa-'

Rogue interrupted. "Ah don' need ta hear this. Realleh."

'You should at least let me warn you about J-'

"OUT!" Rogue snapped, and her head reeled for a moment as the memories of her psyches surged at the spook.

She paused, looking around, seeing only Remy slouched against the bike, one eyebrow quirked. She held up her finger to shush him before he spoke, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The silence was refreshing.

She looked at him unhappily. "Why didn't the spook-"

"Telepath," he amended.

"Bother you?" she finished, annoyed.

He shrugged. "Don' know. Can't get in mon head. Why de Sabretooth wanted me after Frost- she de one messin' wit' y'?"

"No," she said with a frown. "She was English."

"T'ink Frost is English," he offered, though he sounded considerably uncertain.

"She have purple hair?"

"Ah," he said, nodding. "No."

"Any id-"

"No." He considered. "Jolie?"

"Who's that?"

Remy shook his dark hair. "Nah, mean, was she pretty?"

Rogue rolled her eyes. "'Bout your age. Called you scrumptious."

His other eyebrow shot up to join the still quirked first. "Really?"

"Enough to make me sick," she muttered, looking at his cocky expression. Then she noticed the white bag. "Hey!" Rogue exclaimed, pouncing at it.

He held it over her head.

"Give it," she demanded, suspicious he'd gotten her something low cut and pink just for kicks.

"What's de magic word?"

"Please," she said tightly, noticing for the first time that he wore a clean, shiny looking scarlet shirt, potentially silk, and dark, snug fitting pants of what appeared at a glance to be a thick material. The trench coat, of course, was still present.

Wincing prematurely, she yanked out black pants of a material that felt suspiciously smooth to be as hard-wearing as she'd expected and a long-sleeved green shirt that looked slightly shoulder baring with a thickly gauzy shirt of black attached to it that went over. The gauze was smooth and far too close together to be fish-net, hallelujah, and looked as if it would reach right to the base of her neck, if not above, with what seemed to be thin black ribbon lining the very edge of the neck and sleeves.

He smirked at her, daring her to reject it.

She looked it over carefully, determining the under-half of the shirt wasn't at all as shoulder baring as she first assumed, reaching quite high and revealing only the merest edge of the shoulder blades, which would be covered by the gauze anyways, and on top of that, her bomber jacket. "It's acceptable," she said grudgingly.

"Bien," he said readily, with a slight grin. He nodded. "Passed a bathroom dat way."

"How long was ah- out of it?" she asked hesitantly, concerned.

He blinked. "'Bout a minute or two. Ot'erwise I'd have done somet'in, obviously."

She shook her head in disbelief as he slid out a pair of sunglasses, flipped them open with a flick of his hand, and placed them carefully on. "Now, chere," he said carefully, with a pleading hint to his voice. "Y' look like yo' could use a drink."

Rogue eyed him for a moment, then glanced at the weather which was rapidly becoming hail. "A bar with a television?" she insisted.

"'Course," he said with abject relief, as he tossed her a black baseball cap.

"You spend a lot of yah nights in bars, hmm?" She caught the cap and looked at it with distaste.

"'Gain, o'course. Not t' suggest y' crampin' my style or anyt'in," he added slyly, steering her in the direction of the ladies' room.

Without the slightest twinge of guilt, she elbowed him, hard. Assuming he probably deserved it, he didn't object further than an indignant look.

"""""""""""""""""""

They weren't the only ones who could use a drink.

Across the pond, the spook who'd been rudely shoved out of Rogue's head resisted the impulse to bang her head against the bar for the sole reason that'd make it hurt more than it already did.

The young girl next to her, with spunky hair of a pale reddish shade and a pretty face with innocent eyes and a rather small nose, silently handed her an ice pack with a look of sympathy. The same sweet girl whirled with a snarl as an older man tapped her shoulder to offer to buy her a drink. She knew the scent of a predator.

The third member of their party halted in the middle of the drinking song he was bellowing along with some of his fellow countrymen to catch the man before he fell over. "Bad luck, chap," he said cheerfully, winking at the girl, before shoving the gentleman elsewhere. "She's always a little grouchy this time of month."

He then turned back, running his fingers through his reddish-blond hair and beckoning the bartender over. "'Nother Guinness for me, 'nother one for the lady, and, erm, a milk for the colleen?" he asked with something of question in his thick brogue.

""M nae a cat, Sean," the girl hissed back.

He rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers again, to the man's supreme annoyance. "What sort of drink be ye wantin' then, luv?"

The girl looked shocked, and nervously tugged at the short pigtails her hair was forced in. "Ye shouldna be offering me that, I'm not of age," she muttered softly, not wanting him to get in trouble with the bartender.

The man blinked at her discomfort. "I'm not offering ye that sort of drink!" he exclaimed, looking to the heavens in disbelief. "Begorrah! Get the girl a water, man, she canna find a fault with that!"

Their companion lifted her head, which sent her semi-short hair tumbling down and over, veiling her right eye. Had she not parted it that way, it would have fallen straight down and reached midway to her neck. She blew it out of the way, or tried to, since it was too thick to budge by her breath. After a moment, she brushed it out of her almond-shaped eyes, revealing her pretty features. When working away from England, it struck some people- particularly Americans- as odd that an unmistakably Asian girl should have a British accent. That endlessly annoyed her, as the clip of her tone led people to often automatically assume she would be blond haired, blue eyed, and ask any moment to have a spot of tea, jolly good! At the moment, however, she received no odd looks except from the occasional Irishman still not too fond of the English, though they were getting rarer these days. She took the drink sent to her with mild enthusiasm and began to promptly down it.

Sean settled down next to her, blowing the foam of the top of his Guinness with childish relish. "So, how old was the girl again, Bets?"

She shot him a scathing look over her glass, which she continued to drink before putting it down and clapping the icepack back to her head. "Probably Rahne's age, Sean, and you know perfectly well what she's capable of."

