Nobody had ever bothered to ask her what her best quality was. Most people who knew her assumed she didn't have one, and the ones who knew her best, well, they likely agreed. The words most often used to describe her consisted of: deranged, psychotic, murderous, and sadistic. Some might include words such as intelligent, calculating or resourceful if they were feeling generous. But, if you asked Raven Darkholme what her best quality was, and you asked nicely, the answer would probably shock you, though she'd be absolutely right. Raven's defining qualities consisted of: loyalty and determination. Determination was something she had in generous supply. If she was being honest, it was likely the sole reason her corpse hadn't rotted away in a shallow grave decades ago. Determination was the only thing that had brought her children into this world. It was also the single factor that had removed one from it. In all things, Raven was most certainly determined.
Loyalty, however, was a different matter. But it was there, all the same. Nobody ever said loyalty meant one had to be kind. In fact, it didn't even require enjoyment. Certainly love need not factor the equation either. But, once deemed worthy of her services, it would be a cold day in the depths of hell before Raven would betray one to whom she was truly loyal. Even if that required maintaining loyalty beyond the grave. It was that sense of loyalty that pushed her to mend bone, skin and blood vessels through the use of her own powers. It was her determination that allowed her to endure the excruciating process. The loyalty certainly wasn't to these X-Men, not even to her adopted daughter. At least not in theory.
Irene had made her promise to follow the path. The winding road that had seen her putting Rogue in contact with Carol Danvers, had put a bullet through her son's head, and had forced her hand to bring about the demise of his father. In her more lucid moments, Raven would admit that Destiny's mere suggestion was really just an excuse for her to exercise judgement as to what actually needed to happen. She'd never admit that she didn't always get it right.
Irene had told her the path would someday lead to this point. Not in so many words of course. She never had the courtesy to just come out and say what needed to happen, or how things should be. But it was in the journals, the ones she had memorized. Destiny's Diaries held the futures of countries and civilizations within their pages. They foretold all the great happenings of mutant kind. At least, they did for those who were able to decipher their ramblings and images. If the Bible was vague and suggestive, it held not a candle to Irene's ramblings.
Upon completion, Irene had begged Raven to destroy them. While for some they held the key to power and world domination, for Irene they were the cursed ramblings of the disease that plagued her. She hated the diaries, hated how she felt such compulsion to document the visions that floated unbidden through her mind any time of the day or night. They were a reminder of her torment, when she found herself trapped in crazed nightmare of sights and sounds that her mind could barely make sense of. Irene had never wanted anything more than for those diaries to vanish, especially knowing the misery they could bring to the world.
Mystique had, eventually, done as Irene had asked. The diaries consumed by fire and rendered to no more than ash…once she had memorized them. She recited them to herself the way a mother sings a lullaby, she envisioned the images the way a holy man imagines nirvana, and she whispered them as she waited for all of her wounds to fade, as the burning subsided into the aches of bruises slowly fading. "The devil will watch from afar, with eyes that lurk within the hold. The eyes of a demon will lead the march from across continents, leading the righteous. The fallen will rise and the righteous will stand or the world will fall. All will be determined in the hands of the ghost". If Raven had it calculated correctly, this was the vision for where she stood in time and space. Or she was simply raving mad. Like most of Irene's mutterings and mumblings, it was fairly open to interpretation.
Slowly she stood and stretched. A cold grin seeped across her newly reset jaw at the knowledge that the Wolverine was not the only resident with healing capabilities. It paid to be underestimated by your enemies. The eyes were within the hold, allowing the demon to watch from afar. She began a slow lope back toward the main house, the grin had become a sneer. The day would soon arrive when she would finally have the opportunity to spit in the demon's eye.
The worst aspect of this particular city was always the smell, at least it certainly was in Lowtown. Fish. Days old and hot, blending artistically with low tide and a small touch of human excrement. Bishop truly didn't know how Logan managed to tolerate it, as with his own perfectly average sense of smell it caused horrific nausea. The pavement below his feet was somehow sticky while also being slick, and he couldn't have identified the color. He hitched his bag slightly higher on his shoulder and grunted. "No." It was frank, sure, and succinct. As he had heard said frequently, it was a complete sentence. He planted his feet and attempted to stand his ground.
