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The Ante
Chapter Seven: Mechanics
(Part 2/2)
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Mississippi haze clung to the shores, casting everything in brilliant gold and soft violet where the trees relinquished their dappled shade. She loved the damp, rich scent of wet earth that caked between her toes as it dried and insinuated itself beneath her fingernails. She always took a little bit of the shore home after they played here.

Her feet were in the river, the hem of her dress creased with drying mud, and she was sprawled in the grass — fingers tangling between the cool sheaves of green, and sun-warmed tangles of auburn above her head where she stretched her arms.

She could almost hear the bullfrogs.

It was a nice dream.

Rogue’s eyes fluttered, still unwilling to wake up fully. She wanted to remember the willow — how its heavy branches swayed overhead, slow and serpentine in the dull afternoon sun. They seemed to bend down to her, and maybe, if she reached far enough, she could grasp their dripping fingers.

Rogue stretched, uncomfortable though she had plenty of room to move.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to bring back the sun — unearth that day in her yellow dress by the river and pull it back from the depths of her memory before the lazy ripples of the river could swallow it whole.

Laughter. Rogue smiled into her pillow, arching her back to work out the kinks. Cody.

It was fading; a soft echo that insisted on slipping back into that steady babble that overtook her thoughts when she woke. The sun grew brighter, and slowly, Rogue’s eyes fluttered open.

Less lucid, Rogue could still see him. Cody Robins. His hair haloed in bright amber, sitting against the trunk of that old tree — bare feet stretched out before him, heels tipped up onto a large river rock.

She hummed, smiling a little, and blinked into the daylight where his face was still silhouetted by the shadows cast from the overhanging willow. She could feel him smiling.

“Sleep well?”

It was fuzzy, that sound. Rogue tried to burrow a little beneath the covers, her face turning into the pillow to escape the glare of early morning.

Something was wrong. Cody’s voice had never sounded so deep; he was just a boy. Rogue frowned.

Something was wrong. The linens smelled musty, like they’d sat in a closet too long. The bed was lumpy; its springs were digging into her hip, and it stank of foreignness.

Something was wrong, her mind shouted at her.

Rogue scrubbed at her face and almost immediately winced. She’d scratched herself with the back of her glove — the stiff leather hard against her cheek. She never slept with them on.

Across the room, someone chuckled. Rogue tensed, pushing herself up with her arms and rolled over hard onto her back.

Not her bed. Not her room.

He chuckled.

“Was planning on sticking a charged Ace beneath y’ head if y’ didn’t wake up soon.”

The soft flick and snap as he pulled another card from his deck, the light scrape of paper against a laminate surface, was background noise for the panicked voice that steadily grew in volume at the fore of her mind.

Ears working overtime though her eyes were still bleary, Rogue blinked hard to get the sleep out. Gradually, Gambit came into focus before her.

Her reaction time had taken too long. She cursed herself.

“Where am Ah?” she ground out, her voice sounding hoarse and her tongue thick from sleep in her mouth.

Rogue looked at the sheets tangled around her body.

“Cajun –” her voice cracked. “Where –”

“Pennsylvania,” he answered smoothly, not looking up from his game of solitaire. He was slouched in a chair across the room, one leg on the table and the other beneath it, his heel supporting his weight against the wall. Behind him, the morning sun bathed the shag of the auburn hair overhanging his cowl in bright gold. Like fire, she thought, swallowing and taking in his profile.

If this were some sort of twisted temptation, the sort that determined saints and martyrs, for a moment Rogue was convinced she was being sent straight to hell in a hand basket. It was a good thing she’d packed light.

She tore her eyes away and scanned the room quickly.

The door was clear, she noted. Bathroom. Bare bulb on the ceiling. Filthy carpets. Television that probably didn’t work. Deadbolt on the door. Rumpled sheets.

Rumpled sheets?

The fight. There had been a fight with the Brotherhood — she strained, wincing at the stiffness of her limbs as she sat there. Her head felt fuzzy.

“Ah’m gonna ask ya this once,” she said in a low grosgrain, sliding the sheets from her legs and being at least partially relieved to see she was still fully dressed. “What in blue blazes am Ah doing in Pennsylvania?”

He shrugged innocently with one shoulder and frowned, his eyebrows lifting as if repressing a grin.

Rogue was out of the bed in a second, leaping across the room. She dropped and rolled — kicking one of the chair legs out from beneath him and sending him arcing backwards, chair and all. Gambit’s leg shot out, catching the small overhang of the table and tipping it so that it flipped onto its side and clattered against the wall. Cards rained down on top of them: a flutter of clubs and spades and diamonds that she stubbornly ignored. Rogue pinned him — a knee on his chest and a hand on his throat — and pulled back her opposite fist. The knuckle protruded slightly, ready to drive into the bridge of his nose.

“Start talkin’,” she bit out through clenched teeth.

Remy smirked, holding his hands out in defensive supplication.

“Bon matin a toi aussi, ein?”

“What did ya do ta me?” she spat, her eyes narrowing. She shifted her weight to press down a little more firmly on his sternum. Gambit didn’t even flinch. It should have been cutting off the oxygen to his over-inflated head.

“Well,” he began lightly, peering at her knee on his chest with something close to appreciation, and then returning his attention to her face. He laced his fingers behind his head and appeared to settle in, despite the fact that Rogue was still poised to rearrange his bone structure. “Y’ see, first Remy asked you if you’d have a normal conversation — thought mebbe we’d have some supper, nice bottle of wine, catch up a little,” he drawled.

“Dream on, swamp rat,” she spat.

“Then something funny happened,” he continued, ignoring her indignant retorts. “Suppose you were still a lil’ sore, mebbe a lil’ shy since you hadn’t seen me in so long, so I had t’ make some arrangements with my old friends t’ smooth things over.”

