Notes: FenellaG and Guest - Hey guys! I'm glad you both like Millicent, because I'm having a blast writing her! I've always wanted to write Gambit playing off a strong, older female character who can give him a run for his money - but someone who isn't an antagonist to him, like Mystique. It's proving to be a lot of fun! ;)

Enjoy! x

CITY OF LIGHTS

Chapter 11

Another restless night had faced Rogue, a night spent tossing and turning, her sleep interrupted by dreams of being dragged to the stone altar of Clan Akkaba's Lower Chamber, the blood being sliced from her veins and pouring into the glowing channels to resurrect a master, a monster, that had never come, because… because this had never happened.

Because he had rescued her.

He had saved her from that fate, and left her to a life of misery and regret without him.

She'd awoken, sweating and gasping, the way she always did when she dreamed this dream.

She'd curled herself up into a ball and thought of him. Not in the way she'd used to torture herself before, with the anger flashing in his eyes, and the cruel words slipping from his mouth. This time there was the way he'd looked at her only the other night. Lying on his back, the ring at his breast. Gazing at her with an expression she'd never thought she'd see on him again. A trace of tenderness.

She'd closed her eyes, and after a very long time, sleep had come again.

The following day was the day she would see him again, be with him again.

Every minute, every second of it, she greeted with impatience and dread. Not for the first time she wished for Kurt's presence, for someone to share her deepest thoughts with. She'd been alone for so long now, pretending, disguised as someone she was not. How weary she was of it all! How long could it continue?

At last, the allotted time came. She put on her finest crepe silk dinner dress, applied her makeup. She put on her hat and coat, and went to find the general. He was, as usual, in his study – but as she approached, she heard voices coming from within.

She paused at the door, listened.

"It cannot be helped," the general was saying. "Those papers are long gone, and whoever has them now has at least some of the details of our plans."

"There is a delivery tomorrow night," another voice spoke up – Gruber's voice. "We should expect trouble, Obergruppenführer Wagner, just as we did the other night."

"Undoubtedly. I have assigned an extra security detail to this consignment. But that is not what bothers me. What bothers me is that they may attack the labs."

"Yes. I have thought about that, Obergruppenführer."

"Oh? And what do you propose?"

"That we move the subjects to another site. I know it is not what we planned, but given the circumstances, it is the most sensible option we have, should our enemies choose to strike."

"And where do you suggest we move them to?"

Rogue leaned closer, straining to hear the reply, when—

"Fraulein Darkhölme?"

Rogue started as she heard her name, turning quickly to see the housekeeper standing there behind her. Though inwardly perturbed, on the outside she remained as calm and unruffled as ever, snapping on her gloves and declaring nonchalantly:

"I was just about to tell the general that I am going out for the evening. But it seems he is busy. Will you tell him I have gone out for a walk by the river, when he is free? I don't expect I will be gone more than two or three hours. Certainly I will be back before curfew."

The housekeeper nodded.

"Of course, Fraulein."

Rogue muttered her thanks and left quickly. Whatever the general had planned, for now it would have to wait.

-oOo-

Freshly shaved and turned out looking his best, Remy entered L'Hotel late that afternoon with a smile and a cheerful whistle on his lips.

The concierge raised his head and gave a weary smirk.

"You are in good spirits today, Monsieur."

Remy stopped at the desk and scribbled M. Lavosier in the book with a flourish.

"Mon ami, did you the see the femme I was last here with?"

The concierge stroked his little moustache and nodded.

"The beautiful lady with the sad, green eyes? Yes, I did."

The observation quickly stifled Remy's enthusiasm. He remembered those sad, green eyes on him, stoking long-buried feelings that had nothing to do with lust.

"She'll be here again, in a little bit," he said, in a less jovial tone. He slapped franc bills onto the desk, added: "Your finest red, if you please, Monsieur."

The concierge was too professionally staid to make any comment or show any interest. He merely disappeared into a side room for a moment and returned with a bottle of wine. Remy took it, along with the key, and left.

