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The Ante
Chapter V: Charles VII
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“Where’s Gambit?”

“Just wait,” Lance ground out through clenched teeth.

“Said he’d give us a signal, mate, and when Gamby-pamby gives you a signal, ya can’t miss it,” Pyro said airily from his perch atop the stone peristyle. He was seated, cross-legged, making small flame animals out of the throwers hooked up to his arms. “Look!” he called down to Fred, “A duckie!”

The small mallard, cleverly shaped like a rubber duck and fifty times as sinister, licked its way over Blob’s head, singeing his Mohawk.

“Hey!” Fred bellowed, clamping his hands over his smoking hair.

“Shut up, bro! Ya gonna get us all picked up for loitering before we get any action!” Toad said, springing into the air and landing on Fred’s shoulders. To make his point, he clamped both hands over Fred’s mouth as the larger boy tried unsuccessfully to beat him off.

“Toad, you are never gonna get ‘any action’, not if you keep eating flies every time something in a skirt walks by.” Pietro chuckled in an undertone.

“Knock it off, Pyro,” Wanda threatened, her hands coated in the telltale blue shimmer that indicated she was wielding firepower to rival his own pyrokinetics.

“No need to get your knickers in a knot, love. I’m a perfect saint compared to you lot at the moment.”

“Having the word ‘saint’ in your name doesn’t make you one,” Lance bit back.

“It’s Sin Jun, not Saint John!” Pyro corrected, a petulant ring to his enunciation. “Learn ta speak Australian!”

“Whatever,” Lance returned, rolling his eyes. He turned his attention back to the gates, his shoulders squared and his jaw set in a firm line. “If I had a dime for every time you mangled the English language…” He cocked an eyebrow at Pietro and Wanda. “I’d buy Wanda a pair of fishnets that didn’t need safety pins to hold them together.”

In return, she glowered, her mouth twisting playfully though her eyes had darkened. “I like the feeling of metal on skin.”

“And I like knowing that it’s not my skin feeling it,” he deadpanned.

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, mates,” Pyro chortled. “’Sides, turns out Lance’s ex is into the metal thing too.”

“I’m blissful in my ignorance,” Lance muttered, his tone hardening.

“Read: frustrated beyond belief, yo,” Toad interjected.

“Watch it Tolansky,” Lance warned. “You aren’t much better off.”

“Wouldn’t you know it, lover boy?” Quicksilver leered at him, wetting his lips suggestively.

“Wouldn’t you like that, you psychotic fruitcake?” Lance retorted, the ground beneath him shuddering.

Pyro cackled. “Fruitcake! Mate, you’ve obviously never tried your girlfriend’s cooking. That stuff blocks up the plumbing like —”

“She is not my girlfr–”

“I like fruitcake,” Fred said absently, his eyes going glassy at the thought of a late-night, pre-battle snack.

“Enough!” Wanda snapped.

“Someone dob the bloke in, already – the wee shiela’s been buffing the chrome for the last six months at least,” Pyro continued, nonplussed by Wanda’s second warning.

“Pyro, I told you to back off —” The air surrounding Wanda crackled menacingly.

“Oh shit, sweetums you don’t really wanna do that —” Toad cautioned. “Can’t work this without the wallaby!”

“Ozzie!” Pyro barked.

“We can make do,” Quicksilver supplied dryly. “The Scarlet Witch doesn’t need the added stress.”

“You’re all so bloody, stinking repressed,” Pyro snickered. “I could damn well choke on all the unresolved tension in this group – it’s made you lot tetchy. Especially you, my dear, darling, Scarlet Bi–”

“Finishthatsentenceandyou’llseeifyourinsideslookjustasuglyasyouroutsides!” Pietro threatened, zipping up to the wall.

“Hey!” Fred called, ambling up to the gates, effectively blocking Pyro from Wanda’s direct line of fire. “What’s the signal supposed to look like?”

