Chapter 5
Westchester, New York. September 2003.
The heavy rain rattled against the windows while the forever anxious Rogue searched the mansion for Gambit. She checked the sauna first with a sneaking suspicion he loved steam and nudity. Hushed voices and giggles drifted from the cedar-clad room, and hesitant but curious, her hand brushed against the chrome handle. With limited time to delay, she wrenched the door open. The dense cloud of steam dispersed, and her stomach lurched. "I'm sorry!" she cried, turning her back on a naked Piotr and Kitty.
As she fled from the scene of another crime against common decency, Rogue cussed at the resident shamer in her head. "It's normal to have sex!"
Why constantly shame people for expressing their love or lust? Being raised by the religious D'Ancantos had transformed her into a girl who blushed at everything. Literally, a girl who blushed even when the smutty novels danced around the subject of a stroke and kiss.
The noisy rumblings inside the kitchen made Rogue pause in the quest to find Gambit. Focusing on her breaths, she thought about the serial killing thoughts currently locked inside her fragile mind. There was no time to deal with it now, but whatever happened in the elevator, maybe a panic attack, couldn't happen again.
Gambit sat at the kitchen table and shuffled his deck of cards. "Remy can teach strip poker," he offered after brief consideration.
"We already had this discussion, and I refuse to add strip poker to the curriculum," a temperamental Storm replied with her usual composure on a hastily planned vacation. Her students would survive without learning stripping etiquette. "We have obligations, rules, and a strong belief in morality. Do you understand my point of view? This is a school, and our students expect decency from their lecturers."
Shrugging noncommittedly, his gaze travelled to the silently brooding Sabretooth watching from the corner. "Morality and decency, hmm?" He turned his head to Storm. "And lightning doesn't motivate Remy. It only teases his hair."
The grumbling Victor looked at Storm. "I told you that bolt wasn't strong enough," he said, his eyes narrowing when a familiar scent crept closer to the kitchen door.
As she entered the familiar room, Rogue caught the word 'decency' in the air. Glancing at Gambit, the desperate words tumbled out. "We're running late. Please hurry, it's important."
The unique watch on her wrist emitted a strange, elongated whistling sound, and her gaze instantly flowed to her feet as she composed herself. When Gambit didn't move, she sighed. "Please don't make me beg."
A smirking Gambit left his chair and offered her his hand. "Remy loves it when you beg, Chere," he confirmed with a smirk and another flirtatious wink.
Victor growled in disapproval at the flirting but kept his brutal thoughts to himself. If he heard one more fucking word from that Cajun's mouth framed in third-person and wrapped in a smirk, he would snap his Southern neck and feed his rotting fucking corpse to the birds.
"Rogue, can't this wait a moment? Remy needs to commit to teaching a class like he promised on his arrival," Storm explained gently to the often-troubled team member.
The deafening sound of the seconds ticking by made Rogue re-evaluate her stance on rudeness. "We have to go," she whispered anxiously to Gambit and ushered him in the direction of the garage like a shepherd herding a lively flock of geese.
Victor caught hold of her arm. "You better be sure you know what you're doing because that sack of useless shit brings trouble to every door he darkens," he growled in her ear and loosened his death-like grip.
Glancing at the clock, twenty minutes stood between her and Future Rogue's life being ruined. Without a single word to either Storm or Victor, she rushed to the garage, still clutching the padded brown envelope.
With a long, drawn-out sigh of regret, Storm listened to the rumbling of a motorcycle engine in the garage. "We should have stopped her."
"That's Jimmy's job. I played my part, dished out advice, and she fucked off anyway," Victor answered, heading to the refrigerator to sniff out some much-needed food. "She's just like him, you know, but instead of chasing after redheads with tits the size of boulders, she trails after every loser who can wink and fucking lie."
Storm glanced thoughtfully at her lover of three years, thinking about his accomplishments. With minimal guidance, he had grown naturally into a formidable member of their team. Despite constant reassurances, he refused to join missions, citing an irrational hatred of the leather uniform. Still, he seemed at peace dealing with intel and reconnaissance.
