Thank you so much to my reviewers! I didn't think I would care about reviews very much, but seriously, a few kind words just made my day. Not to mention inspired me to write faster!

At ColossusR's suggestion, I've changed my settings to allow anonymous reviews, so feel free to tell me what you think. Don't be too harsh, though, okay?

Incidentally, anyone worried that Marvel is going to break up Rogue and Remy (IvyZoe, looking at you) should read X-Men: The End, which has them married and Rogue able to control her absorption (and letting everyone call her Anna). Of course, it also has Storm as a paraplegic involved with Wolverine, so I'm not sure how canon it is, but it looks like things turn out better for them than it does for Scott and Jean. Are there even Scott/Jean shippers? That would be kind of boring, I think.

The X-Men? Not mine. Andrea? Mine. Special thank you goes out to Google and Wikipedia.

oooooo

Andrea awoke slowly, her dream – something about talking chocolate fish – fading away as she became aware of her surroundings. She kept her eyes screwed tight, hoping that she could wish herself into her own bed.

She lay like that for ten minutes, or maybe twenty, it was hard to tell, when a voice on the other side of the door finally brought her back to reality.

The room was white, bright, and airy. It had almost no furnishings, just the bed she was lying in and a bureau with a mirror affixed it. Andrea rolled over, realizing that except for her shoes, she was still dressed in her clothes from the night before. She breathed a sigh of relief. It might have been more comfortable to have slept in her underwear, but there was no way that would have made up for the embarrassment she would have felt had she woken up to see she had been undressed by strangers.

Not that she felt super great about having to be carried to bed after having fainted last night. God, she'd fainted! Who the hell faints? Okay, so it had been a stressful day, but Andrea was a tough chica, right?

Remembering the feeling of pressing her body against the corner of her porch while someone else fought to defend her life, she shuddered. She wasn't that tough, and she shouldn't have to be that tough. Because she shouldn't have to worry about people trying to kill her, it was that simple. Andrea Feldman wasn't a threat to anyone. Well, unless she was in muckraking mode…

"Why can't fucking bitches like you learn to mind your own goddamn business?" The man in the alley. She sat up straight in the bed. Her left side ached fiercely. The voice – it was female – in the next room was getting louder.

Oh god, she thought. Oh god oh god ohgodgodgod. She tried to form a real prayer. Baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech haolam…let's see, candle lighting, wine, bread, none of those seemed appropriate. Please help me be strong, she prayed. She thought English would be as good as Hebrew.

Andrea stood up carefully and walked barefoot into the living room.

"Oh yeah?" Rogue was shouting now. "Why, exactly, should I be following orders from you?" She stalked across the room, phone to her ear. Gambit sat at the kitchen counter, reading the paper and sipping a cup of coffee.

"What the hell are you even talking about? We're not students, in case you haven't noticed. You're not the headmistress of us!…Emma, we are not teachers either!…So what?…Give me a break, Emma, like Remy can really make Logan do anything…The entire team can set a good example for the kids. We like setting a bad example…Yes, I must!"

"Roguey, we have neighbors," Gambit reminded her. She frowned at him.

"Emma," Rogue said into the phone in a firm, but quiet voice, "We will be back when we're ready." With a grand gesture, she pressed the "end call" button on her phone.

"Damn cell phones," she muttered. "You can't even hang up on someone properly."

"Um, good morning," Andrea said hesitantly from the doorway.

"Oh lord, Andrea!" Rogue said, coloring a little. "I got a little carried away. Did I wake you up?" She was wearing khaki pants with a long sleeved athletic shirt in two shades of pink. And white gloves. She looked like a germophobic model on her day off.

"No, I was already awake," Andrea assured her, wondering exactly what fashion statement Rogue was trying to make with the gloves. She wasn't sure it was working, exactly.

"Oh good. Coffee?" Andrea nodded and sat down on the bar stool next to Gambit. "I know you think I'm a horrible bitch now, but you should meet Emma. On second thought, be grateful you don't know her. There is something about her that just brings out the worst in me. Woman thinks I'm an idiot because I have a Southern accent, I swear."

