Curiosity
Chapter 3: Interest
Disclaimer: Yeah, it seems I've forgotten the disclaimer part in the preceding chapters. Let's see, I don't own ANY of the following: zombies (heehee, I said the zed word!), X-Men (Uncanny X-Men, X-Men: The Animated Series, X-Men: Evolution, the X-Men movies – any of them), the SR-71 Blackbird, the X-Men version of the Blackbird, or Scoobie Doo. Or Ferris Bueller, while I'm being paranoid. And a bonus to you if you get the last two references. Oh, and a double-bonus if you don't sue me. I'm not making any money off of this, and it's really not worth your time or energy anyway. Kthx.
Author's Note: Please review, I thrive on it! Feed on it, even, like a zombie feeds on brains! Except with less gore, most of the time. Thanks to everyone who's added this story to their favorites!
Right, the story. For reference, this picks up right after Chapter 1. More cloak-and-dagger stuff, and maybe some action. Don't be alarmed by the Gambit/Storm-ness, I've marked this story as a Gambit/Rogue tale, and I promise future ROMY-ness … I'm just working up to it slowly. Trying my hand at a plot, as it were, so we'll see how that goes. I'm going to tip my hand, here, not to give away any of the story but to give a little perspective. I'm a firm believer in the inevitability of Remy and Rogue. I am convinced that no matter what alternate universe or timeline, no matter what they endure at the hands of others or themselves, through death and betrayal and wars and plagues, that they are meant to be together. That they are each others' perfect match. He could be a fry cook on Venus, and they'd still cross paths.
Ahem.
Sorry, I've just been going through some of the comics, and while it seems that the pantheon of Marvel writers agrees with me, it also seems that they like to torment these two. So unfair. Scott always has such a "healthy" relationship with Jean, or Emma, or whatever perfect clone-drone he's with at the moment, it's so well-adjusted it makes me sick. I guess I probably wouldn't be such a fan of Remy and Rogue if the angst weren't ladled on so thick.
I think I promised a story in here somewhere. Thanks for bearing with me!
It was a trap.
Remy sighed, watching the man thread his way through the maze of empty chairs. He motioned to the bartender, sliding one of the tumblers over to the bleary-eyed goddess. Storm smiled slowly, peering at him through heavy-lidded eyes, one hand stroking the glass idly as if entranced by the smooth glass, the sparkle of amber liquid it contained.
It was all too easy, the entire arrangement too neat. The man he'd been sent to meet had been too helpful, too eager to take Remy at his word. Even on his own turf, where his reputation was legendary, Remy was accustomed to being met with skepticism and fear. It didn't help that he couldn't read the man, that he'd given himself a headache trying to pick up anything at all from the shifty fellow.
He snorted in irritation; he of all people knew that there was more to reading a man than this power of his. A man could tip his hand, reveal his thoughts in any of a thousand small ways, with the slightest twitch of the hand or stray glance. Remy LeBeau could spot a liar with his eyes closed. And he'd bet his last chip the man was a liar.
A slight shift in potential tugged at his senses, and he turned, catching Storm before she slid off the bar stool.
"Easy dere, Stormy," he chuckled, arranging her carefully back on the stool and motioning for the check.
She was giggling. Again. Not her normal, throaty laugh, but a high-pitched, giddy, school-girl giggle.
"Don't call me Stormy," she gasped, fighting to regain control of herself, to make the room stop spinning. She hadn't had that much . . . had she? The room was a blur of smoke and magenta – or was it fuchsia? – and chrome . . . no, dey're not chrome, she corrected herself, stifling another giggle.
Remy watched in silence as Scott left the bar, slipping out the double doors with a laughable attempt at stealth. The man had no talent for sneaking; it wasn't that he was clumsy. Far from it, truth be told.
He t'inks dis some kind'a game. Remy spared a glance at Storm, who seemed to be staring at the floor in fascination. He'd seen her melt effortlessly into the shadows of a N'awlins alley, blend seamlessly into the garish fray of a Mardi Gras parade.
