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The Ante
Chapter XXI: Deuces Wild
(Part 1/2)
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Years ago, things had been different, thought Mattie Baptiste as she wiped her hands on her skirts. The mansion of the Boudreaux household, resplendent in its own right, nonetheless bore the telltale signs that a family of selective skill lived within. A selection of weaponry from the various corners of the world and from a multitude of different eras adorned the walls of its corridors. They gleamed and glinted with the dim cast of gaslight sconces as she passed them. To the Boudreaux family, such devices were much like the decorative splendour stolen from the Renaissance and Baroque that their counterparts, the Thieves Guild, displayed proudly in their halls.

Simply put, neither clan could resist the hubris their skills bestowed them with.

If she was unnerved by the multitude of blades, bows, and axes, the traiteur to both the Thieves and the Assassins did not outwardly show it. Her station afforded her a certain diplomatic status between the warring Guilds, though often she could not help but wish that, were it possible, she could turn back the hands of the clock to a time when things had been simpler for the families.

Measured in the growth of the same sentinel oaks that dotted the Louisiana landscape, she had watched her children grow tall. In the same years it had taken them to escape their youth, they had turned from each other. It was a gradual process, but as she herself was nearing the ripened age of one hundred and twenty, a decade felt like little more than a few moments.

Such a shame, she thought, pausing before a door that had been left open a crack.

Raising her fist to knock, Mattie stilled as the voices from within carried into the hall.

“Y’ certain, Gris Gris?”

“Dere be no mistake. It’s him at de door.”

“C’est impossible, he wouldn’t come dis far out unless he wanted t’ leave in a body bag.”

“Belladonna –”

“Dey kill two of our own and den dey have de audacity t’ send an envoy? Bring him t’ me. I want t’ hear what de t’ieves’ traitor has t’ say f’ himself.”

“An’ if y’ don’t like it?”

There was a pause, one that Mattie understood with the nonverbal assent of those trained in the killing arts.

“We deal wit’ dat when de time comes,” Belladonna answered finally, her voice accented with an edge of bitter ceylon. To Mattie, the girl had lost the sweetness of her cadence little more than a year ago. Growing up in such a short span of time had made her hard.

“Mebbe we should call y’ pére…”

“Do not defy me. Were Marius here, he’d do de same an’ since I’m actin’ in his place until he comes home from his business dealings, y’ gonna listen t’ me if y’ know what’s good f’ ya. Comprends? Bring me Theoren Marceaux. An’ Fifolet, go wit Gris Gris. Make sure he don’t do anyt’ing rash.”

The door swung open wide, revealing an empty hallway. On the floor, lining the crevice where the moulding met the joinery that ran along the length of the hardwood, an inconspicuous trickle of water clung to the edge and out of sight as two men passed.

Theoren? But it was impossible. For the boy to visit the Assassins unannounced, or without previous invitation, was a grievous offence. If the Thieves did not sanction him for the visit, it would mean that he had defied his family and risked his own safety. What could prompt him to do such a thing? Mattie waited, hidden by her mutant form, and contemplated what it would mean for both Guilds if Theoren were seen with the Assassins by his own clan.

Certainly, the Thieves would consider it an act of betrayal.

The thought worried her. It was imperative that Mattie understand what his presence meant in the wake of the murders that morning. Would Belladonna demand equal payment for the deaths of two of the Assassins’ own? That was tradition. That would be how the matter would be handled were Marius passing the judgement.

Not more than five minutes later, they returned, flanking none other than Remy’s cousin, who appeared no less dour than usual. Theoren was a stern man at the best of times, practical to a fault with the disposition to match. This morning, however, there was a shine to his eyes that unnerved her. Carefully, as the door shut once more behind the party of three, Mattie trickled into the room, staying closest the wall and out of sight.

“Dis is a surprise,” Belladonna murmured, her features unreadable from where she sat at her father’s desk.

Theoren remained silent, though he glanced pointedly at the men hovering nearby. It was a look that demanded confidentiality. Belladonna understood.

“Gris Gris, Fifolet, Questa – wait outside. De t’ief an’ I will converse alone,” Bella instructed. Her compatriots did not hesitate as they turned and left the pair, shutting the door lightly behind them.

To linger would be considered a grievous insult to Belladonna’s skill, and accordingly, an affront to the man who trained her.

Simply put, no one dared insult Marius in such a way and lived to tell about it afterwards.

As a skilled warrior, even at the age of twenty, Belladonna’s propensity for the subtle arts was formidable, and therefore, it was not unusual for her request for privacy to be fulfilled when in the presence of a known enemy. Unlike the corridors, the variety of trophies that ornamented her father’s study were not simply decorative. The hand gun in the drawer nearest Bella’s knee, the shoto on display before the blotter, and the glass-cased selection of kunai throwing daggers less than three paces to the left were all hallmarks of successful contracts. More importantly, however, they were armaments still used regularly by those skilled enough to use them.