“Ah am not shy,” she snapped.

“I can see that now.” He leered, his gaze sliding from the knee on his chest, up her torso and resting on her mouth for a moment before returning her speculative expression. “Y’ keep putting me in this position, chèrie, and I keep tellin’ you –”

“Ah don’t care what sort of perverse preferences ya got, LeBeau. You had the Brotherhood attack the mansion! That ain’t ‘smoothing’ things over’ where Ah’m from.” Her fist clenched near her ear.

“…Left y’ this lil’ invitation — stuck it t’ y’ mirror back at de Institute,” he continued lazily, offering a sly grin. “Shoulda been a grand ol’ time… Remembered how much you liked th’ Mardi Gras fireworks back in N’awlins, so I brought the party on up t’ New York.” He winked, shifting his shoulders to get comfortable beneath her knee.

“Ah don’t think ya realize what kinda damage your ‘fireworks’ did, Gambit,” she snarled.

“Au contraire, chèrie. The end, in this case, appears t’ justify the means.” Gambit’s eyes seemed to smolder in amusement, the red of his irises flaring brightly against the darkened sclera, and Rogue felt a stirring sort of familiarity – it was like an involuntary tug, an implacable, unvoiced demand for her to agree with him.

His mouth curved easily into a lopsided smile, and he lidded his gaze. “You’re here, ain’t ya?”

Something twisted in the pit of her stomach as he smiled — if that little upturn of his mouth could even be considered a smile.

He was enjoying this, she thought venomously.

Rogue snorted, finishing the discussion for him. “Kidnapping again? Ah shoulda known,” she returned, determined to best him. “You don’t seem ta get much more original than this, Cajun.”

Gambit cocked an eyebrow.

“Don’t you remember?” he murmured, and slowly, he pulled a hand from beneath his head and held it up before her. He waggled his fingers, waiting for her to focus on them. Rogue snapped her gaze between the two bare digits exposed by his oddly-cut gloves and his face suspiciously.

“What?” She sneered. “You finally find out how ta use primitive tools? It’s an opposable thumb, swamp rat. You’re about twenty millennia behind right about now.”

He chuckled, pursing his lips. “Trust me, I know how t’ use m’ hands just fine.”

Rogue flushed despite herself. Why was it that everything that rolled off his tongue had to sound so darn dirty all the time?

He kept his gaze trained on her face as slowly, he reached for a stray lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes.

Entranced, Rogue watched his fingers, barely aware that even as those few uncovered appendages moved towards her, she was pulling backwards.

“Don’t —” she warned, her breath bouncing back to her from his hand. He was too close.

“Rogue,” he said, coaxing, gentle; intent on demonstrating just how little he was concerned by the possibility of being knocked out cold with one tiny brush of his skin against her cheek. Fixed on her expression as it shifted between wariness, to fascination, to fear, Remy didn’t seem to be bothered by the danger. But Rogue was all too aware of the threat she posed.

“Ah said don’t!” she yelled and shot backwards. Digging her heels into the threadbare carpeting, she scrabbled until her shoulders made contact with the recently toppled furniture.

Her back crashed into the fallen table, and she grunted. Bracing herself, her gloves sliding over the slick surfaces of the cards that littered the floor of the motel room, Rogue shuddered and turned away. A moment later she’d wrapped her arms around herself protectively, swallowing back the immediate revulsion born from skittering too near the edge because of a little temptation. She didn’t want to look at him — not when he looked at her like that. There was something veiled beneath his schooled expression — was it curiosity? Or was it some sort of sick preoccupation with danger that had prompted him to try and touch her?

Incensed by the thought, she glanced at him, her mind rushing to catch up of its own accord. How could she have forgotten so easily? She swallowed, keenly aware that throughout this altercation she had carefully sidestepped something excruciatingly important.

“Ah — Ah absorbed ya,” she breathed, the night’s events tumbling into reality. “Oh man…” She covered her mouth, and looked at the cards surrounding her without really seeing them.

Remy sat up, watching her closely. “And?”

She could feel his unsettling stare on her even as she flinched at his prompting.

“And what?” she shot back. Shit, she thought. He’d taken her to Pennsylvania. This wasn’t a kidnapping; she’d left with him willingly.

Dear lord, Logan was going to kill her.

“Dieu!” Gambit chuckled, brushing himself off. “Y’ really don’t remember, do you?”

She winced.

“Or you do and you just don’t want t’ admit it.” He leaned forwards, ducking his head so that he slid into her direct line of sight. Rogue glared, her gloved hand balling against her mouth. She desperately wanted to bite down on a knuckle to keep herself from snapping at him. “That’s a bad tell, Rogue — when y’ do that with your eyes.” He clucked, bemused despite the deliberate condescension in his tone.

“Do what?”

“They get a bit darker ‘round the edges.” He grinned, slow and Cheshire-like, drawing his thumb against the corner of his mouth absently. “When your pupils dilate,” he continued, rubbing at the small tuft of his soul patch below his lower lip, inadvertently drawing her attention to his mouth. “The grey goes green.”

“My mutation doesn’t do that,” she countered.

“Non, it’s subtle,” he said. “It’s not part of y’ powers; you’d barely notice it if you weren’t paying attention.”

He sat back on his knees, his hands on his hips. Dimly, Rogue acknowledged that he probably knew exactly what the position did to enhance his musculature. She scowled and dropped her gaze.

“Cased you for a long time,” he admitted unabashedly. “This, however,” he dipped his head again, once again insinuating himself in her direct line of vision, “ain’t something you can tell but up close.”

“What’s your point?” she ground out.

Cocking his head and grinning, he replied, “I’m glad I got to see it.” He winked. Rogue opened her mouth to snap, but thought the better of it, gritting her teeth together.

