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Chapter 52
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Because the Secret Service was not thrilled with the idea of the X-Men landing their tiny air fleet directly on the White House lawn, they landed at BWI. Several stretch limousines, accompanied by police cars, were standing by to take them to Pennsylvania Avenue.
The vehicles pulled to a halt in front of the big, dramatic, sweeping-staircases main entrance to the White House. Uniformed doormen opened the limo doors, but the white-gloved hand that reached out to help Rogue from the car was Gambit's.
"Bon soir, chère," he murmured, grinning. He shucked out of his duster and tossed it into the back of the limo, where it landed with a faint jingle of too much metal equipment in the pockets. Under it, he was dressed immaculately, in beautifully cut black tie. His hair was tied back in a neat queue, and his eyes sparkled as he looked Rogue up and down.
"You'll do," he decided, though the delighted smile on his face belied the understated praise.
"Yuh tie's crooked," Rogue retorted. It was the only thing she could find to critique. Truth be told, he looked impossibly beautiful, if 'beautiful' was the right word for something so lithe and masculine.
He grinned, taking her hand and drawing her out of the flow of X-Men emerging from cars and heading up the steps. In the shadow of the staircase, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of black velvet. With a magician-like flourish, he flicked aside a fold of the cloth to reveal—
Rogue gasped, then stopped breathing at all.
It was a necklace. One solid sparkling mass of glittering diamonds the color of champagne, a soft, mellow gold. The chain of it was entirely encrusted in round-cut diamonds, and from its middle hung a teardrop-shaped stone nearly twice the size of an almond. The main stone was flanked by five little diamond florets on either side. Every facet of every stone flickered and flashed with gold light.
When Rogue started breathing again, it was only to hiss out every expletive in her vocabulary. Every curse made Gambit's grin bigger. When she ran out of words, she demanded, "Where in the hell did ya—"
"Smithsonian."
She nearly choked. "The Smithsonian? The SMITHSONIAN? You said you'd never . . . that it was off-limits!" Her voice had dropped even lower as she remembered the unnerving proximity of the entire Secret Service.
"I ain't stealin' 'em. Borrowed, Jus' fo' t'night. Just like checkin' a book outta de library."
"It is NOT even a LITTLE bit like—"
"Turn."
Rogue turned. "We are gonna die. We're gonna get arrested and we're gonna die. Lethal injection."
Remy slipped the necklace around her throat and fastened the clasp. Despite her panic, the brush of his fingers shot delicious shivers up and down her spine, which right now was more annoying than enjoyable.
"Don' worry," he assured her. "Dat reception's full'a politicians, not geologists. Far as dey can tell, yo'wearin' glass."
"Then why am Ah wearing' it at all?"
"Because every Guild t'ief in America could recognize dis necklace, and know where it come from an' what kinda security dey got on it. Dat'll put dat stuck-up assistant guild master in his place all right."
"Seriously. If one person in that room recognizes these, we are in royal trouble."
"Nah. Even if somebody does recognize 'em, dey'd have to call de museum to confirm dey missin'. An' de museum's closed wid nobody in it just now."
"But they got mah DNA all over 'em! Skin bits, an' hair, an'—"
"Bébé, will you relax?" Remy asked, laughing. "Dose stones is off display fo' cleanin'. Bright n'early tomorrow morning, a highly qualified technician is gonna clean every last speck'a dust off 'em. Techs start work at eight. Admins, who'd have to give permission fo' anybody to check on 'em, get in at ten. An' by ten, dose trinkets will be back on display, shiny clean. You are safe as a babe in cradle. Cross my heart."
Rogue settled the necklace so the enormous diamond was nestled in the hollow of her throat. With a sigh of resignation, she asked, "How do Ah look?"
Remy grinned. "All dressed to de nines, wid your creamy skin a'showin' off, wearin' diamonds yo'man stole you? Cherie, if I was t'tell you how y'look, I'd get arrested fo'indecency."