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Yes, but wasn't it jus' the other day ye were sayin' how ye're the most dangerous of us lot, bein-"

"I quite recall what I said at the time, luv," she replied in icy tones. Then she cracked a grin. "Still, it's almost worth it for the puss on Fury's face when we rang him up to say no good!"

"Wonder what cat and mouse game the man's playing with the little lass," Sean mused, sipping his drink slowly and half-listening to the songs being sung to his left.

The young woman noticed his occupation. "Get a bit drunker first, Cassidy," she advised. "No song starting with 'As I was walking' is intended to be sung sober."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "You're improving, Braddock. I thought ye were of the opinion no Irish song's intended to be sung sober, 'cause my lot never are."

She cast a sly glance at him. "You're far soberer overall than I am, so I can't tease you about that anymore."

He stared into the depths of his glass. "Well, I know my limits," he said quietly. He looked over at the Scottish girl, who was surreptitiously looking at a boy not much older than her with a dark red blush coloring her cheeks. "Enjoying your water, Rahne?" he called cheekily.

She gave him a dark look, or the closest she could muster to it. "I'd ha' liked a soda just fine, thank ye."

"The Good Lord wouldn't object t' the bubbles?" he responded, feigning shock.

Rahne exchanged a look with the purple-haired young woman, who dropped an encouraging wink. "No, but he might object t' ye bringing that lady up t' yer room the night before last."

His mouth dropped the merest margin in surprise before he laughed. "Betsy's corruptin' ye mind, sweetheart," he said teasingly. "I was only showin' her my collection of wee boats in bottles!"

"That one's actually been tried on me before," Betsy commented lightly, signaling with a quick hand gesture to Rahne that the man was not, in fact, serious, since she seemed uncertain. "Get her to talk to the boy," she muttered to Sean quietly.

"Not on yer life," he said threateningly, casting a dismissive glance at the young man who seemed quite admiring of the shiny new red lip gloss Betsy had her wearing.

Betsy looked exasperated. "She's growing up, S-"

He cut her off, changing topic. "Think the girl's psychic shield's 'll hold better than the one's you were trying to place?"

She tapped her glass in consideration. "Possibly, possibly not. Her friend's mental shield's are airtight, I couldn't lay a finger on his mind." Her darkly glossed lips curved slightly in bemusement.

"No one should e'er dangle a challenge before your nose," Sean commented with a mild groan. With that smile, it meant Betsy'd try again, sooner or later, and that she'd probably eventually crack the poor fellow's cranium. One way or the other.

"Fury really needs a proper telepath," she added. "The balance is very unevenly tipped in that arena in the scales of Emma Frost, and the White Queen's worrisome."

"Not our problem," Sean said definitively.

"Yet," Betsy retorted. "And I may go for the man's other eye if he attempts one more time to entice me to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s little mutant team."

"Hey," her companion said accusingly. "I wouldna want them calling us S.T.R.I.K.E.'s little mutant team, so watch yer mouth. Fury's got men – and women," he added hastily, "everywhere!"

A redhead with green eyes sat down next to him with a smile that immediately drew his attention. "Buy me a drink?" she asked casually in polished English that betrayed no hint of her origin.

The Irishman took one look at her. "Sure thing," he answered, grinning, and winked at Betsy who in response immediately moved several seats away.

She wondered absently about the girl and what interest Fury might have in attempting to protect her location from prying minds. Her slight precognitive abilities weren't picking up anything in particular, but she had an odd feeling the effort was not only futile, but that she, personally, would be crossing paths with the girl again. And hopefully her traveling companion, too. Quite an eyeful, him.

Absently, as her drink was refilled, she looked up at the TV, displaying events going on in America. "You," she said to the bartender immediately. "Turn that up!"

""""""""""""""""""""

The clink of a cue sinking a ball into a corner pocket didn't register in Rogue's mind. She was too busy staring open mouthed at the screen. She'd taken the clicker from the bartender and refused to surrender it. Remy'd simply taken one look at it, downed another glass of double bourbon on the rocks a pretty woman had paid for, and begun a pool game which apparently involved demonstrating to a very eager brunette how to play and a bet of some cash he didn't have.

She ignored the slight static of the set and increased the volume, to the dismay of those trying to forget everything about the world outside their brimming glasses.

"-organization calling themselves the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants. I believe the name speaks for itself, doesn't it, Trey? Back to you-"

She flipped the channel.

"-plosion of a genetic experimentation facility in California intended to prevent further mutations- the note to the senator from this self-proclaimed brotherhood called it a center for the 'murder and exploitation of the yet unborn leaders of tommorow'-"

Rogue's thumb hit the worn button yet again.

"-206 dead, including an estimated 55 pregnant women, 71 more wounded-"

Her reflex in changing it this time was yet more rapid. She'd heard the facts thrice already. That wasn't what she was looking for. She skimmed through the news channels rapidly, beginning again, until she passed it, caught herself, and went back.

Rogue's breath caught in her throat as the tape was replayed. The center exploding from within, the National Guard showing up to stop the self-proclaimed mutant terrorists, including several nervous looking teenagers, from broadcasting on the spot on a hijacked frequency.

The young man in the fishbowl helmet sending a tremor through the ground at them, with a somewhat apologetic wave at first which he remembered to turn into a menacing scowl.

The girl decked in scarlet leather and a scowl that rivaled her own sending their guns flying in the air with a hand gesture and pelting the one tank with brilliantly red glowing bolts.

The onscreen greenish blur that left men knocked over or tied up in its tracks which when halted to flash dazzling grins at the camera or after being pelted by a red bolt from the dark-haired girl became a skinny teenager with surprisingly neatly arranged, possibly slicked, white hair that seemed to point up in a V in front.

And, of course….

Her.