“En tout cas,” he continued, sitting back on his heels and folding his hands before him loosely. “This ain’t a kidnapping,” he said idly, confirming her niggling suspicion. “Y’ practically begged me t’ bring you.”

Horrified, Rogue snapped, “Ah did not!”

“Woulda been close, just th’ same.” Gambit shrugged, his eyes glittering with mischief. “I’m used to it,” he added, waving it off in such a way that, Rogue decided, he perfected just to piss her off. “The femmes, they do it all the time. Y’ just do it in your own way.”

Rogue fumed, anger bubbling up in her chest like a warm spring. She braced herself against the ground, getting ready to lash out at him with a foot, a fist, anything to smack that sly grin off his face. Her hands skidded, and she glanced at the cards again. If she had absorbed him last night, that meant she’d be sitting on a geyser of Gambit’s powers. Slowly, Rogue shifted her weight so that she sat on the fingers of her gloved hand.

“How do ya figure?” she asked. She had to keep him talking, keep him distracted. She pulled back her arm a little, slowly, wiggling her fingers to loosen them from the glove.

“Well,” Gambit wet his lips, squinting for added affect, to make it seem as if he was mulling over a particularly difficult situation. Fake, she thought at him snidely. Charlatan. Poseur. “Y’ know how you took m’ hand when I offered it to you last night?”

Rogue froze, racking her brain furiously. Oh, no she didn’t…

“And then y’ just stared when you didn’t feel that old wrench in y’ gut when there was no absorption?” he continued, his tone dropping to a desultory sort of purr, bordering on laughter.

Rogue’s eyes widened, looking down at herself. Stupid body, she thought furiously. Stupid, betraying, deceitful body!

“And then y’ let Remy treat you like a proper femme for all of two seconds before you knocked him t’ his knees?” He lidded his gaze, appraising at her slyly, he murmured, “Figures you’d like having this homme at y’ feet, Rogue.”

That was it! Rogue drew her arm back, tearing off her glove entirely, and launched at him. Powers or no powers, she had the best right hook in all of Caldecott County, and there was no way she was going to put up with one more murmured bit of innuendo from that filthy mouth.

“Easy!” Gambit moved a second faster than her, catching her at the wrist and moving with her momentum so that they both landed, sprawled, side by side against the carpeting.

“This is cozy,” Gambit decided after a moment, shifting her arm across his chest without releasing her wrist. “But you’re not quick enough, I’m afraid.” He tapped his temple with his free hand, giving her a sidelong smirk that served to infuriate her even further. “I saw y’ move before you even thought about it.”

“You callin’ me predictable?” Rogue struggled, trying to pull her arm back, but Gambit held firm. Beneath her elbow, she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

“That was the last thing on m’ mind,” he confessed. Rogue blew the hair out of her face with a frustrated huff and narrowed her eyes. There was something strange about his expression — it was too open, too honest almost, but as quickly as it came, it was gone.

“Ah don’t think Ah even want ta know what’s running through your head half the time.”

“But th’ other half’s just fine, ein?” He smirked. She shook it off and tried to peel away from him. “Ah!” he chastised, locking a knee over the back of her legs so she was rendered immobile, stomach against the floor, her ribs pressing into his side. “This conversation’s just begun. The more y’ fight it, the longer its gonna take for me t’ explain myself.”

Rogue squeezed her eyes shut, quietly contemplating the nonexistent options. In this position, she wouldn’t even make it to the door — and if she did manage it, hotwiring a car to get away would take more time than she’d have if he followed.

“Fine,” she bit out. “Talk,” she said belligerently.

“Merci.” He nodded, seeing her settle a little despite the inherent tension in her limbs. “As I was saying, y’ shoulda taken a few of m’ memories last night — not all, just a couple t’ give you an idea.”

Rogue’s eyes snapped open.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, p’tit. Y’ might be sporting a few residual bursts of m’ power but not nearly enough t’ disable me long enough t’ keep me down.”

“Now that ya mention it,” she muttered dryly, glaring downwards at the carpet two inches below her nose. She pulled a face, tugged her free arm around, and rested her chin in the crook of her elbow. With it, a stray two of spades had stuck of her wrist.

“Quoi? You thinking of blowing me up?” Remy asked, reaching over and plucking the card out from under her arm. Rogue sniffed disdainfully. “You’d make more of a mess of this fine establishment than it already is.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling in distaste.

Rogue peered at the soiled carpet, mirroring his expression.

“Je n’ai pas de choix,” he continued, confirming her apprehension while peeking at her out of the corner of his eye. It almost sounded apologetic. It just didn’t quite make it. Idly, Remy rolled the playing card over his knuckles, flicking it in and out of sight in a steady rhythm. “You were gonna fall off th’ bike if we didn’t stop,” he said finally.

“Bike?”

Waving the question off as if their transport was irrelevant, Remy answered, “It’s parked outside, one floor down, three spots over.”

Rogue shook her head, frustrated. “Ah don’t get it.”

He threw the card, and it fizzled out over their heads, falling to the bed as a charred, wilted, and blackened rectangle. Gambit didn’t just blow it up, he nuked it from the inside out without a sound.

Chuckling at her expression, he elaborated, “It’s simple; y’ see, you put down th’ kickstand and pull out th’ key and –”

“That’s not what Ah meant and you know it,” she interrupted. “Your memories are there, but barely, it’s like,” She gestured feverishly at her forehead, as if the very thought of the images he’d shared with her were itching just below her skin. “Ah can feel them,” she continued, frustrated at her inability to explain the feeling to someone who’d never had two dozen ghosts cavorting around in their skull. “Ah know Ah saw them, but you ain’t in there. Gambit, where’s your psyche?”

He turned his head sharply, startled. “You’re serious?”