Scott, on the other hand, looked like he was trying to be sneaky. Like a guilty little kid just waiting to be caught. He reminded Remy of the exaggerated stealthy tip-toeing of a certain band of crime-solving cartoon characters (accompanied, of course, by an appropriately silly soundtrack). Remy sighed, wondering if Scott had actually deluded himself into thinking he'd be able to follow their contact.
"Y'alright, dere, cherie?" He slipped an arm around her from behind, steadying her as she slid off the bar stool. He almost dropped the goddess when he felt her hand slip under his trench coat, her fingers trailing delicately over the well-defined contours of his chest. "Fuchsia," she sighed, dissolving into a fit of giggles.
She'd definitely had too much. So much for a quiet exit. "Easy now, darlin', let's keep dis G-rated for de kiddies," he soothed, ignoring her small sound of protest as he removed her wandering hand from under his coat. He looped her arm over his shoulders, thankful that the slender woman was so close to his own height. It would have been easier to carry her out, but he was trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. "To de Mystery Machine," he muttered sarcastically, guiding her carefully toward the exit. They only knocked over two chairs on their way out.
They didn't have to wait long for Scott to return to the jet. Remy didn't need his empathic senses to feel the man's frustration.
"Y'lost him, den," he mused, not sounding at all surprised. Or worried.
Scott stiffened at the myriad implications in the thief's tone, shooting the other man a sharp look.
"If you didn't think I could follow him, why didn't you say something?"
"Would'a listened to me? Don' t'ink so," he smirked, steadying Storm as she swayed in her seat.
"Damn it, Gambit, I know you're used to working alone, but the X-Men are a team. You work with your team, you don't allow send them off on useless errands while you get drunk!"
Remy rolled his eyes. He hated explaining himself, but it seemed he had to spell things out for the X-Men's fearless leader.
"M'not drunk. Been feedin' Stormy here drinks all night, thought t'distract our mysterious friend . . . t'ink I got a bit carried away," he admitted, wincing as Storm giggled faintly.
"Don't call me Stormy," she managed, gasping for breath.
"Sure t'ing, Stormy."
Scott rolled his eyes at her giddiness. He had seen her laugh, seen her cry, upon occasion; this hard woman, this goddess – and he had seen her rage, an anger that made the very earth shake with fear – but he had never seen her giggle like a witless girl.
"That's the most irresponsible thing I've ever heard of!" Scott spat, his tone outraged.
"Oh, calm down, Scooter," Storm cut in, waving her hand ostentatiously.
"Why don't you make me, Stormy," he shot back, wincing as the air crackled faintly, the smell of ozone permeating the cockpit.
Cyclops rounded on the Cajun next. "And you – because of your irresponsibility, my copilot is too drunk to fly. We have to sit here, in the woods, and risk discovery while we wait for her to sober up!"
"Oh, leave it out, Scott," Storm sighed deeply, channeling her other self. The woman Scott knew, the one who was calm, and careful, and in charge. "We both know very well that you can fly the plane by yourself, it's not like we're operating under a Part 135 certificate. Anymore." (1)
"I had us under a certificate because the legality of transporting –"
"The company that carried the certificate was trying to use the Blackbird for charter operations! Not to mention the hassle of the FAA and several other governmental bodies tracking the plane's every movement!"
"Yes, but –"
She cut him off again. "Scott, it's hardly fair to lecture about legality when you faked your medical certificate! And you registered the Blackbird as a Learjet!"
How had she found out about that? "How did you –"
"Scott, you're colorblind! You see only in shades of red. Jet pilots cannot be colorblind!"
Scott opened his mouth as if to retort, but thought better of it, adjusting his visor and settling sulkily into the left seat.
Gambit sighed, wondering what he'd done to deserve this. True, his life was far from blameless, but still . . .
