A/N: So this is sort of an experiment/sanity retention experiment. Word of advice: Graduate school will become your life if you let it. If you like it, do please review because if I don't get a lot of feedback on this I'm probably going to kill it. Don't expect a lot of quick updates...see the words immediately above. The back story is going to sort of work it's way out through the current story, it's going to be a ride, so hold on. Typical disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, no money, again see above! Enjoy.
Somehow this was pay back. He wasn't sure for what, but he had to have done something to deserve this. He eyed the "bartender" leaning smugly against the row of dirty bottles lining shelves that held a pathetic selection of liquor, then scanned the grimy fridge stocked with what he assumed to be bottles of beer behind the filthy glass. Taking his chances Logan nodded at the unmarked tap - the only tap. "Three fifty," the bartender grunted and slid him the glass. It smelled like piss. Shrugging Logan slapped three seventy five on the counter. It tasted like piss. He debated taking back the quarter. Fury was going to pay for being late, and it would cost more than three seventy five. He tipped his worn cowboy hat up to get a better view of the customers brave enough to frequent this establishment. A couple hookers, getting an early start on numbing down for the night, sat clustered at the other end of the bar. The blonde had given up on giving him friendly looks about ten minutes ago. Either she decided he wasn't interested, or she was too far gone at this point to notice him anymore. Logan assumed their frequent bathroom trips had mostly consisted of taking turns doing lines on the bathroom sink. Behind him were two kids probably not old enough to drink, but young and stupid enough to think they were cool by doing it anyway. They were too busy trying to look like thugs to anybody passing by to have done more than glance at the 'old dude in the stupid hat' before going back to pretending to be bad ass. He wondered if they could really handle 'bad ass' if he picked a fight. He snorted into his piss water and looked back across the bar. And of course there was his friend the bartender, who noticed he was being stared at and merely grunted back in return. Yup, this had to be payback but at least he wasn't being watched. The closest possible trouble was NYC's rookie gang violence unit which was still two blocks away. It was the perfect place for a meeting, but Fury was late.
Another ten minutes passed; long enough for Logan to wonder if he'd have been safer with a bottle instead of the tap and offer a silent thanks to the powers that be for his healing factor. Only then, when he'd almost given up, did he hear the door on his left swing open and somebody stumble inside. Half an hour late, but at least he showed. "Frank!" Fury shouted and half ran, half fell towards him at the bar "There y'are, you sorry bashtud. I tol you were goin t'Effie's Pub, not Larry'sh. I been lookin' fer you eveywhere." Fury slapped him on the shoulder and held his hand there. Logan could feel the jump drive pressed into his skin and grabbed it as he pulled Fury's hand away, sliding it up his sleeve.
"Been lookin' in the bottom of every glass from here to there?" Logan barked. "You said Larry's and I've been waiting here for the past forty minutes you drunk shit." Logan grabbed him by the sleeve, only slightly rougher than necessary. He was almost sorry that he wouldn't have a chance to force Fury to drink the same sewer rat piss he'd been nursing all along. Without looking at anybody Logan pushed Fury in front of him until they were out of the bar, down the block and in an alleyway where they wouldn't be seen. Fury had spent the walk alternating between protesting drunkenly and moaning that he was going to puke. He made a very convincing drunk, Logan noted. Which made it that much easier to shove him around while they walked to the rendezvous point Fury had predetermined with the Cajun. Nobody questioned a drunk or his handler. Finally the stench of garbage let Logan know they were near the alley and with a quick shove Fury went sprawling face first down the back street and onto the dirty pavement.
"You had to pick the filthiest bar to take me to didn't you?" Logan asked, spitting on the sidewalk to try and erase the taste from his mouth.
"Seemed your type of place," Fury chuckled. Slowly, he picked himself up and dusted off his pants, miraculously sober. He shook his head, his face turning deadly serious. "You have your information, you don't want to know what I had to go through to get that," Fury stated, pointing at Logan's chest pocket where he'd seen him slip the drive. "S.H.I.E.L.D. is not going to get involved," Logan nodded, he had expected that much. "I'm serious, Wolverine." Fury said, getting close enough Logan could almost taste his breath. "From this point forward this meeting never happened. I refuse to get my team involved in this, let it be on your head." And with that he turned and vanished back out onto the dark street, once again weaving his way uncertainly through the crowd like a master performer.
