Curiosity

Chapter 7: Anger

Disclaimer: I don't own Remy (damn). Or any of the other characters portrayed in this little flight of fancy – all property of Marvel. I'm probably leaving some important legal mumbo-jumbo out here, but I'm still distracted by the thought of owning Remy (yay) . . . which I don't (damn).

Author's Note: This chapter may seem a little disjointed (because it is). Then again, my writing style tends to jump like this anyway, so if it hasn't annoyed you enough to stop reading, then thanks for sticking around! I'm starting to thicken the plot (plot? What plot?) and the Romy as well, and I want it perfect so it's taking a while. This thing started out as a harmless little bit of drabble with a vague idea for a larger plot behind it, and now it's this . . . in the words of Dr. Frankenstein, "It's ALIIIIVE!"

He haunted her days the way he'd come to haunt her dreams, a living specter of fuchsia and chrome. She'd shrugged it off, at first – after all, even in a space the size of the mansion, paths were bound to cross. A chance encounter in a hallway – she ground her teeth at the way he'd leered at her when she'd asked, oh-so-nicely, if he was lost ("T'ink I found what 'm lookin' for, cherie"); a near-miss in the garage – he'd been too heads-down on that bike of his to even notice her as she peeked her head around the corner (well, he hadn't acknowledged her presence, but now that she thought about it, the play of muscles across his back, the way the white tank top had molded itself to his form . . . it seemed so artful, so posed); another run-in in the library of all places – he hardly struck her as the bookish type, though to be fair, it was one of the computers that held his attention (probably surfing the internet for porn).

She slipped quietly out of the library; she supposed the steamy romance novel could wait. Besides, why did she need to read some trashy paperback romance when she had her very own, larger-than-life suitor? OK, so maybe she couldn't touch him – he'd expressed a willingness to be creative, and she flushed at the memory of the way his voice had dipped, his eyes flaring dramatically. So maybe she didn't know a thing about him, any more than he knew about her – the look in his eyes when he'd told her that secrets were half the fun of the thing . . . well, that look should have been illegal. She shivered slightly at the memory; she could still feel his eyes on her, and she burned with some inexplicable, indescribable need. It had to be his eyes, the effect he had on her – the way all conscious thought fled when he looked at her, the way she found her mind wandering back to him when he was nowhere around, the way she could still feel the effects he had on her, lingering long after he'd gone.

So maybe she'd made it clear that his attentions were unwelcome. Well, no maybe about it. She'd decked him after that remark about being creative – once she'd managed to snap out of her trance, that is. Her right hook had knocked that perpetual smirk right off his face; no girly slap across the face for this Southern belle. Her mama may not have raised her right, but Logan had picked up where Mystique left off.

And still he followed her. Undeterred by the threats, the insults, or that vicious right hook. If anything, her actions seemed only to encourage him. He was her stalker more than her suitor, really.

At least he was her something. She suppressed a brief stab of guilty pleasure over that small triumph, tried to tell herself that the attraction was a side effect of one of the many psyches loitering in the dark recesses of her mind.

Kitty, for example. Or . . . Kitty.

But she knew the truth. And it burned her, burned like his eyes on her body, that she could possibly want that womanizing thief.

His jaw still stung where she'd hit him. She'd been standing in front of him, her eyes wide with possibilities at his suggestion (he'd encouraged the notion with a few subtle nudges), and then – out of the blue – BAM! That punch had kicked like a mule; he smirked, rubbing his jaw gently.

He deserved it.

He'd never chased a girl before – never had to. But the fiery Southerner was no ordinary girl, no momentary diversion. He tried to tell himself he was just in it for the challenge, just passing the time while he was on a job. But then he'd find himself following her, haunting those spaces he knew she'd visit, and he hated the way he could feel her presence wrapped around him, even as he relished it. She'd gotten under his skin, somehow, snaked her way in under his guard with that alluring, irresistible curiosity that threaded through the prickly front she showed the world.

