Curiosity

Chapter 8: Consequences

Disclaimer: I'm not affiliated with Marvel in any way, shape or form (sniffle).

Author's Note: Alright, part two of the cliffhanger. Thanks to everyone who's reviewing and sorry for making you wait so long for this one, my life is a little hectic right now with work and apartment shopping and other various and sundry distractions, so I've not managed to reply to any of my lovely reviewers, but you all are much appreciated (happy thawts).

This is a short one, but no worries, things are going to start moving fast – that's the goal, anyway. The ladies are going to switch it up on Remy this chapter, so that should be fun, too.

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.

Remy frowned. He'd had worse cuts shaving, but it wasn't the cut itself he was worried about. More likely than not, the blade was tainted. Unless . . .

Remy didn't have time to think on it any further; the Assassin attacked again, with a speed and fury that stunned him, driving him back until he hit the wall. The man was good. Remy ducked another attack, with the weighted hilts of the knives this time. Remy's eyes blazed as he went on the offensive, creating a spinning shield with his staff as he pushed off from the wall. He pivoted, slipping a kick past the man's own defenses as he spun, just in time to counter the man's answering attack. He felt a satisfying crunch as the staff impacted the man's wrist. The blade went flying from the man's useless fingers; the man's right wrist was broken, his confidence badly shaken – Remy could read it in his eyes, the way he held himself – but he kept his cool. Watching. Waiting. Probing for an opening.

Remy gave him one, letting his guard falter as he pretended to slip; the man seized the opening immediately, leveling a kick at Remy's wrist that knocked the staff from his hand. Merde, but the man was quick. He swore as the man pressed his advantage, kicking and punching in rapid succession. To his credit, he actually managed to land a few blows before Remy took him down with a knee to the solar plexus. He retrieved the staff from the muck and clipped the man sharply upside the head, stooping to check for the tattoo he was sure the man bore before turning back to his friends.

The man was a Ripper, sporting the mark of the chosen few who'd fought their way into the Guild's inner circle. Belladonna had that mark, but it had been given to her when she was eleven, as part of her birthright. Well, with any luck, he would never wake up. Things like that had a way of happening, in the sewers of New York. He briefly considered ending the man himself, but for all of his sins, he was not a murderer. Not in cold blood. Not even an Assassin.

Storm and Logan had the situation well in hand. The Goddess was a sight to behold, covered in muck and grime and blood, and looking as regal and fearsome as an Amazon Queen. Logan . . . was also covered in fluids best left unidentified, looking somewhat less regal but just as fearsome. He'd anticipated no less. Most of the lot were poorly armed, with little or no martial training. How the Assassin had tracked him down – if he was indeed the man's primary goal – and what the man was doing mixed up in a rag-tag lot of wanna-be mutant-hater terrorists . . . well, it seemed he had some digging to do.

Rogue took a deep breath, steeling herself before she knocked, the timid tapping setting off a barrage of excited yipping. She tried to tell herself that the shocked expression on Jubilee's face as she opened the door was worth the butterflies in her stomach.

Haven't even started to carry out my nefarious plan and I've already got the jitters.

"Ah was thinkin' bout hittin' the mall, ya up for it?" She smiled – sweetly, innocently, she hoped - as Jubilee snapped her mouth shut, still staring as though Rogue had sprouted another head.

"Um . . ."

Rogue could see Jubilee reaching for her purse even as she eyed Rogue suspiciously. Superman had his kryptonite, Achilles had his heel . . . Jubilee's weakness was the mall. She was powerless to resist.

"Meet me at the garage in ten, gonna swipe Scott's keys. That RX-8 of his is just beggin' for a joy-ride."

Rogue couldn't quite keep the evil smirk off her face as she left Jubilee to frantically get ready – and gather up Logan's credit cards, no doubt. She found Kitty curled up on a bench in one of the gardens, staring over her laptop screen with a dreamy expression.

"Hey, Kit. Ya wanna hit the mall, or ya too busy day dreamin'?"

"Hmm?" Kitty frowned, looking around in confusion. "Mall? I wasn't . . . wait, what? Are you feeling OK?"

Rogue chuckled in amusement, wondering idly just which lucky boy had Kitty so distracted. "Feelin' just fine, aside from a slight case of cabin fever . . . gotta get out, get some fresh air."

"At the mall?" Everyone knew Rogue hated the mall, with a passion that rivaled Logan's feelings for Mystique. "Who are you, and what have you done with . . . wait, what am I saying?"

Rogue smiled, putting on a reasonable impression of innocence. It was only getting easier with practice. "Garage in five, Jubilee's prob'ly waitin' for us already."