"At that age, Jimmy liked nothing more than getting his heart broken, and the girl's gone and inherited the same cluelessness. She's his kid; let him deal with it, woman."
"I have a name," she cautioned with a serene smile and watched him rifling through the fridge with an impatient snarl. "And Gambit ate your leftovers."
Victor's deadly eyes narrowed, and he looked over his shoulder. "Next time you light up his ass with a lightning bolt, I want front-row seats."
A paling Rogue gripped Gambit's waist tightly, frightened she might topple off the motorcycle at any minute. The blurry scenery was saturated with bursts of rain from gloomy clouds above, and muddy water splashed them every time they raced through a puddle. She almost regretted asking him to press the red button that sent his chosen mode of transport zooming over the slippery tarmac.
The rain continued to fall, and growing lightheaded, Rogue once again prayed to a god she didn't believe in. Focusing on the disorder inside her mind, she squeezed his hips and ignored Logan and Mystique's mumblings of discontent. They couldn't talk because look how they behaved. Then again, they didn't have sex in fields.
Gambit slowed the motorcycle to a safer speed and grinned at her forceful hug. "You're exciting Little Remy, Chere," he warned teasingly, steering the bike into the busy car lot of Jimmy's Bar and Grill.
When the engine's vibrations stopped, her eyes opened. "I don't know what you're talking about, she answered softly, checking the watch and realising they only had seconds to spare. "Do you have two hundred dollars?"
Always the gentleman, he helped her climb off the slippery leather seat of the motorcycle. Checking the pockets of his drenched brown trench coat, he pulled out a wallet and searched through it. "Papa Wolverine to the rescue."
Rogue gulped with further worry. "I'm not the one with the death wish; you are," she scolded lightly, snatching the wallet from his hands and checking the contents for confirmation. Her gaze studied the face of her scowling birth daddy on the New York State driving license. "Why would you steal Logan's wallet?"
The playful jingle of a set of keys joined an amused grin. "Remy borrowed it, just like he borrowed the bike."
Rogue's eyes closed as the rain continued to wash over the worst vacation of her life. Okay. Okay. Okay. This was still a fixable situation. She needed to think things through clearly and brainstorm until everything felt less like a natural disaster. If only a hurricane would come along and suck them into a vortex. Using a method learned in one of Jean's duller classes, her thoughts turned to searching for a solution to help Future, Present, and Past Rogue.
What happened, and how would the problem be resolved? Those desperate and rambling thoughts instantly doused her worries with further accelerant. It started with locking Logan into a twelve-hour simulation with Scott Summers and a dozen students. At the same time, she sped away to a place that he banned her from visiting, alongside someone he hated, with his stolen wallet and equally stolen motorcycle. She was also being blackmailed for pornographic photos while travelling through time with a stolen watch.
"I can picture my headstone," she admitted faintly, the sprawling search for calmness fluttering to a stop because Logan would kill them both.
"Chase death away and listen, Chere. Can you hear it? Remy can. A bottle of fine Southern whiskey is calling our names, and Papa Wolverine wants to pay the check."
Pinching the keys from his hand, a burning sensation caught her attention, and she paused to check the watch. Words filled with promises of a dazzling lecture slipped from her tongue.
"You're not taking this seriously, and do you know how I can tell? Because you talk about yourself like we're lost inside a corny chapter of a silly, smutty book. I don't like it when you talk in the third person." Further complaints died on her lips when she noticed the words of warning flashing on the dial. "Oh no."
Fifteen-year-old Rogue, with the padded brown envelope, wallet, and motorcycle keys, vanished in a flood of bright, white light. Almost blinded by the unnatural illumination behind him, Gambit hoped it wasn't another lightning bolt as he swung around.
On a circular spot of sodden, scorched earth, a confused eighteen-year-old Rogue read the faded sign above his head. "Remy LeBeau, you know better than to bring me here. I promised Logan I wouldn't set foot in this place again." She searched the hole in her memories, wondering what happened since cleaning the mess under her bed.
Gambit didn't notice she wore different clothing or that the envelope, wallet, and keys had vanished from her hands. He focused on how pale her skin was before they came together. "Is it true?"
