Chapter 6
Westchester, New York. September 2003.
What did Rogue see in front of her wrinkled nose? Red flags for days, months, years, centuries, and millennia. Red flags everywhere, poking her in the nostrils and causing a sneezing fit. Flags of every nation, all ruby red, some powder pink, others crimson, scarlet, or burgundy. Flags fit to tangle around her tonsils and strangle the life of a time-travelling novice with fatally flawed luck.
The plan failed to work because Future Rogue couldn't be trusted not to have sex in a field. Now, the blackmailer sent another note featuring words. A small section of those words sent a chill down her spine because this red flag existed loud and proud. The faux flags fluttered like plump grouse fleeing from podgy gunmen. They were replaced by a horrifying realisation that death knew her name.
She needed to find the blackmailer but first had to deal with the latest fallout because Future Rogue pornified herself under the moonlight. The note gloated that a package had been sent to her daddy. Which daddy, though? The religious one with no relation or the homicidal one who stumbled into her life a year ago and would string Gambit up by his testicles? Life in 2003 sucked, didn't it?
"Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out." Rogue stopped the technique from fiery hell and sprung to her severely anxious feet.
She guessed Logan would be the recipient, and that package needed to be traced and burned to ashes.
It had to be Logan; the other daddy wouldn't have cared unless it affected his standing in the local community. Having sex in fields wasn't something the church taught her, and the Meridian gossip queens would feast on her roasting love life for months, but they wouldn't be the target. Still, the messier this situation became, the more she realised that whoever was responsible targeted those closest to Future Rogue. She saw Meridian Daddy in the rear-view mirror left behind in the dust. At the same time, Logan loomed ahead, ready to step into the path of the runaway truck.
"Time travel is not my friend. Time travel is not my friend. Time travel is not my friend," she chanted, stuffed the lone photo and note into the envelope, and carried them to the door.
The empty hallway looked the same. Period furniture lined the walls. The bedroom doors remained closed. Paintings hung on the wall. Blah, blah, blah. It didn't matter because the anxious need for help rampaged through her rattled mind.
"Gambit!" she cried, sprinting to the top of the staircase. "Gambit!"
A surly Victor Creed stalked to the bottom of the stairs and grimaced because the shrill shouts wounded his ears. "Shut your mouth."
Rogue wrinkled her nose in frustration as she thundered down the stairs as fast as her feet would move. "You're one of the last people I want to see. Don't think I've forgotten about our previous meeting."
Tumultuous thoughts remained pinned on the worst visit of her life to Jimmy's Bar and Grill, but Victor couldn't be expected to remember a split-second glance at a girl one hundred and three years ago. He scowled at the rudeness because he wasn't used to it.
"You been at Jimmy's beer again?" he groused and followed her route to one of his favourite spots in the mansion.
At barely eight-thirty in the morning, a frantic Rogue lost the will to live. Politeness be damned to a fiery pit in the hottest depths of hell. She couldn't find Gambit, and somebody sent illicit photos to her birth daddy.
"You're always in the kitchen. Why are you always in the kitchen? Don't you have a brothel to visit?"
The scowl on Victor's face matched his mood. "If you stayed out of everybody's fucking business and stopped collecting memories like they were shells on a fucking beach, you wouldn't be such a pain in the fucking ass."
"Oh, wow, three f-words, and it's not even nine. Do you want a medal? I have a better idea. Maybe I should collect shells and stick them to a cup I'll happily throw at your head!" she hollered loud enough for half of Westchester to hear.
A concerned Storm appeared in the doorway, glancing between Victor and Rogue. "What on earth is going on?"
"Ask him, he started it," Rogue complained bitterly. "Have you seen Gambit?"
"He's teaching a history class," Storm replied and watched the youngest member of the team flee the room. Her accusatory gaze travelled to Victor. "What did you do to cause that outburst?"
He shrugged and searched the refrigerator for leftovers. Finding only a few crumbs, a single sniff led him to the culprit. "The girl's lucky I didn't snap her neck because she knew that food didn't belong to her."
Rogue raced to the classrooms usually reserved for teaching the length and breadth of world history. She peered through the rounded windows in each door, checking several empty spaces until stumbling onto Gambit, gesturing wildly in front of a group of spellbound students.
They hung off his every word as he described the silhouette of a standard poker player in the enthusiastically tutored first lecture of the History of Strip Poker in North America. "They have shoulders; you follow me. These femmes have shoulders that flatter their eyes."
She giggled at the inappropriate nature of the class, opened the door, and called out to him with a cheerless tone. "Gambit, I need your help."
He grinned when he spotted her, grabbed his trench coat, and strolled over with all the confidence in the world. "Call me Remy. We're friends, non?"