Storm groaned as she woke, distant thunder rumbling through her room, pounding in time to her throbbing head.
"Stormy?"
Not thunder then. Her eyes fluttered open as her door squeaked faintly on its hinges, cracking open as Remy slipped quietly inside.
"Brought y'coffee an' sometin' for y'head," he said quietly, setting the mug on her nightstand and settling himself at the edge of her bed.
Storm couldn't even summon the energy to groan.
"Y'gotta drink dat for it t'work," he urged gently, helping her to sit up in bed.
"I hate you," she moaned, reaching weakly for the coffee.
"Figured as much," he said, the mischievous twinkle in his eye lost on her as he handed her the mug.
Storm took a careful sip of the coffee, pleasantly surprised at its heady chicory overtones. Her eyes widened as she felt the pain begin to recede almost immediately, the vengeful throbbing calming itself slightly. She took another sip before speaking.
"I take it we were less than successful in our mission," she said wryly, trying to read Gambit's impassive countenance.
He smile in response, the faintest twitch of his lips. "Seems sometin' scared our contact off," he said, eyeing her fixedly.
She frowned, fidgeting under his intense gaze. Those eyes of his seemed to blaze in the depths of his shadowy face; it was arresting, mesmerizing. . .
"Why didn' ya tell me y' defeated d'leader of d'Morlocks in hand-to-hand combat?" (2)
She blinked as if confused, her eyes bleary and unfocused.
"Y' didn' t'ink dis Cajun'd be interested in dat little detail?" His voice was soft, gentle; she could detect no hint of recrimination in his tone.
"The Professor thought I'd be well-suited to accompany you on this mission because of my past experiences with the Morlocks," she admitted.
"And Scott? What does he bring t'de team?" He stressed that word. Team.
She sighed, wondering how she'd ever thought he would fail to understand. He knew very well what Scott's purpose had been, but he was pressing to hear her say it.
"The Professor," she started, then bit her lip. "We thought . . . "
He frowned, turning away from her. Taking pity on her. He didn't have the heart to make her say it, that Scott's sole purpose had been to keep an eye on him.
"Y' don' trust me."
"I trust you with my life," she said unhesitatingly. "That is why I called on you."
"If y'want m'help, y'gon need ta let me help."
"Teamwork –"
"Gives a man a funny feelin', de idea dat his team gon' get him killed," he said grimly, his eyes tightening.
She stiffened slightly, a hurt look on her face.
"Not you Stormy, never you," he said, realizing his meaning had been misconstrued. "But y'shoulda seen dat man tryin' t'sneak around," he said, his eyes twinkling. "You ever seen dat cartoon where dey go 'round solvin' mysteries, wit' de man an' de dog, and dat big van? Dey go sneakin' around, and dere's dis dibbity-dibbity soundtrack, an' . . ."
Ororo laughed, recognizing his attempt to lighten the mood for what it was.
Gambit slipped out of her room, pausing outside her door after carefully easing it shut. Force of habit, he supposed. It had been drilled into him from birth – first from his early childhood as a petty thief on the hard streets of the Big Easy, and then as the chosen son of the patriarch of the Thieves' Guild.
In and out, without a trace. Leave no sign to show you'd ever been there.
Of course, if he followed the advice he'd been raised on, he'd have walked out the moment they saddled him with a team. It wasn't that he objected to teamwork; quite the opposite, in fact. He simply objected to working with a team that would get him killed, through carelessness or stupidity; or worse, that would try to kill him once the job was done. That was just unprofessional. Gave thieves like him a bad reputation.
He tried to tell himself that he was staying for her. She was the little sister he'd never had, a proper scoundrel at heart and a damn fine pickpocket. But he knew very well that she could take care of herself.
Gambit stopped at the wide-open double doors of what he assumed was the TV room, hovering just out of sight at the edge of the doorway. A few students sat around the wide-screen TV in a grim silence, their attention fixed firmly on the screen.