Odd, Logan thought, waiting a few more minutes before exiting the alley himself. Normally S.H.I.E.L.D. refused to get involved. When it came to the X-Men and their agenda Fury simply turned a blind eye...no pun intended. That was, of course, when he wasn't hell bent on making the lives of his favorite "mutant terrorists" miserable. But he was never so...vehement about it. Fury's disavowal of their interactions was always something assumed on the part of both parties. Why was Fury suddenly so insistent on it?
Time would tell as Logan made his way up the sidewalks, through the occasional throngs of people to where he had left his bike. Climbing on he revved the soft tail to life once, twice, then waited. An answering hum came to him from down the block within seconds and he kicked the throttle violently to start the ride home, stilling mulling events over. He took the corners easy, knowing that any second the Cajun would be coming up past him to take the lead and monitor the way. Make sure they weren't being followed. Soon enough the flashy R1200RT, the Cajun's new BMW toy, flew by with him bent low over the tank. Logan grunted, he'd never be caught dead on the thing, but it did the trick-caught attention. Gambit was the bait for anybody wondering what an X-Man might be doing in the city. While Logan was meeting with Fury, Gambit had been having a not so subtle dinner with Emma Frost, not that anything Emma did could be mistaken for subtle, and was now heading home on his not so subtle motorcycle.
Logan would take the direct route home, turning off at the next exit and heading straight back to the mansion. Gambit would meet him back in the garage about twenty minutes later if he didn't have anybody to shake off in the winding back streets of Westchester. And if he did...well Logan figured he would probably enjoy the excitement. Cajun could take care of himself, Logan would just wait longer. He hated nights like tonight and missions like this, they always amounted to a lot of hanging around waiting for something and hoping it didn't happen.
Sooner than he expected the mansion loomed ahead and he was punching his access code in at the gate. He pulled slowly into the main garage, ground level, and parked his bike back in its own designated spot. Then he waited, and hoped he wasn't missing out on a good time.
Freedom was the only thing Gambit could think of, flying around corners in the city making his way back to the highway and home. It was so nice to be free. It would be so nice not to go back. He flew past Logan and could feel the feral smirk burning a hole through the back of his jacket, his leather jacket. This was no bike to be riding in his signature duster. This was the first time in the four months since he'd purchased the bike that he'd actually been able to take it out and ride. Leadership, he thought, can do awful things to a man. Not that it was all bad. Being able to make the rules was a nice perk; being able to dictate strategy rather than just falling in line like a soldier. But all the paperwork, and the discipline, and the complaints were building up more every day and it soon felt like he was going to drown in them. Thieves didn't act this way. Even with all the subterfuge and backstabbing going on within the guild, leading the New Orleans Thieves Guild had been easy compared to this. Of course, he thought glumly, after Katrina they would have followed anybody who could promise them a home not filled with water and floating bodies. He shook himself out of those memories, he had to get home. Nobody had followed him off the exit and there was nobody on the road except himself. It was time to go home-and get back to work.
Gambit pulled in slowly and let the bike come to a complete stop before lowering his feet off the pegs. A balancing act only a trained thief could pull off and he knew it. Logan just grunted; cigar already clenched in his teeth though he knew better than to light it in the garage. Gambit didn't allow tobacco smoke, even his own, near any of his toys-it ruined the paint. "Having fun?" Logan asked while Gambit quickly wiped down the wheels before calling it a night.
"Eh," he shrugged. "Ain' nobody out tonight, if anyone was watchin' they didn't figure it'd be worth seein' what I was up to."
"What you were up to?" Logan asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Well, of course. Out of de two of us you have to admit, I'm de much more interestin' party."
"My ass, Cajun."
Gambit laughed, throwing his dirty rag in the general direction of a collection bin and missing. "Come on Wolverine. Y'can' tell me dat dere are days you don't miss it. De adrenaline, de excitement, de..."
"Pinch?" Logan asked, jabbing Gambit in the ribs jokingly, leaning against his own prize bike.
"Was gon' say de chase, mon ami." Logan shrugged. "But yah, de pinch too." He flashed a grin.
Logan snorted, "You gonna let the team know what we were up to tonight or wait till the mornin'?"
"Translation: can I go smoke dis t'ing," Gambit laughed, flicking the tip of the cigar before turning and walking toward the mansion entrance door. "Or," he continued with his back turned to Logan, "you gonna make me sit in meetin's all night till I'm bout ready t'strangle somebody?"
"Somethin' like that." Logan shrugged, grinning. It was no secret he preferred Gambit's laid back leadership methods to Cyclops old regime. And while he missed the ole one eye, sometimes change, however unexpected, could be a good thing.