There were few places as beautiful as L'Apartment, Remy thought, anywhere in the world.

He came here often; he came here to be alone. To have a place he could be himself. His penchant for luxury had first brought him through its doors. The perfect silence and the gorgeous view had lured him back, time and again.

It said something that he had brought her here.

He had rationalised it as a neutral place, a secret place, one he was comfortable with, with which to confront her. And that had only been part of the reason, and now that things had changed – as he knew they had – he was even more keenly aware of it. Because he was inviting her back here, into an intimate space of his that no one else knew of. And, knowing her like he did, that was a risk.

He hung up his coat and hat, and walked into the bedroom.

For the time being, it was a risk he was willing to take. He had some leverage over her, some cards up his sleeve. He'd play them freely, and enjoy himself while he was at it.

He poured himself a glass of the wine, put on some music. He thought again of her sad, green eyes; he recalled the desperation of her kisses and the twist of her grip in his hair.

There was no need for him to play games. The equation was simple – she wanted him and he wanted her. He was surprisingly fine with that, despite the bitter anger that still simmered within him. At some point, when he had everything he wanted from her, he would walk away. But until then… …

The heated train of his thoughts was derailed by the sound of her entering the apartment, the door closing shut behind her, the key turning in the lock. Such had been the intensity of his thoughts that he was already halfway to being aroused and ready to take her.

She stepped into the bedroom, briefly pausing when she saw him there. It didn't matter how he felt about her – whenever he saw her, she took his breath away, and now was no different. Her eyes flickered and she moved to stand in the same spot she had the other evening, waiting, he guessed, for whatever he had in mind. That alone made him burn with desire for her. The sensuousness of her body underneath the crepe silk dress she wore was now no longer just a memory to him, and he could barely express how much he longed to have it pressed to his and under his fingers again.

"Bon soir, Madame Lavosier," he murmured, this time sincere in his greeting. It was, after all, her real name.

She stirred, perhaps feeling a little uncomfortable that she had chosen so personal a name. As before, he offered her a drink, but this time she declined it.

"No, thank you," she said quietly, all prim and proper again. Underneath the fierce composure she maintained, he sensed nervousness thrumming through her… perhaps even the fear Millicent had spoken of.

Perhaps it was her own desire.

"I think," he began quietly, seriously, "we got off on the wrong foot, chere."

She blinked.

"You mean eight years ago?" she asked, with a thread of annoyance. "Or the other night?"

He quirked an almost apologetic smile.

"Well, I was speakin' of the other night. I happened to think we got off on a fine foot eight years ago… 'Till I figured you was usin' me and all, dat is."

She bristled to hear him speak of that time, and he knew, instinctively, that this was not how he intended or liked for things to be between them. Not this time.

"Relax," he told her breezily, picking up his drink. "Ain't none o' what happened de last time we danced planned for tonight. The room is yours."

"None of it?" she queried, eyebrow raised, disbelieving.

"Well," he felt it couldn't harm to be honest, "same content, I'm afraid. Different execution. I hope you're not disappointed."

She did relax, a little. Her stance softened, and she shook her head, though a little uncertainly.

"Most of the content I was fine with. Perhaps the execution can make… the other parts more palatable."

He almost smiled at that.

"How would you prefer we execute dis then, chere?"

She glanced at him sharply, surprised that he was giving her a choice, even an illusion of one.

"You want me to be honest?"

At that he was sober.

"Never wanted anythin' else from you, chere."

That needled her. Her beautiful eyes were cast down again.

"There's nothin' I regret more in my life," she murmured, her Southern accent back again, "than not bein' honest with you, Remy LeBeau."

Her admission did things to him. Made him sad and bitter in turns. Made him desire her all the more.

"Won't cost ya t'be honest now then, chere," he answered her with honesty of his own.

Her gaze flicked up to his again. She regarded him for a long moment, weighing his words.