She was pure, innocence and hope personified, under that Goth-inspired bad-ass act she'd gotten so good at, and every brush of that tangled-up hope against his senses felt like salvation.

Rogue was lost, drowning in a sea of voices, all blending together to form a single, seamless wall of sound that crashed against her overloaded senses. She could hear all of them, every mutant that had crowded into the dining hall – some of them echoing weirdly from inside her own head.

In other words, dinner as usual. If one or two of her voices was a little louder than usual . . . well, they were nothing she couldn't deal with.

It was her skin that was slowly driving her mad. Rogue was burning and freezing all at once, tingling all over, her skin reacting to the faintest breeze or the brush of her own clothing. She sat down at the end of an empty table, silently praying to any benevolent deity that would listen that her friends wouldn't notice her sitting alone in the dark corner. She wasn't sure she could deal with the combined onslaught of Kitty and Jubilee.

Of course, her self-imposed exile had nothing to do with the tall man in the trench coat who was chatting up Kitty and Tabitha, throwing into chaos the unspoken seating arrangements that usually prevailed. The boys – with the exception of the Cajun thief – had been banished to the end of the table; Kurt and Piotr were glaring daggers at the man as he flirted with the two girls.

Make that three. Jubilee giggled at something the Thief said as she took the seat directly across from him, elbowing her way in between Amara and Laura. Rogue choked down her French fries plain; she had neither the energy nor the patience to hassle with the ketchup bottle.

Stalker. She could almost taste the bitter word on her tongue, overpowering the blandness of her dinner though she hadn't spoken aloud. To be fair, the dining hall was a public place, and it was, after all, a free country. Last time she'd checked, anyway.

No, the label wasn't fair, but Rogue was too tangled up to see straight. The tingle seemed to intensify as a pair of red eyes raked over her, almost as though she could literally feel his eyes on her. But that wasn't one of her many abilities, skills that weren't really hers.

No, this was something else, something that transcended power and skill and instinct – just his eyes on her, something primal, something basic. She finished her food and fled, pursued by those devil-red eyes.

Wolverine smiled to himself as he watched the taller man sneak off, ducking down a deserted corridor. Up to no good, Logan was sure of it. He could smell it on him, an indefinable scent that never failed to spark his rage whenever the thief crossed paths with the students.

Not the students in general, though Logan was fiercely protective of all of Xavier's children.

Gambit must have been distracted; he barely had time to register the Wolverine following him before the shorter man slammed him roughly into the wall, pinning him there with a forearm across his throat.

"Listen bub," he growled, not bothering to conceal his irritation or his impatience. "I see right through you – you're no good, and I can smell it. I'll be watching you. You lay one finger on that girl – hell, if you even look at her wrong . . ." He didn't have to say her name – they both knew exactly who he was talking about. The claws slipped out; the Wolverine didn't even flinch as the cool metal sliced through the skin at his knuckles, sliding against the adamantium coatings on the long bones of his forearm with a distinctive snikt.

To his credit, Gambit didn't react as the Wolverine growled low in his throat, unsheathing those metal-coated claws mere inches from the Cajun's face. The man just stood there, his red eyes shining in the darkened corridor, a faint smirk creeping across his features.

"Easy, homme . . . Gambit ain't gon' lay a finger on nobody as don' wan' this one's fingers on 'em. De students, dey underage, understand dat." He paused for a moment, that insolent smirk deepening as those glowing eyes pierced into the shorter man. "Sure, an' it's a good ting ye take such a personal interest in de students' well-bein'," he practically purred, holding the other man's eyes for an interminable moment before he pushed him off and turned to leave.

Wolverine frowned as the thief disappeared down the hall, trench coat flapping around his gleaming boots. Frowned, because even with his enhanced senses he could barely hear the taller man as he stalked away in those big, stupid boots, and because of what the arrogant thief had said. He couldn't possibly know about Jubilee, not even the Professor had picked that up . . . could he? Those eyes . . . Logan felt a cold chill down his spine.