"Much as I'd love to make you suffer, mon ami." Gambit laughed, punching in the last of the security code and sliding through the open door. "Dat means I gotta suffer too. An' I ain' feelin' quite so masochistic tonight." He held his hand out and Logan deposited the USB stick.
"Fury didn't seem too eager to hand that thing over, Cajun." Gambit gave him a barely readable look almost confirming what Logan feared might be on that stick.
"Course not, S.H.I.E.L.D. don' like when stuff goes on dat dey can' handle demselves. Even less handin' it over to de enemy."
"You think we're ready ta tango with somethin' even S.H.I.E.L.D. seemed scared to touch?" The 'we' implied the team, and Gambit knew it. Much as he had faith in many of the individual members, Logan felt the same as he did when it came to a group situation, especially including some of the 'newbies' that had entered the ranks.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. ain' scared of nothin' Wolverine. Dey gov'ment, wit all de fine beaurocratic crap dat comes with it. Somethin' like dis, if it's what I t'ink it is, would end up wrapped up in red tape for months."
"They red tape it cuz it means too many people are gonna die, ya know."
Gambit laughed, "Dere ain' no people far as S.H.I.E.L.D. concerned, dere's 'an unacceptable percentage of foreseen loss associated with the project.' You worked wit' gov'ment Logan. You know dat."
Logan shrugged and the shadow of a grin graced his face. "So question is, is this Fury's way of getting rid o' us? Or is it a faster means to an end."
Gambit let the question hang in the air for a second, pondering. "Yes." Logan snickered at the response, but it was true. "G'night Logan. Don' stay up too late, we do have to do dis whole meetin' t'ing tomorrow."
A grunt was as much of an answer as he was going to get, and he knew it. Logan was a big boy; he could take care of himself. More, he could face the consequences when he didn't. Right now Remy found himself more concerned with what he finally held in his hand or at least what he hoped it was-answers. Silently he made his way toward the elevator, declining the effort of taking the stairs for once. As soon as the door opened he regretted it. "So how's Emma?" The southern drawl was like finger nails down a chalkboard at midnight. It was an unpleasant mixture of jealousy, anger and spite that never failed to make him feel slightly nauseated.
"Been takin' yo mother's lessons a little too serious," Gambit replied and stepped into the elevator. It was too late to turn back and do anything but. The comment had been a low blow too, but so was waiting up and stalking him. He figured that made them even.
"You are avoidin' my question."
His shoulders tensed and he kept his back to her. In a lot of ways she was exactly like his ex-wife, assassin trained, strong willed, and unwilling to give him the slightest shred of trust. "Magnifique."
It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. "Well," she huffed as the elevator finally opened its doors on the third floor. "Ain' that just darlin'?"
It wasn't a question. "Rogue," he sighed and finally turned to face her. "I ain' gon do dis t'night. You'll get y'answers wit de rest of de team in de mornin'." He let a bit of a smirk cross his face and light the corner of his eyes. "Ain' no dinner wit de White Queen ever gon be considered a pleasure." He waited a second for the spark of realization to settle in her eyes. "An' you know dat. You wanna talk, chere, we'll talk after we both get a bit a shut eye."
She was much prettier, Remy thought, when he couldn't see her plotting his death behind those green eyes. "Business?" He shrugged. "Mission?" She wouldn't stop if he didn't put his foot down, and at this point they were already half way to his room. He hadn't even realized they'd been walking, damn he was tired.
"Morning." He stated firmly, turning and pointing back down toward the other end of the hall-toward her room. "Bed."
"Sure swamprat, just go an' pull rank like that." But she went, and she stopped questioning. And even more importantly, at least as far as Remy was concerned, the chip was no longer balancing precariously on her shoulder. She'd be much easier to deal with in the morning.
He entered his room, closed the door and shot one look of longing toward his bed before heading straight to his computer. The one thing he would thank Charles for until his dying day was that computer. Granted, there was nothing Cerebro could do for him that Remy wasn't perfectly capable of doing himself or paying somebody to do for him, but Cerebro could get it done so much faster and infinitely cheaper. Speed was the name of the game now.
Gambit had changed the X-Men in the months since he had taken over leadership. Though still hiding behind the guise of a school, no students roamed these halls any longer. It was too dangerous for kids; they made easy hostages. Instead the X-Men had transformed from a rag tag group of mutant freedom fighters to a self sufficient, highly trained, mercenary unit. After the death of Xavier Gambit had been one of the few to realize that it would only be a matter of time before Xavier's money would dry up. It had been time to start bringing some income back into the accounts. And, as a result of early planning, the X-Men had become one of the most highly sought after contracts in the country, if not the world. Even more importantly, because of Gambit's money management, they were poised in a position to be able to pick and choose their contracts at leisure and still do some of their own work and research on the side. Work and research like what Remy found himself doing at the moment.