"If you want my honesty, then I wish you had never walked into my life again," she replied – and if honesty had ever killed him since the moment she had ripped his heart out back in Mesopotamia, it did so then. But she held his gaze in the ensuing heartbeat of silence, added in a thick voice: "But since you have, I haven't been able to think about anythin' else but you."

It was a hell of a confession, one that took his breath away. She saw it, and it emboldened her to cross the room towards him, self-assured in a way he hadn't seen her yet, not with him anyway. When she halted in front of him she was so close, close enough for him to feel her heat; yet she did not touch him, did not even look at him, her gaze fixed on his chest.

"I watched you for weeks after what happened in Clan Akkaba's stronghold," she admitted in a pained rush. "I couldn't stand to live in a world where you were dead or dying, even if it meant you would hate me to the rest of my days. I watched you live, survive, thrive. When you got on that boat back to the States, I… I turned away. In that moment I no longer feared the world would continue without you. You'd carry on, you'd laugh, you'd love, you'd be happy. Your world would continue. And I'd continue mine. Somehow." She looked up at him then, eyes glistening. "But if you're back… and if you're askin' me to be honest about how I want us to play this game… then I want it to be like it used to be. You. Me. Nothing else but passion."

Again, a kaleidoscope of emotion careened through him at her words. They had brought back bitter memories of his fight for survival in the aftermath of what had happened with Clan Akkaba; yet somehow what she had confessed was no surprise. He had known, with no other power than the connection between them, that she had still been alive; and yes, sometimes he had felt eyes on him in the jungle, and had fantasized or dreamt that they might be hers.

But what he felt most in that moment – and what overpowered him more above anything – was the hot roiling sweep of need, as she finally admitted, in no uncertain terms, that she wanted him.

Just as much as he wanted her.

Her eyes finally fixed his, those sad, green eyes that had haunted him longer than he cared to admit.

In a wild instant the whirlwind had descended upon them – he could hardly connect one second to the next, as suddenly her face was between his palms and he was kissing her, and she was kissing him, so hungry, so fierce, that there really was nothing in the world for either of them but one another and the movement of their mouths.

If this was the way she wanted it, he wasn't going to disappoint her. In fact, it was just about damnably perfect.

-oOo-

This time, once their passion had reached its desired conclusion, she did not leave him. Neither of them, however, dared indulge in the tender touches and caresses they had once traded so carelessly in. Somehow that still seemed forbidden.

They lay side by side together in this beautiful bed in this beautiful room, in one of the most beautiful hotels in all of France, let alone Paris… And yet what he wanted, from her, from this game they were playing, he could no longer tell. The love they had made had been wild and greedy, satisfying everything he'd wanted from the evening, as he imagined it had done for her. They had lain trembling and breathless in the immediate aftermath, each lost in their own thoughts… Yet now he knew that the sweetness of their pleasure would have to be broken by business, and he didn't like it. Far better, he thought, to have done things his way. Business first, pleasure later. It was always better that way. But she had insisted, and her coming at him the way she had earlier, he had had no inclination to deny her.

Truth be told, he knew business was the only reason she hadn't run away.

On a sigh Remy sat up and leaned over towards the nightstand, retrieving the packet of Kensitas cigarettes there. With his powers he lit one for him, one for her; all the while she watched with interest at the small, slow charge he used to do so.

"You have such control," she noted with an undisguised thread of envy.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He handed her the cigarette and she took it.

"A small charge," she explained. "Small, yet sustained. Over such a tiny area. It requires… finesse. I don't have that with my powers. The slightest touch and everything starts rushin' in at me like a freight train."

She itched absently at the nullifying bracelet round her wrist. She'd brought her own this time. It hadn't been lost on him, either, that the little gun she always carried on her had been nowhere in sight. He'd extended her the same courtesy, removing the ring from his neck ahead of time, aware that the sight of it was an unwelcome one to her, and not without reason.

"How did you do it?" she asked him outright. "Gain control?"

He shrugged.

"I guess I just… wanted it enough."

"That can't be all it is," she replied, irked. Of course, she had wanted control more than anything, more than him, and that had smarted badly at the time.