“Usually, when Ah absorb someone, a large chunk of their personality settles into my head, and Ah can’t get them out. Your memories, your powers, your feelings, everything gets a nice new place in my mind –” she continued, aware of the bitter taint to her words even as she gave them voice. “You’d think that eventually Ah’d run outta room. ‘Parently not.”

“Non, that’s not what I meant,” he cut her off. “You mean, y’ remember what I showed you?”

“What’s that supposed to –”

“Do you remember it, Rogue?”

She stared at him, hard. He matched her gaze intently, red eyes swimming in her vision when she refused to look away.

Gambit’s memories — she paused, sucking in a sharp breath. Exerting whatever control she could before they threatened to overtake her mind, they slid into focus, merging with her experiences and creating an interplay between Remy’s and her own:

Rogue can feel the cold touch of steel controls beneath her hands. She runs the pads of bare fingers over the tracking knob, the play button, and she hears the soft whirr of the hard disks in Magneto’s control room before hitting the rewind button again. The machinery is warm beneath her touch and warmer still where her hands have rested against cold metal.

His memories, distinct from her own by their clearness — the attention to detail that cut grooves into the hieroglyphs lining Apocalypse’s tomb, the scent of her own hair just beneath his nose, the acute impression of pain — failing muscles and fresh bruises.

His memories; seen from a thieves’ eyes, everything is animated, everything is in motion — the swirl of dust caught in beams of light, the tiny, trembling sensation of molecules below Gambit’s fingertips as he excites them. The stone — a shard — something he hadn’t expected to ever come across because such a thing he himself never needed — but nonetheless, it shocks him, throws him off balance. Rogue can feel the rush of Gambit’s power through her own limbs, surging upwards and around — treading a fine, silken path over her arms. It makes her hair stand on end. He is encased, stronger than he’s ever felt — it’s feedback from the gem and it embraces him entirely. The gem… the name of it so close, and so evasive that she can’t grasp it.

Rogue could feel her heart pounding, sending a rush of adrenaline into her system that would eradicate any possible need for a cup of coffee later on in the morning. Still, she fixed her stare on Gambit’s and dared not to blink. It was a test of wills, more than any search for truth. She wanted to snicker, and for one perfectly irrational moment, she nearly stuck out her tongue from the desire to placate her rattled nerves.

Gambit was the first to give into the silence.

Not looking away, he whispered heatedly, “Is there somethin’ stuck in m’ teeth?”

Rogue snorted, the tension broken, and tugged her hand back. He grinned, releasing her arm and sitting up. Rogue could feel the sizzle of his gaze as he sized up her prone form appreciatively.

“This place is disgusting,” she threw over her shoulder, before rolling onto her back, and raising herself to sit beside him. Shuffling over a little put an extra foot between them, for which Rogue was all the more appreciative.

“Y’ make it into a paradise, chèrie. Don’t need t’ pay attention t’ the scenery with you here,” he countered lightly.

Rogue rolled her eyes, and turned away just enough to conceal a fast flush.

“But you didn’t answer th’ question.” It figured he’d be relentless.

Rogue sighed, knowing full well that as long as she sat there with him, they weren’t going to get anywhere unless she ignored his persistent teasing. “You ask too many, swamp rat.”

“One thing at a time, then, river rat.” He grinned, clasping his hands loosely between his knees. The look he favored her with was a combination of amusement and curiosity. With Remy’s strong features, the gritty, unshaven look of someone who’d spent the night half-awake and watchful, it was unsettling. Again, Rogue was struck by the way he’d changed. His face was a map of strong angles, a hard-worn tan, and a mouth that pursed lightly when he smiled. It wasn’t a full grin he offered her; it never completely reached his eyes though they shone all the same.

She snatched at her boots, concentrating on pulling them on instead of looking at him.

“Something happened to your powers when ya went back ta New Orleans,” she said after a stretch, fiddling with one of the buckles on her boots. She carefully avoided the other two blurry memories that settled into the back of her mind.

“X-Men and their keen observational skills,” he said wryly.

Rogue glared at him, gritting her teeth.

“If you’re so intent on talking about it, then shed a little light for me, won’t ya? What was that rock ya picked up? Why is it that you can touch me now? And,” she gestured at the room around them, “How in the hell did Ah agree ta this?”

He quirked an eyebrow, watching her as he wiggled his fingers before him and produced a card, seemingly from thin air.

Rogue smirked at the fluidness of the trick. A simple sleight of hand, but he’d done it so fast that she couldn’t begin to fathom where he’d drawn it from.

“My powers,” he began, transferring the card, the Jack of Spades now, over his knuckles, “let me charge any object’s latent energy. Don’t matter th’ size, don’t matter th’ molecular structure. You excite the molecules enough, and they sing t’ you.” The card flashed pink, erupting in a brilliant, blinding glow of fuchsia. “The thing is, for a long time, I couldn’t light up just anything.”

Her gaze trained on the fizzling Jack, trying to determine the difference between how he lit up the card, and how he’d scorched the two of spades of ash without as much as a spark. “What do ya mean?”

“Had to be inorganic in nature,” he answered, his attention fixed on the card with a reverent expression. “Rocks, paper, metal.” He shrugged. “Whatever. No pulse, no problem. But that’s not the interesting part.”

He flicked the card with his opposite hand, and snuffed the charge as easily as he’d lit it up.

“That gem,” he continued, turning to face her, “did something t’ me. I can sense it now — the latent energy in everything. It’s just begging t’ be released. I feel it in m’ bones, in m’ hands, m’ skin. I feel it in other people, in obstacles — I can see the potential in everything now, as obvious as a smack upside th’ head. I didn’t know for sure,” he shrugged again, this time indolently like he was trying to downplay it. “Had t’ get some tests done.” He turned away, glancing at the card again as if the Jack could offer his support. “But the end result is that…” He hesitated, taking a deep breath. “Dieu, this is gonna sound fou…”

“Ya think it changed your mutation,” Rogue supplied for him.