Six heads swiveled around, searching the darkness blanketing the Xavier Institute grounds. They didn’t need to look long, however, as a long sliver of fuchsia-tinged light shot straight into the sky from the North forest and exploded violently over the trees.

“Awe, isn’t that pretty?” Pyro cooed sardonically. “Pretty sodding weak,” he finished with a grimace. The throwers on his arms spat out two large licks of flame in sympathy, before returning to the form of a placid-looking duck. The coil of fire spluttered, threatening to become something larger at Pyro’s behest.

“Was that it?” Fred asked, looking to Pietro for confirmation. “Was that the signal?”

Quicksilver, cracking his neck and swinging his arms round to loosen up, barely had the chance to open his mouth when several smaller explosions detonated in rapid succession.

Toad leapt from Fred’s shoulders to the wall, grinning toothily. “That’s what I’m talking about!” A long line of cards whirred to life, lighting either side of the pathway that led to the mansion’s massive portico.

“Gambit’s rolling out the red carpet for us, yo! Ha ha!” Toad called over the noise.

“Lance, get the door already!” Pietro said, appearing at his side one moment, then zooming to his sister. Wanda’s coat fluttered with the breeze, but she didn’t appear to notice, her eyes narrowed at the Australian. For a moment, it appeared as if she wanted nothing more than to swat at him, like a fly on the wall.

“I’m on it, let’s rock!” Avalanche shouted, stepping forwards to scowl at the wrought iron gates. He clenched his fists at his sides and gritted his teeth. With a groan, his eyes rolled back into his head, and the ground began to shake.

Pietro latched onto his sister, his arm looping around her waist. “Wanda!” he cried, his voice strained, before lifting her bodily and zipping out of the way of the shuddering Institute gates.

“Stop it!” Wanda swatted him off, extracting herself from below her brother’s concerned hands, and snatching at his chin. Pietro allowed his chin to be wrenched towards Xavier’s. “Look!”

Several more explosions boomed, infinitely larger as the charges detonated along each key weapons hold across the grounds.

Freddy grinned, his head turning to follow the arc taken by a large hunk of twisted metal that once resembled a stunner. It soared into the air, trailed by a flaming line of fire and smoke. Soon, the sky was filled with the bright blaze of burning machinery.

“Guy even took out the minor artillery!” Toad shouted, letting out a loud, “Whoop!” and springing off the wall.

“That’s bottling your blood’s worth!” Pyro bellowed over the noise.

In front of Lance, the gates clanged to the ground. He grinned over his shoulder at the Maximoffs and sauntered through the crumbled hole.

“Shall we?” Pietro smirked, proffering his arm to his sister.

Wanda inspected the illuminated grounds, lifting her hands from her brother’s face, finger by finger, and placing it lightly on his shoulder.

“Something isn’t right, Pietro,” she murmured, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Quicksilver smirked. Leaning close to her ear, he murmured, “Just because it doesn’t feel right doesn’t mean it isn’t. That’s half the risk and half the fun, right sis?”

Wanda bit back a grimace, peering at him through her lashes.

“You’re deranged,” she said haughtily, though it didn’t complete conceal her wry grin. “And you’re trying to distract me.”

“Catch me if you can,” he whispered in a heated rush before disappearing in a blur of blue and silver and dust.

Wanda brushed her hair behind her ears, her lips curving into a small, vindictive smile, as she stepped lightly over the wreckage of the front gate.

“And you’re suicidal,” she called to Pyro, not looking back as she stalked away.

Pyro blinked once, twice, scrubbed at his visor with the heel of his hand, and shuddered a little, watching Wanda slinking onto the Institute grounds behind her brother. Pyro wobbled precariously a moment, a little off-put by the siblings’ exchange, and truthfully, a little disturbed, and then turned his attention to the grounds again.

He sighed impatiently, trying to savor the moment and failing as his eagerness won out.

So much flame, so little time to make use of it all.

With a cackle, his little fire duckie morphed into a very large, very ominous dragon.

---

An Hour Prior…

Remy leaned against the broken oak tree’s trunk, his arms folded across his chest, and waited.