"Load and display" Remy said out loud, prompting a screen to come to life on one of the walls and display the contents of the jump drive. It held three folders, all encrypted from the looks of it. From the size of it there was a decent amount of information to be had. "Cerebro, how long to decrypt files?"
"Processing...approximately four hours. Would you like to begin decryption Gambit?"
Four hours of sleep didn't sound too bad, especially after a look at the clock. It was twelve thirty-ish. Sleep till four thirty, go over what he could for two hours, have breakfast with the team at six thirty, Danger Room session by seven thirty and team meeting at ten. "Please begin decrypting files, set alarm for four thirty AM."
"Complying."
That done Remy began to get ready and climb into his bed. It had taken over three weeks to convince Fury to hand over this data and he hoped it would answer more than a few of his questions. There had been too many reports of mutant kidnappings lately. Not just a typical mutant kid disappearing here or there, it was becoming epidemic. But more to the point, the kidnappees weren't being held indefinitely, they were being released a few days later with no recollection of the past 72 to 96 hours. It seemed, at least to Remy LeBeau, disturbingly...Sinister? That was of course, nothing more than a hunch but the whole situation left a familiar chill running down his back.
Then there were the rumors...bad rumors. Remy LeBeau hadn't gotten to be the undisputed King of Thieves by ignoring something seemingly insignificant like a rumor. Story was that China's law enforcement project of robotic surveillance "officers" was being unofficially run and organized by Bolivar Trask. Rumor also had Trask working out of Magneto's former mutant nation Genosha once more. Of course, paper had Trask sitting fat and pretty in a penthouse in London enjoying the monetary rewards of his program that the Geneva council had been kind enough to denounce as inhumane. However, they had also ruled that since Trask's wealth had been gained legitimately, with no direct ties to the Genosha project, his bank accounts were thus granted immunity in the financial settlement that had been agreed upon to rectify the 'situation'. Geneva always managed to surprise the mutant community at large with how extraordinarily outlandish their decisions were as far as what was wrong and what was 'legal'.
Worry about it later, sleep now, Remy thought, turning toward his pillow without bothering to undress. Four hours would come and go fairly quickly and there was still a lot to be done.
Logan took one last draw on the cigar he had lit seconds after walking onto the back patio. He had heard the person following him from the moment he walked through the rear foyer. Whether that person was aware of it or not, he wasn't sure. A year ago, perhaps two he would've let her get away with it or considered it part of the game. Now, with the type of business they were dealing with, games got a body dead real fast. "Late night for you 'Ro." He didn't bother turning to look at her. Odds were two to one she wouldn't mind the rebuke, his favor.
"And it is not exactly an early night for you either, Logan." From the change in the intensity of her scent he could tell she had moved closer. Probably to sit in one of the chaise lounges that decorated this section of the grounds. "What would cause you and Remy to be out so late before an early morning Danger Room session?"
Logan snorted. "Ya make it sound like we've never done it before."
"Indeed, but not since Cyclops left and Gambit took over. So was it business or pleasure?"
"Jealous?" Logan asked. He couldn't tell why but tonight he found himself itching for a fight, and unfortunately for Storm she had volunteered herself as an accessible and, given their recent history, easy target.
"Curious." Storm wasn't rising to the bait. "It did not seem either of you were gone long enough for it to be a night of recreation. Rogue seemed to believe you were both meeting with Emma. If that is the case I feel fairly comfortable guessing that some team business was being transacted. I only wonder what?"
She hit the nail too close to the head. Logan shrugged and turned to finally look at her. "Gambit needs to learn not to open his mouth if he don't want rumors being spread."
Storm echoed his shrug in response, her thin white t-shirt sliding off one shoulder in the process and tossed her hair over that same shoulder, exposing a small portion of skin. "I do not spread rumors Logan. You must have learned at least that much of me."
He shook his head. This conversation was now poised to travel one of two somewhat well worn paths, neither of which the Wolverine felt like exploring tonight. Either the conversation would get real ugly and real personal real fast, or one of them would be forced into admitting feelings that they had both long since abandoned. If it went the latter way Logan was pretty certain Storm wouldn't end up being the one spilling her guts to the moonlight. "Nice try kid, but I ain't sayin' a word till Gumbo gives the okay." A smile hovered at the edge of her lips and he tipped his hat to her slightly to acknowledge her small victory. He had needed to acquiesce to it being a work night in order to bow gracefully out of the conversation and she knew it. Suddenly Logan felt very tired. "Go to bed Storm, it's gonna be a long day tomorrow and even goddesses need to get some shut eye every now and again." He turned his back to her, taking a nice long drag to cool down nerves he didn't recall being fired up.
