When she woke a second time, she was alone and the sky was turning light. Slowly, she pushed herself to a sitting position, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Bad idea, she thought, as the room turned on its side and pain lanced through her. She sank back to the bed and took stock. She was half-naked – her tank top and underwear were all she had on. Where were her clothes? Where were her gloves? The absence of her gloves – her armor – made her feel more naked than the loss of her clothes, and she tucked her knees to her chest, pulling the sheet over her. Her body felt as if she had failed one of Logan's Danger Room sims miserably.

Logan. The Institute. How long had she been missing? If anyone even noticed, would they think something was wrong? Or that she had taken off, too traumatized by the events of the past few months to stay with the X-Men? She buried her face in her hands, then winced. Exploring with tentative fingers, she found a gash along her hairline, but it seemed clean and held together with butterfly bandages. Who had patched her up? Everything about the night before was fuzzy – the harder she tried to picture it, the further it slid out of focus.

She had hitchhiked into the city, heading for a club she knew of. It was loud and obnoxious and fake, but they didn't check ID, and she figured the blaring music and mindless chatter would be a welcome distraction from the noise in her head. And she could be anonymous. Rogue definitely wanted to be anonymous. But something hadn't felt right, had made the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably. As she walked to the club, storm clouds gathering above, she realized someone had been following her, and so she ducked inside, choosing a table at the back, near the fire exit, and watched the door. Logan might not think she was paying attention during training, but she had listened – in any situation, give yourself as many options, as many exits, as much flexibility as you could. "Control the situation," he always said. "Don't let it control you." When the waitress had come to take her order, she had ordered a club soda.

So why was she feeling like she did the morning after she and Evan had snuck into Logan's room and shared a bottle of whiskey?

She had watched the entrance to the club, techno music blaring, lights flashing, swarms of people periodically cutting off her view. Took a sip of her drink, idly tapping her fingers in time to the pulse of the music. Waited. And then the lights blurred together, the music wavered, and…

Nothing. She couldn't remember. "Think, dammit," she whispered to herself. "Rewind and play again. Slow motion."

Music…lights…people…drink…and then someone sat down. Three unfriendly-looking someones. The one in the middle was smaller, but clearly meaner. The other two were obviously brawn, not brain, and probably slow, to boot. She slid her glove off.

"Don't bother," the middle one said, "I know about the gloves, little girl. I also know you've got about two minutes before you pass out completely. So you can come with us easy, or you can come with us hard. I get paid either way."

"Well, then," she replied, her voice already echoing. "Ah guess ah choose hard." And she brought both legs up, kicking the glass-topped table directly at the men. She jumped back towards the fire exit, but she was too slow – one of them caught her across the chest with something – what? – and white pain exploded behind her eyes. Her balance was off, she thought dully, and as she tried to throw a punch at the muscle man nearest her, she missed. The brawny man backhanded her, and she flew across the room and landed in a heap at someone's feet.

"Not sure anything about de femme be easy," drawled a voice above her head. She looked up, saw red eyes smoking in a face of planes and angles. "Well, easy on de eyes, hein?"

"You gotta be kidding me," she slurred, and the world went black.

Lost in concentration, she didn't hear the door open, didn't look up until she heard a low, husky chuckle. "You look good in my bed, chere. Not surprised, 'course. Just wish the process of getting' you there had been less painful."

"You," she breathed, stunned for a moment. Then her natural instincts kicked in, and she was engulfed in fury. "What did you do to me? Tell me what happened, or Ah'll beat it outta you!" She tried to leap at him, modesty forgotten, but the tall, rangy man simply deflected her with a gentle push, and she fell back, defeated.

"Take it easy, chere. Gambit done nothing but help."

"Help, mah ass! Help who? Tell me what you did, swamp rat, or Ah'll drain drain ya, swear to God!" She struggled to her knees, ready to launch at him again.

The slow, insolent rake of those red eyes across her body reminded her of how little she was wearing, and she hesitated, then pulled the sheet up around her chest. But her eyes blazed, and Gambit backed up a step.

"I told you t' take it easy. Mon dieu! How about the Rogue try listenin' for a change. Den I be telling you all dat happened." Her bare hand made a quick, involuntary move towards him, and he was doubly glad he had remembered to put on the gloves. "Relax," he said in exasperation. "I ain't gonna hurt you. Who you t'ink been takin' care of you so nice? Who rescued you from dose men las'night?" He looked at her appraisingly. Long dark hair tangled from sleep, falling in her face. That face, so white, so shocked, with dark purple smudges under each eye – this time, not from makeup, but exhaustion and fear. And the eyes, sparking green. Fear and anger and confusion. The gash on her head was looking only slightly better, as were the various bruises and cuts scattered over her body like some sort of mad pattern. She sat stiffly, her bruised ribs obviously paining her.

"Ah'm waiting," she said impatiently.

"An' I'm lookin'" he said, a quick cocky grin flashing across his face. "It's a nice view."

"Right. Ah'm warning you, Gambit – if Ah don't start hearing some answers soon…"

"I told you, chere, if you jus' calm down, I can give you all de answers you want."

"Ah am calm," Rogue said, teeth gritted.

"Well, den," he said, pouring a deck of cards back and forth between his hands, "ask away."

"First of all, where are mah clothes?"

"You not gonna like de answer."

"Gambit," she said warningly, hefting a small, heavy silver alarm clock in her hand.

"Dey gone."

"Gone?" Her arm drew back, ready to throw. "How did they get gone?"

"Well, dere was dis fight, see. And you came out of it okay, but de clothes…"