"You can want," he said, after a few second's thought, not quite sure how to articulate it. "And then you can need. All it can take is a single moment, to need control enough to make it work. And then…" He shrugged once more, "…you kinda never forget how to do it again."

There was a story there. He wasn't ready to divulge it to anyone, let alone her.

She harrumphed, unconvinced, blowing smoke rings.

"So," she broached the topic first. "What d'ya wanna know?"

He wasn't sure what the answer to that was. All he knew was that he had to make this worthwhile for everyone else's benefit, apart from his selfish own. Not for the first time that evening he felt the danger that Millicent had warned him of, and the shifting of that particular landscape was not something he wanted to dwell on.

"When's the next shipment?" he asked.

She glared at him.

"I told you to leave that well alone."

"And I told you I ain't gonna drop my business at your say-so."

She sighed, vexed.

"It's next Wednesday."

"What time?"

"Eleven in the evening." She eyed him through the smoke. "I don't wanna fight you, Remy. But I will, if I haveta."

The thought lingered uncomfortably between them. She may have been invulnerable, but his power wasn't to be tested either, and they both knew it.

"What's your skin in the game?" he asked, wondering why she was so invested in this.

"Like you say," she retorted, pulling in a drag. "S'none of your business."

He sensed she wasn't going to budge on this… at least not for the time being. Which was also fine, for now. Besides, there was another question he wanted her to answer, one that had been playing on his mind for quite a while now.

"Who's Kurt?" he questioned her out of the blue.

Her eyes went wide, the cigarette almost dropping out of her mouth.

"How did you hear that name?"

There was panic in her eyes… fear even. He tried not to react to it.

"There was this trench lighter in your coat," he explained in a throwaway tone. "An old bullet casing, from the Great War, if I had ta guess. Had the name 'Kurt' scratched into it."

She was like a rabbit caught in headlights, her throat visibly constricting.

"I…" Words were forming in her mouth, each one struggling, then dying completely. "You went through my things!" she finally shot at him accusingly.

"Come on, chere, you know me," he responded soothingly. "Ain't nothin' personal." He sucked on his cigarette, couldn't help asking: "Is he your lover?"

She shot a look at him, exasperated.

"Remy, despite what you may think about me, not every man I meet is someone I sleep with!"

She was done with her cigarette. The ashtray was on his nightstand, and since she now looked less than inclined to lean over him, she got off the bed and stubbed it out on a marble side table. She was fairly prickling with rage at his line of questioning, and she wasn't hiding it. But even standing there with the anger oozing palpably out of her and towards him, he'd never thought he'd seen anything so beautiful as her. From her pale skin to her naked curves, and her long, silver-streaked hair – she was still a wonder to behold.

"Come back to bed, chere," he commanded her, not without a hint of cajolery to his voice; but she was having none of it.

"I'm tired of this game, Cajun. I think it's time you answered some of my questions."

He considered her statement through wreaths of smoke. While he had no intention of being honest with her, he considered entertaining questions merely for the fact that he liked her when she was fiery like this. So he said nothing and let her proceed.

"Are you with the Resistance?"

"Non."

Technically true, if not exactly.

"Then you're working solo?"

"You could say that."

Also technically true…

"And you intend to steal whatever Operation X's secret weapon is?"

"What else would a thief be doing in dis godforsaken country?"

She glared at him, her entire body brimming with ire.

"I don't believe a single word you've just said!"

He rolled his eyes, tired of this.

"Come back to bed, Rogue."

"No!" She spun on her heel, away from him. "I'm done here!"

"The hell you are!"

Quick as lightning he'd scrambled across the bed, his grasp only just catching her wrist as she began to stalk away from him. With one powerful movement he had jerked her back towards him, and they tumbled back onto the sheets together, her fighting fruitlessly against his temporarily superior strength. He used the advantage of having her powers nullified to full effect, tackling her onto her back and pinning her under him.