Talking loudly at the camera although her words weren't being broadcasted, speaking passionately and railing at humanity, wearing a white outfit and a small skull at the top center of her forehead. Not to mention, of course, her deeply blue skin and slick straight, fire-red hair.

"-Congress is expected to reach a decision of what to do about the mutant pr-"

Rogue flicked the channel to WWF wrestling, which led to an approving cheer from the man on the stool next to her. She handed him the clicker, face blank.

Then she whirled and stalked over to where Gambit was eyeing a shot, which he took and sunk perfectly, leaving only the 8-ball and almost all of the striped balls of his latest victim. He laughed uproariously and didn't seem to notice the woman trying to hand him another drink.

He saw her coming and tried to wink, but didn't seem able to manage it. Rogue blinked with surprise when she noticed he was swaying slightly.

"Hey," she barked to those near him as he began to line up his shot for the 8-ball. "How many's he had?"

Remy turned again, probably blinking owlishly at her beneath his sunglasses. "Not mo' den eight," he slurred, holding up seven fingers.

Rogue considered this, then put her hands on her hips and stared at the women crowding around the pool table and the men he was playing. "All right," she demanded furiously. "Who put something in his drink?"

This got a round of laughter, which Remy joined in. This neither amused nor appeased her. She grabbed his arm and started to steer him away. "We're leaving, now," she stormed, practically sizzling. Her eyes flashed danger from underneath her pathetically blank black baseball cap. She cursed herself for not paying attention to what he was doing.

"We're playing, here!" a man interjected, leaping to his feet. "He can't ju-"

"Ah'm sure he doesn't owe y'all money," she said flatly. "An' ah'm thinking you're delusional if yah think you'll win any off him, even in this state."

"De fille got a point," Remy added, sagging against her. Rogue shoved him upright, scowling.

"Why should he go with you?" a curvy brunette said indignantly, moving forward. Rogue scanned her with a contemptuous glance. Clearly not big in the brains department, she was guessing. "Who're you t-"

"Ah'm his-" Rogue burst out, then paused. "Sister?" she offered, unable to keep the slightly unsure note out of her voice because it was immediately apparent in any case that this was a complete falsehood, the vaguest similarities being only Southern accents and hair color approaching the same shade from opposite directions.

Gambit glanced at her. "Shuh hope not," he said, with something of a leer. She'd have hit him, hard, but suspected he'd keel over if she did so and well aware (if reluctant to admit) she wasn't strong enough to shoulder the full dead weight of a grown man.

"Ah'm the girl he came with, anyhow, and ah'm sure as hell gonna be the one he leaves with," Rogue said, stopping Remy before he returned his glass to his lips. She snatched it and examined it carefully, though to no real effect, since such things were typically relatively undetectable by a purely empirical examination.

Without Rogue's arm gripping his, Remy attempted to return to the pool table, stumbling into it.

A good-looking blond girl motioned to Rogue, who looked up. "He did have my drink?" she offered warily. She cast a suspicious glance at the man with a sour expression next to her who was supposedly her date. He, noticing eyes suddenly on him, sunk in his seat uncomfortably and began denying accusations before he heard them.

"Great goin', Gumbo," Rogue muttered to him, before realizing he was now toying with the eight ball. She shook her head, wondering how long he'd stay conscious, and yanked him away again.

She adjusted her coat as she steered him along, ignoring the girls waving good-bye to him.

"Chere?" he said confusedly as they walked into the night air and were immediately pelted by hail.

"Which one?" Rogue asked, with the faintest edge of bitterness.

"Rogue," he amended, holding out his hand, which contained a pinkly glowing light ball. "Can't m-make de charge go 'way-"

"Gah!" she yelped, yanking it out of his hand at once and hurling it into the sky. It was sheer luck it continued upward without ramming into any of the multiple balls of hail among the sleet. Rogue began to quietly mutter what she could remember of the Our Father as it rose to its peak and began to fall, but before it had dropped by much it exploded in the air in a burst of light.

Gambit tried to applaud the firework, but his hands missed each other by quite a bit. He stumbled, toppling Rogue and himself over onto the sidewalk.

She shoved him off, in a ferociously bad mood. "Yah had to have a drink," she snarled, finding herself looking into his eyes, which seemed nearly black as the red iris seemed to have dilated slightly, along with the barely visible black pupil hidden in its center which reflected her face squashed and upside down.

He brightened, his mouth opening to undoubtedly ask for another drink. "

She shoved his sunglasses back on his face, where they perched crookedly, and got behind him to shove him along. "Ah don' think yah'll even be able to hold on," she griped. "Much less hotwire the bike again."

"Absorb me," he offered casually, with a smirk that came off crooked due to his inebriety.

She shook her head. "Ah'm as likely ta get the words to Frere Jacques as ah am that."

"Don' e'en t'ink I know de words…" he mused, smiling in his own little world. "'Cept de ones me an' Emil made up… an' I don' t'ink y' like dose…"

"'Kay," she said, sitting him down on the bench. "Now, we're gonna play a little game," she said with a tight smile, moving his hands into the air with her own gloved hands and straightening his palms so they were out flat. "Yah sit here just like this 'till I come back, and try counting the names of the folks after you or me who we hope don't show up while yah're outta yah bloomin' head!"

He tilted his head curiously, sending the glasses lower on his nose and completely revealing his eyes. "Too many names," he complained, though obediently keeping his hands out. "Jus' ssssit hhere," he slurred.

"An' keep yah hands out," she reminded him fiercely. "That's very important, here?" Ducking away, she hurried over to where they'd parked the motorcycle and tried to remember exactly what she'd seen him do several times. Carefully, she pulled off her gloves and fiddled with the wires at the surface, jerking back with annoyance as she received a slight spark to her fingers. Recalling the way his hands had moved, she closed her eyes and hoped she wouldn't fry herself, then entwined the wires together.

The blessed, blessed motor started up.