She nodded and blamed the personalities in her head for the current predicament. "It's important to me, and I won't break the promise for anyone."
Damp hair framed his handsome face, and once again, Rogue felt as though she lived in the pages of a smutty book.
His confidence decreased with each step, and he brushed the raindrops from her pale skin. Tracing a finger across her lower lip, she wrapped her loving arms around him, and his voice pierced the silence. "You could have told me, Petite."
The rain stopped falling, and she shivered slightly in the cool evening air, her eyes never straying far from his. "I just did, didn't I?" she questioned softly, feeling lost in the moment but also struggling to understand what they were doing here.
"You should have shared the truth. Remy can change the way he speaks for the one he loves."
Intoxicated by his words, Rogue's gaze danced with elation. He loved her. Searching for a fitting reply, a smile graced her lips. "I'm sorry, Swap Rat, but it's a little too much sometimes."
He remembered an insult once hurled at his handsome head in Louisiana when he continuously referred to himself in the third person after drunkenly stripping naked in a bar. The string of words had made him proudly puff out his chest then. "Like a porn star with main character syndrome and a voice that would beat somebody to sleep in a minute."
A gentle giggle escaped Rogue, and she felt the familiar hardness press against her stomach. Smiling, she searched his face and spotted the playful twinkle in his eyes. "I'm not ready for bed unless you want to lay beside me, or maybe we could sneak into the field again?"
Remy face lit up with unexplored possibilities as his cock continued to harden. He took her hand, and they ran across the bustling car lot together, heading to the nearby treelined pasture. Under the guidance of the full moon, their path was faintly lit, and they battled through brambles and tree branches. He helped her climb the creaking fence, and she smiled at him.
"You really are a gentleman," she murmured jokingly, landing safely on her feet and peeling off an olive-green dripping-wet shirt.
He eagerly watched her reach for the bra hook, and he scaled the fence in seconds, happy to lend a helping hand. They closed the distance between each other, and he unhooked her bra, enthusiastically snatched it away, and tucked it safely inside his coat pocket. While his heated gaze explored her breasts, he removed his water-logged coat and dropped it to the grass. His shirt followed, then his pants, and he wasn't wearing any underwear because Little Remy liked freedom.
Rogue smiled brightly, in love with her own sense of freedom. Her skin was manageable thanks to years of painstaking lessons in control. She finished undressing and abandoned her clothes in an uncharacteristic messy heap at her feet.
A heated kiss sparked the cloud of lust that engulfed them. Heartfelt touches roamed across bare, tender skin. Expectant moans and desperate groans sailed from their lips like birds in the night. She giggled in amusement, and he grinned excitedly as they dived amongst the long grass, a wildflower meadow cushioning their graceful fall into each other's embrace. His confident hand slid between her thighs, friskily brushing against the heat of her sex. She murmured adoring encouragement in his ear as his fingers explored her secretive spot, fully trusting the cheesy advice she often read in the advice columns of magazines.
Gambit worked his fingers skilfully, pumping them at a constant and well-timed pace. Forever whispering romantic tributes of desire and yearning, he slowly shifted his focus to her breasts as he continued to slide his fingers inside the warmth of her folds. "You look beautiful under the moonlight, Chere."
"I look beautiful under you," she replied breathlessly, the dizzying heat sweeping across her pale skin.
He peppered her breasts with loving kisses and gently parted her thighs. As his hardened member glided closer to the welcoming confines of her tight sex, he caressed her milky hips in anticipation, and further adoring lines of a loving nature spilt from his lips. Pressing against the heated entrance, he coaxed further pleading from his inexperienced lover while brushing the head of his favourite appendage against the moisture pooling at her thighs.
"Mon dieu! Mopping up never feels this good," he quipped at the night sky and shot a friendly wink at the ever-present moon.
Drinking in the heady atmosphere, Rogue, too, lost all inhibitions under the twinkling starlit sky. Pleading with him to stop teasing before she lost the will to live, her hands frantically swiped at the vibrant blue cornflowers crowning her tussled, damp hair. "Please," she whimpered in a frenzied tone.