Friends? They were only friends. Rogue struggled with the twisted terminology as they wandered through the quiet halls and reached the elevator. Instead of questioning him about the comment, she talked about the class. "They have shoulders that flatter their eyes?"
Gambit once again looked passionate about work, words, and breasts as he stepped inside the elevator. He pointed to her chest.
"Oh," Rogue murmured in understanding and fell silent again. When they reached the final location of their hastily put-together mission, she handed him the envelope with a worried gaze.
"I'm sorry for dumping my mess on you, but I thought you also needed to know about this. Can you look inside the envelope and tell me what you see?"
He opened the envelope and slid out the single, black and white photo. As he studied it, his brow slightly creased with concern. "Merde."
"I know, it's awful, isn't it? It's really degrading and shocking," she sighed, relieved because a friendly face knew about the photos. Help would surely follow, and that meant the world to her.
Nodding his head firmly, he flipped the photo around and pointed to the two of them in the midst of a sexual act. "Remy needs to return to the gym."
A dismayed Rogue watched him continually tap the photo as he pointed out his flaws. "Remy LeBeau, this isn't a beauty contest," she snapped, snatching the picture from him. "I'm being blackmailed because of this, and I need your help."
"Blackmail?" he muttered like it was a dirty word.
"Yes, blackmail. Someone's asking me for money, or they'll send all the photos they've taken of us in a field to my family and friends." Calming breaths left her lips as she gazed at Logan's locked door. "And for the moment, it ends here, okay? Can you please pick the lock? The note with this photo says they've sent something to my daddy."
A guarded Gambit gazed at her beautiful face. Blackmail over several fumbles and rolls in a field. It didn't make sense. Slipping a joker card from his coat pocket, he charged it with kinetic energy and slid it in the gap between the lock and doorframe.
Despite her protests, he held up his hand with all the confidence of a Cajun thief. "Remy knows what he's doing."
An exasperated Rogue instantly pulled the glowing card free from its prison and flung it further down the hall. "No, he doesn't!" she cried as the miniature blast singed the carpet and marked the walls with blackened streaks.
They had to break in without leaving any clues, or Logan would hit the roof and embed his claws through a chimney stack.
"Are you out of your damn mind?" she asked, close to combusting on the carpet and adding to the scorched fibres.
"Always," he confirmed with a smile and picked the lock instead. "Does this mean no more fun under the stars, hmm? You always suggested the ride, Chere. I like that about you; your eyes glow when you undress in the moonlight."
Rogue scoffed and didn't believe a word. There was no way she would be responsible for this mess. Future Rogue liked sex in fields, but only because Gambit suggested it. She couldn't picture herself being self-confident enough to ask for anything that involved nudity and riding lessons beneath the moon and atop the wildflowers.
He grinned victoriously as the lock clicked. "That used to be the perfect sound to Remy's ears until he heard the Rogue plead and moan between his thighs."
A furious blush flooded every inch of her face as she opened the door. Struggling to find a sentence worth parting with, she ignored the erotic flirting and stepped into Logan's room. Gasping in triumph, she instantly spotted the brown envelope on the floor and breathed a sigh of relief. Storm must have pushed it under the door after Logan left on the mission.
Gambit strolled into the room, examining the organised space. He expected more disorder and chaos from the Wolverine. "He's boring, non?" He rifled through a drawer, finding nothing but underwear and socks until he dug deeper.
Rogue tore the envelope open and checked the contents. Reading the speedily crafted note, her nose wrinkled. "Your daughter's a whore." She frowned, pouted, and then cringed. "They called me a whore, Remy. They sent these photos and called me a whore. Why aren't you the whore instead? You're naked, too."
He grinned at a discovery in one of the drawers, ignoring her complaints. He held a photograph up, waving it about. "The Wolverine has a topless photo of Jean Grey amongst a sea of pastel panties."
Her gaze snapped to Gambit. Spotting the photo, she rolled her eyes. The panties probably belonged to Jean, too. "He never learns," she complained softly, walking to the bathroom.
Searching in the cupboard under the sink, she found a bottle of floral-scented air freshener. Plans made and further schemes plotted, she sprayed everywhere to cover their scents and returned to the bathroom. Rushing for little reason other than her behind should be in bed in British Columbia at that moment, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror and smiled faintly.
"Good luck, Future Rogue. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she whispered and pressed the buttons on the watch. The flash of light sent her hurtling headfirst into a vortex swimming with shimmering energy.
Eighteen-year-old Rogue gazed curiously and confusingly at the surroundings and opened the bathroom door. She peered out and smiled gently, watching Gambit rummage through the closet.