"Yer sayin' it like it's a choice, bub."
"I'm not going to the palace".
He watched Logan steal a glance at at their surroundings. Lowtown was thankfully rather quiet in the early hours of the day, most business in this section of the city operated solely under the cover of night. This meant the streets were fairly calm, the bars and markets were still closed, and aside from some fishing boats setting off from the docks, visible at the bottom of the hill about a half mile away, signs of life were absent. While some slight streaks of beauty peeked out of hidden crevices and cracks within the Lowtown alleyways and building fronts, it mostly looked like what it was: a dirty slum. One infested with criminals, pirates and gangs. Wolverine raised an eyebrow and pulled his cigar from his teeth. "Look Bishop, I have no problem spendin' time down here. People I can catch up with, get my hands dirty a little. But, when Tyger hears you're here and says to come visit, you visit. Or you pay consequences." He pointed at Bishop with the lit cigar. "You ain't worth those consequences."
Bishop shook his head. "Gambit said to meet up with Kimura."
"Meetin' with Tyger don't mean we can't see Kimura too." He stepped closer and took a quick sniff. "You smell like fear, Bishop."
The tall time lost mutant grumbled and turned his back to the short Canadian. "I grew up in that palace." He closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his head before clenching it into a fist. "Madripoor was the crown jewel in the Witness's criminal empire. One of the few places where being a mutant wasn't a death sentence. When he took Shard and I from the wreckage of that attack in New York, he moved us here. I lived in that palace for almost a decade."
He heard Wolverine snort. "And?"
He turned his head back, a glint sparking in his eyes. "I am not going back to my childhood prison." He was sure it looked nothing like it had in his childhood. In his timeline and memory, an errant bomb strike had collapsed a good portion of the southern branch of the palace. The Witness' personal quarters were very obviously an addition he had designed himself, clashing with the older architecture while also enhancing it. Winding hallways with open courtyards sat in ironic opposition to steel archways with biometric door alarms, while armed guards stood watch over gaunt children who meandered through ball rooms and audience halls that echoed in memory of crowds they would never see again. The thought of returning to the place was chilling, even if the fact was he had technically never yet set foot inside.
He felt the hand on his arm before he had registered the movement, it wasn't meant to be comforting. Moments later claws appeared at his throat. "Yer goin'" the gruff voice whispered in his ear. "You choose how you get there, bub. Suck it up."
The barrel came up swiftly under Logan's chin. "I'm not worried about the blow back, just a boost for me," Bishop snarled.
They found themselves standing that way for a solid minute, and likely would have stayed longer if it weren't for the delighted chuckle that wafted over to them from the entrance to the alley. "My, this is quaint." Her heels clicked against the stone as she sauntered over and placed one indestructible finger tip against the cold metal of Logan's claw while holding another hand carelessly over the mouth of Bishop's plasma rifle. "You boys should learn to play nice."
Bishop watched Logan slowly retract his claws and swivel. "'Bout time you stopped spyin'. You gonna stop us from killin' each other, hope you got a good reason darlin'. I ain't a fan of people spoilin' my good time."
She tsked him and reached an arm up to wrap around Bishop's left bicep as if she were a longtime lover. Long black ponytail coming over her shoulder as she leaned into him, threat in every ounce of seduction. "Oh Wolverine, all these years and you act like I still give a fuck." It looked like an attempt at a smile graced her face as she looked up at Bishop. "Now, what's this toy you've brought me?" She slowly allowed her free hand to slide up his torso and rest on his chest while her eyes slid in the opposite direction. Wolverine stood frustratingly silent, and Bishop was fairly certain the Canadian was enjoying watching Bishop become less comfortable with each passing heartbeat.