He slid one hand across her cheek and behind her neck and drew her close to give her one firm, possessive kiss that made her toes curl in her dress flats. When he drew back, Rogue's vision was lit up with extra layers of perception, and she knew her eyes had turned red to match his—a finishing touch on his fantasy. The look in Gambit's eyes as he surveyed her was absolutely incendiary. It did nothing to bring down Rogue's racing pulse.
"You ready fo'dis?" he asked.
She nodded. "Ah kin do it."
"Je le sais. Told you you was a natural, din I? Ever since y'stole dem shoes. Even if 'did go back an' pay for 'em." He straightened his crooked bow tie, suddenly all business. "Couple'a t'ings: anybody asks you about de necklace, use singulier. People wearin' cheap stuff talk about it, de necklace, but people wearin' rocks talk about dem, de stones. An' don't fidget." He slapped her hand, which was already reaching up to tug nervously at the main stone.
She settled for jabbing a finger in his face. "And if you walk outta this party with a pocket full of White House pens, Ah am gonna kill you."
"Y'dare me to get de president's glasses off his nose?" he asked, tucking the velvet into his pocket.
"You guys coming?" asked Kurt, leaning over the stairway rail.
"Yeah, we're comin', Kurt." Rogue blinked a few times to be sure Gambit's eyes had faded from hers, took Gambit's arm, slipped her own through it, and tugged him back into the light.
Most of the X-Men were still in the oval-shaped Blue Room just inside the doors, chatting and laughing while they waited their turn to go through the metal detectors at the end of the room. Rogue cut in front of about half the line to go stand with Kurt. He wasn't wearing his image inducer, and was clearly uncomfortable.
Rogue couldn't help teasing him. "You look about as jumpy as a long-tailed mutant in a room full'a rockin' chairs."
"I am going into ze Vhite House vis a tail, Rogue."
"You go everywhere with a tail, Kurt."
"Just as long as you ain't got a four-ounce bottle'a shampoo in o'pocket," Remy joked.
"Zat's ze TSA. Zis is ze Secret Service."
"No shampoo allowed in the White House," commented Scott, from up ahead in the line.
"That would explain the hair of your Secretary of State," Piotr observed.
Behind them, Kitty giggled and tried to pretend it was a cough. "Piotr, he's probably gonna be in there. I don't think you can crack jokes about his hair."
"I am not a U.S. citizen. I can do what I want."
"Border control! Border control! We got a smart-alec Russian on de loose here!" Remy announced, in a voice loud enough to make several big guys in suits turn to look. Rogue elbowed him in the gut rather harder than she needed to.
One by one, they emptied their pockets into little plastic bins and walked through the metal detector archways. Remy made a great show of his very-innocent face as he sailed through with nary a beep. Rogue was concerned that the metal settings of the necklace would trigger something, but she walked through without trouble and retrieved her wrap from the x-ray belt.
Behind her, Rogue heard an unfamiliar male voice say, "Excuse me, miss."
She turned, but the Secret Service agent was speaking to Kitty.
"If you could just step this way, please," he said, gesturing off to the side. "Additional security screening."
Kitty hesitated, uncertain, clearly trying to remember if she had any metal on her that she'd forgotten about. Two more SS guys stepped up next to the first, looking very big in their black suits and curly-wired earpieces.
In front of Rogue, Remy, Scott, and Piotr whipped around, like a pack of wolves catching a scent.
"I, um . . ." Kitty's voice was edged with confusion and a little bit of panic.
Scott and Remy moved to back her up, murder in Remy's eyes and steely determination in Scott's, but Piotr stopped each one of them with a hand to the chest. "Wait," he ordered, eyes locked on Kitty.
Kitty took one more second before her face cleared, and she nodded in understanding. "Oh, I get it. The head scarf." Then she put on her sweetest, cutest brown-eyed-girl smile and said, "Thanks for the offer, fellas, but actually, I'm Jewish."