"Let me go!" she demanded with futile dignity. He shook his head, grabbing for her wrists and grappling them over her head.

"Non. Like it or not I'm callin' the shots, chere. I'd prefer it if you liked it, but if you don't, I do enjoy a little pain mixed with my pleasure."

She tried to bite him, then headbutt him, but without her super strength she didn't have much to leverage against his powerful grip.

"Oh yes, I'm sure you'd love to teach me more about what pain feels like, you bastard!" she seethed. At the words he laughed mirthlessly.

"Rich, comin' from you, Rogue."

Unfortunately for her, the more she struggled and strained against him, the more blood she was sending rushing down south.

"I never… wanted… to hurt ya!" she panted. It wasn't lost on him that the flavour of her movements were beginning to change, and while it felt like a trick, it also felt like she was doing exactly the right things to him.

"Well, ya did," he practically growled in her face. "Pity a bitch like you has t'be so damn intoxicatin'."

"I was just thinkin' the same thing 'bout you," she snit back, but her voice was more sultry, more breathy, and he covered the tail end of her sentence with his kiss.

If she'd meant to trick him into releasing her, it didn't work, not exactly – perhaps she sabotaged herself. Her arms still pinned either side of her head with his grasp, she was doing all she could to have him closer rather than further away from her, making some interesting rolls of the hips that made him groan with anticipation.

He liked her when she was like this. Powerless and under him, and experimenting with her body because she couldn't rely on her hands like she always did.

He broke the kiss and grinned at her.

"My, my, but I do like you when you don't have dis invulnerable, take-no-prisoners thing goin' on, chere."

"Just wait till I get this infernal bracelet off, Cajun!"

He chuckled.

"Hm, promises, Rogue. Think it might be heaven, neh, to die while I'm sucked deep, deep inside you."

The innuendo brought myriad expressions to her face, and not all of them positive. He wondered about that, about the split second of quiet where fear touched her eyes, and then dissipated. Instead she lifted her knees, hugging him with her legs, wrapping them right round his waist in something like a death grip. Having found some purchase now, she shimmied up wantonly against him.

"Speakin' of sucking you deep inside me…" she whispered invitingly. He felt her wetness slide against his arousal, and he groaned.

"Etienne Marceaux is… happy to 'blige you, Mam'selle," he panted, eager to be inside her again. It took a bit of manoeuvring, but finally he found himself sliding into her wet heat with a gratified moan.

God, she was tight. Tighter than he ever remembered her being.

He dropped his head onto her clavicle, trying to contain himself. It wouldn't do to come inside her so soon, like a couyon pup on his first time. Of all the women he'd had in his short and sordid life, she was the only one who'd ever come close to doing this to him.

He rocked into her with slowly, finding his pace, finding a space that didn't mean losing control of himself and leaving her unsatisfied. Why did she do this to him, he wondered, as he leaned in to kiss her once more? Why did she make a mockery of the finely-tuned balance he kept over himself? A flash of resentment, old and well-worn, spiked through him in that instant; but he paid it no mind, and in another flash it was gone again. Having found his rhythm now, he felt safe enough to relinquish his grip on her wrists; and as soon as he did so, her arms came up and around him, feeling him everywhere, over his back and his buttocks and in his hair, trying to meld him to her in ways that weren't possible. Simply with touch alone she could have driven him to madness – but he had her measure now, and his own.

Bracing his left arm on the mattress, he pushed himself off of her a little, his other arm snaking backward to push her left leg open. More confident now of his ability to keep up with her, he quickened his pace, driving into her lustily.

He watched her face.

Eyes closed and mouth open as if in prayer, her cheeks flushed and her lips plumped up… Was it possible for any woman to be this beautiful? Despite the evidence of his eyes, there were moments he would have believed that he was dreaming, if not for the carnal obviousness of their conjoined flesh giving all too authentic an impression of reality to be anything else.

In another time, in another place, in another world, they would have been perfect together, he allowed himself to think with uncharacteristic wistfulness.

