“S’ gonna rain, chile,” Tante murmured, staring out into the descending darkness from the balcony of the Guild safe house.

At her side, Remy breathed in the heavy, sodden scent of twilight touched with a hint of ozone.

“Thunder, too,” he murmured, reveling in the sounds rising from the street below. He inhaled deeply, his senses swirling with the promise of nightfall – the amber glow of gaslight, the smell of Creole cooking, jasmine from the window boxes, and thirsty concrete begging for the rain. Beneath the heavy hand of darkness, he would lead Rogue into the heart of the Quarter. Through the path made by shadow, above the streets where it was still reasonably safe to travel if they were quick, they would return to find Maman Brigitte.

Idly, he wondered if Rogue was nervous.

Remy listened hard, picking up the light patter of water from the shower through the bathroom door. She was certainly taking her time, he thought wryly, though part of him was content with the fact that she hadn’t tried to decapitate him upon returning home.

Of course, the night was still a fledgling smear of blue and grey crawling over the horizon with the clouds. There was still time for that, he supposed, smiling a little and not fearing for his safety in the slightest.

Tante chuckled, her weathered hands twisting on the wrought iron rail as she appraised him warmly. “Why, y’ look just like y’ did when y’ were eleven and Jean Luc brought y’ home y’ first birthday present.”

He rolled his head on his neck, tossing her a lopsided grin, before turning his attention to a couple strolling on the street below.

After a moment of pausing in front of a store, the pair embraced – hands roaming lazily around each other’s waists, fingers gliding beneath the hem of a tee shirt or into a belt loop.

Brush of skin, the barely-there sensation of sweat that you couldn’t even feel with the humidity – Remy watched with detached interest. Gestures that were too intimate, too light and careless to go unobserved by those participating in the gesture – but not by him.

The theory was simple, if you could understand the effectiveness of the barest bit of pressure – on the shoulder, on the hip, against a cheek, below the chin – the mechanics became a whole lot simpler. Touch was a language that you could stutter through or speak with smooth, sanguine emphasis at precisely the right times, to garner precisely the right effects.

Remy sighed; he was a little disgusted that he was still contemplating the technicalities of the situation. It became a little bit more difficult when the individual receiving your conversation couldn’t bear it.

It offered him limited options.

Somehow, he’d convinced himself that Rogue would have appreciated it – the offer, the bargain, the opportunity to be physically close to someone. Sure she was attractive. Sure she was lonely. Sure he wanted her if only for the conquest and subsequent victory that assured him that he was still accomplished Casanova. He wasn’t trying to reassure himself, he concluded stubbornly. It wasn’t his pride that was being battered here… much.

Three days later, he was still contemplating the reasoning for her abject, utter rejection of his advances. He could touch her. He could. In fact, he was probably the only person in the entirety of the universe at that point in time who had such a mixed bag of blessings. He could touch her, sure – but he couldn’t reach her. For all his research, the carefully hatched plan of action, the flirting which had, he conceded, elicited a blush or two, she just… didn’t want him.

That riled him more than anything ever had before. She was providing the kindling for a furnace that was already hitting unbearable temperatures.

Subtract touch.

He’d given her a taste of it, and she’d all but melted into him – but that wasn’t right either. There was no satisfaction in that simple gesture. It had turned around in a few short hours to bite him sharply on the ass. She was remembering things in her dreams that were not hers to remember.

He had not given them to her willingly. More clearly than ever before, Remy was beginning to understand why Rogue referred to her powers as a “curse.” It was bad enough that those things haunted him. They were his and his alone – and somehow, despite his best efforts to siphon them out, she’d absorbed them too. What else was lurking in the depths of her mind? What else had she taken from him against his will?

It was a good thing she hadn’t remembered those things upon waking. Remy breathed a little easier for it.

Outwardly, he smiled at Tante and turned his face to the waning light. Inwardly, he forced his nerves into steel coils.

He wouldn’t touch her again, he assured himself. That had been a mistake – a pleasant one, but nonetheless a mistake. The reasons for such a decision, he assured himself, were based solely on the fact that if he did not accomplish what he’d set out to do, if he lingered too long on the fact that he’d meant every single damned word he’d said to her, or the fact that somehow, by some freak coincidence, he fucked this up – Rogue would be on a plane back to Bayville in no time flat.

He couldn’t have that. That sort of play wasn’t worth the risk. Not again. Not ever.

Remy LeBeau did not share his burdens with anyone.

You communicate enough with the gesture – with the language that carries more weight than words – but you do not, must not, cannot give too much of yourself in the process.

The scent of her filled his mouth again, and Remy inhaled heavily, stretching against the iron rail to work out the kinks in his back from a night spent on the couch.

“Y’ care f’ her doncha?” Tante murmured, to which Remy peered up, his eyebrow cocked. He schooled his features in such a way that Tante could read his response how she liked.

Damned if you do, he thought. Still damned if you don’t.

Swallow it down, LeBeau. He chuckled and straightened as behind them, a floorboard creaked audibly. The shower had stopped running moments ago, and Remy turned a finely tuned ear to the movements inside the apartment.

