Author's Note:

Thank you again dear readers for your encouraging reviews. I hope that this story continues to entertain you all and that you'll stick around to read all that's coming next.

Sadly, I do not own X-men in anyway, because if I did, that would be pretty spiffy.

Enjoy!

UPDATE 1/26/08- I have updated this chapter due to the fact I had about fifty billion little errors that were driving me nuts when I read over it again. If you've already read this, there aren't any major changes.

And to let you know, chapter four is on the way, but with a combination of writer's block and schoolwork, it's taking a bit longer to come together than the first three.

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Standing before the grimy mirror, Remy LeBeau takes a moment to simply stare at his reflection. Yes, he's looked at his face before, checked it before going out to make sure it held that look of charm, glanced to check if it was clean, etc., but never like this. It has gotten to the point that while his gaze remains so intensely focused, he isn't really thinking of exactly what he's looking at anymore. It's just odd to look upon his appearance and realize that in twenty minutes or so, the mirror will show someone entirely different.

Those unusual eyes of his finally break away as he forces his gaze back to the sheet of directions in one hand and the small bottle of hair dye in the other. And it's in this second that he wonders if perhaps this is the stupidest thing he has ever done in an attempt of pulling off the perfect disguise. After all, even if dying his auburn locks is a good idea in the first place, doing so in the dirty bathroom of a back road gas station seems hardly the perfect place. There is just an eerie feeling in the dimly lit, graffiti plastered room. Doubts flood his mind, bringing along pessimistic thoughts and he truly begins to wonder if he's wasting his time by going through all this trouble.

But suddenly, Remy turns on the water and leans inward to the facet, allowing the liquid to run through his hair, deciding he must act before he possibly talks himself out of doing this, before he convinces himself that there is no need to disguise himself for this task. As each strand becomes soaked, he focuses on the fact that the X-men have often been in the media and his face has appeared in countless news reports. There are too many risks entering in this establishment as "Gambit", too much to lose. Not only does need to keep his promise, but he must keep those who are still alive out of the same grasping the hands that Anna found herself entangled in; he can't risk losing his one shot at keeping these goals due to vanity.

So this is why he wastes no time in placing the nozzle of the bottle to his roots, just as the direction state, and beginning the process of becoming a blonde. Yes, the last shade he would ever want his mane to be is unfortunately the only one he could find about the Mansion. And considering the fact he found it in the one of the bags of groceries when he had simply been looking for the carton of cigarettes he had asked for, he can't help but keep himself occupied as he waits for the color to set by wondering which member of the team had been planning to use it.

There are a few obvious candidates who could have simply been planning to touch up a few, stray, gray hairs (Sam, Bobby, Warren, etc.) but the image of Logan or even Kurt adding it to the weekly list is simply more entertaining. During these ten minutes of waiting for the shade to take hold, Remy experiences a sense of peace he thought was lost forever with Rogue's death. His mind travels down memory lane, for once taking the path less travelled, the path paved with the greatest moments of his time with the X-men, the times with his mismatched, blended mutant family. Sure, life hadn't been happy twenty-four seven, there had been many times he wished he was just back to the days where thievery dominated his life and thoughts, but the times he currently relives make up for all the times of frustration, anger, and sorrow.

But the peace is soon shattered as before he knows it, the timer egg timer he had also taken from the kitchen rings, telling him time is up, telling him the color had set and to follow the last step on the paper. There is nothing he can do now, no way to slip out of this one; the results of this dye are final; and that's a bit of a frightening thought. Hanging his head over the sink, his eyes squeeze shut for a moment, fearful to see if this has turned out as bad as he thinks it could \have. Taking a breath, he slowly raises his head and his gaze and in that moment he catches sight he knows it instantly.

Remy LeBeau is not meant to ever be a blonde…

But he can't allow himself to be stunned for long and with a shake of his head directed towards his own idiotic choice, he tosses the empty box to the floor along with the rest of the remains from the hair dying experience.Reaching into the black travel bag, he pulls the silver scissors out, looking at his locks, and back at the scissors. Contemplating such a choice is giving him more trouble than the initial dye. Remy turns, looking to his ponytail, and raises the scissors upwards.

But then he lays them down.

And then he picks them back up.

And then he lays them down again…

The process continues for a few moments as he wonders why he should lose the length, if it there is any reason to go this far; he has already butchered his hair enough. But the argument is almost more convincing; why does it matter what it looks like? He's no longer trying to impress anyone with his appearance; he isn't looking for the company of beautiful women. There's no reason he shouldn't-

Even he is unsure whether or not he secretly does it on purpose or if it is a pure accident, as the metal object suddenly slips from his fingers and falls into a wet spot on the grimy concrete floor. After thinking about what the puddle the blades sit in could possibly be, he accepts that this decision has been made for him and that the length shall remain the same. Besides, the ponytail makes him look more thief-like, yes? Well, at least that's what he'll tell himself…

Finally, after close to an hour of working on his new look, he emerges, meeting the same chilly day that he left. Though it's hardly his best work, considering the circumstances, Remy is rather proud of his disguise (though once again- the blondeness is optional). He hardly looks like the same Ragin' Cajun he has been known and loved as. Even though most of his mane is pulled back in the tight tie, there are a few escaped wisps of blonde blowing about in the hard breeze. It's rather hard to adjust in his new attire at first as the plain, burgundy button up shirt and the new, black trousers look too clean-cut for the man used to ripped jeans and t-shirts. He adjusts the dark sunglasses covering his eyes and glances to a few of the truckers and travelers around him, wondering if any of them find it suspicious he happens to be wearing shades even though there isn't a trace of sun in the sky.

As he takes his seat on the motorcycle, the breeze picks up, and a chill is sent through him at lightning speed. Biting his lip, Remy wonders if perhaps he should go back for the trademark coat he has held onto for years, a coat that now lays on that concrete floor next to the empty hair dye box. He intended for it to stay behind here because of all the memories sewn into that brown lining, the years of his young adulthood, his time with the X-men, and his days of glory. How many times had he pulled off amazing heists in that coat? How many fights had he won while wearing the garment?

But above all, he can't help but remember when she used to clutch his sleeve and when the yellow glove was placed to his shoulder. The day after she died, the first day of grieving, he convinced himself that the coat actually held her sweet scent from the times he had placed it around her, the times he had used it not only to keep her warm and comfort her, but so he could sneak in a moment to hold her. The coat had seen their whole romance and has quite a love story it could share with the world, a story it only shares with Remy at the moment.

With these memories, he kicks the kickstand and hightails it out of the parking lot, his decision on the coat final. The garment simply has to stay; he can't take be reminded of the story any longer. What would he even do with it now? Wearing it would drive him mad, but just keeping it in the bottom of his bag would be worse. Besides, he can handle being cold, it isn't as if it's a factor that's going to make him break his promise; a chill in the air does nothing to affect his devotion and love for Anna.

After all, once you've spent a good deal of time in Antarctica, cold air and chills don't have quite as powerful of an effect.