The woman lifted her hand to take a finger and trace down his face, and Logan finally broke the silence. "Alright, Kimura, that's enough. Let him go, we both know he ain't worth enough to be a gift." Bishop's eyes snapped fire over at Logan before looking down at the deadly gang boss who had taken two small steps back. "He ain't payment neither."
"So you're buying today?" She dropped her hands to her side and leaned back against the wall still with that evil grin. "Color me intrigued."
"If the price is right, and it's what I want, that's the plan." Logan leaned against the opposite wall, arms now crossed over his chest.
Kimura chuckled. "And you brought a bodyguard to make sure I play nice? That's so…adorable Logan."
Bishop still wasn't sure what to say, or if he should even say anything at all. This seemed like it was a game familiar to both of the players, and was meant to be a game for two. He turned to keep Wolverine in his peripheral while keeping fully focused on Kimura across the alley. Deciding it was best to keep silent, he raised an eyebrow and widened his stance slightly. Logan spit, breaking a mildly awkward silence. Bishop was certain he had intended it to hit his boot just as it had. "Since when do I need a bodyguard, darlin'?" He chuckled deeply. "I came to make a deal, you selling? I'm buyin'."
"I'm always ready to make a deal. But do you have something worth the price?" Kimura let out a throaty laugh for a moment before bringing her eyes up to snap into place on Logan's face. "I know you don't want drugs." She pushed away from the wall and took a single step forward. "Far below you to purchase slaves," she glanced at Bishop and sneered "or whores." Two more steps toward Wolverine and she was immediately next to Bishop. She leaned over and made it a point to smell him. Of all the intimidation tactics Bishop had experienced, this one sufficed to be effective. This woman was nothing but an alpha predator, her humanity was only evident in her form. Her eyes belied the truth, Kimura was a killer, and she was proud of that fact. "What is it that an X-Man could want?"
Logan stood frozen and unfazed, and Bishop silently cursed him for the luck of being right. Quickly and silently, Bishop turned, grabbing both of Kimura's shoulders and turned her towards the docks before she had the chance to increase her density and make that movement impossible. On the water, an odd glow started to form around several ships that still sat silently docked below. Kimura showed no reaction aside from a quick flare of her pupils. "Got yer attention?" Logan pointed out towards the boats, "good. Tell me what you know about these Chinese robocops. Who's makin' 'em, who's programmin' them, an' who's funding 'em. You give me something I like, I pay you back with the kilos of cocaine, the slaves and the tariff free produce you got hidin' in those ships."
At first, Kimura tensed, but then a small giggle bubbled up from her throat. "That's all you want Wolverine? To know about who is manufacturing some robots and why? Well fuck!" She turned her back on the ships. "Turn off your power banks you little shit, meet me in our spot tonight, say 11, and you can have all the information your twisted feral heart desires. At least whatever I have. Those pricks have been making our lives miserable for months. Now the mighty X-Men want in? Want to rid us of this pain in my left ass cheek?" Bishop decided he hated her laugh. It was cold and insincere as she loosed it into the morning air. "I would've given you that for free Wolverine." She turned and began to walk away, but paused briefly and looked over her shoulder. "Bring this one with you, he looks fully scandalized. I like it. And tell Tyger I said 'Hi', and if she tries to nip one more of my shipments I'll slit her throat and bathe in her blood."
And with that, she was gone. Almost as if she hadn't been hanging on his arm mere minutes earlier. Logan slapped him twice on the shoulder, "You sure you want to stay here? She's as likely to kill you as play with you. She seems to like you, Bishop." His brief shudder brought forth a dark smirk from Logan. "You keep tellin' yourself you're not going. You can say it the whole way there if you want. But if we want to get Gumbo his answers, we need to talk to anyone who might have them." And off Logan went, leaving Bishop no choice but to follow.