“Only as much as I care f’ m’self, Tante.” He winked, acutely aware of the irony in the statement. It was lost on Tante Mattie, as expected. “An’ not half as much as I care f’ you,” he purred.

She swatted at him, laughing. “Y’ still m’ little man, pichouette, but dat don’ mean Tante ain’t wise t’ y’. Y’ treat her good, y’ hear?” She leveled her gaze with his, sternly, she added, “Y’ take care o’ her. Don’t do nothin’ stupid t’ show off, y’ understand?”

“Ah think Remy’s already outdone himself in the stupid department, ma’am. Ya shoulda seen what he did ta my home before convincing me ta come out here with him.”

Remy turned slowly, not at all surprised that Rogue stood in the doorway behind them.

Tante hmmed. “Y’ don’t say? Shouldn’t be surprised, really. Remy always liked t’ put on a big show f’ de pretty ones.”

Remy smirked at Rogue’s flush – a light pink that touched her collarbone prettily and spread across her pale cheeks. She recovered momentarily, jutting a hip to the side and trying to look disdainful as she stared him down.

“Everyt’ing… fit alright?” he asked after a moment, allowing the words to roll of his tongue with nothing more than a throaty hum.

Her expression glacial, Rogue growled, “Just fine, sugah.”

Remy took her in, letting his gaze wander, smoother than an oil slick, over her curves. She’d found the Dickies, choosing to stuff the legs into her boots so that they puffed out like combat pants midway up her shins. The shirt was lightweight; a deep shade of grey with sleeves long enough to cover three-quarters of her arms, leaving four inches of skin exposed from wrist to glove. It was a strategic choice on his part for something so daring. Despite the modesty of the top, with its narrow neckline that cut most of the way across her shoulders, her decision to actually wear it spoke volumes. Despite all of Rogue’s protestations, despite her prickly attitude, she couldn’t hide the fine tremor of expectancy that shone in her expression.

Remy wondered if she knew what the small triangles of exposed, creamy flesh between her neck and shoulder did to him.

He wet his lips, nodding appreciatively.

“Une bonne choix, ma belle.”

She rolled her eyes, hooking her fingers into the heavy belt slung around her hips.

“Ah figured showing off this much wouldn’t be a bad idea, considering where we’re headed and all.”

He smiled a little at that and inclined his head.

Despite his previous misgivings, apparently their moment shared earlier that morning had the desired effect. Outwardly, she didn’t appear nervous – but the small, determined quirk of her mouth suggested she was ready.

She wanted control.

And when a woman wants, Remy is always happy to oblige.

“Bye, Tante,” Remy pecked her on the cheek lightly and strolled passed Rogue, his gaze lingering on the smooth curve of her neck as he re-entered the apartment.

She stiffened as he passed, withdrawing a little against the doorframe as not to brush him, though he gave the appearance that that was precisely what he was trying to do. He smirked, collecting his trench and slinging it over his shoulders, and moved to the kitchen to retrieve the large box he’d left on the counter from his earlier entrance.

Behind him, the women exchanged a few words of parting.

“Y’ take care, chile. I’ll see y’ both soon, I hope,” Tante nodded as she passed him. “M’ gonna leave before de rain comes.”

“A bientôt.” Remy nodded, mentally verifying the sound of the door as it locked behind her.

Rogue remained in the doorway to the balcony, her gloved fingers playing with the hem of her shirt idly as she traced his movements around the room. Remy didn’t turn around, allowing her to watch him under the pretence that he did not know she was doing so.

He set the box atop the ornately carved trunk at the foot of his bed, stooping only for a moment to press his fingers to the lock hidden beneath the overhang of the gift. Still sealed. Good.

“What is it?” Rogue asked finally, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Remy wet his lips, standing to his full height and turning slowly. A small, obstinate grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“Dis?” He cocked his head towards the package, though his thoughts flitted to the tithe box beneath just as quickly.

“Yeah, that.” She jutted her chin, following him into the room. Her footfalls were heavy, and she moved slowly, almost cautiously to prevent the creaking from the old hardwood.

He exhaled, relaxing.

Remy shrugged noncommittally. “Size six, right?”

With a dip into his pocket, he pulled a deck of cards and absently began shuffling them.

---

Rogue froze, her stomach doing a back flip as she stared between the Cajun, and the large, black box now positioned directly in her line of sight.

He’d bought her a dress. The dress – the one she’d be forced to wear because she’d lost his stupid little game at the diner the day before. Now he was taunting her with it – that insufferable smirk was fixed firmly in place as he handled his infernal cards. Her stomach fluttered again uneasily. She was already nervous about the night ahead, and beneath the worn leather protecting the rest of the world from her hands, she could feel the uncomfortable accumulation of sweat on her palms.

Absently, she pushed down the top of her glove and rubbed at the indentation left behind on her wrist. It was a dull red line, fading to white as her circulation compensated for the burden of having to wear them in the sickly heat. She’d grown used to it in the last few years, though only in appearance. After a few hours, her hands began to itch.

As it were, she’d only put them on a few moments ago after her shower, and already they were causing her undo irritation.

Her gaze darted between the gift and Remy.

Flexing her fingers, Rogue dug them into her hips a little below the belt she wore, and bit her lip.