Gently entering her, Gambit spent several attentive minutes driving his hips and listening to the whimpering delight. As he paused and watched her disappointment, his muscular arms cradled her body, and suddenly, he rolled onto his back, and she fully straddled him.
"That's better. Remy likes to see what he often can't touch," he said blissfully, one hand reaching to play with her breasts as the other slapped cheekily at her behind.
British Columbia, Canada. The Present Day.
Snowflakes twisted in the frozen air, the current temperature plummeting below zero as the sun dipped low in the overcast sky. A blanket of stars appeared gradually in the darkening sky above the cabin as Logan lit a cigar on the front porch and pocketed the lighter. He watched Forge trek through the snow with box after box of junk. "He's too clever for his own good."
"Yet, he still deserves your gratitude for a full day's work," Storm replied, noting the silvery crest of a moon in the starry sky. Thoughts turned to the school, and she sighed. "We finally traced Bobby's family, but they refused to speak to us."
The only pity Logan felt was toward his fist because he wouldn't get the chance to break Drake's nose. "Won't Victor be waiting?"
Storm smiled to herself and realised they had obviously overstayed their welcome. "I doubt he'll be pacing anxiously in the hangar, but don't worry, I'm leaving once Forge has finished loading the jet. Are you sure you don't want Rogue to return with us?"
"Look, your offers on the table, and I'm still thinking it over," he answered gruffly, glancing at her with a furrowed brow. "Haven't you got an out-of-control mutant to track down?"
"The one responsible for harming me and taking Bobby's life? We're attempting to locate its current location," she explained, hands deep in her coat pockets to ward off the chilly weather. "The Professor struggled to trace it using Cerebro, so at the moment, we pore over newspaper clippings and watch daily news broadcasts."
When he spotted Forge dragging the last box to the jet, he made a decision about the living arrangements and crushed the half-smoked cigar under his boot. Marie would stay here. "Yeah, and have your time taken up by every whack job this side of the equator," he muttered, turning his back on her.
"About Rogue," Storm said, broaching the subject again as she left the porch and walked toward the jet.
Logan unlocked the door with an eight-digit code inputted into a small, silver panel attached to the wall. His eyes darted to the weather witch. "She's staying put."
He stepped inside the warm house, shut the door, and listened to the sound of the deadbolts sliding into place. Thanks to some state-of-the-art technology, even his kid couldn't accidentally leave the doors unlocked. Shrugging off his jacket, he flung it on the broken couch and tossed a few more logs onto the crackling fire. With a flare of his nostrils and a glance at the slab of meatloaf on the kitchen counter, the scents of beef, oats, garlic, and pepper followed him upstairs.
Watery footprints trailed across the landing, and soaked clothes littered the bathroom floor. The chaos continued in the master bedroom with one wet hiking boot in the doorway. Logan's brow furrowed, and he stepped into the room, tracing further droplets of rainwater. His gaze snapped to a sleeping Rogue. She was snoring lightly on her back, her hair damp, and dressed in green and red flannel pyjamas. A lone hiking boot still clung to her foot, and he frowned at the scent of steak, pancake batter, and orange soda that lingered in the air.
Logan gazed around with a frown. It looked like a bouncing golden retriever had shaken a bath full of water everywhere. In his broadening view of parenthood, teen girls were weird enough without him poking his nose where it didn't belong and asking twenty questions.
With a sigh, he spotted another spider crawling across the floorboards and skirting the edges of a puddle of water. See? He was right. Those hairy bastards always lived in pairs. Grabbing a 1970s hardbacked book on yoga, he slammed it down and grunted in satisfaction.
The loud thud of a spidery death woke a startled Rogue. Sitting up, she stared at Logan. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," he answered gruffly, wanting to avoid a boycott of the room if she discovered the truth about another recently evicted eight-legged tenant. "What's with the footwear?"
She sighed, pointed to her foot, and silently blamed Future Logan. His lace-tying skills were as impressive as his fighting technique. "I can't untie the lace."
Brow furrowed, he studied her face for a moment. "You're having quite the week, Kid." With his lips twitching in amusement, he headed to the foot of the bed and got to work untying the heavily knotted laces. "Still have parts of me floating about in that head of yours, huh?"
