This fic started out as my exploration of what I thought was going on between Magneto and Rogue after episode 3, and then took a sharp left turn into smut halfway through it, which unfortunately I'm unable to post in full here. I have an account under the same name ... elsewhere.

Gambit and Rogue are probably written more like their comic counterparts, which is why the story went where it did.

The opening line is a riff off of X-Men #45 (1991), because I have a sickness for making comics' allusions in my cartoon 'fic.

I kind of want to write the sequel with Remy/Robert Lord's mission now (Genosha by Day?), but Queen of Assassins and Thieves, Chapter 5 is next on the slate.

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Genosha at Night

Genosha at night, nothing like Gambit remembers. Last time, he was a prisoner, collared and caged. Now, he or rather Robert Lord is a guest at a five-star hotel. Robert's a nouveau riche gambler well on his way to becoming poor again between his bad bets and his propensity for giving big tips to pretty waitresses to blow on his dice. Remy counted cards, planted microcharges in the dice, to make sure that Robert lost big enough for even the casino to be generous. They sent up a complimentary bottle of La Grande Dame, which he emptied a few hours ago. It didn't help. Champagne always makes him maudlin.

The city spreads out beneath him like a beautiful woman, glittering with diamond lights. He should go down into its embrace, find himself a bar that serves cheap whiskey and a companion whose name he will forget in the morning if he ever learns it. There's only one woman he wants, though, and he never learned hers.

He turns away from the window, pulling out a clean deck of cards and shuffling it. This mission was a bad idea. It had sounded ideal when Magneto had first proposed it: go undercover as a rich idiot, rub shoulders with diplomats and other luminaries, keep his ear out for any trouble as Genosha prepares to join the UN. Get away from the mansion and Rogue. Simple. But he's always turned down jobs where he has to watch and wait. He's wired for constant movement, for scaling buildings and crawling through vents, for dodging guards and dancing through lasers.

Now, in his vantage point above the city, all his nerves are electric, charged with energy. He sends some of it into a card, watches it flare pink, draws it back into his body. He wishes he still smoked. He wonders if he should start again.

"Merde," he turns away from the window and sits on the edge of the too-large bed, alternates flicking cards into the bin beneath the desk and the ice bucket on the table. It's not a challenge, but it's something to do with his hands. Ace of diamonds, three of spades, six of clubs, seven of hearts … queen of hearts. She looks at him impassively, mouth downturned in the corners. Mocking him.

The card sparks in his hand. He feels the molecules accelerate, gives them a push to make them go faster, waits for the tipping point when they will flash outwards and release their energy. At the last instant, he throws it out the window. It explodes against the night sky, and the street below him goes silent for a long moment before the people dismiss it as a stray firework and the noise of the crowd starts up again.

"Remy! What in the sam hill are you doing?"

As if conjured by the card and the night, she is hovering in the window. His own magic trick. His only queen of hearts.

"Rogue."

She is strange in the Genosha night, a silhouetted figure cut into the electric skyscape, the streak in her hair a slash of white. She alights in the room and the lamplight colors her. Chestnut hair. Gold-tinted skin. Concerned, green eyes.

"Morph told me you left on a mission, sugar. They said I should follow you, because you were liable to do something stupid."

"Me? Just doing what the boss wants, chere."

"You didn't say goodbye before you left. I was worried, Remy."

"I can take care of myself, Rogue. I was fine before you and I'll be fine after you."

He's started the argument he's been swallowing for weeks, forcing it back down like the performers eating fire for tourists on the esplanade. No wonder his stomach is churning.

"After me? If you're going to break up with me, at least do it straight."

He barks out a laugh, hard and bitter, "Break up with you, Rogue? How would I do that? We aren't together."

She flinches. He's hurt her. On another night, he would take it back, smooth it over with an apology, flirt with her until she smiles at him. But the acid is rising up into his chest, and he needs to vomit it out.

"I told you I loved you in the Savage Land. Waited months to hear it back from you. Followed you around like a whipped puppy, hoping you'd say the words. But then you chose Erik."