He nodded, silently turning the card between his index and middle fingers. “I don’t think it did.”

“Ya know it.” Rogue frowned, looking at her still un-gloved hand.

Gambit winced, turning his gaze upwards to the ceiling to avoid looking directly at her. “I figured that out last night,” he muttered. It came out in such a low murmur that Rogue almost didn’t hear him.

“What?” Rogue deadpanned, getting to her knees.

“I had t’ confirm it.” He grimaced, still evading her glare.

“Confirm what?”

“Y’ know th’ bit about being able t’ touch you?” He peered at her askance, trying to gauge her reaction. Remy didn’t flinch, but for a second, it looked very much like he wanted to.

“Ya didn’t know if ya could,” she whispered, suddenly horrified. “Ah coulda killed ya.”

“Non, non, non — attends, toi. Because of –” He gesticulated towards himself. “Because of this, because I can sense it better than I did before, I knew after I woke up th’ next day that something was a lil’ different with my own biological blue printing. I did a few preliminary tests with laser defense systems and such, just t’ see — and it’s controllable,” he insisted. “Just a bit of a block that keeps me from touching anything directly. It’s like m’ own internal biokinetic charge sort of bled out. It’s real thin, bit of a force field like… Star Trek, tu sais? No fingerprints, comprends?” He grinned a little, sucking in a short breath and offering her a brief flash of teeth. “But still the same level of sensation, n’est ce pas?”

Rogue was on her feet. She stepped over his legs in the cramped space between the bed and the wall and snatched her glove from the floor.

“Ya did it again, didn’t ya?” she spat.

“Quoi?” Remy asked, sounding genuinely surprised at her reaction.

“You used me! Ya hadn’t been in Bayville more than twenty-four hours and you’re already batting me around like a lab rat in a cage!”

“It’s not like that, chère…”

“Don’t ya ‘chère’ me nothing!”

She bent down, placing her feet on either side of his outstretched legs and grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt to haul him closer. “Ya took a risk at my expense,” she hissed. “If you’d died, it’d be on my head. Maybe that doesn’t bother you, but me? Ah’d rather not live with that kinda guilt.”

Gambit peered down at her hands with a frown, and then leisurely, he dragged his gaze back up to her face. A shadow of some dark thought crossed his face, and though his expression remained placid, save for the wry smirk, Remy’s eyes were cold.

“Skeletons not rattlin’ in y’ closet these days?” he purred. “Pity. Mine’s been soundin’ like a Mardi Gras marchin’ band for some time now.” Rolling his head back to peer lazily at her, Remy flashed a small, hollow smile. “While I respect your opinion on th’ matter, that’s not exactly right, Rogue…”

The next few seconds happened so quickly that Rogue barely had the chance to realize that Gambit had latched onto her legs and flung her over his shoulders. She hit the bed was a gasp, her booted heels smacking into the lumpy pillows, and before she could twist around, he’d leapt over her and pinned her hands.

“Y’ see,” he said thoughtfully, leaning closer to whisper. “If you’d listened to de whole story you’d know that part of this involves you, and not in any way that’d be so… macabre.”

“Get off me,” she spat, twisting under him, trying to get a knee up.

“Non.” His breath was warm and sweet, and he was close enough to make the down on her cheeks prickle pleasantly. She froze, his proximity sending off instinctual warning bells that made her press backwards and away from his skin.

“Get off now.” Rogue forcibly solidified her resolve. She was infinitely grateful that her voice didn’t quaver as Remy’s weight settled over her knees. It prevented her bucking him off, but it put him three inches farther away.

He tutted, seeming to notice that despite his assurances about being able to touch her, Rogue wasn’t relaxing. Good, she thought fiercely. Nothing was assured in life, she reminded herself frantically. Not promises. Not potential. Not nothing when it came to her mutation.

If Gambit wanted to die, she wasn’t about to play his Kevorkian. Too damned bad for him. That was the only guarantee she had to offer.

“The first thing I thought of after I’d figured out that my mutation can do a whole lot more f’ the both of us…” he began, his inflection softening, as if a few gentle words would placate her. Rogue grit her teeth.

“Was probably something that involved a seedy motel room in the middle of buttfuck nowhere Pennsylvania,” she snarled. “How did Ah guess?”

He took a breath, startled, and pulled back a little. Rogue didn’t fail to miss the stung expression, the slight furrowing of his brow, or the subtle downturn of his mouth.

Gambit squeezed his eyes shut. “You really don’t think too much of me do you?” he said after a moment, his voice tight.

“At this point in time, Ah wouldn’t put it past ya,” she spat. The hell was he playing at? “Drop the act, Gambit. You’re a terrible actor and this damned pity party ain’t gonna do anything for your image.”

He let go of her wrists as if scalded. Rogue readied to shove him off, but in a second, he’d shifted off her, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and was moving around the room towards the upturned table and chair.

“It was a risk I was willing to take,” he said in an undertone, collecting his trench from the floor with a snap. “For me, that is. Didn’t mean t’ hurt you in th’ process.”

Rogue pushed herself to her elbows, watching his motions guardedly. Gambit’s jaw was set, his eyes downcast as he slung the trench over his shoulders and began rifling through the pockets.

He shrugged noncommittally. “Figured if th’ stone could boost th’ control of m’ powers up to maximum effect, it’d do the same t’ yours.”

He didn’t look back on her once as he unhooked the deadbolt and opened the door.

“I thought I owed it to you for helping me out with Jean Luc last year, seeing as how y’ still don’t have control and all,” he said over his shoulder in a monotone. Pausing as if he wanted to say something more, Remy thought better of it, shook his head, and stepped outside into the early morning glare.