For the second time that evening they tumbled towards graceless ecstasy. Memories, both pleasurable and bittersweet, collided with this present that had no rival, with a future neither of them considered possible. With the sweetest of cries she came for him, the pulsing of her orgasm tipping him over and into his own. Gasping, and shuddering from the sheer ecstasy of the moment, he could barely hear his own cries for the rushing in his ears and the pounding in his heart. He came to himself an indeterminable amount of time later, cradled in her arms with her fingers running soothingly in his hair.

He blinked, surprised as much at the loss of control as he was at her tenderness. He moved to look at her; and she looked back at him. Her expression was unreadable.

"I should go," she told him quietly, breaking whatever spell still lay between them. "I can't leave the general alone for too long."

She shifted, signalling her intention to leave. He was still inside her, and, reluctantly, he disentangled himself from her, not knowing why he did so when he was the one to hold power over her.

"General in danger, chere?" he asked, a little put out and unable to hide it. He went for his cigarettes again, because he suddenly needed something to still his jangling nerves.

"Always," she said, picking up her clothes from the floor.

"Hm. Yeah, I guess overseein' somethin' like Operation X will paint a target on your back." The sarcasm was heavy in his words as he lit up agitatedly. "Couldn't have contracted a better bodyguard neither, a mutant who can rip people to shreds wit' her bare hands."

"Don't do this, Remy," she spoke tiredly, snatching up the final article of clothing and walking over to the bathroom door.

"Why not? I would surely love ta know what his reaction would be if he found out you were a dirty, filthy mutant."

She paused at the bathroom door and glared at him.

"He already knows what I am," she said.

Ha. Interestin'.

He smoked hard at his cigarette and stared at her, irked that at least one of the things he held over her didn't even stand anymore.

"I won't be long," she said at last, and disappeared inside the bathroom.

Remy pulled restlessly at the cigarette, brooding on… well… everything. He didn't like what she did to him, when he liked it very much; and he was no longer certain what leverage exactly he had on her, nor really what to do about it. Again Millicent's warnings of danger and tread lightly prickled ominously at his consciousness, but he was beginning to think that he was past the point of no return already. Seduction was always a dangerous game, to varying degrees; but with her it was and always had been something more than just dangerous, and subsequently, something more than just foolish to engage in.

She emerged from the bathroom five minutes later, all as prim and primped up as she had been deliciously mussed and dishevelled before.

The sight alone was making him think wicked thoughts, knowing what lushness she hid beneath each article of clothing.

She was already making to leave, and something was pushing at him that he was powerless to stop.

"Meet me again," he spoke up, and though he did so with his usual nonchalance, there was a kind of desperation beneath it that he couldn't hide. "Here. Tomorrow."

She stopped near the door to the lounge, a surprised little laugh leaving her mouth. But when she turned and saw he was serious, her disbelieving smile became one of amusement.

"I can't," she told him. "The general is having an important meeting tomorrow evening, I have to be there."

"Then the evening after," he said impatiently, the thought of being without the promise of her body becoming increasingly intolerable. The smile fell from her face to see him in so much earnest.

"All right," she answered quietly.

She left the room, and half a minute later he heard her leave the apartment altogether.

Silence descended.

Remy finished his cigarette, got up, dressed, and raised the needle on the long silent gramophone. Even now, his body ached for contact with hers again. Lust was a powerful drug. Only this particular one was one he thought he'd killed years and years ago.

He sighed and did up the buttons of his shirt. At least he had some concrete information to work with. A date, a time. He didn't have a reason to trust that she had told him the truth, except that, for some godforsaken reason, he did trust her. He even believed her when she'd said the general knew she was a mutant. He didn't know what exactly that meant, either the implicit belief in her, or the fact that the general knew what she was, but… all of it would be a puzzle for later. For now, the beautiful and mysterious Anna Darkhölme had left him more than enough to chew on for the night.

Switching the lights off, he left the apartment, the beautiful hotel, without so much as a glance back.

There were plans he had to discuss with Millicent.

-oOo-