"Maybe a little," she admitted, watching him free her foot from the boot.
"I figured as much. This is my go-to lace-tying technique before I head into battle," he said with a chuckle and gestured for her to follow him. "Come on, there's something I want to show you."
Rogue's eyes narrowed with interest and the sudden realisation he didn't know anything. Releasing a calming breath, she climbed out of the bed and watched him toss the boot on the floor as he headed downstairs.
Perhaps time travel wasn't her friend? After all, she brought pornographic photos to snowy British Columbia along with Future Logan's wallet and keys. That thought cluttered and climbed her head like an erratic game of snakes and ladders. Up and down. Up and down. The worries see-sawed, and her gaze darted to the unwanted vacation souvenirs hiding place. Besides her, who else had brought home pornographic photos of their future self in a field?
Huffing, she followed Logan downstairs. The Professor taught her how to lock away the roaming personalities of others, but maybe it would work on her anxiety, too. She hoped so as she slipped her feet into her tennis shoes and clambered carefully down the steep basement steps.
Logan turned a light on and gestured at the newly kitted-out basement. "What do you think?"
At first, Rogue hoped to find a television and a comfortable couch, maybe even a second bedroom or more family space. Instead, she saw the familiar sight of exercise mats and a handful of gym equipment from Xavier's. Every inch of space was safely covered with dense, wipeable, soft blue matting, the same material they used in the gym. Large, black boxes in the corner haphazardly leaned at an awkward angle, and she searched for a response.
He patted her shoulder in solidarity and chuckled at her shocked silence. "Training starts tomorrow."
"But I don't have time for training," she half-whined, stitched-together plans of future trips drifting away.
"You've got nothing but time, Kid," he responded gruffly, not understanding how true his statement would be.
Westchester, New York. December 1899.
Jolly and jaunty piano music played inside the rowdy and often riotous bar on the dirt road into the nearby city. Minutes from ushering in a new century, Logan chased his favourite hooker up the creaking staircase, growling playfully as his hands scrambled to catch the frills of her dress.
He grinned when she beckoned with a sole, teasing finger that led the route to the bedroom. Noises of a potent sexual nature filled the hall as he passed the closed doors and heard other couples partying merrily away while the night grew darker.
As he stepped inside the room and locked the door, his hand reached for the emerald-eyed hooker with an Irish twang. The sounds of fighting drunks in the stairwell failed to lure his one-tracked mind from its only objective. Sweeping the long red hair from her back, he unbuttoned the clothes and listened to the music drifting from downstairs. Piano keys were capably teased into a further upbeat and tuneful display of musical talent as Logan shed his clothes and guided her to the brass bed and feather mattress.
A growl rumbled from his lips, and without uttering a word, he pinned her roughly to the bed. Cupping her face, he searched for a sign of reassurance. Graceful fingers descended across his hardening length, and that was all the confirmation he needed.
"Oh, Jimmy Howlett!" she purred elatedly as he slammed inside her.
The countdown to midnight started, and a smirking Logan timed his thrusts to the shouts from downstairs. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. "Happy New Year," he grunted huskily in her ear.
A sudden, violent flash of blinding light engulfed the room, and a confused Rogue dressed in her pyjamas gazed down at the watch. A wisp of white smoke escaped from the dial, and she tapped at the screen in confusion. Clasped awkwardly in her hands were Future Logan's wallet, keys, and a padded brown envelope. Staring at the date on the watch, her gaze sprung to the bed's occupants, and she screamed.
Alarmed by the ambush of an unknown scent behind him, a stunned Logan with his bellyful of whisky toppled off his favourite hooker and landed roughly on the wooden floor with a pained groan.
The horror-struck Rogue rushed to the door, desperate to purchase a year's supply of brain bleach. She raced downstairs, tripping over several drunks and pushing past guys who offered money for sexual favours.
Okay. Okay. Okay. This couldn't be happening. How could a watch cause this much trouble? Oh no, she felt sick to her stomach. Look what occurred during one sneaky midnight trip from her bed to the future. Instead, she landed in the past, dressed in flannel pyjamas and fuchsia-socked feet.