And then, with all the aplomb in the world, she walked straight through the central guard's chest and joined her friends.
Rogue's mouth fell open in delighted astonishment. "Kitty Pryde, you gutsy little sass!" She did not fail to notice Piotr moving discreetly between Kitty and the astonished guards, shielding her from retaliation with his imposing size.
Kitty rolled her eyes and carelessly adjusted the set of her scarf across her shoulder. "I mean, come on. Religion? Seriously? All these months fighting for mutant rights and he wants to get fussy about religion? That's so pathetic it's really almost retro."
"Bien fait, petite," Gambit congratulated her, placing a friendly kiss on the crown of her cloth-wrapped head. Then he tucked Rogue's arm through his and followed Scott into the reception hall.
In New Orleans, Jean-Luc LeBeau was annoyed to find that Bobby and Memère had already commandeered the television.
"I wanted t'watch de game," he grumbled, taking a seat in his armchair.
"Calme-toi, Jean-Luc," Memère ordered casually.
"Remy said dey'd be somet'in' worth seein' at de White House party," Bobby informed him, putting his feet up on the coffee table.
"You been talkin' to—" Jean-Luc demanded before cutting himself off. "Forget it. Je n'entends rien, moi."
"Je veux voir mon p'tit diable rencontrer le president," Memère announced, and that was the end of the matter.
C-SPAN's live coverage of the event was focused on President Stephens as he stood in the Blue Room and greeted each guest. He'd obviously spent a fair bit of time cramming names, because he knew each one.
"Professor Xavier, it is an honor to welcome you to the White House. Dr. McCoy, I've been reading up on your research. Fascinating stuff. Miss Monroe, it's a pleasure to have you here. Ah, here he is, the hero of the hour! Scott Summers. How are you feeling, son?"
"Just fine, thank you, Mr. President."
"And Miss Gray. I'm glad to see you've recovered so well. You saved a lot of lives in that courtroom, I understand."
The tall young woman in the extraordinary kimono looked to Summers for guidance before replying. "I don't remember very much of it, sir, but thank you."
"And it's Gambit, I believe, right?"
"C'est lui! C'est lui! Ah, qu'il est beau!" Memere pointed at the television, where their Remy was shaking hands with the president the United States.
Bobby leaned forward and surveyed the television critically. "He's just pulled somet'in'," he observed. "He always smiles wid de left corner of his mouth when he's feelin' pleased wid hisself." Bobby grinned, as if in answer. "What did you get up to, p'tit frère?"
"Sacré!" Jean-Luc swore.
They all saw it, for just an instant, as Remy moved aside and Rogue turned to greet the president: the spectacular spread of diamonds laid across her collarbones.
"Is dat—" Bobby asked.
"Est-ce que c'est—"
Jean-Lic grabbed the TiVo remote and rewound the feed, then froze it on the right frame. "Sainte mère des cieux," he muttered. "It's de goddamn Victoria-Transvaal." He started to laugh. "He stole de Victoria-Transvaal and walked into de White House wit it on de neck of his blonde."
"Elle a un nom, c'est Rogue, tu peux t'en servir," Memère chastised.
Bobby cracked open the can of Coke that had been sitting next to his feet and raised it in the air. "À la votre, Diable Blanc," he offered, before tossing back the soda.
Several phones rang at once. Jean-Luc answered his cell phone with deceptive aplomb. "Guild master Petrelli, bon soir. Remy? Heard not'in of him dis age; why d'you ask? Oh, really? No, I didn' see it. We're watchin' de game."
"Kitty!"
Kitty had wandered off from her friends in search of something embarrassingly fancy to eat, and thus had no backup when she heard a familiar, stomach-fluttering voice call her name. She turned to see Lance working his way through the crowd towards her. The suit he was wearing was a little too wide for his shoulders, but the overall effect was just as cute as it was disheveled.
"Hey, Lance! I didn't know you guys were, like, coming to this." Drat, why did she always sound more Valley when she was nervous? She was worse than Jubilee.