Climbing onto the motorcycle, she sped immediately back to where Remy was sitting, relatively unconscious but with his hands still in the air. She could barely see through the thick balls of ice raining down, but it was manageable. Rogue considered absently he could have been knocked further senseless by a large chunk of hail, but dismissed the thought.

With a groan, Rogue got off the running bike and shook him, remembering to slide her gloves back on first just in case. When this produced nothing, she slapped him. It surprised her how much satisfaction that gave her. She was more of a right hook kind of girl, but there was something to this slapping business. He jerked upright, kind of, moaning though without opening his eyes. With difficulty, she aided him in getting on the motorcycle then considered the debacle. If she stuck him on back, he'd probably fall off; on front she couldn't see over him. Eventually she climbed on behind him and nudged him to the side so she could see relatively clearly again.

She tried to remember the layout of the town, but a place to go popped immediately into her head.

A place with little to no security besides a lock.

A place she'd be comfortable at.

The library.

Quickly, Rogue raced through the town, until at last she spotted a squat brownstone building, windows dark but with bookshelves visible anyways. Quieting the roar of the motorcycle, she pulled in around back, tucking it in the large nook by the Book Drop, and resolved to get out of there long before the library opened.

"Cajun!" she hissed, dragging him off the bike with his heels dragging on the ground behind him. At least he was very lean, despite his broad shoulders. Had he been any heavier she'd have been in trouble.

He stirred, slightly, as they neared the small back door. Of course there was a back door, Rogue thought with relief, for ordered books to come in and librarians to get out quicker. "Lockpicks?" she insisted, yanking the sunglasses off so as to better wake him up.

Staggering upright, he reached into his breast pocket and presented them to her with a flourish, then crumpled against the Book Drop.

She steered him back towards the door, pulling what looked like a thin metal toothpick out of the extremely worn brown leather case with a tiny zipper.

Gambit nodded uncertainly, leaned against the door with his arm and head resting against it, and inserted the pick with one hand. He twiddled it once, turned it like a key, and then flopped forward as the door turned inward when Rogue eagerly grabbed the knob.

With a glare at his frame, she helped him up. Two stairs up, and they were in the office of the head librarian, which had a carpet. Leaving him there on the floor, she headed back outside and popped the compartment they had found. She ignored the painful hail which continued to pelt her in the head.

Within was the blanket they'd found earlier, along with the diary, which they had crammed in later which Remy had been glad to move from his coat. Relieved, she pulled it out, which unfolded it as she did so. Something metallic clanged to the ground.

Unsure, she picked the slim silver chain created by tiny little balls joined together and turned the dogtags towards her so she could see in the light of the moon. They were slightly rusty and dented, but she could plainly read the words The Wolverine on one, the name Logan on the other. She stared at the metal in her gloved palm uncertainly and moved to pocket it, but instead slipped the chain over her head for a reason she couldn't discern. Reluctant to leave the diary, Rogue snatched it but resisted the temptation to thumb through it.

She spent a few minutes adjusting the motorcycle as best she could to conceal it from view, then headed back inside. Rogue hoped there wasn't an alarm, but decided she didn't give a damn even if there was. She stalked in, barely refraining from slamming the door behind her, prepared to bring Gambit to sobriety with water if she had to and give him a piece of her mind.

He was stretched on the floor, head elevated slightly against the desk in a position that probably wasn't comfortable, his sunglasses off in one hand. His eyes were closed, revealing eyelashes so long and dark that it might be said they were wasted on a boy, though to say that about him would be a lie. The steady, hypnotic rhythm of his breathing gave her pause, and she couldn't help but notice how it was mimicked by the rise and fall of his chest.

He didn't really look boyish in his sleep. He could do that well enough when awake, with the right smirk and in the right light. He didn't look drawn and weary either, as he had after fighting Belle. A few lines were visible here and there, though the rounded curve of his cheek betrayed his youth, as did the locks of hair which fell across his features.

Rogue bit the inside of her cheek, feeling unreasonably furious. She spread out the blanket with a snap. "Damn you, LeBeau," she cursed, throwing the blanket over him. It drifted gently down to cover him, even his face. "Why'd yah have ta be born so pretty?"

She couldn't resist the urge to kick the desk as she yanked off her bomber jacket. She balled it up and stuck it behind his head, simply because she'd heard awful stories about drunks choking to death and the desk would leave him with a headache that he'd gripe about tomorrow, not that he already wouldn't. Neither act stirred him in the slightest.

Rifling through the desk drawers in the near blackness, Rogue eventually found a flashlight, and with it, a radio. Intending to turn it to the news, she marched off into the stacks of books, and although it was remarkably immature and she couldn't believe she did it, turned to stick her tongue out at his sleeping form before storming away. One of them had to stay awake. Didn't mean that one had to act grown-up.

"""""""""""""""""""""

The family room was silent. As for the boy on the left side of the plush couch, his blue eyes were going to pop out of his head if they got any wider. Bobby shifted in his seat, feeling as if someone had walked over his grave. Ronnie sat as straight as if a poker had been shoved up his ass, looking everywhere but at Bobby. It was possible that threatening to insure he'd never have nieces and nephews with his ice powers should his brother confess the secret to his parents had not been Bobby's brightest of ideas, but he wasn't thinking of that now….

He'd never heard of this man before tonight. Trask. What a dumb name. He'd been in the papers, apparently. His parents knew about him. High-ranking government guy. Bobby'd never heard of them. He hated him already.

"I have created a defense for mankind!" he explained to the newscaster interviewing him. Bobby tuned him out for a moment, absorbed in furious thoughts about definitely being a member of mankind.

"The mutants will never take over the human race now!" the mustachioed face on TV pronounced.

"Lunatic," Bobby muttered.

His father and mother gave him confused and scolding looks. Ronnie looked away.

"Not while my new army of Sentinels lives!"

