Author's Note: This story is a follow up to my previous one, "Three Days in Hell". It is not necessary to have read it first, but it will provide some context. I am always grateful for reviews, feedback and writing prompts. Thank you!
Power Hungry, Power Starved
The blaring of the bedside alarm clock slashed through his head like a knife, jarring him to wakefulness like a bucket of ice water to the face. With a muffled curse, he reached out from beneath the duvet and blindly slapped the snooze button, silencing the cacophony of noise for a blessed five minutes. Cocooned in the warmth of the blanket, clinging to the last vestiges of sleep, he tried to take a deep breath, only to lose it to a fit of coughing.
"Ah, shit."
Gambit groaned, as the coughing fit subsided; his throat was red-raw, and every time he swallowed, it felt like razor blades. His nose was stuffy, which only added to his misery, feeling achy and shivery all over. He had not been feeling well over the last couple of days, and had gone to bed uncharacteristically early the night before in the hopes of a quick recovery. However, after a restless night, morning had inevitably arrived, and it was time to face the facts.
He had caught a cold.
It had been just over a month since his return from Genosha, where he, Wolverine and Rogue had been shot out of the sky and crashed the jet in the forest, where they had waited three days for rescue. He had sustained a serious injury to his left side in the crash, which had resulted in infection, sepsis and pneumonia. He had been recovering well, but Beast had warned him that his immune system would be compromised for some time and to expect setbacks. He had to admit he had been pushing himself the last few days, wanting to get back onto the team and on active missions. In a school, viruses tended to do the rounds on a regular basis, even for mutants, and he guessed he must have picked up the bug from one of the kids.
With a sigh, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with one hand, wondering whether he should just stay in bed, he was just so tired. He normally had the opposite problem; a side effect of his mutation was that his body tended to produce excessive amounts of energy. It was how he was able to charge up objects with bio-kinetic energy without exhausting himself every time, and maintain a level of peak physical fitness beyond that of any human professional athlete. However, it did mean he needed very little sleep and had a reputation for staying out late at all hours without needing to rest, while the rest of the team were getting much-needed shut-eye.
Today, however, he felt completely drained. He was just on the verge of nodding off again when the alarm blared once more, and he shut it off, sighing to himself. Even under the weather as he was, he rebelled at inactivity. He climbed out of bed, stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the shower, increasing the water temperature to just shy of scorching the flesh from his bones, hoping it would invigorate him and that the steam would clear his head a little.
Feeling somewhat more refreshed, he towelled himself dry, shaved, and dressed quickly, forgoing his uniform in favour of black jeans, shirt and a thick black sweater. He slipped his gloves on and swept his unruly hair into its usual ponytail. Regarding himself in the mirror, he noted his pallid features, dark circles under his eyes, and a slight redness to his nose. Screwing his face up in disgust at his own appearance, he waved a dismissive hand at the mirror, pulled on a pair of boots over thick socks, and headed out of his room towards the kitchen. A cup or two of coffee would help him to warm up and get going.
It was the start of the winter break, so there were very few students around the school, and none of them were early risers, so he did not encounter anyone as he meandered through the halls. He was beginning to think himself alone in the mansion, until he entered the kitchen, to find Storm busy making herself some eggs and toast.
"Gambit! Good morning to you," she declared, cheerfully, as he crossed to the cupboard and grabbed a mug.
"Mornin' Storm," he mumbled, picking up the coffee pot from its hotplate, tipping it into the cup.
His hand shook slightly; he cursed as the hot liquid splashed onto his hand and the worktop. Storm shot him an amused look, but then her expression turned serious as she saw his face for the first time.
"Gambit - are you unwell?" she queried, setting her eggs to one side on the stove as she placed one hand on her shapely hip, eyeing him up and down, "You are paler than the winter snow!"
"S'jus' a cold, chère," he assured her, mopping up the spilt coffee, quickly, before taking a sip from his mug; it was black, unsweetened, and tasted like tar. Perfect.
"Are you certain?" Storm's eyes narrowed fractionally, "After your recent ill-health..."
If his nose hadn't been so blocked, he might have snorted in wry amusement. That was an understatement. He gave her a reassuring smile.
"M'fine," he mumbled, taking another sip of the coffee, "promise."