"We got invites, but only Pietro wanted to come." Lance indicated the other side of the room with his head, where a flutter of disturbed napkins indicated Pietro was zipping around the party at unseeable speed. "Probably tying senators' shoelaces together or something."
She laughed, and tried once again to brush out of her face hair that wasn't there.
Lance noticed. "So . . . still a cue ball?"
"A little, um, fuzz now. Gambit found me a—"
"There he is!"
The interruption was a person Kitty had never met before, and from the bewildered look on Lance's face, he was in the same boat.
The well-dressed, middle-aged man had an unnervingly large smile and proceeded to shake Lance's hand with both of his. "Lance Alvers! The Lance Alvers! Avalanche himself! Such an honor!" A business card appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and ended up in Lance's suddenly freed hand. "Terry Korkunov. I represent KRM Marketing. We're based out of L.A. Quite the client list, believe me. And we are very interested in you." He slung an arm over Lance's shoulders, making Lance tense like he'd just been handcuffed. "Have you ever considered endorsements?"
"Endorsements?" Lance echoed, dazed, his tensed shoulders hesitantly relaxing.
"Endorsements?" Kitty demanded, disgusted.
"Endorsements! We're in the planning stages of a big new campaign, and we want you in. We're thinking of doing the shoot in the Swiss Alps. 'Wrigley's New Quatri-Mint Gum—An Avalanche of Flavor!' The whole thing—prime time television, interactive viral marketing, billboards in all the major cities with your face, Lance! Fame, parties, women, world travel—all included in the package. And that's on top of the actual compensation. How do the words 'six figures' sound?"
"Six figures?" Lance echoed again, his eyes wide.
"I knew that'd spark your interest! You're a smart kid, Lance. And you've got a great career in front of you. With such an extraordinary gift . . . I mean that fabulous jawline; look at that thing!" Korkunov patted Lance's cheek. "You'll have the fourteen-to-twenty-two female demographic lining up around the block. Earth-shattering, if you'll pardon the pun. So you in?"
"Um . . ." Lance blinked, then grinned. "Sure I'm in!"
"Lance!" Kitty cried.
Lance had the grace to look a little ashamed of himself. He shrugged uncomfortably out of Korkunov's death grip on his shoulder. "Hey, the guy's offering me a job!"
"In a gum commercial! You really want to use your powers to sell gum?"
"For six figures? Heck yeah! Look, not all of us live rent-free in a giant mansion, okay?"
"You know you could live there too, if you wanted."
"Yeah, well, I don't want."
"I figured that one out!"
"So butt out, then!"
Kitty recoiled, then sighed. Lance was already apologizing. "Kitty, I'm sorry. I didn't—"
Kitty reached up and put two fingers on his mouth, shutting him up. He looked so young in the ill-fitting suit, and Kitty suddenly felt . . . not old, but steady. And really, truly calm for the first time that year.
"Lance," she said gently, "I've been nuts about you since high school. And that's a long time. A lot of waiting for you to grow up. So when you do, you know where to find me. But until then . . ." She raised herself up on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Good luck."
"Hey, Kitty, hold on—"
Lance tried to catch her by the arm as she turned away, but the arm slipped ephemerally through his hand. Kitty didn't look back. Behind her, she heard Korkunov say "Hey, Kid, don't worry about her. She'll come around. Give her a couple months to cool off, then show up on her doorstep with a dozen roses and something that sparkles, and she'll be putty in your hands. Works every time."
"Yeah," Lance agreed reluctantly.
"'So let's talk timelines. We'll fly you out to Switzerland just as soon as we can expedite a passport . . ."