Stunned, Rogue sat up fully. She was more alert than she ever had been at any time in her life. A glance at the clock revealed it to be a little past seven, and that said a lot. Not even the threat of an early morning training session with Logan could get her heart rate this high.

What just happened?

The door creaked, shutting fully behind him. Rogue let out a breath she hadn’t been aware that she’d been holding and looked down at her feet.

Her heart seemed to settle a little closer to her stomach, a little more leaden than she was comfortable with.

Control. What a foreign concept. It was an ideal she hadn’t started entertaining, not really, until recently. Pipe dreams just didn’t make for happy endings, and her rate of success with her mutation didn’t leave room for hope. It didn’t leave room for a margin of error – if she held on too long, that was it. She hurt people. She was damned dangerous.

But beyond that, a small, selfish seedling of curiosity was blooming.

A mutant with her abilities could never be normal, but something closer to it? Rogue worried her lower lip, the decisive tug of her attentions pulled to the sound of receding footsteps seeping through the thin walls.

Swallowing a ripple of embarrassment, she peered around the debris of the hotel room.

On the ground, in the centre of the wreckage created by the upturned coffee table and Gambit’s scattered cards, one in particular drew her attention.

Breath hitching a little, Rogue yanked on her glove, and plucked the Queen of Hearts from the pile.

---

“You don’t want to go in there,” Lance muttered, leaning against the doorframe that led into the Brotherhood’s great room. Jabbing his thumbs through his belt loops, he threw Pietro a sardonic smirk before pretending to inspect the scuffed toes of his boots.

“What? Why?” Pietro tried to peek over Lance’s shoulder, but Lance merely shook his head, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Uh uh.” His jaw quivered as his shoulders began to shake. “I hate to say it –” Lance managed between chuckles.

A wail cut through the otherwise quiet house, followed by several loud curses and a strangled sob.

“But when I said it was a bad idea,” he continued, flinching as a chair flew from the great room and crashed into the opposite wall. Pietro sidestepped the soaring La-Z-Boy easily, and folded his arms across his chest. “I wasn’t kidding,” Lance finished with a smug smirk.

“What the hell, man?” Toad muttered blearily from the top of the stairs, before Wanda knocked him out of the way as she strode past him. Toad squawked, teetering on the landing precariously.

“Can’t a girl get any sleep around here?” Wanda grimaced; her otherwise striking features contorting unpleasantly as she shoved between Pietro and Lance.

“Wanda, you don’t want to go in there,” Pietro cautioned, grabbing at her wrist. His fingers scrabbled over the lacings on her gauntlet. Slapping his hand away, she tugged at the bandages on her other arm as she steeled her expression. She hadn’t been the only one injured in the previous evening’s scrap with the X-Men, but all things considered, and compared to the display she was met with upon entering the great room, Wanda was probably the least affected out of all of them.

Sniffing disdainfully, she stepped into the archway.

“Bad idea,” Lance said, not a second too early.

Wanda reeled backwards, stumbling into Pietro, who propped her upright.

“Well, that’s not what I was expecting,” she said, a little shaken.

Lance snorted and shifted his weight with a wince. The sting of pain cut the laughter from his face.

“Shnookums?” Toad called from the top of the stairs, taking them gingerly, one at a time, rather than with his usual spring.

Wanda didn’t have the gumption to snap at him; instead, she turned to her brother for reassurance. “It’s like one of those bad horror movies,” she whispered furtively, her eyes drawn back against her will to the spectacle around the corner.

“Worse,” Lance chuckled. “Ever seen that movie with that wizard dork?”

Pietro cocked an eyebrow.

Lance gave the siblings an exasperated look, making an elaborate squiggling motion with his index finger. “You know the one with the glasses, and the scar?” he explained, finally working out something that resembled a lightening bolt in midair.

From the living room, Pyro bellowed, “SHE WAS MY FRIEND!” He whinnied, his howl cut short with another sob.

“Uh,” Toad said, peeking through the group’s combined legs. “Wrong line, guy.”

“I’M GOING TO KILL HIM!” Pyro choked, his voice hoarse from crying.

“Man, I can’t watch,” Toad cringed, shuffling back from the doorway.

“What’s Pyro complaining about?” Freddy asked, lumbering out of the kitchen with a carton of milk squeezed between his thick fingers in one hand, and a gargantuan bowl of cereal in the other. “Someone ate all my frozen waffles, and there are no marshmallows left for my cereal.”

The group stared between each other, exchanging uncertain glances.

“I like marshmallows,” Fred insisted morosely. “They take forever to get soggy.”

Lance piped up, “John’s having a rough morning, Blob. You think you can talk to him? You know — calm him down a little?”

Fred blinked. “Me?”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “Like a lamb to the slaughter,” he said, loud enough so that only his sister could hear. Wanda curled her fingers around his elbow, but didn’t look away from St. John.

“You’re the only one who won’t get killed if Pyro throws the couch, homes,” Toad answered, backing Lance now that the power structure had seemingly shifted overnight within the group.

Lance nodded sagely as if to approve the remark, and cocked his head at the destroyed armchair, broken into a mess of stuffing and splintered wood. A chunk of torn chintz fabric clung to the banister where the chair had scraped before slamming into the plaster on the far side of the hall.

“That was my favorite recliner,” Fred muttered dejectedly.

“Don’t tell him there aren’t any Twinkies left,” Pietro whispered furtively to Lance. “I can’t take them both in a bad mood. I’llkillmyselffirst.”

In response, St. John Allerdyce keened.

“He came in last, this morning,” Wanda hissed, sinking her nails into Pietro’s forearm. He winced, but didn’t voice his complaint. “I didn’t think it was this bad. I was too busy enjoying the iodine to hear him.” In explanation, she gestured to her injured arm absently, her eyes fixed on the scene before them.