"… act of mutant aggression at one of the abandoned branches of the 7th Avenue line. At this point, we can only speculate as to their motives for this blatant attack. Thankfully, we have no reports of any injuries so far, as the line has not been in use since the Liberty Island incident …" (3)
"Geez, when will they give Liberty Island a rest, ya know? I mean, it's not like any real damage was done, right?"
"Real smooth, Jubes," came a boy's voice, thick with sarcasm.
"Rogue …"
Gambit turned to leave, grunting as something darted around the corner, hitting him square in the chest. He reached out reflexively, catching her before she could fall.
"Easy chere, y' might wan' start makin' a habit of lookin' where ya goin'," he said lightly, looking down at the girl. She refused to meet his eye, that platinum streak winding through her tangled auburn hair and falling wildly over her forehead, hiding her eyes. It looked natural, even from close up; he wasn't an expert, but he was pretty sure she hadn't dyed it. Funny thing, that stripe. She flinched as his fingers brushed her cheek, gently sweeping her hair back.
She glared at him, her green eyes hard enough to cut diamond.
"Thought I told ya not ta touch me," she growled, jerking her arm free and slapping his fingers from her hair. Remy watched her retreating form, wondering what had just happened. He heard voices from within the TV room, and he waited, listening for some clue as to what had just happened.
"… just insensitive. I can't believe you said that to her!"
"I didn't say it to her, it just sorta came out, and you know I wasn't here for that! 'Sides, not like she can hurt anyone anymore …" (3)
"JUBES!"
Remy spun quickly, following the girl – Rogue? – down the hallway before anyone else could spot him, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard. He made a mental note to look up the Liberty Island incident, he vaguely remembered something involving the mutant Magneto.
Damn Cajun.
Twice in as many days, she'd run smack into him. He was solid, and stronger than he looked, that arrogant slouch belying his sturdy, centered stance. A fighter, as well as a thief, then. Only his hand on her arm had kept her from falling. Twice in as many days, she'd literally bounced off of him.
His hand on her arm.
His hand, in those odd half-gloves, on her arm.
What kind of thief leaves his fingers bare?
Those gloves only covered the middle and ring fingers, leaving his thumb, as well as the index and pinkie fingers, bare from the second knuckle. His fingers bare, against the thin sliver of skin on her upper arm; an inch or two not covered by glove or sleeve, the tiniest indulgence, the smallest concession to the summer heat.
Hasn't he heard of fingerprints?
Rogue blinked back a few stinging tears, unwilling to show weakness even when she was alone. She looked around; she'd found her way to a remote corner of the grounds. She knew if she climbed the tree to her left, the tall oak tree atop the hill, that she'd be greeted with a fantastic view of the Catskills to the west. The knowledge wasn't hers, and she certainly wasn't inclined to climb any trees. This was Logan's spot, the tree being one of the few vantage points where a soul could go to avoid the unmistakable trappings of civilization; to the south, the unavoidable glow of the city sprawl with all of its glitter and glamor, and all around her people and their buildings.
Logan had been coming here a lot, since San Francisco. Since Jean. Rogue felt an irrational stab of guilt over not being there, not fighting with her friends. She looked around cautiously, making sure she was indeed alone before settling herself down at the base of the tree. Rogue stifled a laugh; with the way he'd been avoiding her lately, she needn't have worried; it's not like he wouldn't have seen her coming. Or heard her, or smelled her . . . what must it be like, to be constantly bombarded by such a barrage of information?
She supposed it was normal, to him; maybe he'd never known any different. If he had ever been normal, he certainly didn't remember.
Rogue caught herself with a start, smoothing the edge of her glove carefully. Lately, she'd taken to fiddling with them, her fingers moving of their own accord; toying at the hem, tugging the fragile silk out of place.