Now was his turn at victory. He had known the nickname would finally strike a cord in her. "Goddesses will go to bed when they wish." She rose into the air before him, the wind blowing her hair behind her in what Logan used to find an irresistible manner but now saw as nothing but a paltry special effect. "They do not follow the will of mere mortals. Especially mortals such as yourself." That said Storm let the wind take her away towards the south grounds and the gardens.
Logan shook his head and stomped out the remains of the cigar, losing his interest in it. What had at first been a friendship between the two had blossomed into a loving relationship at some point nine or ten months ago. Unfortunately just as blossoms eventually fade wither and die their relationship had as well, only about nine weeks in and their friendship had remained touchy and distant ever since. But the Wolverine wasn't quite ready to admit he was at fault for the problem and Storm was too stubborn in her own way to take blame either. Instead they were left in limbo. Logan growled. If there was anything he hated it was that feeling of uncertainty. The Wolverine existed in a world of clear cut black and white, the spectrum of gray had no place in his reality and he found it's presence disconcerting.
Looking up at the moon, Logan realized how late it truly was. Two a.m. was now fast approaching and he knew Gambit would hold true to his promise of an early morning. He turned and let himself back into the mansion, making his way back to his own suite of rooms. Sleep would come easy tonight.
Bishop watched as Wolverine made his way into the house before following Storm over towards the gardens. She sat calmly, humming to herself amongst the foliage of the surrounding rhododendrons. Tropical plants, Bishop knew, were her favorites. However, the climate of New York was too harsh for them to grow anywhere but the greenhouse. Bishop also knew Storm would never head to the greenhouse at night, her claustrophobia wouldn't allow it. Instead whenever she needed time to focus he could always count on finding her in this exact spot where she had a view of the mansion, a view of the lake, a view of the sky and a view of the earth. As she had told him, all things in balance helped her to balance herself. Quietly he sat next to her and waited. She would speak when she was ready and he would listen. He had left his weapon on the edge of this particular bed of flowers, knowing Storm would chastise him for bringing it with him. Weapons of war serve no purpose in a place built for peace she had told him once.
Finally after about forty minutes she turned and acknowledged him. "It is getting to be late Bishop. Perhaps it is also time for you to seek your bed?"
"Why do you let him speak to you that way?"
Storm shook her head and turned back toward the lake, her back facing him. "With Logan, I have learned, it is not a matter of letting him or not letting him do anything. Logan will do as he wills and others must choose to either accept it or react."
Bishop looked away from her, towards the sky hoping to find some sense of calm for the emotions this conversation always invoked. "Why do you choose to accept it?"
"As I have told you before, Bishop. The question is not 'why do I accept it?' The question is why do I allow Logan's decisions to cause me to react." She turned back and took Bishops left hand in her own two. "As I have taught you, I alone am the master of myself. When I allow another's actions to dictate my own I have given up mastery of my own being. So when Logan decides to make a particularly rude or insensitive comment and I react without thought in the way he wishes I have granted him power over me."
Bishop stared at her for a long moment. Storm of all the X-Men had always confused him. She was, in and of herself, a heretical dichotomy: a pacifist who had and could kill without thought, a warrior who held life sacred above all else, a mutant who cared only for the wellbeing of the humans around her. "Yet when Gambit makes a joke that makes you laugh without thinking about it that is not surrendering oneself?"
Storm smiled. "It is, but it is giving over power to one who wishes you well. There is a difference."
He shook his head again, pulling his hand away. "I do not understand Storm. I was raised to react, not to give in."
"Simply because I strive not to react does not mean I am giving in."
Bishop shifted his weight so he was sitting next to her, both staring up at the sky. "It is late Storm, we both should be in bed."
"You are right, my friend, we should." Neither moved. Instead they sat the rest of the night staring at the sky in silence.
Four thirty came damn early, Gambit thought as the alarm he had asked Cerebro to set started going off. Slowly he stretched then rolled out of bed, reaching for his jeans and feeling nothing. Only then did he look down and notice that he had fallen asleep with his clothes still on. "Merde," he mumbled. His shoes were still where he had left them, kicking them off only minutes prior to climbing under the covers, so he grabbed those and put them back on before heading over to his computer desk.