Bobby bolted upright from where he was slouched on the couch as the camera panned across a very large robotic construction and its friends. Frantically, he began to cough unstoppably as Trask discussed their deployment across the nation, to ferret out the mutants of dangerous ability while there was still time. How he advised people not to get in their way.

He didn't hear whether they were intended to kill or not. Mentally, with a frantic look around his house and at his family, glued to the TV, he was already packing his bags.

"""""""""""""""""""""

The bar was silent, though Trask wasn't. On screen, he told them about his mutant-hunting robot army, how they were completely under his control, how they would be operating.

A man sitting at a stool, like the others watching the robots on screen, studied them carefully. Slowly, he stood as if uncoiling muscle. Eyes squinted, he puffed on his cigar.

No one paid the slightest bit of attention to the muffled shrieks from someone in the tiny bathroom.

Knocking a bit of the charred end of the cigar off, he let it slide to the end of his mouth. With a nod to the barkeep and a flip of a coin into the tip box, he crammed his hands into his pockets and walked outside.

""""""""""""""""""""

The pub had gone completely silent. Momentarily, only, before they began to discuss the unsurprising insanity of the Americans and how quickly it could be presumed to spread. For the moment, though, it was still, with every eye on the screen blaring BBC news.

Finally, a man with a voice that could not help but ring throughout the pub, pitch-perfect, broke the silence.

"Aw, shit."

It was followed immediately by the unlikely voice of a slim Scottish girl. "Fock," she snarled, her accent marred as her teeth elongated and sharpened in her anger.

""""""""""""""""""""

It wasn't silent in a certain section of the facility belong to S.H.I.E.L.D. The man could hardly believe his one good eye. He was afraid something like this would happen, but he'd only just got wind of the Sentinel project! How could it have progressed so far without his knowing? He gritted his teeth, suspecting a great deal of funding had been funneled into it rapidly as he'd recently been looking into the matter of where some of his government funding had gone.

Loudly, he cursed, startling the babbling group of young folk and teenagers behind him in awe and fear of him. He didn't turn as they began to hesitantly put forth questions. The slight growl he let out cut them off.

"Where's your leader?" he demanded of the foundling team called X-Factor.

They cowered from him slightly, involuntarily backing away and tripping over each other. They exchanged glances, as he waited for one of them to answer.

A boy with shaggy blond hair raised his hand somewhat cautiously. "Sir?" he tried.

Fury looked at him impatiently.

He swallowed. "Outside, ah think, sir."

The man blinked at the boy in confusion. "Why?" he barked.

"Revelin' in the weather, sir," the boy offered.

"Well, fetch her!" Fury roared, and they stumbled away. "Not all of you," he added in what he thought was a gentler voice. "Get ready. There'll be rioting."

"Where?" a girl with raven black hair questioned softly.

He scoffed as he headed for his cigar box. "Where else but New York?" he questioned in a deeply cynical tone.

"""""""""""""""'""""""""""

He stirred to wakefulness, not by a noise but by an impulse of feeling that led him to jerk upright and reach instinctively for a weapon. He realized quickly enough he was in an unfamiliar place in complete darkness and that his head was pounding with a dreadful, constant beat that sent it throbbing.

Placing on arm against the ground, he shifted upwards, examining his surroundings with his eyes, the red shrouded in the dark. Some kind of office, with tacky little doodads on the desk. He frowned, confused. Steadily, he climbed to his feet, wondering absently how he'd ended up in such a state. Sure, he'd mixed his drinks a little- well, maybe a lot, if he counted the tequila- but typically it took a bit more than that to get a drink. He may not have a healing factor like Sabretooth- blast him- but Gambit's got a pretty hard head, he thought to himself. Finding his sunglasses in his hand, he slipped them into his pocket, hoping his eyes hadn't frightened someone and landed him in hot water.

Remy, feeling something fall behind him as his frame no longer supported it, turned with a frown to pick it up. His hands met rough leather. The bomber jacket.

Rogue.

She was going to kill him, he realized, running his hand through his hair. Shaking his head as he realized there was nothing to be done about it but apologize for whatever the hell had happened, he lurched a bit before regaining his balance fully as he opened the door.

Slowly, he padded out into a world of books that gave him something of a start. He peered at them with surprise. There were old books with yellowing pages and a musty scent, but there were far more new, neatly pressed books with shiny laminated covers he ran his fingers past as he went along.

Spying a faint light, he headed towards it immediately, craning his head around the shelves. Catching sight of her shadow, he paused several feet behind where she sat, her back to him, on a plush chair meant to be comfortable but with all the softness of a wooden plank.

For a second, he thought she might be asleep. From her silhouette, he could see she'd pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them, covering her face with folded arms. The lit flashlight was placed on a table with magazines next to her along with a radio and a book placed down open to save the page. She wasn't making the slightest sound, though, not even a sniffle.

It took him a moment to realize her shoulders were shaking. He stood stock still for a considerable bit longer before he realized she was crying.

This, he realized, could be awkward.

With a manner considerably more tentative then he was accustomed to using around women, he took a step closer, careful to insure he made a sound against the carpet. "Rogue?" he tried softly.

Her head lifted and she tried to frantically, surreptitiously dry her face by making the motion of rubbing sleep out of her eyes. "Yah up?" she asked unnecessarily in a tone far more raspy than usual.

"Yeah." He shifted uncomfortably, sinking his hands into his pockets. "Somet'in wrong?"

She turned, forcing a glower, and he could see that despite her efforts her pale face was red, nose redder. Streaks remained on her cheeks where tears had fallen, probably for some time, and her green eyes, deeper in the dark, still swelled with tears. "Ah'd say so," she snapped, brushing her glove against her eyes again and jerking her hand at the radio. "They're sending killer robots after mutants 'cause mah – 'cause mutant terrorists blew up some kinda clinic in California-"

He nodded, moving closer. "Yeah. De one near Valle Soleada, non? Lot a mutant birth's 'round dere. Not everyone too keen on it….. Wasn't a good place, Rogue."