The glow from inside the mansion was a welcome comfort. In truth, it reminded him a little of home. Not the sterile, metallic underground base Magneto had built for his Acolytes when he’d been a welcome member of that circle, but the soothing embrace of a warm flat on Rue Saint Anne. He longed for the uncertain flicker of gaslight and the sweet, sharp bite of real chicory coffee spiked with something stronger to soothe his nerves.

Soon, he conceded with a small smile. He’d be home soon.

Remy cracked his neck and pushed the thought out of his mind. He needed a clear head. The charges he’d set earlier that morning, working his way from the steps of the mansion all the way to the very foot of the paved drive, were rigged together at a connection point in the North forest.

Why exactly Charles Xavier permitted him to hang around was beyond him. The telepath was well aware of his late-night haunts, had been for years, and yet he’d never bothered him about it.

So long as he never broke the “look, but don’t touch” rule — that unspoken agreement the pair of them shared without any verbal assent — he had clearance to skulk about beneath the cover of the trees. The Professor probably figured that this graciousness was invitation enough: Charles Xavier waited for him to finally join up with the X-Men, and Remy waited around for her.

Well, he mused, “waiting” wasn’t exactly the word.

Remy LeBeau waited for no woman, and definitely no girl, he thought to himself obstinately. But tonight, he’d make an exception. That he could break his own rules for kicks comforted him a little.

They had unfinished business, he reminded himself. He’d known she’d be stubborn about it, and he knew at the same time, that somehow, he’d have to resort to this anyhow.

Still, you can’t blame a man for trying.

“One of these days,” he murmured to himself, squinting upwards into her darkened bedroom. “I’m gonna get a proper thank you.”

Though it had been worth it to see her blush right to the tips of her ears that morning.

So what if it was a flush in anger? At least on Rogue, it was sort of endearing. She was too pale to begin with; not enough sun, probably. As it were, there weren’t many people he knew of who were capable of coaxing out her natural color. It looked nice on her.

“C’mon chère,” he hummed, reaching to make sure the pack of cards he needed was still tucked into his back pocket. “Lessee where y’ been all afternoon.”

As if answering his request, the light in the second room from the northernmost side of mansion flicked on. Remy smirked, slipping behind the tree and blending in easily with the shadows.

Familiar trails fell beneath his feet. No longer needing to focus on his footing, he cleared the side of the building in a matter of seconds. From beneath his trench coat, he extracted his compacted bo and added two grappling attachments, two switches, and secured them into place on either end of the condensed whole.

Remy flipped the staff over, pointing one end at the roof’s eaves, and the other at the ground between his feet. One push later and the grappling attachments released with a muted ping!

Remy peered upwards and gave the makeshift rope a tug, already knowing it would hold his weight. It was fixed firmly into the mortar overhead. He lifted himself by his arms, wrapping one leg around the metal stays of his staff, and grinning, he hit the second button. This part had always been too easy, but he liked the quick rush of air as it whipped past his face.

He shot upwards, enjoying the sensation of the wind slapping the coattails of his trench against his legs, and only slowed as he reached his destination: the third floor, second balcony from the right.

Swinging over the stone rail with ease, he dropped to a crouch and slid up against the wall. Remy peered into the room beyond the French doors.

Empty.

He cocked an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face as he took in the light seeping out from beneath the bathroom door.

“Y’ make this too easy, ma belle.”

With that, Remy stood, confident that unless someone was prowling the perimeter of the mansion, he wouldn’t be seen. He placed a hand on the door handle and turned the delicate ironwork beneath his fingers without even needing to charge the lock.

He slipped inside, closing the door behind him quietly, and for a moment, he simply stood there.

Despite the number of times he’d stood on the outside, pressed up against the wall by an open window while Rogue slept, or studied, or sat on her bed just thinking with that sorry look on her face he’d come to know so well, he’d never been more grateful for his mercenary training than at that moment.

The shower was running.