In a way he missed his old room here at the mansion. It had been smaller and much easier to manage. Remy had never been one to collect stuff, his room had consisted of his bed, his desk, and his dresser for longer than he could remember. Longer, in fact, than he had been an X-Man. Now that he had taken over the team he had moved into Cyclop's old suite of rooms which had included a bedroom, bathroom, office, walk-in closet, and sitting room for meetings. He had yet to figure out what to do with the sitting room. The walk in closet had sat half empty for the past year. The office he had put a laptop in simply to be able to distinguish it from the sitting room (though he hadn't yet turned that laptop on). And the bedroom was simply a larger version of his former room. Storm had told him quite frankly that it was pathetic and had offered to help him do something with the space, but Remy just couldn't justify to himself filling the rooms up with junk just to be able to say they were full. Much as he loved his creature comforts, living on the run with next to nothing was too much of an ingrained way of life to change it now.
"Cerebro, is decryption finished?" He asked, punctuated with a yawn, as he reached the desk and dropped into the chair.
"Decryption complete."
"Bien, display files please." At his prompt the folder contents appeared on the monitor on his desk, sorted into nicely categorized fields. "Thank you Cerebro."
"You are welcome, Gambit."
Rogue always laughed at him when he thanked the computer system, but he figured Charles wouldn't have programmed it to respond correctly if he hadn't expected his students to treat the system with respect and manners.
The files that were displayed before him were not what he had been expecting to see. Remy had expected names, dates, building schematics, government contacts. Instead what he was looking at was a very sophisticated financial ledger, most of it appeared to be in Russian. From the figures the company...Mutragenics was the name he was able to find in the statements, was a pretty fat and happy corporation. That in itself was suspicious. Not only was the US undergoing a recession, but the financial climate in Russia was crumbling. Between fuel prices and cost of living expenses most companies were having difficulty keeping up. Even Worthington Industries, though well supported and well situated for the current business climate, was feeling the economic strain and posting numbers that were hardly close to spectacular. This company, whatever it was, was putting up figures straight out of the late nineties and the web economic boom.
He sat going over earning potential statistics for a quarter that dwarfed most companies' current fiscal gross incomes. It was almost sickening. Then he stopped. "How de fuck does a company make money like dis an I ain' heard of 'em?" he muttered to himself, digging deeper into the file. He focused on the task of finding a name, somebody or something he could link this to. After all it was no secret that Remy LeBeau was a very well off man with a portfolio it took a staff of seventeen, consisting of lawyers, accountants, financial advisors and market analysts (along with one lone real estate broker), to properly manage. Among all of them, as well as his not quite legit contacts there was no possible way a company anywhere in the world, let alone one in depression sunk Slavic territory, could be posting these figures without him knowing about it. The sense of wrongness permeated the entire jump drive.
Not being able to put his finger on it, Remy left the financial accounts folder and instead dove into the material he was hoping to avoid. His Russian was less than adequate on the best of days... with a few drinks in him. Colossus had at one point joked that Remy knew just enough to pick up a few black market Russian slave hookers at a dive bar with the help of a translator. Fact was it was going to be painfully slow going through all this material on his own since Peter had (in his opinion at the moment) rather selfishly (though most of the world regarded it more along the lines of heroically) sacrificed himself to cure the Legacy Virus more than two years back. Thus leaving him effectively without a trustworthy translator.
Gambit leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes slowly to relieve them from the stress looking at a computer monitor caused his overly sensitive retinas. After a moment he looked up at his desk clock. Six twenty-two glared at him in overly happy red digital numbers. He glared back. Somehow the clock didn't get the hint and he gave up trying, opting rather to climb out of his desk chair and throw on clothes that he hadn't already been wearing for close to twenty four hours.
Much as he'd rather sleep, he had always made it a point since taking over to have breakfast with his team. It was one thing Cyclops always did that Gambit had chosen to continue. He found it gave the team a sense of equality when they found that their leader didn't indulge himself in breakfast in bed and late morning naps when they were all up and about getting ready to run themselves ragged in the Danger Room. Of course, the only indulging Gambit would have been doing was possibly balancing the school checkbook and reading through the backlog of reports that filled every desk drawer he had. It didn't matter, that was not what the team would think was going on, and he knew it. Joining them for breakfast also gave him a feeling of being part of the team rather than above it; when he could sit and laugh with them about little things, antics and goings on at home that he would've missed holed up in his room going over statistics.
He tied on his shoes and grabbed his trench coat on his way out the door. Another thing he had learned long ago, though it had nothing to do with leadership. Breakfast could become a pretty cold affair when it was the resident Ice Cube's turn to cook, and Lord help him, Gambit was pretty sure today was Thursday.