As she wove through the crowd, Kitty felt an uncomfortable twinge somewhere under her breastbone. It wasn't regret, exactly . . . more like sorrow, for the little girl she'd been and how innocently she had craved Lance's sporadic sweetness and his charming, troublemaker's smile. She flicked through the memories in an instant: basketball games, training in the Danger Room, going into battle, folding laundry on Avalon. Then she saw other moments, with someone else: playing in the pool, talking in the woods, telling stories over dish duty, waking from a drugged daze and hearing a panicked Russian voice pleading with her not to die. And she remembered that extraordinary, warm, wonderful feeling that was being loved. That was what she wanted.
Piotr was standing at the edge of the room, sipping at a glass of water and watching the party. He didn't notice her until she was right next to him, flushed and excited and entirely sure what she wanted to do but completely unsure of how she ought to do it. "Kitty? Is everything all right?"
She nodded. "Yeah. Yeah. I just, um, I just talked to Lance."
His expression was very calm—artificially calm. "Yes?"
"Yes. And, um, that's over."
"The conversation?"
"Us. Him and me. It's . . . it's just not, y'know? And I've thought about it all, a lot, and decided . . ." She wasn't quite sure how to articulate just what she had decided, so she just left it here. "I decided."
Piotr's calm, controlled expression began slowly to crack. His bright blue eyes were suddenly alight with hope. "You did?"
She nodded, smiling and unable to stop. "I did."
He smiled then—a joyful, honest smile that spread all across his serious, handsome face. "Well."
"Yeah."
"In that case . . ." He fidgeted with his water glass, seeming at last almost as nervous as she was. "I suppose we've gone about this rather out of order, but . . . Kitty Pryde, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me next week?"
Kitty's grin became so broad it was almost painful. "Yeah, I'd love to."
Across the room, Gambit hissed and swore. "He didn' kiss her! Imbecile! Do I have t'draw him a diagram?"
Kurt cackled in gloating satisfaction. "Pay up!"
"Dey's still three weeks left in de school year. I ain't lost yet." His tone, however, was not hopeful.
"Shut yer face," Rogue ordered. "Peter knows what he's doin'. Look." Though Piotr and Kitty stood without touching one another, Kitty was blushing to the edge of her scarf and beaming like all her birthdays had come at once. Rogue felt a sympathetic joy pull at her heart. Her best friend was really, really happy.
Her smile lasted until someone tapped her on the shoulder, through her wrap. She jumped and whirled, pulling the scarf tight around her upper arms.
"Evening," said Nick Fury, surveying her from his one working eye with a patronizing, amused look.
"Evenin'," Rogue responded automatically. Recovering from the start he'd given her, she evened the height difference a bit by gently lifting herself an inch off the floor. Behind her, she felt her boyfriend and her brother turn to back her up.
"Enjoying the party?" Fury asked, with feigned casualness.
"What'da you want?" Rogue shot back.
He raised an eyebrow at her directness, but responded in kind. "Where's Logan?"
Behind her, she heard Remy comment to Kurt, "I do love playin' de question game."
Rogue lifted her chin (and her shoes, just a little bit more). "Logan ain't here. He didn't want talk to you."
"And why might that be?"
"Y'know, he didn't tell me. Just told me to tell you to go screw yourself if I saw you. Seems he's mad at ya for some reason."
"He home alone?"
Rogue's fake smile, what little there was of it, vanished. Scowling, she ordered, "You stay the hell away from my house or so help me Ah will break you."
"We've all gotten a mite territorial since everythin' went down," said Remy, with smug, amused casualness in his voice. "You understand."
"Don't want your house, Rogue. I want X-23. I know Logan found her. Where did he put her?"
Rogue shrugged. "He never tells me jack."
"You're lying."
Rogue smiled. "My hand to God, Colonel Fury, ain't nobody named 'X-23' been in my house for years, ain't no such person there now, and far as I know ain't never gonna be any such person there again."
"Cain't ask for fairer den dat," Remy offered. "Kurt, I t'ink de Secretary of Agriculture is after dem last little cheesecakes. Beat 'im to 'em?"
Kurt put one hand on Gambit's shoulder, the other on Rogue's, and ported to the other side of the room.