Not like he was doing anything wrong. They were both consenting adults . . . so maybe the Asian girl had only been a consenting adult for a matter of months, now. It didn't change the fact that he didn't want the thief sleazing around the students. Most especially Rogue.

Logan had a bad feeling about the Cajun thief; the Professor was too trusting, all too willing to see in others the benevolence he himself embodied. The claws retracted with a faint hiss; they never warmed – not really – but it was always unsettling when the cool metal settled back into place against the long bones of his forearms. He shrugged it off, as he had every other time, and headed off down the hall.

The Cajun was good – Logan had seen him in action. He was stealthy and cunning, and one hell of a fighter with or without that adamantium staff of his. The Wolverine smiled, a faint growl rumbling deep in his throat. Gambit was good, no doubt about it, which just meant that he'd enjoy it that much more when he had to kill the swamp rat. It was a foregone conclusion that the man would slip up. Logan had certainly seen the way he was eying Rogue; he hadn't needed to smell the lust on the thief to know what he was thinking.

And when Gambit did slip up, Logan would be there. Waiting. The Professor probably wouldn't approve of him killing the rat, but he'd come to realize that with Xavier it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

They'd settled into a sort of routine. When he wasn't away negotiating with mutant terrorists – intimidating them, really – he spent his days at the mansion with Rogue. Watching her, getting to know her . . . after a fashion anyway. She wouldn't talk to him, and she avoided him like the plague. Everything he'd learned about her, he'd gleaned from talking to Kitty and Jubilee. On the rare occasions she shared a room with him for longer than it took her to get up and leave, she made sure to keep her distance. She'd even stopped eating with her friends, sneaking in and out of the dining hall and wolfing down her food in a quiet corner. He watched her eat, and he knew she could feel his eyes on her.

His eyes flared red in frustration as she fled, ducking out of his sight. He knew where she was going. Jubilee had let slip that the tree was Logan's spot, a place of solitude and meditation he used to keep himself centered. Logan was a man with his share of demons, and he sought out that tree when he felt himself slipping.

And now it was her spot.

Something Kitty had told him echoed in his head, and he found himself moving to follow her, mouthing hasty apologies to the girls clustered around him. Proof that he still had his charm, that it was Rogue alone who was able to resist him.

She's always been good at keeping people out, but now . . . she's gone, even if her body's still here.

Gambit headed down a small hallway, hoping to head her off before she left the mansion. He wanted to talk to her, not scare the ever-loving stuffings out of her by sneaking up on her in the dark.

As with most of his plans regarding the girl, it was not to be. A soft growl was all the warning he had before Logan had him pinned against the wall. Remy stifled a sigh of irritation, waiting for the man to finish his speech. Logan was one of the most dangerous men he'd ever met – and that was saying something – but right now, he could barely spare a thought for the man's threats.

Besides, he had Logan's number.

He left the man standing stunned in the hallway, all but sprinting as he tried to catch up to the Rogue. In keeping with his luck so far, she was nowhere in sight. Experience told him she'd be out there all night, brooding in isolation.

Inspiration struck, and he turned around and headed back the way he came. A quick Google search, and he had what he needed. He snatched the printout and headed to the kitchen, humming softly to himself in satisfaction.

"A little cold to be sittin' out here fa' so long, chere." He kept his voice low, not wanting to startle her as he called out to her. She ignored him, staring fixedly off into the distance. She'd tried everything but outright confrontation to get him to leave her alone; why wouldn't he understand? She knew exactly why he was after her – he'd already developed somewhat of a reputation as a ladies' man, and she was the ultimate notch on someone's belt. Untouched. Untouchable.

At least as far as he knew, she was.

She was still wearing the tank top he'd seen her in at dinner; even with the gloves, she had to be freezing by now. She made no move to acknowledge him as he moved closer, balancing his burden delicately.

"Got t'thinkin," he mused softly, almost as though he was talking to himself.

"Thought ah smelled somethin'. Go 'way, Swamp Rat." It was barely a whisper, the first words she'd spoken to him since he'd returned a week ago. She steadfastly refused to look at him, keeping her eyes fixed on the mountains in the distance. This was the last straw – he'd invaded the one place she had where she could truly be alone with her thoughts. Wait, did she smell something?