A date, she thought, in a proper dress, without having to cover up for the first time in her short, nineteen years of existence… with the swamp rat. Rogue blew at a stray lock of white hair, already curling with the humidity as it dried. She didn’t know if that was necessarily a bad thing — the dress or Gambit, whichever. Both seemed trivial in hindsight.

Tonight, she’d have control.

She could have laughed, but she squashed it before it reached her throat. The prospect was making her light-headed.

Sometime between waking and her shower, the hope seedling had burst open into a bright and beautiful bouquet of possibility. It was the sort of delayed realization of something you don’t embrace because for a stretch, it seems less real and more like fantasy. Like a vacation you know you’re going to take to someplace exotic, only to not realize it until you’re standing at the airport at baggage claim. It had hit her like a ten-ton truck, all at once, in all its shimmering, promised-filled glory.

She was going to have control over her mutation.

She nodded, pursing her lips to reign in a smile. “It better not be pink, Cajun.” She grinned at him coyly, unable to stop herself.

Turning before she could catch his reaction, Rogue strode across the room with self-assured steps and plucked a long coat from the pile of clothing she’d unceremoniously dumped out onto the floor in front of the armoire.

He coughed politely, the sound underscored by the soft shuffle of cards. Remy was nervous, maybe more so than she was. The thought pleased her – it rippled through her belly to meet with the growing knot of excitement forming in her chest.

“Pink’s not y’ colour, chérie,” he returned. “M’ surprised, though – y’ looking forward to it?”

“Swamp rat, at this point, ya could have set me up with a gig in a girlie show after tonight and Ah wouldn’t bat an eyelash,” she replied dryly in the attempt to smother out the giddy titter that threatened to bubble to the surface. She cleared her throat instead.

Calm down, girl. It hasn’t happened yet, she reminded herself. Hell, was she flirting with him?

“’Dat so? I might have t’ cancel our soirée t’ accommodate y’ wishes, chére. Dieu,” he laughed, “I wouldn’t be complaining.”

“Ah know ya wouldn’t, ya snake charmer,” she replied, brushing her damp hair back. “But then Ah’d be just like every other girl who’s yo’ type, now wouldn’t Ah?” she added, though the rejoinder sounded a little flat to her own ears.

“And how would y’ know what m’ type is?” He sounded dubious.

“Oh, ya know… I talked ta Tante a bit before ya showed up,” she returned, trying to keep her mannerisms airy as she shook out the coat. With a snort, she realized she held in her hands a trench much like Remy’s, albeit smaller. She raised a speculative eyebrow. “Ya trying ta get us matching outfits now, Cajun?” she asked

“Y’ segue’s a lil’ weak, Roguey,” he said in a low tone. In an instant, he was right behind her – close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. She stiffened, feeling the light pressure in the space between them – he was tense, and it was rolling off him in waves.

Slowly, she turned to face him, the coat drooping in her hands.

“Then why don’t ya show me how it’s done?” she replied slowly. “Last chances and all?” She raised her chin, narrowing her eyes in challenge.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Been trying,” he breathed. Then, quickly, his features fell slack, expressionless, and he stepped backwards. “Let’s go,” he muttered, taking a breath.

Rogue blinked. What had just happened? “Are ya for real? Ah swear, Gambit, Ah think ya losing yo’ touch.”

“Lessgo,” he said again, side-stepping her to get to the armoire. Pulling open the top drawer, he slid out a concealed shelf and extracted his quarterstaff, plucking it from a fitted casement. Alongside the now empty space, embedded into black velour were several similar devices; he had attachments, weaponry, and technology that could rival the Institute’s, Rogue noted with some surprise. All of it was hand-held, made for intimate person-to-person combat. He slipped the staff into a concealed pocket and shut the drawer. “Gonna be a long night,” he said under his breath.

“Gambit?” she asked, unsure why he’d suddenly turned so somber.

“Oui?” He turned from her, quickly crossing the apartment and shutting the doors to the balcony. Beyond the windows, the sky had sunk into a rich grey, and a light rain had begun to fall.

“What’s wrong?”

“Not’ing,” he replied, not facing her.

Rogue slipped the coat over her shoulders, noting that it was lighter than she’d expected. “Remy?” she tried again. Finally, he froze – his back to her. In the reflection of the windowpanes, his red eyes glowed faintly. He was watching her through the glass.

“Did Ah do something?” she asked quietly, her good mood evaporating.

He shook his head, a movement so quick and so subtle it barely registered.

“Non, Rogue. Everyt’ing’s fine.”

“Yo’ lyin’,” she said, her tone harsher than she’d have liked. “Ya can’t do that ta me, Cajun. Not now. So tell me what’s running through that thick skull of yours before Ah suck it outta ya myself.”

He continued to watch her silently.

Grimacing, Rogue pulled off a glove. “Ah’m gonna count ta three.”

“Y’ won’t do it,” he murmured. “Put y’ glove back on.”

Grimacing, Rogue conceded, sliding the glove over her fingers bitterly. “Fine,” she muttered. “Ya made yo’ point at the diner yesterday, and yo’ right – Ah won’t, but that’s the point of all this, right? Get me back in touch with my bad self?” She scoffed.