“Didn’t see him either after Gambit took off,” Pietro added. “The psycho –”

“Psychic,” Wanda corrected.

“Whatever. She nearly chucked me into a mailbox. I couldn’t run fast enough to get away.”

Wanda threw him a wry look.

“Well that was after I made sure you were okay,” he added hastily.

“Did anyone know what happened to John after Colossus got a hold of him?” Lance asked. He was met with several blank expressions. “Think we oughta find out. This’ll go on all day otherwise,” he added in a murmur. Slowly, four pairs of eyes turned to Blob, standing at the edge of the group, still looking at his armchair sadly.

“Freddy?”

Turning back to them, Blob took in their expectant faces. Finally, he shoved his breakfast at Toad, who toppled backwards into Lance’s legs, but nodded to him all the same as Fred ambled past.

“Brave man, Blob,” Pietro slapped him on the back.

Wanda snorted, adding in an undertone, “Or just too stupid to know any better.”

The great room was a mess. As a central living area, it had been the place that suffered the most abuse from the Brotherhood’s members — but never, in his three years spent boarding in Mystique’s former house, had Fred seen it in worse condition.

Chunks of the carpet had been torn out, the window hangings — those that remained from Pyro’s rampage — drooped forlornly, and the remaindered furniture was in a state not fit to grace the garbage dump. At the center of the room, Pyro hunkered, breathing raggedly.

“St. John?” Fred tried in the gentlest tone he could muster.

Sniffing loudly, his shoulders heaving as he sighed, Pyro’s head lolled on his neck.

“Sin Jun!” he corrected tightly, his voice unnaturally high-pitched.

From Fred’s vantage point at the door, he could just make out the filthy bottoms of the Australian’s socks from where he knelt, facing the fireplace. Why Pyro had thought to remove his boots, but keep his uniform on, was not entirely beyond him — but Fred didn’t want to hazard a verbal guess to confirm it.

He could see clearly the severed fuel pipes hanging listlessly off Pyro’s gloves.

They flopped uselessly against the floor while John’s shoulders shook.

He laughed. It was a strangled, watery sound.

“I’m gonna kill him, mate,” he sniveled, not turning around. “He knew — the bastard knew — and he let us walk right into it like a bunch of bloody sheep. Why do I always have to be somebody’s bitch?” Pyro sighed heavily and let loose an unnerving titter that, anywhere else, could pass easily for nervous laughter. In Pyro’s case, Fred knew better.

This wasn’t good.

Fred shifted uneasily, the battered floor creaking beneath his weight. “John?” he tried again. Pyro ignored him.

“My poor baby,” Pyro cooed. “Yeh never did anything to deserve this, love. You were so beautiful.” He hiccupped, and Fred took an apprehensive step forward to peer over Pyro’s shoulder.

“Wasn’t she beautiful, mate?” Pyro didn’t look away from the compacted bundle of twisted metal in his arms. He caressed it lovingly, running his gloved fingers against the dips and swells, smearing the leaking lighter fluid across the warped surface. It left behind an oily sheen as it evaporated, and the air stunk of it — acrid and volatile.

Fred swallowed. Nope. Not good at all.

He hoped Lance had had the sense to pocket the matches off the fireplace mantle before Pyro really had the opportunity to mourn the loss of his firepower.

“Wasn’t she?” Pyro shouted, his shoulders hunching to form a protective wall around his former flame thrower.

“Y-yeah,” Fred managed. “She — she was great, John.”

“Her name,” he snarled, clutching his demolished fuel pack to his chest and twisting around, “was Stella.”

From beyond the cover of the wall leading to the hallway, someone muffled a snort.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Pyro said again. “Right after I give the old girl a proper seeing off,” he babbled, his lower lip quivering a little. “Gonna bury her in the backyard, right under the hydrangea.”

“That’ll be… nice.” Fred winced, and hastened to add, “I’ll help you, John. I can get the shovel and –”

“No!” Pyro’s voice rose a few octaves as he waved Fred off. “No, this is between me and the old lady. She’d have wanted it like that.”

Fred frowned. Pyro hiccupped again.

“Pyro?”

Heaving a huge sigh, Pyro stood up on wobbly legs. Slowly, he turned, and Fred had to divert his gaze. Pyro’s face was a blotchy mess — wet from crying and red ringed around the eyes.

“Yeah, mate?” he asked feebly, rocking the fuel pack like he would a baby.

“Who are you gonna kill, exactly?” After a slight hesitation, he added, “Colossus? I would have helped, you know — but you were already in that dumpster and –”

Pyro sniffed and jutted his chin defiantly.

“Not Piotr,” he interrupted petulantly. “Who else? ‘Y’ need a lil’ action, need a lil’ fun. Mebbe blow off a lil’ steam — all yeh gotta do is distract ‘em,’” Pyro imitated Gambit in a falsetto. “The same arse who didn’t bloody well leave us any compensation for our –” He hesitated, glancing at his fuel tank forlornly a moment. “Sacrifices,” he finished at a higher pitch.

Pyro’s face crumpled and he sank to a crouch again, sobbing haplessly.

“What?” Lance snapped, stepping around the corner. “What do you mean he didn’t –”

Wanda pushed past him, levitating the remaining furniture with her uninjured hand. She flipped the couch over mid-air, dumping the cushions. When nothing other than a few crumbs and some loose change fell to the carpet, she moved on to the ruins of the coffee table, levitating the wreckage in case they’d missed something, in case the small bundle had been moved or buried during Pyro’s fit.

“It was right here! He left it on the table last night. I saw it with my own eyes!” she snapped.

Pyro laughed mirthlessly.