Damn me twice, Pete Wisdom thought, taking a moment to take a peek at his phone. Three people, according to the heat sensors, had come into his room. They had accessed the laptop, scanned through all his clothing, and left behind some equipment that was emitting signals similar to what short range wifi recording devices would. He'd been investigated, and was now being surveilled. He had a contact for the company that he was supposed to be investigating. Getting that had also allowed for them to start keeping tabs on him. Petey boy, this whole thing is looking like it's going down the pan. He shook a cigarette out of the pack he had pocketed on his way out of his room earlier. Fortunately for him, the room was strictly non-smoking. This gave him a good reason for taking a seat in the common area and sifting through his thoughts.
Deciding that he was likely still being monitored by whomever had taken such a unique interest in a lonely British businessman, Pete channeled his best inner Paul Whitmore. He broke out his phone and accessed a number in the contacts, pressing send. It rang three times before a voice came through on the other end. "'Ello Paul." The woman's voice was warm and direct. "Guessin' you landed and settled in?"
This would be fun. Paul was created as part of his initial Guild contract over a year ago. Enough of the character was truth for it to stick and be believable. It had been decided that Paul wasn't the type to yet be married, but was definitely engaged. Pictures had been taken with a woman who hadn't asked why she needed 37 outfit changes and 4 different haircuts to take a series of pictures that were so expertly staged it was eerie. She had been beautiful, charming, and was not at all interested in a British chain smoking mutant for anything other than a paycheck. She was to play the part of Elodie St. Clair, at least in pictures. The voice to be played by whichever Guild member was his handler, because Elodie was always his handler, and he was to check in regularly. It was practically like having an actual fiance in Wisdom's mind, at least in that aspect. Or so he'd assume. His real life engagement hadn't exactly been 'typical'. "Mornin' love. I wake you?"
"Non mon amour. You know how horribly I sleep when you're not here. How's de hotel?"
He heard faint typing in the background. "The hotel? It's about what I expected. Room's clean, view's nice, be nicer with you in it though." He smiled briefly, this was fun, flirting harmlessly with someone he couldn't see. Someone who had to flirt back.
"Nice to hear. You think you'll be able to finish up and come home quick?"
"Miss me that much already do you?" Pete chuckled and took another drag. The other end was silent for a moment, and he wondered if he'd pushed the boundaries of their little imaginary game a bit too far.
"Horribly."
Oh how many ways he could interpret that single word in this exchange. Whomever the Thieves had chosen to be his handler this time, she was a good match. His last handler had possessed a personality akin to a cardboard box, but less amusing. Playing the smitten English businessman far from home was a lot easier to sell when he had someone to play off of. Some day maybe he'd like to meet this particular 'Elodie' and see if they could make a match outside of working hours. "Well, I'm hoping you won't have to miss me long. Met a guy just now, he claims he's got some pull with a company that's maybe looking for investors. Mutagonics or somethin like that."
He heard the exhale on the other end of the line, "Dat was fast, cher. Just make sure dat you don' go in too eager. Wouldn' want you to scare away an easy investment opportunity."
She didn't like this either, that much was clear. "Let's remember which one of us is the investor here, hm?" He teased outwardly, but the message was clear: 'I've got this, give me room to work'.
"I know, you always know what you doin'. Just don't want you disappointing y'Dad. I'm gonna go try and get some rest, what time is it over there?" She knew exactly what time it was, she wanted the time for the meeting.
"Not too late yet, just about time to get to bed. Tomorrow I got a meeting at 2 here in the hotel restaurant, I can call you before or after. Lady's choice."
"Y'can call me after, spend your time before getting yourself all ready to wow them."
Keep to myself and just share the information after the fact, great. "Sounds good, luv. Have a good night."
"You too. And Paul, I'm curious about the Yarpivo. Try one for me? I hear it's good."
Okay, good. Eyes were on the inside with him. Not sure if that meant they didn't trust him, he had competition, or this was simply a two man job. "Sure thing, sweet dreams." And with that he disconnected the call. Sitting in the plush chair in the smokers' lounge, Pete watched as the smoke wafted up towards the ornate ceiling above him. It twisted and swirled, dancing its way through the air in search of something it would never reach. Eventually it dissipated as always, leaving him well aware that his cigarette had burned out, embers now faded.