“Y’ sure y’ want dis?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated, stubbornly narrowing her eyes at his reflection. “Want what?”

He didn’t answer, choosing instead to watch her patiently in the window’s glossy surface without turning around. Cautiously, Rogue took a step forwards, the floorboards creaking loudly. So much for stealth, she thought, flinching against the sound of tired hardwood.

Remy didn’t move as she approached him. In a few moments, she stood at his elbow – close enough to catch the scent of his cologne and the musty smell of his duster.

Their shared reflection, though broken by the small slats of wood that divided the panes of glass, looked serene. Two darkened, near-featureless figures dressed similarly; two sides to the same coin. Wordlessly, Remy held a pack of cards out to her.

“Dere’s no guarantee what’ll happen t’ y’,” he said softly.

Rogue nodded, warily accepting the unspoken note of caution. “It won’t be yo’ problem.”

Remy shook his head. “S’ been m’ problem since de first time I laid eyes on y’. S’ been m’ problem since long before dat.”

Rogue snorted. “The world ain’t on yo’ shoulders, swamp rat. This is my choice. Ya took yo’ chances, and now it’s my turn.” After a moment, she added, “Ya don’t owe me anything. Ah forgave ya a long time ago for doing… what ya did.” She flushed a little, avoiding his gaze. “Last year,” she added awkwardly. “Ah told ya, we’re square.”

“Take ‘em,” he said softly, turning to face her with the cards held between them. “If y’ need to, if dere’s trouble, y’ take a piece of me an’ y’ use de cards.”

“Ah don’t do that anymore,” she answered firmly, pulling on her glove to make a point. “Ya know that. Ya just said that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Chérie,” he said tolerantly, “m’ not asking y’.”

“And Ah’m telling you, Cajun – Ah don’t need that sort of protection.” Rogue squared her shoulders.

“Y’ just use y’ powers f’ weak threats, huh?” he hummed.

“Ah don’t know if it’s a good thing or not, but ya not in my head right now,” Rogue continued, ignoring the jibe. “Ah’d like ta keep it that way as long as Ah can.”

Liar, she accused herself snidely.

“Ah can take care o’ myself,” she added obstinately.

“Doesn’t mean y’ have to.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “It does.”

When Rogue looked up again, he was standing over her, patiently waiting for her gaze to return to his. His eyes glowed faintly, a dull throb of red that brought her an inch closer to him, but no more than that.

“Stop it,” she said softly. “Don’t try and pull that hypnotic stuff again.”

“M’ not,” he said, his voice equally low-pitched. “Y’ moving all by y’self.” He smirked, though the expression lacked its usual self-assured sardonic twist.

Rogue shook herself, taking a step back. “Better?”

“Not really.” He appeared conflicted, like an internal argument was playing out inside his head. Hot and cold. That was Gambit. He liked the idea of danger, but he didn’t want to get too close either, she thought. It figured.

“Look,” she inhaled sharply, attempting to block him out so she could think a little clearer. “Let’s go, alright? Ah’m anxious enough without all this.” She gesticulated feverishly at the space in between them. “And yes, Ah want it. Ah want control,” she emphasized, so there was no miscommunication.

Liar, liar, pants on fire. She leveled her stare, crushing the thought quickly.

“Ah’ll take the risk involved, just like you, even if it’s temporary.”

“Who said it was temporary?” he asked candidly.

Rogue hesitated. “The professor,” she said after a moment. “They just didn’t know what ta make of ya,” she added. “Ah mean – look what ya done, Remy? You were an Acolyte – they – we have ta be suspicious.”

“Don’t bother me none.” Shrugging, he flipped the deck of cards over, palming it and rolling it over his knuckles in one fluid motion.

“Ah don’t think anything does,” she tossed back. “Ya too slick for ya own good. Everything just rolls right off yo’ back.”

“Dat’s not true. De X-Men can t’ink what dey like. S’ you dat matters right now – your opinion. I can live with y’ hating me, sure, but m’ not taking y’ in t’ Assassins territory unless y’ trust m’ just a bit.”

“Ah don’t hate ya,” she replied, surprised.

“But y’ don’t trust me either,” he countered, his tone serious. The cards stopped moving, disappearing from her peripheral vision entirely.

“How can Ah? Ah don’t know ya, Remy. Ya don’t want me to.”

“S’ dangerous business,” he conceded modestly, not offering any more than that. “De fact dat y’ came all de way out here demonstrates dat in de least, y’ have hope. Y’ saw y’ chance, an’ y’ took it. Dis is another opening, some risky business with a high payoff, an’ I need y’ t’ know dat m’ gonna watch y’ back as long as y’ here.”

His expression remained closed, guarded almost. In that instant, Rogue understood, at least a little. Remy couldn’t open up to her, not verbally – somehow, by putting it into words, he’d make whatever it was that he was protecting himself from real. Or perhaps he was afraid of what she’d think if she knew his secrets.

“Ah bet it’s damned hard,” Rogue sympathized, her tone softening. “That’s why ya did all that research? That’s why… you chose those memories ta show me.”

Gambit stiffened a little and nodded.