"She don' think you're an idiot," Gambit spoke into his coffee.

"Yes, she does." Rogue placed a fresh cup of coffee in front of Andrea.

"No, she don'. She jus' jealous no amount of work can make her look as good as you do naturally."

Rogue rolled her eyes, but looked rather pleased.

"How you feelin', Andrea?" Gambit asked her. "You had us a little scared las' night."

"Much better." Andrea said. "I'm sorry about that. Thanks for helping me to bed." She paused. "I've never fainted before. I don't know what to say."

"I've had some practice at it," Gambit said. "Y'did jus' fine." Andrea thought he was joking, but she wasn't sure. He was wearing jeans and a dark brown t-shirt. His hair, she could see now, was a dark auburn, and damp from a shower. She wondered idly what color his eyes would be if they weren't red.

"Andrea," Rogue began cautiously, "I'm sorry we have to talk about it, but do you have any idea why you were attacked?"

Andrea took a sip of her coffee and nodded. "I think I do know. I'm a journalist, you know."

"A journalist?" Gambit's eyebrows shot up.

"Yeah. For the Times-Picayune. And I've been working on this story that's just been making me crazy. Um. Good coffee. In the last two months, the three Hispanic males have washed up just south of the city. No one has reported anyone matching their descriptions in the right time frames missing, so we're operating under the assumption that they're illegals. All three had bruises and lacerations, but they weren't drowned and they weren't beaten to-" her voice broke. "They weren't beaten death," she continued. "Someone was trying to dispose of their bodies. I've talked to police, I've talked to the Port, no one's talking. That guy…before you showed up last night, he told me to mind my own business. I think this is what he was talking about."

Rogue looked thoughtfully at her coffee. "You sure? No ex-boyfriends out there giving you trouble?"

"No, chère," Gambit interrupted before Andrea could respond. "They were being paid. Fifty K each. Dat ain't ex-boyfriend behavior."

"I haven't dated anyone since I moved to New Orleans anyway," Andrea said.

"So, who knows you're working on the story?" Rogue asked.

Andrea shrugged helplessly. "Practically everyone, it seems. I must have talked to half the people in the Port building. It's not really a secret. They were probably talking about me in the break rooms, making fun of the 'Chinese girl' who couldn't break the story," she finished bitterly.

"You t'ink they really know somethin'?"

"I think someone knows something. And someone else knows that someone who knows something. These men didn't die in the river, someone dumped them there. And if I can't figure out who did it, at least I'll find out why no one else seems interested in leaning that, and why someone thinks it's worth a hundred thousand dollars to kill me to keep that from happening." Suddenly, she was furious. She was a journalist. She had only one goal – to report what was happening in the city to its citizens. And someone wanted to stop her from doing that? How dare they?

"Well, let's go see them, see if we can't convince them to open up a little more," Rogue said.

"Shouldn't we call the police or something?" Andrea wondered. "This seems awfully unauthorized." Gambit cleared his throat.

"Thing is, Andrea, police don' like me very much. If they knew I was involved in this, they'd find some way t'blame poor Remy."

"Right, of course 'poor Remy'," Rogue repeated with a grin. "I'm sure you've done absolutely nothing to deserve that, right?"

"I am wounded, chère! Wounded!" She rolled her eyes again and looked over at Andrea.

"Don't worry, Andrea. We're professionals. You take a shower now, then you have some breakfast, then we'll go down to the Port. The blue towels are for you."

Professional whats? Andrea wondered as she headed to the bathroom.

oooooo

A shower later and Andrea felt like a new woman. Her left side was a mass of aching bruises and would be for a few days, but her head barely hurt anymore. Scalding water and lots and lots of soap and she felt…better. She peered at her reflection in the steamy mirror. Same tilted brown eyes in the same pale oval face, same long black hair. She wondered if she'd ever be the same as she'd been that time the day before. She wondered if she even wanted to be that Andrea anymore.

She dressed quickly in jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. She didn't need to be at work for another few hours. Maybe she'd make it in after all.

Breakfast turned out to be scrambled eggs, toast, grits, and bacon.