"I will make you some lemon and ginger tea," Storm announced, already opening up the cupboards, "sweetened with some honey to soothe your throat."
"Dere's no need..." Gambit protested, but found himself being ushered into a chair as she swept around the kitchen, taking bites of her breakfast even as she worked, dumping a box of tissues in front of him from one of the cupboards as she gathered what she needed.
He sat down at the table, his right hand curled loosely around his coffee mug as his left hand cradled his aching head, elbow resting on the table top for support. He shivered; even with his sweater on, the kitchen felt chilly. He found himself wondering if he should just go back to bed for the rest of the day and try to sleep off the worst of his symptoms. He absently plucked a tissue from the box, blowing his nose, feeling utterly miserable.
He was almost dozing off at the table when the empty coffee mug was plucked from his hand and replaced with a mug of hot, yellowish liquid. He eyed it suspiciously. It was not coffee, or cocoa, or any kind of tea that he recognised. It did not appear to be any form of hard liquor. He was therefore uncertain as to what he was supposed to do with it.
"Drink it," Storm ordered, as if reading his thoughts, "lemon is a natural decongestant. The honey will soothe your throat, while the ginger will warm you and settle your stomach."
"T'anks, chere," he sniffed, giving the mug an experimental sip, "huh... not bad."
"Why, thank you," Storm favoured him with an amused smile, "you do not look at all well, Gambit. Perhaps you should spend today resting."
"Dat's about as much as I had planned," he admitted, taking the mug in both hands so he could inhale the soothing steam, "Gambit still not allowed on any missions anyway."
"Your recovery has progressed far faster than any of us expected," Storm replied, gently, as she sat opposite him, nursing her own mug of green herbal tea, "it will not be long now before you are out with the team once more."
"Not today, t'ough," Gambit gave a wry smile, sipping the tea again, "Storm, dis is really good. Definitely helps. T'anks."
"You are most welcome," she smiled, warmly, "now, I suggest that you..."
She was cut off by a loud beeping noise, and she sighed, tapping the intercom button on the wall.
"This is Professor Xavier," announced the speaker, "would all X-Men on base please report to the Control Room immediately."
"Ain't no rest for de wicked," Gambit muttered, pushing himself to his feet as he picked up his mug of tea, then grabbed the box of tissues as an afterthought, "you comin', chère?"
"I do not think the summons need include you, Gambit," Storm told him, as she collected her own mug to take with her, "the Professor will understand your need to rest."
"Don' worry, chère, I ain't about to volunteer for a mission," he flashed a wry grin, "Gambit jus' likes to know what's goin' on."
Together, they made their way down to the basement levels, and found they were the last to arrive in the Control Room. Xavier, Cyclops, Wolverine and Rogue made up the rest of the team; Jean, Beast and Jubilee were out on a medical relief mission in Africa. Gambit kept his head down as he dropped into a chair, still nursing his mug of tea and keeping the box of tissues hidden on his lap, deliberately not meeting anyone's gaze, lest they comment on his appearance. Wolverine sniffed the air and smirked across the table at him.
"I smell Storm's special lemon tea – ya comin' down with somethin', Cajun?"
Gambit glowered at him but whatever sharp retort he would have made dissolved in a fit of coughing. He settled for making a one-fingered gesture at Wolverine, who laughed it off with good humour. After everything the two of them and Rogue had been through recently, they were both happy to be enjoying their good-natured rivalry.
"Cut it out, Logan," Rogue was less impressed with the baiting, giving Gambit a concerned look, "you alright, sugar? Yer lookin' a little pale..."
"'S'jus' a cold," he made a dismissive gesture, waving off her concern, sipping his tea, "jus' came t'find out what's goin' on, Professor?"
"Something deeply concerning," Xavier spoke up, seizing the opportunity to get to the heart of the briefing, "word has reached me of some worrying research being conducted by this man..." he pressed a button on his hover chair, and a face appeared on the screens.
Gambit regarded it with detached disinterest. The subject was a middle-aged man of unremarkable appearance. He had thinning, wispy brown hair with a receding hairline, close-set brown eyes and the flaccid, pale complexion of a man who spent far too much time indoors with limited physical exercise and a fondness for rich foods. Gambit took another mouthful of his rapidly-cooling tea, trying not to wince as he swallowed, ignoring the amused look Wolverine shot at him.