“Of course, ya could have been lying.” Rogue’s eyes narrowed.

“Oui, and dat’s why y’ gotta have some faith,” he returned.

“Ah can’t,” Rogue replied quietly, shaking her head.

“I knew y’d say dat,” Gambit said resignedly. “Dat’s who y’ are, chére. I wouldn’t expect any less from y’.”

“Ya don’t know me.”

He shrugged, amused. “Y’ keep saying dat,” he tutted. “Den gimme de opportunity.”

“Only if ya do the same. That’s the only way we’re gonna get past this,” she said firmly. “Yo’ not playing solitaire, Cajun. There are two of us, and it’s gotta go both ways. Ya hear me?”

“Y’ let Wolverine get away with the lone wolf act, I bet,” he answered dryly.

“Wolverine didn’t get his powers boosted, and Wolverine hasn’t ever kidnapped me,” she argued.

“Bad example.” He grimaced. “I t’ink y’ know all about it, chére. Just because m’ not handing over m’ history like a good pup, it doesn’t mean I don’t understand y’.”

She snorted. “Maybe we should contact a publicist.”

He grinned. “Write a book on de subject?”

“Isolationism 101.”

He laughed a little at that.

“Gimme the damned cards, Cajun,” Rogue said finally, a little exasperated.

Remy merely strolled around her, his gaze fixed on hers so that Rogue was forced to turn with him as he moved towards the rear balcony of the apartment.

“Dey already in y’ pocket, chérie.” He winked, opening the door for her and bowing a little from the waist.

“How kind of ya,” she muttered, feeling for the weight of the deck. Sure enough, he’d slipped them into the pocket of her trench coat without her knowing. “Ah’m gonna consider this insurance, but it definitely doesn’t mean Ah intend ta use them.”

He shrugged, little more than an indolent rise and dip of one shoulder. Ever the gentleman, Rogue sighed inwardly. “Dere is always a use f’ a deck of cards, Roguey,” he added. “Mebbe we play a lil’ strip poker when we get back, ein?”

She laughed, a full, throaty chortle that echoed in the small backyard as she stepped out into the night. A slight drizzle had begun falling. “Do ya ever stop?” she asked.

“Non,” he replied smoothly. “Not f’ dese stakes.” He pursed his lips, his gaze dropping suggestively as he turned her collar up for her. Gambit’s hands lingered on her shoulders just long enough to make her uncomfortable.

“Ah’m really starting ta get sick of all this talk of game play,” she muttered, stepping backwards and bumping into the corner of the opened door. “That’s all this is to ya – well ya know what they say.” She sniffed. “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”

He shut it behind her, deliberately leaning into her as he did so.

“Or consciousness.” His eyes glimmered mischievously. “Y’ not up for it?”

“If ya can dish it, Ah can take it, swamp rat.” She raised her chin defiantly. “But Ah’m warning ya – any funny stuff and Ah swear Ah’ll drop ya before ya can say ‘merde.’”

“Merde,” he challenged, smirking broadly.

Rogue rolled her eyes, sidestepping him – her back scraping against the closed door as she did so.

“Where to?”

“Up de water spout,” he said in a singsong voice, nodding to the roof. “Up and over de Quartier, through neutral territory as far as we can.”

“Up?”

Rogue glanced skeptically at the overhanging eaves of the townhouse. For the most part, the building wasn’t decorated – though she could make out several notches that would make good handholds for the climb. While they were on the second floor, the façade was a vertical climb straight to the pitched roof.

“Ya couldn’t be normal and stroll through the streets, now could ya?” she said apprehensively.

“Oui, we could do dat. If y’ wanted t’ be on a first name basis wit’ y’ mortality,” he hummed.

She snorted. “The Rippers? If Ah remember correctly, those jokers couldn’t hold up against us too well.”

“Assassins,” he corrected. Gambit’s expression remained impartial as he replied simply, “Times have changed.”

“What happened?” she asked. “That Julien character still giving ya trouble?” She snickered. At his somber expression, she stopped abruptly. “What?”

“Let’s go.”

She nodded slowly, reluctantly stepping onto the narrow rail of the balcony and launching herself at the wall. He’d evaded her again. Something had happened, something bad, she concluded. In the span of time he’d been away, Gambit had not changed outwardly, but it was clear to Rogue that something had affected him. Whether or not she wanted to overturn that particular rock, she had yet to be certain.

Her fingers locked around the brickwork, the toes of her boots cutting into the old mortar. There were handholds on the wall, probably from Remy’s previous expeditions scaling the building. The gouged nooks made the ascent much easier.

“Does that look ya giving me have something ta do with the war Lapin was talking about?” she pressed, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“De look m’ giving y’ has more t’ do with de fact dat y’ derriere is at eye-level, chérie,” he murmured appreciatively, to which Rogue flushed, glad that he couldn’t see her face.

“Ya keep up like that, and Ah swear, LeBeau, Ah’ll knock ya off the roof the instant yo’ up there,” she spat, continuing the climb.

Below her, Remy followed – leaping to catch the drainpipe a few feet below her heels.

“Can’t t’ink of a better way t’ go.”