"Hey," she greeted softly, a hopeless romantic and falling deeply for the Cajun who had stolen her heart.
The bright, white light pouring from the cracks in the door had caught his attention. "You're always flashing Remy and not in the seductive sense."
"I don't know what that means, but I need your help." Approaching him, the tips of her fingers gently brushed against the hem of a pyjama shirt.
An almost giddy Gambit watched her shirt fall to the carpet. He eagerly locked the bedroom door and settled onto the bed, getting comfortable in the pillows. "Little Remy's ready and always willing to help, Chere."
Logan scowled to himself and stepped out of the elevator. Sniffing the mixture of scents in the hall, his brow furrowed. The mission had been called off thanks to it being another prank. The joker would be gutted when found, but first, he wanted to get to the bottom of why he smelled the fresh scents of his kid and the goddamn Cajun in a hall that only led to bedrooms.
His eyes narrowed when he noticed the singed carpet and burned walls close to his bedroom door. The damage was minimal, and the scents tracked to an unlikely spot. With a growl, he heard familiar voices inside and Marie's soft giggling. Counting to ten would only heighten the rage rocketing through his feral head, so he reached for the door handle and rattled it loudly.
With her shirt off, Rogue had fallen romantically into Gambit's arms. Feelings of lust developed wings and sailed close to love as they kissed, rolling about on a bed that didn't belong to them. When the sudden noises at the door interrupted their making-out session, she came to her senses and remembered whose room they were in. The romance faded, replaced by her disorderly panic.
"Oh my God, run! Run to the window!" she mouthed in a fluttering fear, springing off the bed and pulling her shirt on.
Gambit smirked to himself. He stuffed a memento into his trench coat pocket and continued to be amused as she shoved him forcefully toward the open window. Birds frantically chirped outside as he perched on the windowsill and whistled an uplifting tune.
Rogue, though, didn't find anything about the current situation humorous. The train wreck that life had recently become wasn't lost on her as she propelled him out the window when she heard the dangerous SNIKT. Grateful Remy had a soft enough landing thanks to a prickly bush, she scooted herself over the window frame, her feet scrambling for the trellis below.
Nothing could be gained from talking to a homicidal Logan and confessing a sexual relationship with Gambit, which led to losing her mind on her birth daddy's bed. She didn't even remember walking to the room or why they were there, but memories would only be rediscovered if she remained alive.
An adamantium claw sliced through the lock like butter, and the brutal force of Logan's hands almost separated the door from the hinges. He sheathed his claws and spotted the last escapee and her two-toned hair disappearing out the window.
"No, you don't," he growled, storming across the room.
Rogue froze on the dangerously creaking trellis and glanced at the waiting Gambit. "Run!" she ordered in an almost silent whisper, watching him slip behind a wall at the last second. With calming breaths, she gazed up at Logan's glowering face at the window.
"I can explain everything, but I need silence to study the pretty plants growing up this wall. And I have a really important lecture to attend soon, and I want to work on my breathing exercises in peace before I climb down. The breathing exercises are vital for my health, and I promise I'll stop talking now because I'm making little sense."
Logan's sharp senses focused on the gutless Cajun's footsteps disappearing around the side of the building and the unhealthy sounds the trellis made. He reached down, catching hold of her arm at the last second as the framework collapsed. Sighing heavily, he shook his head. How many times had he told her to quit climbing out of goddamn windows? One of these days, she would break her fucking neck.
A wide-eyed Rogue glanced down at the collapsed trellis. "My breathing exercises are really important."
"Is that what they're calling it now, huh?" he grumbled, hauling her safely into his arms and watching the blush flood her face.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered softly, the blush intensifying as he continued to use the glare.
"Sure, you don't." Logan set her down beside the desk chair and pointed to it. "Now, sit your ass down." When she obeyed him, he slammed the window shut and then booted the bedroom door closed with a heavy nudge of his foot.
A gulping Rogue watched him furiously pace. As she wondered if he had been caught in a rain shower recently because he looked damp, thoughts turned to digging herself out of this Gambit-sized hole. When he paused to stare at her, he growled under his breath, and she sighed.
He wore that look she affectionately called the 'Daddy Daggers'. A scowl so dark it stabbed the recipient and a glare so fierce, it meant he closed in on the threesome of rage, fury, and wrath. He always had more patience with her, but that scowl held special meaning because she had pushed things too far again, like when she planned to visit Mardi Gras without permission.
Logan worked through the rage and reminded himself that his daughter had turned eighteen. She was of age but still a clueless, naïve, trellis-climbing idiot at times. Dangerous stunts and dumb choices were best friends, and whatever he did seemed to drive her closer to the Cajun.