Remy forced himself to bite back a grin.

She’d knock his block off after she discovered that he had been here, and one day, maybe, they’d both laugh about the entire fiasco heartily.

Providing she didn’t kill him first, that is.

The deck of cards was in his hand before his brain registered he’d even slipped the stack from its box. He cut the cards in half in one palm, relishing the feel of the coated paper against the pads of his fingers. Dropping the box in the wastebasket as he moved across the room, he barely glanced at the blue packet marked “Bicycle Playing Cards” as he continued to shuffle through the deck. He drew the card, knowing instinctively which he had pulled before looking at it.

“Bonsoir, Roi Charles,” he murmured, approaching the large chest of drawers and the mirror overhanging it. “Home at last.”

The rest of the deck was gone in a snap of the wrist, tucked back into a holster on his belt and finally ready to be used in combat now that its two most irksome royalty were about to be reunited.

Gambit flexed his fingers, easing his grip delicately around the knobs of the top drawer.

Had he not seen Rogue’s reaction early this morning when standing in this very spot, he’d have had to rifle around a little, wasting time and invading her personal space. As it was, however, from his perch on the limb of the old oak, and with the aid of a simple, yet effective set of high-powered binoculars, he’d caught every last ounce of trepidation plainly evident on her face: From the dimpling on her cheeks, the frustrated downturn of her mouth, and the wary, shuttered appraisal her eyes conferred as she’d opened this drawer and contemplated its contents.

He cocked his head to the side, listening as a frustrated groan echoed in the adjoining bathroom. The shower was still running, which meant he was still working on stolen time.

Fine by him.

Remy slid the drawer open, careful not to make a sound though wood ground against wood, threatening to squeak or shudder with the friction.

“Merde,” he hissed, unable to stop himself from grinning at the contents scattered pell mell before him. Carefully, with a pinkie finger, he lifted aside a pair of black, cotton panties.

No frills. No lace. No satin. Everything in the drawer was simple, plain, and utterly utilitarian as if no one other than Rogue would ever be granted audience to her clad simply in her...

Dieu. Remy’s eyes widened at the revelation. He peeked over his shoulder at the closed bathroom door and let out a quick breath when he noted it was still closed. All this watching, waiting and now fiddling was making him skittish.

Rogue’s mutation prevented her from that sort of intimacy; sure, he’d known that much without having to make any huge leaps between hypothesises. But just because she couldn’t touch anyone directly, it didn’t mean it was the end of all things pleasurable. There was an entire world of exploration the girl must have forgone in her teenage years; her choice of delicates made that fact plain. But could she really be that afraid of herself?

Remy swallowed, surprised at how quickly his mouth had gone dry.

If there was one thing he’d learned in his time, it was that you could learn a lot about a woman by her undergarments.

After a moment, her panties dangling daintily from the very tip of his finger, he returned to business. Determined not to let himself be deterred from the task at hand by the mental image of Rogue wearing little else than that shy smile she’d once favored him with and the very garments dangling off his finger, he dropped Rogue’s delicates and pulled the crumpled playing card from the bottom of the drawer.

“Seen plenty of them things before, LeBeau, get over yourself, y’ damn domion,” he muttered blandly. It didn’t help matters that his thoughts quickly reverted to the fact that she was showering a just few feet away, and he was probably the only one to have ever seen her undergarments up close and personal.

“Merde!” he swore again in an undertone, mentally slapping himself. Task at hand. Right. There would be plenty of time to gloat later.

Quickly, he smoothed out the Queen of Hearts against the bureau. Remy plucked her from the desk and gave her one final, chaste kiss before extracting a roll of adhesive from a pocket. He fixed the newly rejoined pair to the mirror, the King overlapping the bottom corner of the Queen slightly.

Admiring his handiwork, Remy slid the drawer shut and stepped backwards to ensure that the two cards would be visible when Rogue stepped out from the shower.

They were. He nodded at his work. Better than any Cezanne, he decided.