“Knowing you, ya’d probably try ta sweet talk lady death inta giving ya another chance at life,” she groused.

“Who said anyt’ing about talking?” he chortled, bemused.

“Ya can’t pay the reaper with sexual favors,” she called over her shoulder, hefting herself over the rickety gutter. Rogue crawled onto the roof and rolled over to settle back on her haunches. She didn’t offer him a hand up.

“S’ m’ charm dat wins her over. Every time,” he answered.

“Too many close shaves and ya get nicked,” she said dryly, peering over the slight overhang of the eaves to the garden below. Remy popped his head over the cornice, grinning.

“Y’ know all about dat, don’t y’?”

Rogue rolled her eyes and stood. She climbed the steeply pitched roof to the very apex, balancing on the narrow joinery that supported the gables. Before them, a few blocks southwest, Bourbon Street was alight with the glare of neon and gas lamps – storefronts glowed, Jazz and blues and hip-hop and rock-and-roll blared from the many shops and bars lining the sidewalks, and there were crowds everywhere. Hoards of people circulated, talking, laughing, and jostling each other.

It made her uncomfortable just thinking about that many people; that much chance for exposure.

Flatly, she replied, “Don’t patronize me, Cajun. Until Ah’ve got control of my powers, Ah can still knock ya flat.”

“Huh. And y’ were telling m’ I’ve still got a death wish?” he sniggered, effortlessly pulling himself up and perching on the edge, his feet dangling over the garden below. “Y’ t’ink I’d just let y’ punt m’ over de side?” He tutted. “Can’t get rid of m’ dat easy.”

“Ah’m not the one sitting on a slant,” she warned. “Ya piss me off anymore, and they’ll be peelin’ yo’ guts off the pavement tomorrow.”

He frowned, rolling backwards and pushing himself to a standing position. “Y’d do that t’ me?”

She scowled, stalking across the gable. “Ya’d make a beautiful corpse,” she shot back.

“Live fast an’ die by de hand of a belle femme, dat’s m’ motto,” he quipped.

“Keep talkin’ and ya might just get yo’ wish.” She smirked.

“Dis y’ idea of flirting? S’ kinda morbid.”

“Scare ya?” she replied lightly, pulling her hair off her forehead where the damp breeze pushed it into her face. The light rain was making the ends curl.

Gambit cocked his head, pirouetting to face her.

“Non, but y’ wanna find out what does? Fear an’ adventure – dey sleep in de same bed together.”

She scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. “One thing at a time, doncha think?” She waved a glove hand in front of his face, but Gambit merely shook his head, his eyes not leaving hers.

“Somet’ing t’ keep us preoccupied until we arrive, mebbe?” He graced her with a coy, nearly innocent expression. He’s as innocent as a fox in a chicken coop, she thought.

“Ya said it wasn’t that far,” she retorted. Her stomach twisted at the thought, and again, she looked to the crowds on the streets below.

“S’ not.” His irises gleamed a brighter hue of crimson, flaring like the lights on the neon signs dotting the streets below them. “Figured y’ might like a little time t’ adjust t’ de idea… Or dat mebbe y’ couldn’t move as fast as me over dese roofs.”

“Ah could match ya, and Ah could best ya, swamp rat. Don’t think Ah forgot that Ah sucked up some of yo’ powers. Ah got plenty of yo’ own skill on reserve ta prove it.”

“An’ no control just yet t’ call it back,” he chortled. “But what about y’?” Dropping his hands into his pockets, he measured her from head to toe lazily. “Can’t do it without m’ help?”

“How far are we?” she asked, trying to mask her determination with indifference. In truth, she was full of nervous energy. A good race over the topside of the city could be interesting – it wouldn’t be any more difficult than a hard run in the Danger Room. She peeked at the crowds below, imagining what it would feel like to walk among that many people without the worry that someone would bump into her, touch her skin and fall comatose at her feet.

“Few blocks, mebbe – if we cut straight over de Quartier.” He shrugged. “Y’ anxious.” He nodded. “S’ understandable, but it will be fine, chérie.”

“Ah’m not anxious, and ya can’t promise me that, swamp rat,” she muttered. “Especially since ya might not make it to our desired destination if ya keep lookin’ at my butt like that.”

He whistled, springing up in front of her.

“Just appreciating de view.” Giving her a broad grin, he lidded his gaze appreciatively.

She rolled her eyes, pointing to the city lights. “That’s the view, out there.”

“S’ all relative, Roguey. Besides, y’ probably appreciate looking at mine just de same.” He twirled gracefully, the bottom of his trench coat flying out as he presented his back to her.

The rain pattered earnestly around them, gaining in intensity and making the roofing tiles slippery below their boots.

“Lead,” she said stiffly. “Ah’ll follow ya.”

“Dat’s de sorta t’ing I like t’ hear.” He beamed, pirouetting one last time to face her – muscles contracting as his balance held nearest the edge of the wet shingling. With a snap of his wrist, he’d extracted and extended his staff. Gambit spun, pelting down the gable and leaping to the roof of the smaller shotgun house below. He landed with less than a thump, and took off along that roof. “C’mon, Roguey. Let’s see what dey teach y’ at dat school of yours,” he called.