“You lot obviously don’t know Gambit that well,” he sneered, the expression falling as he clutched at the tank again. He pressed his cheek against the crumpled ball and whined again pitifully.

“He promised us!” Wanda snapped.

“Thieves’ honor,” Pietro interjected wryly. He leaned against the doorjamb, his hip jutting out. “Figures.”

“But it was here when we left, Pietro!” Wanda argued, dropping her hex so that the remaining furniture fell to the ground with several cracking sounds and resounding thuds.

“Didn’t I say we should have given it a demo beforehand?” Lance looked to the ceiling as if to say, ‘why?’ to whatever omnipresent being was lurking overhead.

Fred followed his gaze, though all he saw was crumbling plaster.

“We were just being practical,” Wanda muttered bitterly. “Considering the fact that Gambit had led us to believe he was planning on sticking around a little longer before heading back…”

“You actually believed that?”

“I told you, Pietro, something didn’t feel right the instant those charges went off at Xavier’s,” she shot back.

“Not to mention that you thought this was a great idea to begin with,” Lance interjected, pointing an accusing finger at Pietro.

“Hey, I was only agreeing with Pyro, man –”

“It’s good to know you’re still capable of functioning all on your own, Quicksilver. At least we’ll know next time that your mouth’s still faster than your brain.”

“Watch it, Alvers –”

“Or what? Gonna sick daddy on me? Last I heard he was running around calling himself Joseph in some loony bin up at Redwood Pines — can’t even remember that he was the ‘Master of Magnetism.’ A lot of good that’ll do for you, Junior.”

“Hey!” Toad called, wincing as he stood to his full height from amidst the wreckage of the television unit. He held aloft a small, carefully wrapped bundle. “Is this it? I think I found it, yo. Gem of cyt-cot-torra-ACK!”

Fred turned, Wanda leapt, Lance spun, but Pietro was the quickest. He’d snatched the bundle from Todd’s fingers and was across the room before anyone had even taken a step towards the corner.

“Cyttorak,” Pietro corrected. “Do you need me to spell it out for you, genius?”

He squeezed the bundle tentatively and sniffed it. With a disgruntled grimace, he dropped it almost as quickly as he’d picked it up.

“False alarm; it’s one of Fred’s old sandwiches.”

The floor rumbled.

“John?” Lance ground out.

Pyro looked up blearily, a vague smile on his face as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

“I think you’re going to need some help with that –”

“STELLA!” Pyro barked.

“With Stella, yeah.” Lance balled his fists at his sides. Pyro’s recently destroyed object of affections being the furthest thing from his mind. “And after?”

Wanda nodded grimly.

“That mean we’re taking a vacation?” Toad piped up, looking hopeful despite the situation. “I hear New Orleans is one of the most romantic cities in the world, yo –”

“I hear the swamps have alligators big enough to swallow a man whole,” Wanda returned, her lip curling as she appraised Todd. “Frog legs on the menu?” she asked with mock innocence.

“I’ll buy the first round if we get that rock.” Lance sneered.

“And I’ll get the second, if we take down the Cajun,” Pietro added. “Permanently.”

Pyro sniffed. “It’s not a proper wake unless ya get properly pished.” He shook his head, chuckling without humour.

There was a pause as they collected themselves, coming to an agreement without words, without needing to vocalize the promise of retribution in plainer terms.

After a moment of looking between the Brotherhood’s determined expressions, Fred asked, “What are we doing?”

---

The door shut behind him with a groan. Someone needed to oil the hinges, Remy thought absently.

He paused, leaning against the chipped stucco wall outside room number fourteen, and waited.

“C’mon chèrie,” he whispered, more to himself than the girl he’d just left in the hotel room.

Three seconds. Six seconds. Ten, and the floorboards groaned inside as Rogue got off the bed.

Remy smirked and pushed himself off the wall. He strode to the end of the narrow balcony that lined the second floor of the motel and leapt over the banister — taking the fifteen-foot drop to the concrete below with ease.

He landed, and with a nimble spring in his step, strolled over to his bike without looking over his shoulder. In passing a nearby garbage can, Gambit pulled from his pocket a very battered-looking parcel — a decoy, naturally, that was nothing more than a pretty piece of painted glass.

If there was one thing Jean Luc had taught him, it was always to have proper leverage. With that, he dropped the bogus stone, smirking at the resounding clang! as it hit the bottom of the metal receptacle.

It was only a matter of moments before he heard the whining door to room number fourteen as it opened.

He quickened his step.

Just as he’d swung a leg over his Harley, Rogue’s voice cut the chill morning air. It could have melted any late season frost.

“Remy!”

---

Post Script:
- Mechanic (Poker): A cheater who uses sleight-of-hand to arrange the deck or deal to benefit himself or a partner.
- “S’ like m’ own internal biokinetic charge sort of bled out.” Gambit #16
- “She was my friend, ad nauseum”: Tip of the hat to “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” in there. Paraphrasing the film rather than the book… as if Lance would read for recreational purposes.
- Stella, Pyro’s fuel tank: A nod to “A Streetcar Named Desire.” Like you didn’t see that coming.

Translations:
Au contraire, chérie: On the contrary, dear.
Bon matin a toi aussi, ein: Good morning to you too, huh?
Coyoon: (Cajun) idiot
D’accord: alright
Dieu: God
Femme: Woman
Fille: Girl
Homme: Man
Je n’ai pas d’choix: I didn’t have a choice (Slurred. Should be “de choix”. I pronounce it differently; coming from my mouth, it sounds like “J’en ai pas d’choix.” Makes no sense to anyone else unless you live in Quebec.)
Ma belle: my sweet, my pretty
Merci: Thank you
Merde: Shit
Non, non, non — attends, toi: No, no, no — wait a second, you!
Oui: Yes
Quoi?: What?