"Did the folk there deserve to die?" she retorted, looking fit to hurl the book at him.

He shook his head. "No. Ain't anybody who deserve it."

"Ah dunno," she said darkly, turning away and busying herself with trying to get the radio back on. "It shut off. The weather's too bad for any kinda reception, ah guess." She pointed her finger at him. "One of them giant robots comes and tries ta blow us up, ah'm blamin' yah. We'd be across the Canadian border by now if- Gawd! You kept makin' us stop, for one thing or the other-"

"Rogue, we'd a been caught in dat," he said, gesturing to the window through which a curtain of thick hail could be seen.

"But all yah were thinkin' about was gettin' drunk and keepin' up whatever carousin' yah been doin' for the past year!" she continued accusingly, folding her arms and sinking back in the chair. She grabbed the flashlight and shoved the book in front of her face.

He looked down and away from her. "Oui," he said thickly, feeling guilty. "Wasn't thinkin'."

"Yah bet your ass yah weren't," Rogue retorted, bringing the book up even higher and closer to her face.

Remy reached out and tipped the book down, revealing her angry, tear-filled eyes. He reached a gloved finger out to brush away a tear. She jerked away, shoving him back. "'Tain't on my account, chere?" he asked quietly, perching on the edge of the chair.

She looked surprised and managed a coarse laugh. "'Course not," she said fiercely, putting the book between them again. She didn't look up. "Move, yah're in mah light."

"Good," he said with a nod, leaning around to get a better look at her. "'M not worth y' tears."

"No, you're not," she answered readily, scooting to the other side of her chair and flashing venom-laden eyes at him before turning the page of her book with extreme delicacy.

"Was afraid I might'a done somet'in stupid," he pressed on.

With an annoyed sigh and a swift swipe of her eyes with her sleeve, she looked up. "Nothin' about yah behaviour that ah wouldn't call stupid!"

Remy shook his head, looking away, then slid down, till he was slumped on the floor, head back against the bottom of the chair. "Meant like try t' kiss y' or somet'in," he muttered.

Rogue softly laughed, with the dangerous tone of someone who suspects they're being mocked. "Why would y' go an' try somethin' kamikaze like that for?" she demanded, ignoring him rather than hitting him with the book.

He raised and lowered his shoulder noncommittally, then turned his head up to look at her. "I was outta it. An' y' bel- beautiful, anyhow, can't deny dat."

"Don't try ta make a fool outta me," she hissed, getting up and moving to another chair. "Ah don't want yah tryin' ta fiddle with mah emotions with whatever charm yah think you got-"

He sprang to his feet in one smooth motion, shooting an indignant look at her. She returned to the book, not meeting his eyes. "C'mon, ah seen the kinda women yah like and ah can't say ah'm very impressed with yah taste, so don't try ta pull-"

"Dey nice on the eyes, oui," he said, not even noticing the slight smirk that played across his features. It fell away, though, before Rogue noticed. "You, chere, y' got somet'in of yo' own."

She looked up with a deadpan stare that suggested he might want to stop talking if he intended to keep his tongue. The brief silence was filled with the rattling of hail from outside.

He gestured at her, noticing how much paler and nearly translucent her skin seemed with only the dim flashlight and the faint moonlight seeping in through the window. "De kind o' beauty dat doesn't stun, but compels… de kind-"

He dodged the book she chucked at him. "Yah always wax poetic when drunk?" she snapped, rising to fetch the book which looked to be about… pirates. "Anyway, what in tarnation gives you the idea that if yah had tried somethin'- and believe meh, yah wouldn't be standing there if yah had- it would upset me? Ah wouldn't have that kinda interest in yah if you were the last damn fellow in the South or even the whole wide world- 'cause whatever yah think of yah looks, y-you're a cocky, arrogant- slimy-"

He held up his hands as he turned to fetch the book before she reached it. "I get it, I'm an annoyin' swamp snake an' y' only wit' me 'cause y' ain't got nowhere else t' turn. Didn' mean t' sound like I was makin' it about me." He hesitated. "I meant it might upset y' 'cause… 'cause-"

""Cause what?" she asked defiantly, snatching the book away and whirling on her heel.

"…'Cause y' can't."

She stopped dead, lips tightly compressed and face turning pale. She didn't turn back, but Remy suspected she was trying desperately to hold in tears. "Don' know what yah talkin' about," she managed at last, folding her arms tightly against the book. Her stiffened body posture suggested he'd die a very painful death if he so much as dared to lay a hand on her shoulder.

"Saw de way y' were watchin' dose kids today," he said as lightly as he could manage.

"What, the god damn hellions we passed?" she retorted, selecting a seat facing away from him. "Leave me alone, alright? Ah don't wanna have ta deal with you right now."

"Y' new t' y' powers, Rogue. Don' panic about-"

"Oh, and you'd be the poster boy for control?" she practically snarled, jerking her face around to face him. "Hasn't it sunk inta your thick skull, Gambit! Ah escaped from a woman who sees the future-how d'yah think ah got away?" she wondered bitterly, waving her gloved hand. "Ah know how mah powers work- ah know what it means, all right? An' ah can live with that just fahne, an' ah don't need you buggin' me about it! Jus'- Go away!"

He ducked his head, stepped back with his hands up in mock surrender but stopped mid-turn. His red-on-black eyes glimmered at her in the dark. "Look, y'hurtin, an'-"

"Nothing's the matter!" she insisted furiously. Remy knew otherwise. Everything's the matter. "Let me read in peace for five minutes, why doncha! It's- 's jus' these lunatic Sentinels they're sendin' out, alright?" That and Mystique- Ms. Darkholme!- blowin' up folk in California, and Irene betraying me, and my shoulder hurts- hell, everything hurts- and ah'm sick of having folk pointing knives at mah head, ah don't know where ah'm heading, and you're being a jackass, and ah might have killed a boy who didn't mean me anything but good, and ah hate the cold and ah'm still hungry and tired, and ah don't even know if mah thoughts are my own anymore, and my powers… well, life officially sucks and Ah don't wanna talk about it!