Rogue crouched, adjusting to the heavy hand of the muggy night air and the sodden trickle of rainwater running into her collar, and took off after him.

“Dis one time,” he called, vaulting over a chimney with Rogue trailing a few feet behind, “when m’ brother an’ I were t’irteen or so –”

Rogue dodged the chimney, the rain gathering in intensity so that she had to swipe her wet hair off her forehead.

“We used t’ go freerunning over de District t’ train.”

“What’s that?” she called, clattering along after him, the shingles wobbly below her feet. He leapt at an ivy-tangled trellis, clinging to the side easily and scaling to the top of the next building with ease.

“Used t’ be called Storyville,” he yelled to her, pausing at the top of the next gable to verify that she followed. Rogue’s ascent was a little slower, but the burn in her arms felt excruciatingly good. She peered upwards as she climbed, getting the full patter of rain on her face.

“Y’ mean the place where all the ladies of ill-repute did their business,” she shot back, swinging her legs over the ledge and rolling to her feet as Gambit continued to the next house.

“De very same. S’ been almost a century since it was in business, though,” he explained.

“So what were ya doin’ down there exactly?” she yelled back, watching for any snags in her path as she rattled over to the cross gables where Gambit had stopped. “If ya weren’t trying ta get a date,” she added.

He crouched over a window, his hair obscuring his face as he tumbled over and dropped down to the cornice, landing in a squat and motioning for her to join him.

“Learning de tricks of de trade. Learning de rules,” he replied, nodding to the window behind them as Rogue slid next to him – balancing herself with one foot in the gutter. It was an unstable foothold at best. Too much pressure, or even the slightest shift of weight, and it looked as if it would snap off its rusty fixtures. “Y’ either put y’ faith in y’ partner when y’ need t’, or y’ lose. Mebbe hurt y’self in de process.”

She peered behind her through the window and into a lavishly decorated room.

“This is it?” she asked doubtfully, unsure what he was getting at. It didn’t resemble the memory she’d taken from him at all.

“Non,” he replied, unconcernedly. “Dis is t’ establish trust.”

“What?” Rogue’s head snapped around, a moment too late.

As if on cue, the gutter below her feet gave way, and Rogue skidded down the three feet of the jutting overhang. Her feet shot out in front of her, and with a gasp, she realized she was about to drop at least fifty feet to the street below. For a split second before she fell, Rogue scrabbled, her body reacting before her mind could process that Gambit had slid an arm around her waist – and they both bounced mid-air.

She waited for impact, her feet dangling limply, but it did not come.

Cautiously, she peeked open an eye.

“Oh gawd.”

Gambit chuckled into her hair, and frantically, Rogue locked her arms around his neck. They hung over Rue St. Anne, suspended by a grappling line that swung over to the houses on the opposite street.

“No need t’ call m’ dat. Remy’s just fine,” he murmured lightly. Rogue had to crane her neck around to glare at him. He held her securely to him, one leg hooked around hers tightly, and the opposite arm around her waist. The other hand was wound around his bo staff, and at the push of a button, they were in motion. Slowly, suspended by the rope bridge, he carried them across the street much in the same way that he’d brought her into his apartment that morning. “Y’ trust m’ yet?”

“Ah’m gonna kill ya.” Rogue swallowed.

“A simple, ‘t’ank ya’ would suffice,” he said lightly, depositing her on a window ledge a moment later. Rogue pressed herself into the glass at her back, peering nervously at the street below and imagining what would have happened if he hadn’t caught her. Remy merely hummed, disassembling the attachments and, just as quickly, re-attaching them to the roof over their heads.

“The hell did ya do that for?” she hissed finally, her breath hitching.

“Did I drop y’?” he asked, amused at her reaction. Clearly, he’d found it far more exciting than she had.

“No,” she said after a stretch, begrudgingly.

“Did y’ really t’ink I’d let y’ fall?” he pressed, twisting an attachment around his bo without sparing it a glance.

Rogue shifted her weight, leaving enough room so that they stood shoulder to shoulder against the building, looking at the street below.

“No,” she admitted.

“Did y’ really t’ink I’d bring y’all de way out here just t’ screw with y’ head? Do y’ really believe, f’ just one second, dat if I wasn’t sure what dat stone did t’ me was de real deal, I’d let y’ use it?”

Rogue tried to glower; failing that, she shook her head.

“Den dat’s all y’ need t’ know about m’ right now. Oui?”

“That ain’t fair,” she protested.

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Whatever.”

“Say it.”

“Shut up!”

“C’mon, chérie. Y’ know I’m right,” Remy insisted, nudging her shoulder playfully.

“Fine,” she muttered. “For now.”

“Say it,” he goaded. “Lemme hear it from dem lovely lips o’ yours, Roguey –”

“Ah trust ya, ok!” she yelled. Gambit laughed loudly, long and hard, doing a small, but victorious dance beside her while humming something that sounded like a broken, out-of-tune Charleston.

“Don’t gloat,” Rogue muttered, grinning a little herself. “And ya definitely can’t dance, so please stop before Ah hafta gouge out my eyes.”