Hell of a nervous habit. That thin layer of silk was all that kept her safe, that kept those around her safe. Even after the Cure, she was still wary of her bare skin. It had betrayed her too many times for her to trust. And really, with the stakes so high, how was she supposed to test it out? What if it wore off?
What if even the Cure – that powerful virus that had stopped Magneto in his tracks and felled dozens of other mutants, stripping them of their powers – what if even the Cure was not enough to completely cure her poison skin?
Gambit followed her out of the mansion, through the gardens and all the way to the edge of the property line. The sun was just setting, and there was a crisp bite to the evening air, Fall's whispered promise to Summer. He kept his distance, making sure to stay out of sight, his boots silent over the treacherous pine branches and sun-dried grasses. Another habit, ingrained so deep it was indistinguishable from instinct.
He didn't know why he was following her. He had a way with women, but sympathy, consolation – these did not number among his considerable skills. She was upset; he didn't need the brush of her anger across his empathy to know that. One look at her face was enough – those blazing green eyes, those perfect lips twisted into a disdainful sneer. She was upset, but he knew her anger wasn't directed at him. Well, most of it, anyway.
Don't touch me.
She'd flinched from him as if his touch would burn like his eyes. But she didn't balk in fear when her gaze met his. Most people feared his demon eyes … feared him.
Le Diable Blanc.
She looked around nervously before settling at the base of a tall oak tree. For a moment, he had bensure she was going to climb the massive oak. If she had turned again, she would have seen two distant pin-pricks of red, glowing faintly in the darkness. But she stayed lost in thought, staring unseeing into the distance.
He watched her for a long time, his eyes flaring to life as the light faded, the sun setting in a blaze of glory behind the distant mountains. He reached out carefully, letting his empathy wash over her, gently soothing the anger and the bitterness, subtly drawing out her pain, soothing her the only way he knew how. So bitter, for someone so young, so beautiful.
Remy allowed himself a small smile; she had his interest, now, and he was going to take his time figuring out the puzzle.
NOTE and SPOILER ALERT: some of the annotations contain spoilers for the movies and for various comic arcs.
(1) In the real world United States, aircraft charter operations require a Part 135 certificate with the FAA (as opposed to part 91, which is private aviation not involving paid passengers). I figure Scott for such a strait-laced "by-the-rules" kind of guy that he'd try something like this – a Part 135 certification carries a lot of additional rules and regulations for pilots and the aircraft itself, which a privately owned/operated/used aircraft is not required to follow. A lot of private aircraft owners choose to defray the costs of aircraft ownership by employing a manager, who carries the certificate with the FAA and charters out the aircraft when the owner is not using it (generally, a chartered aircraft flies with the owner's pilots). I guess it's funnier when everyone you know works in aviation, in some way, shape or form.
(2) In the comics (Uncanny X-Men, I believe), Storm defeats Callisto, the leader of the Morlocks, in hand-to-hand combat for the leadership of the Morlocks. She manages this despite having been weakened by Plague (which, if I remember, is the entire reason for the fight). Storm, in my opinion, is an under-valued character.
(3) refers to the first movie, in which the writers ret-conned Rogue's white streak. If you haven't seen it, Magneto kidnaps Rogue and takes her to Liberty Island, where a conference of global leaders is being held. On top of the Statue of Liberty, he uses her to power a machine that will transform ordinary humans into mutants. It will also have the unfortunate side effect of killing its power source, hence Magneto used Rogue instead of himself. Anyway, if you haven't seen it, Wolverine manages to cut her loose but it's too late – she's not breathing, and she's got those white streaks in her hair. So he touches her to bring her back, and since then she's had the streaks. It's one of the few things I like better about the movies than the comics, as it's actually a really good explanation for that streak.
(4) refers to the third movie, which I really don't like as much as the other two, but I'm going to use some plot points, namely the fact that Rogue has taken the Cure and she can touch. Why is she still wearing the gloves? Well, you'll just have to keep reading, my friend.