The thought crossed his mind of having another one before heading back to the elevator. It was almost a guarantee that some sort of camera had been installed somewhere in his rooms. Likely many, in fact. Nothing he did from this point forward would be a secret. Whatever this company was up to, they knew that he was up to something as well, or they at least suspected. He doubted he'd have the luxury of taking a shit unobserved for the next few days, let alone anything more aerobic. For a moment he wondered if he cared. But that damned X brought a conscience along with it, and he couldn't see himself bringing an unsuspecting female into a camouflaged recording studio simply for his own temporary amusement.
Instead, it would be beer and movies, with the regular jaunt out here to increase his odds of lung cancer. A diatribe wound through his mind and he chuckled recalling the times that Kitty had lectured him about his smoking. Somehow, him being married to the Queen of the Otherworld hadn't been a breaking point for her, nicotine had. Her loss. Rolling his shoulders and channeling his former life in MI-6, scanning the surroundings, Pete pulled himself to a stand and made his way back to the elevators. The trick tonight would be showering and sleeping with the knowledge that two sets of eyes were staring at him the whole time. "Gwyrdroi" he muttered to himself, figuring that if anyone here spoke enough Welsh to translate, they deserved to know he was calling them a pervert.
War was messy, anyone who had actually witnessed it would agree. Love was messy too, really messy if you were lucky enough. Neither, however, was quite as messy as the kitchen cabinets before him. And as a man who had experienced both war and love in ample quantities, he felt certain in his assessment. Salt, baking powder, these things should not be that hard to come by. Pulling down yet a third open bag of all purpose flour and setting it aside he snarled, reaching up and finding himself on his tiptoes, stretching to grab hold of one last cylinder buried in the back corner. Again it rolled away from his grasp and he suppressed the urge to spit in anger. Furtively he glanced around, the coast appeared to be clear, and in one swift move he took a standing leap up onto the countertop. There it was before him, the prized container of salt. Snatching it from the corner swiftly, he grinned in triumph. "What in tarnation?!" And he spun, nearly losing track of the counter's edge under his feet which caused him to tip to his right and nearly tumble. Luck and training allowed him to catch himself on one foot and jump down to the floor. He was mostly confident it looked planned.
"Needed salt." He shrugged at Rogue, flashing a quick grin and placing it on the island with the other sundry ingredients. With that he turned his attention back to the stovetop where a pot simmered slowly filling the room with the faint scent of home.
Rogue shook her head, staying in place in the doorway. "So you climbed the counters to get it?"
"Don' know what you talkin' bout, chere." He lifted the lid, an eyebrow lifting dubiously as he gave the contents a quick stir before placing the wooden spoon back on the counter. "You saw nothing of the sort. Mebbe you took one too many head shots in the Danger Room dis mornin'? Makin' you see t'ings ain't dere."
He heard an amused huff escape her, and sensed her make her way further into the kitchen. "Ah'm almost convinced yoah right, swamp rat." She snatched an apple from a bowl of fruit on the sideboard and hopped up to sit on the counter near the stove, looking over at the stock pot. He could sense her curiosity, but was still feeling cautious after how they had left things earlier this afternoon. "What dream concoction am Ah imaginin' in that pot that smells so good?"
She reached for the lid, but his reflexes out raced her hand and he caught her across the wrist with the wooden spoon. "Non! Y'gon ruin it, gotta simmer unmolested a bit longer. Patience." He again replaced the spoon and took several steps backward, unsure of how his rebuke would be received.
Lady luck smiled upon him though. "Okay, Remy, okay." She held her hands up in surrender. He went back to the next set of cabinets while she watched him, still on the hunt for the baking powder. But his eyes couldn't help but stray in her direction as he searched. She was wearing those damn leggings that hugged everything and left nothing to imagination and a crop top over a skin tight camisole tank. Her forearms were completely bare, today's gloves were the soft brown ones he'd gotten her one Christmas that stopped at the wrist and were as thin and supple as skin. She was feeling confident, or hopeful, that was the only time she ever exposed skin.