"Yo, incoming!" gave him just enough warning to duck and roll as a plate of pancakes, syrup and all, soared right past where his head had formerly been. "Sorry man." The owner of the warning shouted from where he stood next to Bobby as he readied another plate. Gambit just shrugged and gave Ricochet a thumbs up before making his way over toward the table.
"Save the practicin' for later, bub." Logan shouted grabbing the plate out of midair and sliding it the rest of the way down the table.
"My thanks." Hank nodded before sinking his fork in. Logan simply nodded back.
"Who says I need practice, old man?" Nick laughed grabbing another plate and getting ready to hurl it again towards the table.
"Dat'd be me." Remy stated, pointing at himself and letting his smug grin do the rest of the talking.
"K, got it, no throwing around breakfast." Nick shrugged and carried the next two plates over, putting one in front of Storm and the next in front of his leader with a nod. Nicolas Papavisilios was one of the current "newbies" at the mansion. From what Hank had figured out Nick's powers pretty much acted like an ongoing physics experiment. He could perfectly judge how much momentum and at what angle an object would have to be thrown in order to hit an intended target with the correct amount of force to cause the intended amount of damage. Minimal telekinetic enhancements allowed him to ensure such objects maintained the correct velocity. Needless to say from that point forward Gambit refused to play pool against him.
He checked quickly to make sure that he wasn't going to be today's flash freeze victim before digging into his own breakfast. Lack of sleep always led to an increased appetite, and lately Remy had been eating enough for two team members simply to keep up his stamina, not that it showed- yet. The door opened in the middle of his second bite and he looked up to greet whoever had come down to join them. He also immediately regretted it. "Well look what decided to come down for breakfast." He muttered to his pancakes.
"Be a dear and shove it." Mystique's fake smile did nothing to hide the 'out for blood' look in her eyes this morning.
"I can take care of that." Nick shouted from across the room and launched another plate of pancakes toward Mystique, who ducked seconds before it would have hit her square in the face. Instead it splattered all over the front of Jubilee who had just stood to clear her plate.
"Like total Ick!" She shouted standing there, staring in shock at her ruined t-shirt. "You are soooo buying me a new shirt, Nick!"
Nick shrugged. "Let Mystique buy it, she started it."
"How exactly do you figure I did that?" Mystique asked from her perch on the chair that had been sitting empty behind her when the plate flew.
"You said to shove it." Nick turned back to grab another plate to place on the table this time along with a roll of paper towels for Jubilee and her apparently much loved shirt. "I was just hoping you'd open your mouth wide enough."
Laughter erupted around the table as Nick handed the paper towels to Jubilee, put some more pancakes down in front of Kitty and made his way back to Drake for more without a second thought as to what he had just said or any apparent concern for what might embed itself between his shoulder blades. "You have a death wish." Bobby laughed, handing him the next full plate.
Nick shrugged. "I dance with death every day. I eat your cooking don't I?"
"Which is more than I can say for tha rest of us. Let's speed it up Bobby, a girl could starve to death over here." Rogue laughed from the far end of the kitchen table.
"Cereal for the loud mouthed southerner!" Bobby shouted, holding his spatula aloft like a scepter.
"Which one?" Phantasm shouted from her seat next to Rogue.
"Dere are t'ree of us y'know." Remy chimed in, winking at the two girls.
"All of them!" Bobby shouted, waving the spatula in the air. "Genius cannot be rushed."
"Indeed." Hank stated, looking up from his book to join in the conversation. "It most certainly cannot. But since I am most afraid that you do not suffer from such an affliction Robert I see no reason you cannot increase the current rate of the cooking process. Speaking from the perspective of a genius of course."
"I do believe Hank just busted on me." Bobby frowned and gave a bewildered look before turning back to the stove.
"Score one for team South." Phantasm laughed and held up her hand to high five Rogue. "Now we just gotta score us some food."
Remy was just about to go in for his fourth bite when a barely visible but fully solid telekinetic dome appeared over his plate and it began to make it's way over toward Charlotte Manning, aka Phantasm, and Rogue. "Hey, y'can' jus steal a man's breakfast. Dat ain' fair."
"Looks lahk it's too late swamprat." Rogue giggled and grabbed the plate that Phantasm uncovered as soon as it was securely on their side of the table. "So much for master theif, gettin' y'breakfast stolen out from under your nose." She tsked and Charlotte giggled.
Remy just shrugged and reached for another plate that was coming off the stove. He had seen Bobby nod when Rogue took the plate. She loaded her fork up with a big bite and winked at him before biting down on a frozen solid piece of pancacke. "Bobby Drake!"