With this job done, all he needed to do was pop back outside and send up the signal to the Brotherhood waiting just beyond the mansion’s perimeter wall. They would take it from there, and Remy would be free to follow through with the rest of his plan.

Before he could move, before even considering bolting from the room; Rogue screamed shrilly, the sound muffled by the bathroom door.

Remy pivoted, fully prepared to break in on her to make sure she was alright. He leapt across the room on light feet, using the foot of her bed as a spring, and stopped just short of the opposite wall. His hand was on the doorknob, ready to call out, ready to barge in, and then… Rogue giggled.

Remy pursed his lips, one part curious and two parts disappointed that he no longer had the excuse to justify a dramatic shower rescue, and pressed his ear to the door.

She giggled again, breathless, followed by the sound of a heavy sigh.

A small smile crept across Remy’s face as he stood there, realizing what had prompted the shriek only moments before. Cold water hitting a hot body did that to a person. He stifled a chuckle, covering his mouth so she wouldn’t hear him.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Remy took the liberty to just breathe a bit. It had been a long time since he’d been anywhere near the girl, and her presence, even though a wall separated them, was a welcome comfort he hadn’t entirely expected.

He had meant it once when he said he’d been looking out for her. Even when she’d left him at Blood Moon Bayou, even when she’d returned home, even when he’d been left to face Jean Luc, the Guilds, and every sordid bit of his past that he thought he’d left behind; he’d thought of her, on occasion.

He owed her for that time back in New Orleans. He hadn’t forgotten, though there were certain things, he was sure, he’d remember if he could… and many more he’d forget.

Remy swiped at his chin, knowing that he was drawing his luck thin by lingering.

He glanced at the cards pasted on the mirror and then back at the door handle to the bathroom.

A peek wouldn’t hurt; what was one stolen glance, anyhow? He was a thief, albeit a semi-reformed one, but nonetheless… She’d never know the difference, and he would have something coveted, tucked away in the safest place a man could have, his memory.

With his free hand, Remy pinched the bridge of his nose.

Tempting.

His fingers lingered on the door handle to the bathroom, and after a moment, Remy drew back, decided.

That was not something he could take from her, no matter how much he was willing to risk by showing up on her turf. It had to be something she wanted to give him willingly. He bowed his head and closed his eyes, knowing despite all else that it was the right thing. After a moment, he cast a sly glance at the cards stuck to the mirror.

With a smirk, he crossed the room, plucking a black marker from Rogue’s desk, and scrawled a promise over the faces of the two cards that recalled her own vicious denouncement from that morning.

“I’d always bet on you.”

He just hoped she knew he meant it. If she didn’t believe it now, there was plenty of time later to prove his sincerity.

Payback in full for what he owed, and then some.

In the bathroom, the pattering sounds of water ceased.

Remy grinned and bolted from the room. The doors to the balcony snapped shut behind him quietly, and with one soaring leap he was zipping back down to the ground. He unlatched his staff, leaving the tension rope in place, and ran towards the forest, pulling two cards from his stack, an Ace and a Jack, and urging a charge into them.

One he flung at the carefully concealed cord dangling limply by the oak tree. The card caught, forcing the charge down the long line of explosives he’d set around the property; the other he held firm between his fingers.

He skidded into the nearest clearing, admiring the stars peeking through the cover of leaves overhead, and threw the Ace.

It exploded with a resounding boom overhead, bathing the treetops in rich scarlet and sending a scattered assortment of kinetic fireworks back towards the earth.

Remy swiveled, turning back to the mansion proper, and watched as each carefully placed weapon flared to life — hissing and crackling as the charges caught.

Like a big brass band, he thought, hitting all the right notes.

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Translations:
Bonjour: Hello
Dieu: God
Domion: peeping tom
Ma belle: My dear/my pretty, a term of endearment
Merde: Shit
Roi: King (References the slang term for the King of Hearts Card — Charlemagne, or King Charles VII — for which this chapter is named.)

(Revised: August 27, 2007.)