His dreams frequently involved those leggings, those gloves, and a few other items... all in a pile on the floor… "You forget what you're doin'?" she giggled, and he realized he'd been standing there frozen while his mind traveled back to those dreams. Those dreams were some of his favorites.
"Naw, tryin' t'decide if I should jus' convince you t'go buy some bakin' powder f'r me. Dis place is a nightmare! Somebody gonna be reorganizin' alla dis shit." She frowned at that momentarily and looked down at the apple in her hands. Well, shit Gambit thought. I can't never win wit' her! "You good, chere? Y'know I jus' kiddin'." And once again Lady Luck had his back, he reached in and came out with the small red tin of baking powder, holding it aloft in victory. "I got it." Showing her the prize emblazoned with 'Rumford' in embossed letters. He flashed a smile and put it on the counter with the other components for homemade cornbread, continuing past to stand against the island across from her. "You need somethin', Rogue? Or you just hungry?"
She continued to roll the apple in her hands, refusing to quite meet his eyes. He couldn't stop the deep breath he took in response to her silence though he made it a point to avoid bracing himself. This type of behavior from her meant one of two things. She was either going to say something that she felt embarrassed about, or she was going to say something she knew would start a fight. He found himself silently pleading for the former, he just didn't have it in him to fight right now. Not when he was actually starting to feel a bit less like a caged hostage in his own home. He was in such a good mood, in fact, that he'd found himself wandering into the kitchen with the idea of recreating a touch of his childhood to share with the team. Silently, he sent a prayer to the angels that whatever transpired not light the short bit of fuse he found himself left with. She glanced up, and he made every effort to keep his face neutral, his body language open and calm. Elbows resting on the counter behind him, shoulders relaxed, one ankle crossed lazily over the other and his chin level.
She stayed on the counter, ankles crossed right over left and took a deep breath while he waited anxiously for whatever she was about to say. "Ah was thinkin' about how I reacted earlier…when you were on that call?" He didn't react outside of a very slight nod, he kept a slight grin on his face, even though he felt the heat starting to rise in anticipation of the oncoming fight. "Ah…" She sighed again and placed the half eaten apple on the counter next to her. "Remy, Ah overrated. A lot actually." He felt like someone had just sprayed him with a hose. "Look, you obviously know what you're doin, shugah. You ain't never led either the Guild or the X-men wrong. You sure ain't perfect!" She paused and made intentional eye contact on that one, but her grin took some of the sting out of it. "But if you're confident that whoever this guy is, he's able to handle this, then…Ah guess Ah just gotta stop questionin' every decision you make and remind mahself that you know what yo' doin'."
He stayed quiet. Mostly out of shock, but somewhat out of an urge to push just a bit further. He quirked an eyebrow as a question and kept his eyes locked on her face, letting his self satisfied smirk travel up and light his eyes. She just sat there, looking at him expectantly, "and…." he finally drawled.
"And what, Remy?"
He couldn't help himself, her admission had him feeling giddy, and he was pushing this one to the moon if she'd let him. He pushed away from the island and took two steps forward so he was just shy of touching her knees. His hands rested on his hips and he lowered his chin so he was smirking at her with the devilish look he knew always left her frustrated in 18 different ways. "And "Ah'm so sorry, Remy. Y' jus' de bes' leader dat we X-Men evah had. I would be lost wit'out you, and ah'm so thankful ev'ry day dat yoah here to guide us wit' yoah wisdom."" She was giggling. "An' y' so smart, Remy LeBeau, and funny." He nudged closer, somehow wordlessly convincing her to let him step into the space between her knees. Taking full advantage he leaned closer, lowering his voice in case anyone happened to be within earshot. "An' you def'nly de mos' handsome man I ever seen."