"What can I say, team South boys versus girls, and you ladies lost."
"Bobby, y'ain't from the South." Charlotte giggled, shaking her head.
"Yo, I'm from South Brooklyn, a'ight!" Bobby pointed the spatula menacingly, then returned to flipping pancakes. "Don' make me go gangsta on yo' ass."
"In his man apron." Kitty added, giggling behind her orange juice.
Remy laughed, it was good to see them all like this. There were days lately he felt that wistful look of regard that Scott used to give them settling on his own face. He could understand now. It was nice to know that, Mystique patently excluded, the reality of the world around them hadn't broken them yet. They were still able to laugh. "Leave de boy an' his apron alone Kit." Remy admonished then cleared his throat and took on his 'leader voice'. "Gonna need y'all in de Danger Room dis morning. Dish duty can wait Jubilation." He looked directly at her, silencing the excuse that had frozen on her lips before she could even fully open them. "Was going over de results from de conditioning exercises an' I ain't impressed. Some o' y'gettin' lazy." He knew better than to actually look at any of them. They knew who they were without the rest of the team knowing, and if they didn't they'd find out the hard way. "Den we havin' a debriefin' at 10, so shower quick cuz if Logan has to smell you t'rough the entire meeting I'm gonna let him deal with you after."
"Full team or senior staff only, Remy?" Storm asked from her perch at the island.
He mulled that over in his head. If he got the whole team involved now he'd have to keep them involved, if he only pulled in the senior rank he could always debrief the others later. Of course, that usually caused tempers to flare and attitudes to spark up at the worst possible moments. "Full team." He answered, there wasn't enough information yet to worry about the new recruits sensitivity to danger. There was always the option of sending them on a wild goose chase later while the heavy hitters took care of the real problems. Lord, what he wouldn't give to hand over this job. But nobody could do it better, and after his display of what he could do both in New Orleans and over the past months here in New York they wouldn't let him abdicate too easily. Not to mention it would gnaw rather uncomfortably on what little conscience he still retained knowing he had left them to figure things out on their own. Storm cast a concerned gaze toward him, he just shrugged back and made a mental note that Stormy apparently knew something. He polished off the last of his second plate of pancakes and placed it on the counter before heading down to the locker room himself.
Of course, he wasn't alone, his spatial awareness had clued him in to that from the moment he walked out the kitchen door. Once down in the sublevels he finally stopped and turned around, quirking an eyebrow at her in a way that he knew she found infuriating and waited.
"Yah said we'd talk."
"I said we could talk if you wanted to."
Rogue crossed her arms across her chest and started stubbing her toe on the adamantium floor. Every line of her body read of uncertainty and a need to stay away. It was one of her many habits that he found infuriating. "So let's talk."
He conceded, there was still a half hour before the rest of the team would be heading toward the Danger Room. Remy let his shoulder rest against the wall and let his hand sweep out between them, indicating she had the floor, respectively speaking.
"Yah look like hell, sugah."
He laughed, nodding and closing his eyes. "Nobody said dis job gonna be easy."
"Nobody said yah had ta do it all by yourself neither. Scott never did."
"Non, he had his wife do all the paperwork. Smart man."
That rubbed her the wrong way, he'd known it would. "Ah could help yah...if you'd let me. Yah gotta let somebody help you, it's gettin' ridiculous. You don't sleep hardly enough, yah ain't eatin' right...and you smell like a cesspool so Ah know y'ain't showered in more'n a day, maybe two."
"Now you sound like my wife..." he forced a deep breath. "Why you so worried bout me, chere?"
She shrugged, inching a bit closer to him. "You said we'd always be friends, no matter what." A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. "And friends don' let friends work themselves to death." She laughed. "Would've said 'drive drunk' but Ah'm pretty sure Ah've let ya do that on more than one occasion."
Now he laughed too. "Oui chere, t'ink ya have. Not dat I would've let y' stop me." He examined her posture. No doubt of it, much as she wanted to avoid any chance of contact with him there was still that lingering hint of hope that they'd work things out. It was like an old wound that wouldn't stop itching, that hope they both still harbored, that they could work through the stockpiles of shit they called their history and manage to have a normal relationship. God help him, but he was going to scratch the itch at least once more. "You win. Dis afternoon y' can help me wit some reports, deal?"
He could tell he'd caught her by surprise, but it wore off quickly and she nodded. He smiled and put one arm cautiously around her shoulder, "So tell me, Rogue, how good is y' Russian?"