Kitty blinked as though she expected Rogue to vanish, cackling, in a swirl of smoke. She shook her head, closing the laptop and skipping off to the room. She'd barely seen her roommate for three days, and when Rogue had shown herself, she'd been a mopey, despondent shell of her normal self. She wouldn't even argue with Kitty. Rogue without her razor-sharp tongue and hair-trigger temper was like . . . well, it wasn't Rogue at all. Then again, this doppelganger who was actually organizing an expedition to the mall bore little resemblance to any of the Rogues she was familiar with, but she wasn't about to argue. She hadn't been to the mall in ages, and she had a date Saturday night.

OK, so it wasn't a real date that she could actually tell anyone about, but somehow that only made it more exciting. She just had to look perfect, and she had nothing to wear. Kitty set her laptop carefully on her desk before giving herself a quick once-over in the mirror and phasing through the floor. She knew it creeped people out, but she couldn't risk Rogue and Jubilee leaving without her, and besides, it was the fastest way to the garage.

They were still staring, darting incredulous looks at her when they thought she wasn't looking, but – just as she'd counted on – they weren't able to resist the chance to give her a makeover. Rogue sighed, staring at the reflection in the mirror. If there were days when she didn't recognize the girl staring back at her, if there were days when her thoughts were so jumbled up that her own face seemed alien . . . she blinked, wondering what sort of dark magic had effected this change in her. It didn't seem possible that a simple haircut – a trim to take off the dead ends – could have transformed her hair so completely, that a few swipes with various arcane powders and brushes could have crafted the face in the mirror. Her hair fell in wild curls, twisting around her face, framing cheekbones that were somehow more prominent, the auburn and silver contrasting with the pale oval of her face, the vivid green of her eyes, which seemed to be much larger and brighter than she remembered.

The lady behind the cosmetics counter had definitely been a practitioner of the black arts, she mused dryly, turning to take in the full effect of the outfit. It was too tight, too short, too bright . . . it was definitely not her.

It was perfect.

"Like, are you coming out or what?"

Rogue suppressed a grimace and stepped out of the changing room, twirling dutifully for her tormentors. She wondered briefly if Kitty's high-pitched squeal was a secondary mutation; it was nearly as deafening as Siryn's screams.

She plastered the smile back on her face and bit her tongue as the other girls led her from store to store, filing it away in the back of her head when Kitty splurged on a little dress – it was dark green and sweet rather than sexy, but she knew Kitty well enough to know that she had an occasion in mind for the dress.

Well, that was certainly something she'd have to remember.

Logan must be rubbing off on her, she was definitely leaning toward the dark side.

"Remy."

He froze at the end of the hallway as the Goddess spoke, her tone imperious.

"Oui, cherie?"

She had him cornered before he could react, her heels putting her on a level with him as she pushed aside the collar, her fingers tracing over the thin laceration decorating his throat.

"This is a concern," she said levelly, her eyes seeming to bore into his.

"Non, it's nothin' t'worry y' pretty head 'bout," he said dismissively, reaching up to pull her hands away. "Jus' a little scratch." Her sharp stare stopped him short, and he let his hands drop back to his sides.

"I took the liberty of asking around, Remy – getting in touch with some old friends." She scanned his face for any reaction, but his poker face never slipped. He had always been a difficult read, but she'd bet her last chip he was annoyed. It was subtle, but his eyes had flared ever so slightly when she'd spoken. It only confirmed the whispers she'd been hearing.

"You've got a price on your head."

"Remy's got a way wit' de ladies," he muttered sarcastically.

"Why didn't you tell me? Perhaps the Professor could –"

"Sick o' lettin' her chase me away." His voice was low and soft, his eyes hooded. "Don' let no one fight my battles fo' me."

She stood for a moment, her fingers still tracing the thin line of dried blood at his throat. This was a side of Remy she'd rarely seen, a side few people even realized existed; Belladonna had hurt him, badly – in more ways that one. That he had hurt her as well, Ororo did not doubt – she knew few of the details of that affair, but she knew enough of arranged marriages to know that the weights of duty and family honor could strain even a solid relationship . . . not that the volatile affair he'd had with Belladonna had ever been what she'd call 'solid.'

Still, there had been passion between the Thief and the Assassin, this she knew, and she knew her friend well enough to know that the thrill of it had excited him. He was romantic enough to be taken with the Romeo and Juliet aspect of the relationship, and he was crazy enough to chase after a girl who could have killed him, who had every reason in the world to try to kill him.

She sighed, reaching down to take his hand in her own. A thief's hand, his large, calloused fingers delicate enough to pick the smallest lock. The hand of a Casanova, as skilled with women as he was with locks, the hand of a drinker and a smoker. He was all of these things, but he was also the closest thing she had to family. Her big brother. He had helped her for no other reason than she had needed help. (1)

And here he was, risking his neck to help her again.