The giggling stopped as she noticed how close he'd gotten, her arms had already naturally come to rest on his shoulders, his t-shirt providing the barrier to keep them both from actually touching. She caught her breath in a hitch, and he found himself placing his palms on the counter on either side of her hips, close but not touching. You didn't touch Rogue, you always let her touch you, no matter how badly you wanted to. His face ended barely an inch from hers. Where did they go from here? Probably the same place they always went, nowhere. But it was a nowhere he'd be happy to die in, if only she'd believe him. Slowly he felt her relax, and miraculously she didn't push him away. "Now who's delusional, swamp rat?" She whispered, her breath ruffling his hair. He was so close.
He chuckled, and dared to test his luck one last time, bringing one hand in to rest gently on her side, just above her hip, letting his thumb glide back and forth slowly along her ribs. "Moi?" he asked. "Ain't delusional. A touch crazy?" He let his hips come to rest against the edge of the counter "Certainment."
He was amazed when she lifted one hand and carefully tucked his hair behind his right ear, but stayed put. "Yah still haven't told me what you'ah makin', Cajun." and she nodded at the pot.
He was about to come out with a brilliant response when a shout from the opposite doorway made them both jump. "Can't you two just get a room?!" They both turned to find Jubilee strolling in, arms crossed over her chest with a look of mixed disgust and annoyance plastered on her face. "Like, we EAT in here. Gross!" She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water and rolled her eyes as she walked back out.
Gambit froze momentarily, unsure how the interruption would play out in this little game of theirs where he pushed and she shoved back hard then shut down for the next month. But instead of shoving, she laughed. It was throaty, and full, and as beautiful as the woman it came from. Her arms were still on his shoulders, and she brought her forehead down and forward to rest on his chest, just under the neckline of his shirt. Remy was certain he had forgotten how to breathe or blink. "Y' wanna be my taste tester?" He finally asked her as the laughter slowed down.
She pulled back slightly to look at him. "Ah'm not sure, Remy. How much cayenne did you use?"
"You sayin' you don' like it spicy, chere?" He grinned and reached for the lid of the pot with his free hand, refusing to move from this spot until she forced him to.
She ran a hand through his hair, turning him back to face her. "Ah like some thangs spicy."
And this, he mused in the back reaches of his mind, was where he died. He was supposed to be the one making the flirty comments, layering the innuendo, pushing the boundaries. If it weren't for that slight touch of uncertainty he could still see lurking in the back of her gaze at every comment, he'd be convinced this wasn't his Rogue. Somehow his nervous system had just completely shut down, he was pretty sure he wasn't breathing, his heart might not even be beating, and he knew with complete certainty that he was about to do something really stupid and land himself in another coma. He felt her fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, and he heard the words come out of his mouth unbidden. "Chere, I ain't got de willpower to make a good choice right now. Y'keep dis up an' I take no responsibility for what I do nex'."
Rogue bit her lip and slid her hands down to his chest, keeping her eyes locked on his. "Ah'm sorry, Remy." After a moment she glanced away and her shoulders fell as she slowly caved inward on herself.
Damned if he did, damned if he didn't was the life story of Remy LeBeau. Damned if he truly showed his hand and let this gorgeous woman in front of him truly know all the many ways he had fallen for her years ago. But also damned if he pretended to be just a friend and teammate, oblivious to the way she pulled him in. "Chere," crooned, attempting to tip her chin back towards him as he leant down to bring himself eye to eye with her. "Y'ain' got no reason t'be sorry. I pushed to far dis time, non?"
She sighed deeply, settling her hands on the countertop now and shifting herself to build some distance. "It's fine, Rem. Ah jus…" She didn't get to finish the thought as a knife whipped between the two, embedding itself in the wall six feet from them. "The hell?!" Rogue shouted. Remy turned, a charged potholder already buzzing in his hand, ready to face whomever had let fly projectiles and ruined his moment. Out of habit he found himself positioned mostly in front of Rogue, even knowing that of the two, he was at a steep vulnerability disadvantage.
"Leave some room for the holy spirit." Mystique snarled, standing just inside the patio door with another blade in hand ready to fly. "Now that I have your attention, you have a big problem."