"Oh," Andrea said hesitantly, not wanting to be rude. They'd been so generous. "No bacon, thank you."

"You a vegetarian, Andrea?" Rogue asked. She didn't appear offended.

"No, I'm Jewish." She paused, then quickly added: "I'm adopted."

"You don't need t'explain y'self," Gambit told her. "Roguey's adopted too, an' so'm I. You should see Rogue wit' her brother if you want to see an unlikely-looking family."

"You don't think Kurt and I have a family resemblance?" Rogue asked, smiling."Not unless you got a tail you been hiding somewhere."

A tail?, Andrea wondered. She sipped her coffee. Gambit set down the paper, and Andrea picked it up. The ink wasn't quite dark enough, she saw, and made a mental note to mention it to her boss. They should talk to the printer about that.

On the third page, a story caught her eye. Alexander Davaine, 54, Dead by Apparent Suicide.

"Whoa," she said. They looked at her, and she read them the headline.

"Who's Alexander Davaine?" Rogue asked.

"Oh, this shipping guy. I'd never heard of him til I started working on this story, but I've spent a lot of time at the docks lately, and he has a real big presence there. Just kind of surprising to hear he's dead."

"Speaking of the docks," Rogue said, "Let's go, shall we?"

oooooo

The modern glass structure on the banks of the Mississippi that housed the Port Authority was bustling with activity. Andrea sighed with relief as they stepped into the air conditioned building. The mild weather of the previous day had given way to a heavy, wet heat. Gambit was, incredibly, wearing his leather duster. He didn't even seem to notice the weather. Rogue still wore her gloves, so Andrea assumed it wasn't bothering her either. Yet more proof that Southerners were crazy.

"What are we doing again?" Andrea asked them in a whisper.

"We just gon' talk t'dem," Gambit explained in a normal voice.

"I already did talk to them," Andrea pointed out, still whispering. "Remember?"

In response Gambit led them up to the receptionist at the front desk, who was on the phone, reading from the paper.

"The initial police reports state that the cause of death was apparently a single self-inflicted gunshot wound to the right temple," she read into the phone. "I thought Mr. Davaine was left-handed, wasn't he, Jenny? Oh, never mind then. Why did I think that? Anyway, of course not! I don't believe it for a second. Do you? Neither does Ann, and you know she went to school with Catherine Sainte-Marie, you know, that's Mr. Davaine's niece and—" she cut herself short as she looked up from the paper to see Gambit leaning up against her desk.

He smiled at her.

"Jenny, I'll call you back." She hung up the phone without waiting for a response.

"Bonjour," he said brightly. "You have heard de sad news about Monsieur Davaine, then?"

"Um, oh, yes," the receptionist said, confused. She was blond and slightly plump, with a New Orleans accent.

"Y'don' t'ink his deat' was a suicide?" Gambit's accent was suddenly almost absurdly exaggerated. He sounded like Pepe LePew, Andrea thought from her position off to the side, and she snickered slightly at the resulting visual image. Rogue shushed her.

"Oh, no, see, Mister Davaine, he was in here all the time. He had a lot of business with us, of course, and he was good friends with Mr. Edwards, that's the Port CEO, you know. Such a sweet man, you know, always had a kind word for everyone. He never forgot my name and gave us the nicest presents at Christmas!"

"But who knows what demons he faced in here?" He tapped his head. "And in here?" He placed a hand on his heart.

"Oh, no," the receptionist, exclaimed. "He had so much to live for! His daughter just had a baby – the cutest little boy you ever saw – and his son is about to graduate from college. I can't believe he killed himself, I just can't."

Gambit raised an eyebrow. "What d'you t'ink happen den?" he asked in a low voice, leaning towards her conspiratorily.

"I think…" she quickly looked to either side to see if anyone was listening. "I think he was murdered."

"No!" Gambit exclaimed, horrified. "By who?"

"I don't know," she admitted.

"You t'ink Mr. Edwards might know?"

"He knew Mr. Davaine better than me," the receptionist said, thoughtfully.

"You t'ink I can see him, chère?"