"Zat vas good, Rogue," Kurt congratulated her as they helped themselves to cheesecakes before the astonished eyes of the Secretary of Agriculture.
"So proud I could bust," Remy agreed.
"We should call Logan," Rogue insisted. "Kurt, gimme that! Ah want the pecan one!"
"Logan's already two steps ahead'a Fury. Don't you worry your pretty stripey head."
Rogue glared at him, popped the pecan cheesecake into her mouth, and brushed a few stray crumbs pointedly off the necklace at her throat.
In spite of his reassurances, she did worry. And she kept a close eye on Fury for the rest of the night, ready to jump if he reached for his cell phone or sent a message out of the room. But Fury appeared to be on his best behavior for the rest of the night. As the party broke up and she emerged from the stuffiness of the White House into the clear, humid night air, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief as she let her protecting scarf sag down her back.
"Not quite your thing?" Scott asked sympathetically, emerging behind her with Jean on his arm.
"Ah want a bath, and Ah want bed," Rouge deadpanned. "In fact . . ." She glanced up at the sky above them, where a few valiant stars forced their way through the light pollution of DC. "Ah think Ah might ditch y'all and head home myself."
"You sure?" Scott asked, giving the sky his own critical appraisal. "Those clouds look nasty, and they're moving in pretty fast."
Rogue scoffed. "Lack Ah cain't beat some stupid clouds." She glanced back at the building. "And Ah just wanna be sure Logan and . . . and everything's all okay."
Scott nodded his permission and turned to help Jean navigate the stairs in the restricted skirt of her kimono.
Rogue felt gloved fingers brush the back of her neck, and the weight of the necklace slipped down her chest. Gambit caught it and whipped the black velvet out of his pocket to carefully wrap it up. "Well, I better get dose home 'fore dey turn into pumpkins."
Rogue touched her throat, where the sudden lack of yellow diamonds made her feel both relieved and oddly naked. "Thank you," she muttered, reluctantly sincere. "For lettin' me wear 'em. They're so beautiful."
"Et à toi, for wearin' 'em. Takes de sting outta dat damn cubic zirconia." He slipped the stones into his pocket and did his own check of the sky. "You gonna be able to see okay?"
Rogue nodded, gently declining his unspoken offer of his night vision. "And you?" she asked, tying her scarf around her throat to keep it out of the way. "You gonna get shot?"
"Not puttin' em back in, I ain't. They wanted t'shoot me, shoulda done it before." He lifted her gloved hand and kissed it.
"Well, don't do anythin' stupid. You gonna be home tonight?"
"Ouais."
Rogue nodded again, then pushed off the ground with the tips of her toes and shot silently into the black, peaceful night sky.
Despite her misgivings, Rogue arrived home to find everything as it should be. The lights were out, water splashed peacefully in the fountain, and Logan was sitting up and waiting for them, smoking on the front steps.
"Un-quit again, Ah see," she observed.
"Everybody's a critic," Logan griped, grinding the burning end of the cigar against the concrete. "How was the party?"
"It was . . . sparkly. And crowded. And they tried to give Kitty grief because of her head scarf, of all stupid reasons. But the food was good. But Logan . . . Ah saw Fury. He knows Laura's here. Ah didn't tell him, but—"
"But he's not an idiot. He knows I found her and he knows where I'd take her."
"What're we gonna do? If he sends another pack'a soldiers—"
"It's gonna be fine, Stripes. Go to bed."
Rogue hesitated, uncomfortable. "Why is it gonna be fine?" she demanded at last. "It looks to me like very un-fine."
"It's fine because I'm gonna take care of it," Logan informed her. "Don't worry. I got this."
Rogue was still unsatisfied by this answer, but it was clear she wasn't going to get any more out of him unless she used her bare skin, and she was too tired to deal with that crap. So she shook her head and went upstairs to strip off her elegant, wind-rumpled green dress and get in the shower before everyone else got home and monopolized the bathrooms.