Remy snarled, feeling his eyes flash dangerously, "No kiddin' Raven, hadda prob'lem ev since Forge dumped you here." With barely a thought he started circling closer, blocking her access to the second interior door. He registered Rogue had glided over to Mystique's left and was ready to reach out and grab her wrist if she so much as flinched. "Now why you done los y'mind dis time?"
In the one move that neither X-Man could have anticipated, Raven grinned sadistically and dropped the throwing blade in her hand. With a snort she raised both hands in the air and sat slowly down on the tile floor. "You have a traitor in your midst, Gambit. And surprise, surprise….." She lifted a single pointer finger and slowly brought it to the tip of her nose "Not it."
Following her change in stance, Remy pulled most of the charge out of the potholder he'd grabbed and relaxed his stance minutely. Rogue followed suit. "What do you mean, Momma?"
Mystique's white gold eyes flashed as she shifted her attention to Rogue. "Be a dear and go find Ricochet." She smirked. "If you can."
"What the hell'd you do, Momma?!" Rogue shouted, while Remy immediately shifted his attention, trusting that Rogue had Raven under control, even if only temporarily.
"Cerebro!" He shouted.
"Yes Gambit?" The calm computerized voice floated into the room from a speaker embedded in the nearby wall.
"Open communication with Ricochet, s'il vous plait."
Silence for about 10 seconds, and then, "My apologies, Gambit. Ricochet is not able to be reached via coms."
"Fils de putain." he muttered, quickly puzzling through the next steps while he felt Mystique's grin burn a hole in his back. "Cerebro, open communication with Psylocke and Phantasm."
Another 10 seconds of silence. "Connection with Psylocke established, Phantasm is unable to be located."
He felt his eyes flare as "Yeeees?" came Betsy's voice through the speakers.
"Sorry Betts. Got a possible sit'ation. Can you see if you c'n locate Ricochet on de grounds anywhere. An' Phantasm too while y'at it." A groan came back in response followed by an annoyed sigh.
"I can't find either of them anywhere on the grounds. I'd hardly call a jaunt into town without authorization a 'situation' Gambit."
"What'd you do to him, Momma?" he heard Rogue's accusation while he tried to process and respond to Betsy all at the same time.
"Dey ain' hiding out in de city. Mystique jus came in throwin' knives and claiming we got a traitor in de mansion. Den she asked me t'find Ricochet. Y' really can't find 'im?"
There wasn't an immediate answer, but after another 30 seconds or so, Betsy replied. Her voice sounded less annoyed. "They're not within my range, where are you?"
Gambit turned to look at Mystique over his shoulder, she looked like she'd just won a bet. It was so tempting to just ask Rogue to manhandle her downstairs so he wouldn't have to look at her. "Jus' report to de War Room, Betts. Team'll be down there momentarily." He heard the click indicating that Cerebro had ended the comm link. Taking a moment, Gambit reached over and turned off the burner under the stock pot. "Sorry, mon amour, but de taste test gon haveta wait. N'est-ce pas? Cerebro, code Gamma eighteen forty-seven." Immediately a computerized voice echoed throughout the mansion, and as he knew, the sub-levels as well.
"All X-Men report immediately to the War Room for an emergency briefing. All X-Men report immediately to the War Room for an emergency briefing."
Rogue smiled shyly over at him and shrugged. "It's fine, shugah. There's always plenty o' other nights you can cook for me."
Before he could respond, Rogue grabbed Mystique by the collar and began marching her out of the room, leaving him alone for a moment to compose himself before heading down as well. He moved towards the doorway in time to catch the sway of her hips as she rounded the corner. Quickly he gave himself a shake, closed his eyes and turned his head to the ceiling while forcing thoughts of Tante Mattie, his sister-in-law Merci, the old woman who worked the counter at his favorite coffee shop and every other female who didn't look good in spandex through his mind. After a few deep breaths he felt prepared to deal with whatever the situation was, even if she was sitting there in the room with him. Even if she was still wearing those saints be praised leggings.