Every time he opened his mouth to rant, he thought better of it and continued to pace. This needed some real thought because she needed to know the truth.
"Look, Marie, I know you think you're grown, but you're not ready for a relationship like this." When she tried to interrupt him, he shook his head, and his scowl darkened. He stopped pacing and stood in front of her. "You're gonna listen to me, understood?" When she nodded, he shared several second-rate facts. "The Cajun's not here for a vacation. He's meant to lay low because of some trouble down south."
Her gaze narrowing with curiosity, Rogue gazed at him. "What do you mean?"
Logan battled with whether to tell her the whole truth. Gambit had pissed off half of Louisiana and was rewarded with a contract on his head. The Cajun being hunted by hired hitmen didn't bother the bad-tempered Wolverine, but the thought of his daughter tangled up in the mess did.
He heaved a heavy sigh because pity would rear its goddamn head if she knew the truth, and she would hightail it south to help Gambit take out scumbags and criminals. He knew her ways of dealing with things, understood her thought process and was determined to keep her safe, so he fell into the do-as-you're-told style of parenting he favoured when he had run out of patience and ideas.
"Go pack your duffle bag. We're heading north for a trip." When she opened her mouth to argue, he silenced her with a firm look. "You better hope I don't start singing campfire songs, you hear?"
As the unwelcome news sunk into Rogue's overly curious mind, she wondered what the campfire quip meant and crossed her arms. She felt her daddy was keeping secrets and didn't want to abandon life in the mansion while waiting for another short and sneaky road trip to a wildflower meadow.
Westchester, New York, February 2002.
Rogue picked up a marker pen from the uncluttered desk and crossed off today's date on the calendar. Thick, black ink seeped through several pages as she excitedly scribbled over the next five days. For her, this was a time to happily plan, plot and scheme enjoyable, pleasurable, exciting fun with a small group of trustworthy friends.
She abandoned the pen on the desk and hurried to the closet when she noticed the time. Time wasn't kind when you dawdled on packing duties. Outfits needed to be picked, folded, and packed. Gloves had to be matched to the clothes. Her cell phone barely held onto the last of its battery. Dropping her old duffle bag on the foot of the bed, she searched her closet for colourful clothes, humming to herself and coordinating the different outfits with a critical gaze.
A few minutes later, Logan appeared in Rogue's doorway. He hadn't been around for two weeks because of a bullshit mission involving spies, the government and some militant right-wing mutants who wanted their goddamn names known worldwide. Now, they had been neutralised, and he was free to return to his pastime of smoking, avoiding teaching, and wondering what the hell his kid was up to.
"Hey," he greeted with a half-smile, crossing the room and standing behind her.
The surprised Rogue swung around and hugged him. "Hey," she said happily, then busied herself for a few minutes, charging her cell phone on the bedside table and collecting several more outfits.
Logan settled down on the bed, his back creaking against the headboard. He dug through his jacket pockets and planted an unlit cigar between his lips, growing suspicious of the teen's behaviour. "What have I missed?"
She posed in front of the long mirror hung on the back of the closet door. Huffing and sighing over each outfit, the personalities in her head disagreed with each other, and her insecurities joined in. The party had already started, but she did belong as one of the guests.
"Nothing much," she finally replied, turning to face him. "Which outfit do you prefer?"
He looked at the two separate outfits. One was jeans, a belt and a plaid shirt combo. The other seemed to be some flowing green dress resembling an abandoned parachute. "You really need to ask?"
Rogue smiled and packed the jeans, belt and shirt. Too eager to keep still for long, she flung the dress onto the bed and searched for more belongings.
Logan caught the dress mid-air and checked the tag that was still attached. Sixty bucks for a disused and scrunched-up parachute styled into teen clothing? Jesus Christ. It looked like his claws had been churning the material in a salad bowl. "What's with the bag, the clothes and the rush?"
Gazing at him, she emptied the duffle bag again, repacking it with other outfits that fit the rainbow theme Jubilee had boldly declared the night before. "I'm going away for a few days. Well, five days and six nights. It's only been planned since last week."
His eyes narrowed slightly, and he tilted his head to the side, watching her with a growing frown. "Anywhere nice?"
"Mardi Gras," she replied gently and began to pack again; anxious time would run away.
Logan's frown turned to a scowl that darkened the longer she spent packing. He spent two weeks away, and the kid lost her goddamn mind. He figured this would happen at some point, him having to lay down the law again, but did she think he would let her leave the city, let alone cross several state lines and head down south to party for close to a week?
"Haven't you forgotten something?" he asked in a gravelly, gruff tone.