"This is Dr. Gregory Kolton," Xavier told them, "he is a renowned expert in genetic mutation and manipulation. He is also a known supporter of Friends of Humanity and has strong military connections."
"Oh, this is gonna be good," Wolverine growled, thumping his right fist into his left palm.
"Rumour has reached me via the scientific community that Dr. Kolton has been experimenting directly on mutants in an effort to develop methods for suppressing their abilities," Xavier continued, grimly, "while not officially sanctioned by the government, he is extremely well-funded by certain sympathetic... anti-mutant parties."
"I'm going to assume you want us to investigate his activities, Professor," Cyclops spoke up, running his fingers across his jaw, thoughtfully, "where can we find this Dr. Kolton?"
"His laboratory is located on a small Hawaiian island," Xavier indicated the location on a map, "the island, colloquially known as Blayze Island, is privately owned by an umbrella corporation called Blayze Industries, conducting top-secret research for government and non-governmental organisations."
"Shady," Wolverine snorted, gruffly, "what say we go check 'em out?"
"Cyclops, Storm, Wolverine and Rogue, your mission is to infiltrate the base and find out what Kolton is working on," said Xavier, glancing at each of them, "Gambit, I think I would prefer for you to remain on base for this one."
"Don' know 'bout dat," the Cajun sniffed, trying and failing to suppress a cough, "t'ink you can cope wit'out Gambit, mes amis?"
"I think we'll manage," Cyclops replied, with a dry smile, "maybe next time, Gambit. Stay here, rest and recover. Thankfully, Beast, Jean and Jubilee took a private flight so we've got the new Blackbird. We'll need to land on one of these unoccupied islands here," he pointed to the map, "and then make our way across to Blayze Island."
"Storm an' ah can get you boys across," Rogue nodded, "from there, we'll have a poke around for ya, Professor."
"Be careful," Xavier cautioned them, "if Dr. Kolton has found a way to suppress, or even reverse, our genetic mutations and abilities, then you could be in extreme danger. There is no need to take unnecessary risks; this is a fact-finding mission, nothing more."
"Understood, Professor," Cyclops nodded, "everyone – take off in thirty minutes. Grab what you need in the meantime."
They all nodded, making their way out of the Control Room. Gambit slipped away quietly, but a yellow-gloved hand snagged his arm, and he found himself looking into a pair of concerned, bright green eyes.
"Ya sure yer okay, Remy?"
Rogue's genuine concern made him smile, though he lacked the energy for a witty comeback.
"Sure, chère," he mumbled, trying to sound carefree but mostly just sounding congested, "jus' picked up a bit of a cold. Beast said it could happen."
He turned away, coughing into his hand, wincing as his abused throat protested the action. Rogue was still giving him a wide-eyed look, and he could not blame her. She had been at his side through most of his recovery from the infection that had caused sepsis and pneumonia; she had seen him struggling to draw breath as his lips turned blue from the lack of oxygen, and dampened his brow with a cooling cloth each time his fever had spiked. He had no desire to go through any of that again, which is why he was more than happy to sit this one out. Though a trip to a Hawaiian island did sound nice...
"Yeah, well, you just take it easy while ah'm gone," Rogue pointed at him, warningly, "behave yerself; Beast'll be back later today from delivering those vaccines, if ah'm not back by then ah'll be askin' him ta check on ya."
"Dere's no need, chère," he assured her, resisting the urge to rub his eyes, tiredly, "Gambit jus' needs to sleep it off."
"Okay," she did not seem mollified, as she placed her gloved hand over his mouth, kissing the back of her hand, the closest she could get to actually kissing him, "jus'... get better soon, okay?"
"Oui, chère," he murmured, softly, "go on... yo' mission's waitin'. I'll be fine. Promise."
"You'd better be," Rogue snorted, as she turned away, "go get some sleep, sugar. Ah'll see ya when ah get back."
Gambit watched her go, smiling in appreciation, before heading back to his room. Once inside, he set his empty mug and the box of tissues on the nightstand, and sat down on the side of the bed, pausing to tug off his boots. Without bothering to undress or get changed, he slid under the duvet, and drifted off into a fitful doze.