She stood for a moment after he'd left, disentangling himself gently and disappearing silently. A loud rumble caught her attention, rousing her from her thoughts. She could feel the tingle in the air, even here in the basement of the massive structure that was Xavier's School for the Gifted.

Her eyes whitened again, and she reached out, calming the tempest she'd created. Without a doubt, anyone familiar with her powers would know that she was the cause of the sudden storm, and it bothered her deeply to wear her heart on her sleeve for all to see. The skies wept when she was sad, the heavens rejoiced with her when she was happy . . . and her anger had been known to level buildings. She made her way outside, letting the last of the rain wash away her cares as she wandered through the gardens. She had much to think about, and she needed to calm herself before she ran into any of her teammates.

Heaven.

Rogue was in heaven. Most people would call it sunbathing, but for a girl whose unique mutation had made skin-to-skin contact a deadly proposition for most of her life, it was a delicious treat. Even if it was a typical Fall day in upstate New York, with all that entailed. Summers were a torment for the Southern mutant, the heat and humidity doubly unbearable for having to keep herself covered up, and for having to watch as her friends shed their winter clothes for shorts and tank tops and bikinis and pool parties and water fights . . .

For the first time she could remember, Rogue was wearing a bikini, a daring dark-red number that was little more than a few patches and a few strings, and that set off her dark hair and pale skin beautifully. She shivered as the breeze picked up, cooling her sun-warmed skin; she loved the sensation of the wind tickling her sensitive skin, the way it contrasted with the gentle tingle of the sun. If she didn't know better, she'd say she was getting a sunburn. In New York, in the Fall.

Her eyes widened, her skin crawling as every hair on her body tried to stand on end, the tingle intensifying; this was not normal, even by her loose definition of that word. A bolt of lightning shot from the clear sky and she yelped, rolling off the lawn chair and diving for her towel. Before she could slip into her flip-flops – another novelty, and another of the purchases she'd made earlier in the morning – the clear sky had darkened menacingly, an angry vortex of black clouds centering itself over the institute.

Storm.

If the team was back already, something must have gone wrong . . . but one look at the sky could have told her that. It was pouring rain by the time she'd gathered her clothes, not bothering to slip into her shorts or cover herself with a towel as she ran pell-mell for the mansion.

She slipped on the tile, losing her grip on her clothes and skating across the floor, colliding with something tall and unyielding. A hand closed around her arm, steadying her and keeping her from toppling over to the floor. Rogue pulled her damp curls out of her face and looked up, straight into a pair of blazing red eyes. He had a faint smirk on his face as he looked down at her.

Of course. This was just perfect.

Wait, this was perfect. Rogue smiled up at him, resisting the urge to yank her arm away.

"Fancy runnin' into ya like dis," he rumbled, his face writ large with amusement, his eyes sparkling mischievously. She blushed when she realized her bikini was clinging lovingly to her, her soaking form pressed tightly against his.

When had he put his arm around her?

That wasn't the point. She blinked, trying to ignore the warmth of his arm locked against the small of her back, the comforting press of his chest against hers . . . she had to focus!

Rogue shifted in his arms, running her hands up his chest to grasp the open lapels of his trench coat. She saw him swallow thickly as she tilted her head up, leaning into him.

"Thank ya kindly for the rescue, Cajun," she said, her lips almost brushing his throat as she whispered in his ear.

Remy stormed through the mansion, his trench coat swirling around his boots. He had a lot on his mind. He needed to get in touch with his old network, and he needed a shower; he felt an overpowering need to wash away the blood at his throat, as though ridding himself of the mark could rid himself of his problem. He failed to notice the windows shaking with the force of the storm outside, but he did notice when a short figure crashed into him in a blur of russet and pale skin and auburn hair.

He caught her before she could fall, pulling her flush against him; he opened his mouth to speak, to say something clever, and then he saw what she was wearing and the words died on his lips.

It was just a bikini. It was just a bikini, a ridiculously small concoction of patches and strings, and she was just a girl. The fact that the only skin she normally showed was above the neck – besides the tiny sliver exposed at her waist when she moved just so – was not lost on him. And she was soaking wet, shivering against him as she fisted her hands in the lapels of his coat, pressing herself into him and looking up at him with those luminous green eyes.

He managed to mumble something inane. She whispered in his ear, her voice low and breathy, and then she pulled away, disentangling herself and turning to gather her clothes before leaving. His eye twitched faintly as she bent over; he'd bet money that she was posing for him, that she knew exactly the effect that the arch of her back had on him, and the sashay in her step as she left lent evidence to his theory.

Looks like that shower was going to be a cold one.

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(1) Uncanny X-Men 266 and 267, where Gambit rescues a youthened Storm from the clutches of the Nanny. He takes her with him to New Orleans, where the two lead a glamorous life of crime until she rejoins the X-Men.