“Bien,” he chuckled. “Den let’s go. Y’ got y’ some powers dat need fixin’.” He grinned cheekily, his hair hanging in limp, wet strands before his eyes. Remy shook his head a little, flinging bits of rainwater onto her that Rogue swiped at.

Despite herself, Rogue laughed. She swatted at him, and gently, Remy caught her arm. He flashed her a broad, true grin that lit his face up – his red eyes sparkling intently.

The nervous, fragile bubble of hope returned to her. It was real, she thought. She was going to have control of her powers.

Looking at Remy, Rogue thought to herself – the first thing she’d do when she could touch was give the swamp rat one huge, wet kiss.

Then she could smack him with a bare hand for every perverse thought that had ever crossed his mind.

Damned Cajun, she grinned.

“Y’ ready?” he asked, tugging on her sleeve and dropping his fingers to her wrist. “It’s just behind us, one street over and down one of de back alleys.”

Rogue nodded, unable to respond with the rush of adrenaline that had hit her bloodstream.

Remy drew her against him, locking an arm around her waist and giving her that selfsame Cheshire grin. A bead of water rolled off his nose, hitting her forehead, and Rogue blinked at it before it could sluice into her eyes.

Her heart felt as if it would pound right out of her chest. When was the last time she had felt like this? She couldn’t remember, but it was good. Even as the rain gathered in intensity, in the murky gloom atop the building they clung to, somehow, it felt right.

Nearly as right as Remy’s arm felt around her where he hugged her against his chest. With one last tug to the tension cable, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the word.

Rogue inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself and failing with the rush of excitement.

“Let’s go, sugah.” She smiled, and with a nod, they jumped off the ledge – spiraling down to the ground below and landing nimbly. Overhead, the grappling mechanism pinged and snapped up from Remy’s grasp. He didn’t bother to watch as the line retracted into the darkness overhead. It was another heartbeat before they stepped away from one another.

“Dis way,” he nodded, licking the rainwater from his upper lip. With a nod, Rogue followed, reluctantly releasing the crook of his elbow.

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding onto him.

Leading her around the building and into a dingy, barely lit alley, Remy shook at the excess water rolling off his coat brusquely.

“It’s raining harder than a cow pissing on a flat rock,” Rogue groused, though the complaint lacked the usual twang of irritancy. She swiped at her sodden hair and splashed after him – leaping over a puddle that Remy had sidestepped easily.

“S’ fine, chérie,” he assured her, flipping up his collar and diving between the trash cans peppering the small alley. “Maman Brigitte has a roof and prolly a cup of tea or somet’ing. Take a shot of bourbon in dat and it’s all –”

Remy stopped, halting in his tracks so abruptly that Rogue all but walked into his back.

“Dieu,” he breathed. “Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?”

“What’s wrong?” she asked, stepping out from behind him and catching herself on his outstretched arm.

“Chére –”

Under the weak streetlamps, his hair plastered to his forehead in wet strands, Remy’s face took on an ashen pallor.

Rogue turned, following his gaze. The scene would have been the same, mimicking Remy’s memory to the very last detail. The back street was darkened, the cobblestone beneath her boots running with the rivulets of dirty street water. Garbage lined the gutters, and the sign that proclaimed the Botanica once stood there hung half-off its post near the spot where the door should have been.

She could just make out the worn, tilting green stoop that had led to the entrance. But everything else – Rogue sucked in a small breath, barely noticing the sick plummet in her stomach.

Everything else surrounding the Botanica where Remy had gone to see the woman with the stone was caved in on itself. What remained, a hollowed husk that had been charred from the inside out, was little more than rubble and refuse. The roof on the Creole cottage had collapsed; patchy timbres, scorched in places and snapped beneath the weight of the small store, protruded like blackened, broken bones.

The only things holding the remains in place were the gutted, broken bricks. They appeared to have been blasted to bits – too many still scattered the streets, some with blackened halves, and others, no more than an ochre-colored powder that smeared the ground. Only one thing could have left such destruction in its wake; one thing that she knew too well. She had seen the effects of his charged cards firsthand. She had seen the effects of an explosion of this degree when she herself had manifested his powers in the Danger Room.

How had he not known? How had she forgotten that last, glimmering charge of light before his memory faded to black?

Rogue turned to Remy, silent, condemning.

“You did this.”

The accusation hung in the air between them – the finality of it pushing her away from him a step, and then two, and then three – until Rogue had turned and begun running though the hard rain.

It splashed her face, cleansing the saltine sting that she could not reign in.

He had lost control, and in doing so, he had destroyed her chances as well.

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Post Script:
- Snakebit: (Poker) Having bad luck. "How ya doin'?" "Terrible. I've been snakebit for a week. Can't make a hand when it counts.”
- “I’m my own grandpa” by the Grateful Dead
- "I don’t want it; I just need it" (to feel, to breathe, to know I’m alive. Finger deep within the borderline…) Yeah, it’s Tool. Been having a rough week writing. I’ll take inspiration where I can get it.
- Escher (Relativity: 1953) Remember it. Seriously.

Translations:
Belle Femme: beautiful woman
Bien: Good
Dieu: God
Merde: Shit
Quartier: The French Quarter
Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?: What happened
Viens: Come

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