Shrugging, she looked around for the hurriedly written list. Gloves? Check. Shoes? Check. Underwear? Check. Shirt, pants, jeans and dresses? Check, check, check, check. Pyjamas? Check. Toiletries? Check. Towel? Check. Money? Check. Cell phone? Oh, she had forgotten her cell phone.
"Thanks for reminding me." She pocketed the phone into her long, flowing emerald-green coat.
Tempted to ground her on the spot, he searched for the lighter in his pocket. "You need to ask me first, Kid."
"Ask you what?" With fifteen minutes to spare, Rogue zipped up the duffle bag and gazed at him. His ever-present scowl caused her to sigh and re-evaluate the high-spirited attitude. Fine, she would ask him permission if that's what he wanted. "Can I please go to Mardi Gras with Jubilee and her friends?"
Snorting in amusement, Logan left the bed and walked to the door. "Hell no," he answered, heading into the hallway without another word.
Rogue's eyes widened in horror as the 'no' disrupted the rashly made plans for enjoyable, excitable fun. For once, Jubilee had involved her in the secretive outside friendship circle, and suddenly, Logan ruined everything with a hell no. She raced after him, fuming as she sprinted to the end of the hallway with cusses and insults dancing on the tip of her tongue.
"Who do you think you are, Logan? I don't need your permission anyway, and you can just stand outside, scowling and smoking while you watch me disappear down the drive."
Arching an eyebrow at the attitude, he sidestepped her when she tried to block the route to the staircase. "I'm your father, Kid, and you're not leaving the grounds without my permission."
"I go out constantly without asking you," she huffed, catching up with him again and tugging furiously at the jacket sleeve. "And you're only my daddy when it suits you!"
"Not anymore, you don't, and for the record, it doesn't suit me," he grumbled, pausing at the top of the staircase and itching for a smoke.
Growing more infuriated by the second, she tightened the grip on his sleeve and wouldn't let go until he listened. "You don't understand. I told Jubilee I could go. I promised, Logan. I can't let her down."
"That's not my problem," he answered gruffly, uncurling her gloved fingers from his jacket and heading downstairs.
Rogue pursued him and started to rage like an explosive wordsmith. Here came the judgements and damnation she learned from her old Mississippi roots. That I-don't-care attitude he carried around made the dovecote in her mind fragment and splinter.
"I don't think you understand what you're doing or saying, and do you know what else? You're a horse-thieving, redhead-riding, three-time hanged convict who will never be my daddy as long as I've got breath in my body to holler at you until you sit in the hottest, fieriest pits of hell."
Logan heaved a heavy sigh, stopped on the second to last step, and looked over his shoulder. "We're not doing this again."
"You're nothing but a horse-thieving, redhead-riding, three-time hanged convict," she snapped heartlessly, pushing past him with all the stubbornness of a sixteen-year-old determined to raise merry hell.
He caught her upper arm and tugged her back to his side. "Uh-huh, I heard you the first time," he muttered calmly, noticing a group of sniggering students by the kitchen watching his ass being handed to him.
Rogue spotted the students, too, and couldn't help herself. Glancing at birth daddy's scowling face, she angled her headstrong chin upwards and glared. "You're a horse-thieving, redhead-riding, three-time hanged convict with family issues!"
"You're goddamn right I've got family issues," he confirmed angrily and dragged her upstairs, ignoring her hurried protests. "Let's get one thing straight, Marie –"
A sudden eruption of light engulfed them and half-blinded Logan's eyes. The pounding energy behind the powerful spark knocked him clean off his feet, and he eventually landed with a heavy thud at the foot of the stairs, grunting, grumbling, and growling about the unexpected fall.
Fifteen-year-old Rogue stood on the tenth step and glanced at the overheated and smouldering watch. Confusion reigned wildly in her mind because the watch tripped through the past at a speed she wasn't used to. First, she landed on the outskirts of a misty battlefield with musket balls whizzing by her ears before appearing in dozens of different pastures with only seconds to gaze around in wonder. Maybe the watch is a fan of field trips, too?
"February 2002?" she muttered cautiously and heard disturbing noises at the bottom of the staircase. Widened eyes and a slack jaw greeted the sight of Logan staring right at her. "Oh no."
The Wolverine stood and eyed the girl with a scowling suspicion. He climbed the first step. Her clothes were different. He climbed the second step. She had pushed him down the fucking stairs. He climbed the third step. She smelled scared. He climbed the fourth step. She should be goddamn scared. He climbed the fifth step. She held two brown envelopes in her hand. He climbed the sixth step. She still smelled like his kid. He climbed the seventh step and watched her run.