"Oui, chere, got sometin' for ya." He moved to stand next to her, towering over her for a moment before settling in beside her, legs crossed.

"What could ya possibly have that ah want?" He could hear the annoyance coloring her tone, every line in her body tense with irritation. But she was too stubborn to move just yet, this he knew. This was her spot, and she wasn't giving it up without a fight.

He chuckled softly, setting his napkin-wrapped prize on the ground between them and pulling out a sugar-coated beignet. They were still warm, steaming softly in the chilly night. He sighed in contentment as he bit into the doughy morsel, finishing the entire thing off in a few gulps.

"Got y' a good ole fashioned taste o' home, cherie." Her eyes were fixed on him now, and he could almost see her drooling as she watched him lick his fingers clean. He smirked. Hook, line and sinker. Of course, women were usually after him for a little more than just a donut, but he'd take what he could get.

For now.

"Where'd ya find beignets round these parts?" Her curiosity was taking over, her voice softening reluctantly and her tension easing. She even left out the insults she usually directed at him.

His smirk deepened, and he popped another beignet into his mouth. "Mmmm . . . best eat 'em while dey're fresh," he advised, taking a deep swig of the chicory coffee he'd brought along.

He could read the conflict clearly on her face; she wanted one of those beignets, but he could tell she didn't want to accept them from him. Still . . . the smell had to be affecting her the way it did him, thick and sweet and intoxicating and tasting of memories. For Remy, that smell was an almost tangible sensation. Some of the best memories of his all-too-brief childhood were linked to that smell.

Still she hesitated, her hand frozen in midair, halfway to the napkin. A sudden impulse took him, and he caught her wrist in his hand, reaching out with his free hand and snatching one of the remaining beignets. Her eyes met his in shock, deep emerald green in the darkness, and he smiled.

Her eyes widened as she stared into his deep red orbs, losing herself in their depths. His eyes . . . they were terrifying and soothing all at once, glowing red in the night, and she was frozen before him, unable to move or think or even breathe as his eyes held hers.

Hypnotized.

She was sure it was a secondary mutation, this power he seemed to have over her. Over everyone, really. She blinked, trembling as his thumb brushed lightly over her lower lip, leaving a faint dusting of powdered sugar.

"Know you want this," he murmured, still holding her eyes with his. She could still feel the brush of his thumb at her lip, as tangible as his fingers at her wrist.

"Don't touch me."

A familiar refrain, one she'd thrown at him too many times for him to count. If her tone lacked its usual bite, if her eyes didn't scathe him with the full force of her fury . . . well, she was probably getting tired of repeating herself. She'd detached herself with almost mechanical efficiency, not even bothering to retaliate against the blatant invasion of her personal space.

If he was frustrated – and he was – the only sign was a brief quirk of his lips, an almost undetectable tightening around his eyes as he watched her retreat.

Rogue was fighting a losing battle. She wanted . . . she didn't know what she wanted, not with that damn Cajun scrambling her brain.

She waited till her back was to him before she let herself lick the powdered sugar from her lips, biting down on a soulful sigh. He made no move to follow her, to call her back, and she was surprised and relieved and disappointed, missing his warmth against her bare skin.

You're stronger than this.

She wasn't sure whose voice it was, but it rang with truth. Rogue wasn't the type of girl to lose herself in a man, least of all an unrepentant womanizer. And she certainly wasn't desperate enough to fraternize with the Cajun thief, out of some misguided need to feel wanted.

Except her iron resolve melted when he was around – and he was always around. She smiled as she got an inkling, the barest hint of a suggestion. The thief was just doing what he did best – going after the unattainable prize. He'd lose interest as soon as he'd gotten her, of this she was sure. She wasn't about to give him that satisfaction, but she could certainly take away the thrill of the chase.

They were fighting a losing battle.