He blinked at her stubborn face, jaw jutting out and daring him to try to push her to say what she was really thinking because then, since he apparently wanted it so much, she'd give him a piece of her mind…

He walked around to face her, slowly, unsure what to do. He'd made girls cry before, he'd had them hit him before, but he'd never been in a situation even approaching this. He'd never had a sister, otherwise he might be less of- well, a cad- in his interactions with women. He didn't know what to do, but he didn't think going away was the right thing no matter how much she didn't want him to see her cry. Of course, he was the expert on the right thing…

Remy swallowed as she refused to look at him, tears still trickling down her cheeks. Her efforts to halt them were in vain, no matter how tightly she closed her eyes. Bending and sitting back on his heels to bring himself completely down to the level of the low chair, he reached out and clasped a hand on her shoulder.

Her eyes followed it. "Get your hand off meh," Rogue said in her lowest, most menacing tone.

"'M sorry," he said softly, wincing as he'd been indoctrinated never to lay a hand on a lady who didn't want to be handled, even if he didn't always follow those guidelines. "But no."
She raised her hand to strike him, but he caught it, pulling her forward slightly. Rogue couldn't help the tears streaking down her cheeks as she tried to wrench herself away, droplets of water blurring the pained expression on his face.

She fought back the well of anger and hurt and sorrow for all the things she could never have and everything she lost, but it simply surged back with more strength for each time she beat it back. Consumed with exhaustion from the stress and her injuries, she gave in though she hated herself for doing it.

Brokenly, she broke into a sob which she still tried to force back as she tumbled forward as she stopped resisting his grip, knocking herself and Gambit back. She was too tired, too furious with herself for breaking down, especially in front of him, to notice how he caught his balance as carefully as he could to keep from hitting the floor.

He didn't notice her tears falling on his new shirt anymore than she, absorbed in her inner struggle, noticed her gloved hands gripping the lapel of his trenchcoat as if she were afraid she'd drift away if she let it go. She was falling asleep too quickly, too deeply, the storm of her tears matching the strength of the one outside, to remember later how he awkwardly ran his fingers through her tangled hair. Nor would she remember that he attempted to mutter what he could remember of a French lullaby he'd learned at the skirts of the woman he called his tante in the kitchen, only to give up after the first line. He was too frightened of a resurgence of the tears that still leaked from her tightly closed eyelids to shift in the slightest for hours.

Remy knew she wouldn't forgive him for seeing her like this. In fact, she might very well loathe him for it. The fragility she masked so well had sent an unpleasant jolt down his spine, and it seemed to him that some of her pain was trickling into him, calling up feelings he pushed aside. It reminded him of the way he used his charm to push feelings agreeing with his own onto others, but in a way that was distinctly less pleasant and certainly less scary. He just was fervently glad he'd grabbed clothes without any synthetic material since he wasn't sure if he'd be able to refrain from accidentally charging what he touched, having not done the greatest job with that so far.

It didn't surprise him that she didn't like him much, either. She was dead on. He wondered what else that mysterious book about him had to say about his future, which didn't look as if it would be filled with fluffy bunnies.

He was going to get her into trouble, he knew deep down. He suspected he was going to get them both killed… if she didn't first. But he felt certain about one thing, and it took him a moment to register the emotion tugging at him as guilt.

From his seated position, he looked down at the girl who might well murder him for cradling her in his arms.

However tough she acted, whatever she called herself, Rogue was far too innocent to be mixed up with the likes of him.

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Review response: simba317- Like your name. I can't even remember how many times I've seen that movie, especially as a kid…. Anyway, thanks for reviewing! Yeah, there's definitely some sparks between Remy and Rogue, although his issues w/ Belle are a bonfire in comparison. Catalyst to redemption…hmm, I like that… you'll have to wait and see. When Belle leaned in for the kill- approximately, it was intended to be 'there was a time I loved you more than life itself'- hence Remy's next line. Yeah, school business is definitely prohibiting writing, though I'll try to update once more before my vacation ends, assuming I get better. After that, my life's going to be crazy until mid-April and will definitely be no writing then… Remy could really use a hug, but Rogue's unlikely to give him one anytime soon… and really, it'd be hard not to enjoy half-naked Remy…;)- I appreciate your review immensely, hope you continue to like my story!

ishandahalf- you really liked my fight scene? Yea! I had fun w/ that… I love the action-y stuff, I blame my cousins for dragging me into their fights…The dream sort of was spur of the moment, since I kept starting and stopping before I found an opening that seemed to work, so I'm glad that went over well… I like archery, too, though my aim tends to be more of the 'up in the clouds when intended for that target, over there, and all run away before it comes down in somebody's foot'. My ten year old cousin has an actual bow, with actual arrows (brilliant idea, no?), so we use it at the beach and try not to accidentally shoot folk… your level of despising Belle is intensely amusing and makes much sense, she kind of knew he was around somewhere from Irene (otherwise she wouldn't have gotten spiffed up) but probably nearly had a heart attack when he burst out- which I simply couldn't resist though I had to fight to keep writing that scene rather than slipping off into lalaland. Couldn't resist the stilettos bit either, what with it also being the word for the knives... love all that gadgetry in the movies! Yeah, he had to get dressed 'cos it was such an up-close fight and even Belle would probably fail to retain her senses under those circumstances… yeah, superheroes, like, say Clark Kent have got to get itchy (since he definitely doesn't get fully changed in the phone booth)… I mean, how long can people buy, 'oh, um, my mother makes me wear long underwear that happens to be spandexy and the exact shade purple of Barney the dinosaur?' So yeah… but we definitely don't want much detail on their hygiene habits… the main problem w/ any show they attempt to set up in 'real time'… Remy'll start paying more attention to Rogue- but the last thing we want is for him to do that just 'cause she's around, right? Yep, he's definitely trying to play hero… and I really can't resist throwing in the Tante Mattie lines, 'cause she's so good and the very reason he's not a complete, ethic-less bastard but rather a well-meaning if torn guy a bit unsure of what side he's on… and you're dead on about the self-esteem issues… the diary isn't really important in this chapter, but will become extremely essential to the plot… Yup, morlock massacre, good catch- I kind of wonder where they intended that to go in Evo, what with Evan joining them and Remy not appearing in the smaller farther-future line-up of the X-Men… But that's what they're going to have to figure out, right? Whether they can change it or not or whether they'll end up all Oedipus-ish if they try… My update was probably more like a chocolate bunny on crack, seeing as it would take a hell of a lot of the stuff to make it move… but, anyway, wow am I rambling, so I'll just end that there…