Despite the offensively stained and flowery patterned wallpaper luring a headache from her, the horse-shaped bar caught her attention. "Is this Jimmy's Bar and Grill?" she wondered as a nearby conversation wafted closer with the smell of cigarette smoke.
"All I'm craving is the touch of two whores. I wanna fuck them straight through the mattress, for fuck's sake, not propose marriage," Victor Creed grumbled at the bar, digging deep in the pockets of his slacks for loose change.
"Prices are rising across the state," the bordello owner answered, gathering her grey hair into a bun with a ruby-encrusted pin. "I much prefer dealing with that brother of yours. I'll name the bar in his honour if he shows his face again after tonight. He's our best customer, after all."
Rogue caught the tail end of the conversation when she spotted Victor. Gasping in dismay and horror, their eyes met for a split second before she hurried to the nearest exit. Batting away the hands of men and women who wanted to drunkenly dance, a breathless Rogue fled into the night and cussed repeatedly at the watch. Passing horses and carts, ladies in impressive hats, and men urinating on wagon wheels and fence posts, she pressed the buttons on the side of the watch and prayed.
Westchester, New York. September 2003.
The gentle pitter-patter of rain on the window and the dulcet tones of a weather forecast on the radio barely broke through the wave of Rogue's thoughts. With her eyes squeezed stubbornly shut, she didn't dare open them. Close to crowning herself the worst time traveller in the world, her mind ticked over like a clock on the nearby wall. Logan had a bar named after him. Logan spent New Year's Eve of 1899 with a sex worker. Logan needed to see a therapist about his fascination with redheads.
Her delicate hearing focused on the sounds of the radio. Large swathes of Canada had experienced record levels of rain in the past twenty-four hours, with flooding expected in the coming days. Releasing a sharp breath, her thoughts crept to Future Logan locked in the Danger Room. Maybe she shouldn't have used a sim that followed the current weather forecast? Then again, she might not be in 2003. What if this was another mistaken visit with more trauma and less time to flee?
Her bedroom door opened, and Rogue heard a string of squelches muddled with a rumbling growl. The closer the noises came, she stood like a statue, waiting for the pesky pigeon shit to land on her head.
"Open your eyes, Marie," Logan growled, his infamous temper close to imploding on the spot.
With a gentle sigh, she shook her head. "I really don't want to." Praying her feet were planted on her bedroom carpet in September 2003, she crossed her fingers for no further surprises. "I've had a little trouble tonight, and it's worse than a normal nightmare."
An explosive snarl rumbled from his chest as he closed the distance between them, his waterlogged hair shedding rainwater every step of the way. "You've had a little trouble, and it's been worse than a nightmare, huh? Ask me about campfire songs. Go on, ask me how many goddamn campfire songs a bunch of geeks can cram into twelve hours?"
Rogue opened her eyes with the sudden realisation that the watch loved her again. It was just after eight, and Logan left a puddle on the floor. "You're all wet," she said softly, gazing at him. "Didn't you have a tent to shield you from the weather?"
"Scott Summers sings in his goddamn sleep," he growled, pointing an index finger in her face. Spending twelve hours pacing in torrential rain without a single smoke or nightcap had sent him half-fucking-feral. "We're due a long talk about Danger Room dos and don'ts after I shower." His eyes suspiciously dropped to the items in her hands. "Why do you have my wallet and keys?"
"I'm just taking care of them," she answered honestly.
"Logan, there's a mission," Storm called from the doorway, carrying a stack of students' mail. She held a brown envelope out for Rogue to take.
As he muttered a string of curses that would make an entire naval academy blush, Logan traipsed out of the room, feet squelching in his sodden boots.
Rogue watched him leave, bit her lower lip, and desperately fought against the urge to laugh. "Thanks," she told Storm, carrying the envelope to the bed.
While thoughts turned to the night before, hopes of the blackmailer seeing the error of his or her ways filled Rogue's head as she settled on the cushions. There were no stamps on the envelope this time, just her name. Tearing it open and nervously emptying the contents, her horrified gaze studied a grainy black-and-white image of Future Rogue riding a Cajun in a moonlit field. "Oh no, not again!"