"Remy, I… "

He cuts her off. He needs to finish this before he loses his nerve, "I'm not Logan, Rogue. I'm not going to live off whatever scraps you decide to give me. I may not have a lot of self-respect, but I have too much for that. So, you should go. I got a job to do for your boyfriend."

"Sounds like you don't have much respect for me," her green eyes blaze, electric as the city behind her, bright as his cards, "What the hell, Gambit? What kind of girl do you think I am? Do you think I got my kicks leading you on, only to drop you as soon as someone comes around that I could touch?"

She closes the distance between them. He breathes in her scent, sweet vanilla and spice, "I love you, you idiot. I've always loved you. I was too chickenshit to tell you. It ain't much of an excuse, but it's the truth."

His heart catches in his chest. She loves him. Rogue loves him. His father taught him never to question miracles, yet he continues talking, his voice sounding muddy and thick to his own ears. "So, what were you doing with Erik?"

"Goddamnit, swamprat."

She kisses him. He tenses for the shock of her powers, for the dizzying sensation of his mind leaving his body and the fall back into blackness, but he feels nothing except the heat and softness of her lips, her mouth parting for him, her tongue stroking his. Any lightheadedness he feels is from her, from the blood rushing to his head and elsewhere. She kisses him and he kisses her back.

"Surprise," she breaks away from him at last, face flushed, smiling triumphantly.

"But how?" he asks.

"It's what I've been working on with Erik," she replies, then makes a face, "Well, kinda. I didn't do more than hold hands with him, whatever you may think about me. I told him about us day one. Made it clear that you were a big part of the reason why I wanted to get my powers under control."

He stares at her, fumbling for words. All his fears, all his jealousy, all the Inferno-induced nightmares, all the practiced speeches and rehearsed arguments, they were for nothing. The whole time, she was working to get control. For him.

Hands on her hips, "Say something, Remy."

"I'm sorry, chere. I shouldn't have doubted you."

"No, you shouldn't have," she says firmly, then relents, "But I also should have been straight with you. About how I felt and what I was doing with Erik. I didn't want to get your hopes up if nothing came of it. I'm sorry too, Remy."

He leans forward to kiss her again. This time, she strips off her gloves, sliding her hands up beneath his shirt, pulling him into her, greedy for touch. He brushes his lips over her jaw, her throat. Like the molecules in his playing cards, he can feel everything accelerate between them. His body thrums with adrenaline and arousal. He wants her. He knows she can feel how much, with her hips pressed snug against his, and only linen and spandex between them. He doesn't want her to have regrets.

"Chere, wait," he puts his hands on her shoulders, separates them. It takes every ounce of his willpower. Her eyes are dark, red lipstick smudged. The sight makes him want to rip off her uniform, ruin her make-up, fuck her until she forgets everything except his name. But she isn't a one night stand. She's the woman he loves, and she loves him back, and she may be it for the rest of his life, "You should know. It doesn't have to be tonight. We can take it slow as you need."

"I'm sick of slow, and I'm tired of waiting. I want you now."

Fade to black for this version. You can read the full story on the other site. You know the one.

Much, much later, Remy collapses on top of her, sweaty and breathless. Rogue's a beautiful mess, curls plastered darkly to her forehead by sweat, lipstick smeared to a red blur, her cheeks pink from his stubble. She has a smile on her face and she kisses him softly on the forehead. She'd had the night he wanted her to have, then.

"I love you, Remy," she yawns, then laughs, "Sorry, sugar. Promise I ain't tired of saying that yet."

"I love you too, Rogue."

"Anna," she says, her voice heavy and slurred with exhaustion, "My name's Anna Marie."

It's not the first time a woman's told him her name at the end of a night together, but it is the first time he's been in love with her when she did.

"Anna Marie," he repeats, "Nice to meet you, chere."

He expects a sassy comeback, but Rogue is already asleep, breath slow and even, snoring slightly. He holds her and lets the Genoshan night drift back in, wanting to memorize every detail of this moment. The salt of the sea air, the people laughing on the streets below, the electric lights of the skyline, his Anna dreaming.