Val- thanks for your review! Your compliments were immensely flattering; I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint !

Mrs. Rogue LeBeau- 'Cute… in a way'- ah, that describes them pretty aptly, actually sounds like something, say, Kitty might say about them… Nah, I wouldn't kill either of them off… this soon… mwahaha- sorry, just tormenting you there… Had to go with the bedsheets, there not being an outstanding amount of rope, but am glad you found it amusing… I aim to please - thanks for reviewing

enchantedlight- You're very faithful in your reviews, thanks much for continuing to read!

Neurotic Temptress- ah, sorry my updating take's so long… I know exactly the feeling you mean… because then it means you have to wait forever before the next one… but am very glad you enjoyed the action sequence, which was very fun, particularly since all of the characters involved there tend towards the physical side rather than the 'sit down and talk this out'… and believe me, it's extremely gratifying to be told I managed to crack you up, since my writing goes in way random directions and what I find funny tends to get me odd looks from a good percent of the rest of the world… so, thanks for reviewing, and a rather long chapter's provided!

arrowna- wow? Beautiful? I'm blushing… glad you like it, hope you continue to!

jade- oh, yeah, Belle definitely wanted to make an impression… perhaps not a good one, per se… sorry my updating took so long, and thanks for the compliments!

Elf16- There is nothing worse than a badly stocked library shudder. I rely pretty solely on them for my stories, as the nearest good bookstore's way away from home, but poor you… moving around's gotta be tough, though me, I don't go anywhere…Fanfiction rocks in the sense of finding really great stories, though it can be tough since it's assumed you know everybody… even I do that. I was steered recently by a knowledgeable soul to don't know if you're familiar wit it, but it's got a really complete rundown of, well, everything… immensely helpful in trying to nail characters … Your compliments completely blew me away, I was extremely, extremely flattered- especially saying that it was a work of art… high, high praise, thanks so much… Glad John amused you, 'cause he'll be back, and Logan's back this chapter and will return, and actually, Storm and Jubilee'll eventually become tangled up in the plot- a lot of X-men'll be in and out, some, say- Bobby, will be back a lot… serenity is not my strong suit, but I hope you were able to maintain it 'cos I definitely took quite a while getting this up…. Thanks for reviewing, I hope I can live up to your praise!

Purity Black- I think I'm going to have to take a leaf out of your book and stick this at the end, b/c this is waaay too long an author's note… anyway, I've got several reviews to address, so bear with me… I really appreciate that, first off!... yeah, Gambit and Bobby working together I found to be an amusing picture, though that lasted really briefly- though they'll be crossing paths again… and I've got a whole bunch more comic-verse characters popping up in this chappie, as I'm sure you'll note… puffy coats are evil… and I love that bomber jacket. It had to go in… stealing Logan's bike will undoubtedly come back to bite them in the heinies, but it was so much fun…I was very impressed you managed to review despite your eye injury-ouch!... there is nothing better than a motorcycle, except possibly a motorcycle that comes with a good looking guy completely willing to let you drive at risk of life and limb- though if I so much as laid a finger near one, my parents'd freak- it's difficult enough watching them panic when I drive my uncle's jet-ski… glad you really liked that scene, because it was SO much fun imagining it… I loved writing Bobby and Pyro together-their powers are just screaming to be pitted against or with each other, and I really appreciated your comments on that scene, so much… Bobby'll be back again shortly, though not to play off Pyro… for awhile, anyway, but I've got a few other characters I intend to throw him in with… Remy's powers are definitely out of whack, I really wanted to make use of that, and I was really happy with that scene so I was pleased you found it to be good… Yes! I'd been reading 'Men at Arms' right before writing that, you realize you're the first person I've spoken to who not only knew who Terry Pratchett was but recognized his influence! He's fantastic, I enjoy reading him a great deal… Belladonna is such an interesting villainess- and that term must be used loosely, 'cause she's got her reasons- and I appreciated your comments on their chemistry, 'cause that's exactly what I was shooting for… and action needs humor, otherwise it's just dry- which is why, say, Indiana Jones and the old Star Wars are so great- new ones less so- 'cause they work the humor in, so I try for a pale reflection of that, at least… so here's my next chapter, anyways, although late, sorry it'll probably be waits from now on, but I'm happy you like it enough to wait for more and appreciate your pledge to review, so I can't wait for your opinion on this!

UncannyAsianGirl- hah, beat you with an update before you managed to slip a review in! Though I admittedly missed your comments, I'd actually be mildly- possibly more than mildly- alarmed if reviewing my little fic was your first priority… oh, and my kid brother enjoyed your motorcycle music vid a great deal when I showed it to him and sends his compliments! Hope you have a chance to review my latest, if you've got the time, 'cause believe me, business is one thing I've got no trouble relating to… Thanks for thinking of my story, anyhow!