Remy could see it. He knew Storm could see it. But the old man refused to see what was right in front of him. They were fighting a war on two fronts, against a faceless, formless, nameless enemy. For every rogue cell they intimidated, every threat they neutralized, two more sprang up in its place. Violence was not only inevitable at this point, it was imminent.

Gambit was no general, but neither was he a simple thief; he'd been groomed to fight a war that had waged for centuries between the Assassins' Guild and the Thieves' Guild. Fight it, and end it. He was sure it was why Xavier had enlisted his services, though how the old man had ferreted out that bit of prophecy was beyond Remy. He supposed being the world's premier telepath had its perks, but he knew damn well the man hadn't gotten past his barriers; those shields were not of his making. A byproduct of his powers, perhaps, but no telepath in the world could get past that static. He was as good as white noise to Xavier, and that knowledge was the only thing that had convinced him to set foot in the man's school.

"Heads up."

Logan's growl was barely audible, but Remy tensed as soon as he heard the shorter man's voice; to his left, he felt Ororo do the same. He felt it too – they weren't alone in these tunnels.

They came flooding out of the blackness like a biblical plague, attacking from all directions at once. Remy barely had time to pull his staff from its holster before he was surrounded. The attackers swarmed over the three mutants, threatening to crush them with their numbers. Remy carved a path through the rag-tag lot with his bo staff, setting his back to Storm as they fought. Logan was on a rampage, laying about with his claws and growling fiercely.

Remy squared up, assessing their situation. The tunnels were too cramped for Storm to use her powers, but she fought fiercely; he could see where she got her fearsome reputation from. His own powers were next to useless in the close quarters as well, and the mutants were vastly outnumbered.

He pivoted, sweeping his opponent's feet out from under him. Three more took his place, leaping over their fallen comrade and splitting off to surround the tall thief. His red eyes narrowed in the darkness as he sized up his opponents; the two men flanking him were eyeing him nervously, but the man in the center moved with the grace of a trained fighter, betraying no hint of unease. He looked strangely familiar, but Remy didn't have time to dwell on it as they circled closer.

His foot slipped in the muck as he shifted to keep the three men in view, and his attackers seized their opportunity. Remy barely ducked a kick to the jaw from the center, spinning and striking out with his staff, keeping all three men at bay with a spinning adamantium shield. He spotted an opening, shifting to level a strike at the man in the center, but he missed his target, overextending and slipping again. This time the man's kick connected, snapping his head back; he swore, recovering quickly and turning the staff to slam it into the man's midriff. The man went down hard, clutching at his stomach; he'd felt the unmistakable crunch of ribs breaking. It wouldn't keep him down, but it should slow him down.

The other two men charged him from either side, a fraction of a second too late to take advantage of his momentary distraction. Remy darted forward, leaping over his down opponent and flipping to land neatly on the other side, edging back until he was just inside the narrow entrance of a smaller side tunnel; the other two trampled the first in their charge to reach him, hindering each others' movements as they tried unsuccessfully to flank him again.

Remy made short work of them, taking the first down with a well-placed kick to the head and downing the second with a sharp crack of his staff. He looked around, his glowing red eyes piercing the murk of the tunnels even as he reached out, melding his enhanced vision with his kinesthetic awareness and his empathy, and trying to asses the current situation. From what he could tell, there was very little movement; he could still feel Storm and Logan, along with a few other scattered presences. There was one, in particular, that stood out; terror dominated among the survivors, most of whom had already made good their escape, but this presence was calm and calculating.

And it was close. Remy eased his grip on his staff, palming a few cards out of habit as he stepped forward, into the light, and called out for his friends. He was ready for the attack, but one of the twin blades still nicked him, leaving a shallow slice across his throat as the man dropped from the ceiling like an overgrown bat.

Assassin.

Author's Note (part the second): this is sort of a transition chapter. I didn't originally mean to cut it off at such a cliffhanger (hehe) but I wanted to keep the chapters a decent length, and I also think it'll help me with the transition between chapters (this is not a real split, more like a part a/b split).

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