"Of course!" the receptionist said happily, clearly excited to be helping him out. "His office is on the third floor, southwest corner. He has a meeting in an hour, though."

"Merci beaucoup, chère," Gambit said. She beamed at him.

"What the hell was that?" Andrea asked Rogue quietly as the three of them headed for the elevator. Gambit overheard her and smiled, but said nothing.

"Never trust a Cajun," was Rogue's response.

"Roguey, I don't know what you talkin' about," Gambit protested, taking her gloved hand. She just smiled at him as they stepped into the elevator.

"I'm serious…how did you do that? I've been in here five times and never got anything but a 'I'm sorry, I really can't help you' from that woman, and you got us an invite to the Port CEO? She didn't even ask who you were! I even showed her my press pass!"

"It's part of his mutation," Rogue told her. "He's a charmer."

"Rogue!" Gambit exclaimed, annoyed. "Why don' you just take out a full page ad in de New York Times?" He turned to Andrea and explained: "It doesn' work if y'know about it."

"Oh." What else could she say? He could literally charm people? She hadn't been aware that mutants could possess more than one power. That was one hell of a weapon. She wondered what she would do with that sort of ability. And once again, she wondered what Rogue's mutation was.

They stepped out of the elevator on the third floor and walked towards the southwest corner. They received some curious glances, but no one stopped them from approaching the Port CEO's office.

Rogue knocked on the door, then led them in without waiting for a response.

Stephen Edwards, as the plate on the door named him, was a slender white man in his late thirties or early forties. His brown hair was thinning, and his dark eyes were rimmed with red.

"Who are you," he asked, rising at the sudden unannounced intrusion.

"Andrea Feldman, Times-Picayune," Andrea introduced herself, stepping forward to shake his hand. "These are, uh, my colleagues. I was hoping I could get a statement from you regarding the discovery of three bodies found in the Mississippi River over the last two months. It's believed that they were illegal immigrants. Do you have anything you'd like to say?"

He stared at her as though she was speaking Greek. He didn't take her hand, and after a moment, she dropped it to her waist, feeling foolish.

"Sorry about to hear about your friend," Rogue said quietly, ending the awkward silence. He grunted.

"You don't think he committed suicide," she observed, pushing a lock of white hair behind her ear.

"You're a reporter?" he asked, warily.

"No," Rogue said with a shake of her head that loosened the white strand again.

"I thought she said…"

"She's a reporter. I'm not. Am I wrong?"

Edwards paused. This was a very strange conversation. "No. He didn't kill himself." His eyes seemed to glisten with new tears.

"I'm Rogue," she introduced herself, reaching out to take his take. This time, he returned the gesture, just as Andrea noticed that she'd removed her gloves.

Rogue's hands didn't look like she'd expected. She was a startlingly beautiful woman, and glamorous. But her nails were bare of polish and of uneven lengths.

As his Edwards' touched hers, his eyes widened. He gasped and shuddered. His hand grasped onto hers tightly. After a couple seconds, she shook her hand free.

"Who are you?" he demanded in a quavering voice.

"I told you. I'm Rogue." She turned away from him to confer with Andrea and Gambit. "He doesn't know anything about your dead bodies, Andrea, other than that it's bad PR and he doesn't want anyone talking about it. But he's sure of one thing: Davaine did not commit suicide."

oooooo

Endrnotes:

1. The Hebrew means "Blessed are you lord, our god, king of the universe" and it's how all Jewish prayers begin. The wine, bread, and candle lighting thing refers to three of the most commonly used prayers. They're the only three I can recite off the top of my head, anyway!

2. I can't remember if Emma was Co-Headmistress when Jean was still alive or not. I decided she was, here. Also, I've never noticed that she and Rogue are really antagonistic towards each other, oh well.

3. I've seen lots of fics that have Remy and Rogue as teachers, but seriously, would you want them teaching your kids? Neither of them is even the slightest bit qualified to be a teacher. I've seen them work with kids in the comics, though, which makes sense to me.

4. This was a nightmare to spellcheck!

Next time: more detectivity!

XXOO,

Thirteen