Her compatriots, three men of equal skill and notoriety in their ranks, left Bella and her guest to their business, and Mattie, inconspicuously, to oversee the unusual visit.

“My, my, if dis isn’t a surprise, Theoren. Does y’ brood know dat y’ came all de way out here t’ defy dem? I wonder what Remy’d t’ink of dis…” she purred. “Or is it because of Remy dat y’ came t’ me?”

“Let’s forgo the pleasantries, Ms. Boudreaux,” Theoren murmured, his voice lightening, changing in both inflection and accent, as his stature seemed to dissolve. “This is a business call and nothing more.”

Seated at her desk, her hands linked together loosely over her abdomen as Bella reclined in her father’s chair, she favoured the stranger with a shrewd smile.

It was not Theoren after all, but a shape shifter – a mutant like Mattie herself.

“Not a t’ief, den,” Belladonna noted. “Didn’t t’ink so. Theoren knows de rules, an’ if y’ knew Theoren, he woulda told y’ what dey were.”

“I owe no allegiance to the Thieves,” the woman murmured in a tone that was equally as cool.

“Mutants rarely do, Madame…?”

“Please, spare the honorific,” she waved the comment off, stepping lightly to a chair positioned before Belladonna and taking a seat without being invited to do so. “Your house is secure, is it not?” the woman asked, her skin an unnatural shade of cobalt under the light falling from the large paned window positioned behind Belladonna.

“F’ dose dat belong in its walls,” Belladonna replied levelly, still unmoving from her seat and showing no outward sign that she was unnerved or even offended by the impertinence.

“And there is no chance that our conversation will be overheard?”

“If dere be a conversation,” Bella replied, her tone turning glacial quickly as she slid the dagger from her belt. It was a warning, and a none too subtle one at that.

If the stranger was unsettled by the quick flash of the blade, her tone remained neutral as she replied, “There is a time for such shows of bravado, my child; but I assure you, this is not it.”

In less time than it took to blink, the blade stuck, point first, to the seat back a bare hairsbreadth from the woman’s ear.

She smiled thinly, casting yellow eyes to the hilt, but not removing the knife from where it was lodged into the lavish leather upholstery.

“De next time, I won’t miss,” Belladonna hissed.

“Of that I have no doubt.” The woman paused. “Do you believe in fate, Ms. Boudreaux?”

“I believe dat two inches t’ de right an’ y’ would meet y’ own ends,” she sneered, settling back into her chair, her hands resuming their coiled position on her stomach. She eyed the woman, coming to the conclusion that if she would not balk, then she meant business. “De anonymity we can deal wit’. Our clientele requires… discretion. What is it dat y’ want from de family?”

“Your cooperation,” she said evenly, pulling seemingly from nowhere an envelope that she placed on the desk and slid forwards in one sinuous stroke.

“A contract.” Belladonna nodded.

“Something of the like,” the woman responded. “I offer you nothing more than information. In exchange, you will consider this offer as a token of my good will.”

“Good will festers in debt, chére madame, dere is not’ing y’ can need of us dat has only y’ word for payment.”

“Not even to end the blood feud between your family and theirs?” she asked lightly. “I am aware of your loss, my dear. To be bereft two individuals, assets to your family and to your trade, is grievous indeed. I offer my… condolences.” The word seemed strained, fraught with barely concealed amusement that curled her mouth upwards cruelly.

“What is our business t’ you?” Bella purred, wary of how the stranger obtained the information.

“I too understand the machinations of vengeance, my dear.”

“It is none of my concern what y’ t’ink y’ know, madam. Of de Guilds? De war is old, and fresh spilled blood is not’ing we run from. State y’ business, or be gone wit’ ya. I have no interest in y’ ‘offer of good will’ at dis time.”

“Not even to assume control, to claim the very thing that was wrested from you with the murder of your dear brother?” the woman asked, the same cold shine blanketing her gaze.

Slowly, Bella moved from her casual slouch to sit upright fully, her attention gravitating to the woman before her with keenness so sharp that Mattie could feel the splintering tension.

“We are architects of our own destiny, child. Who are we to question that which winds about the wrists and guides the hand of fate?”

Her interest piqued, Bella carefully pulled the envelope towards her, lifting the flaps and sliding its contents to the desk. A solitary playing card fell to the table. Bella’s expression clouded.

“He will be in the Quarter tomorrow evening,” the woman said lightly, standing to her full height.

Bella slid the Ace of Spades beneath her nails, lifting the card and inspecting either side. Slowly, a grim smile spread across her face in acknowledgement.

“Y’ certain?” she asked, her blue eyes darkening to a near-unnatural shade of indigo.

When Belladonna looked up again, Theoren stood before her. He bowed dutifully, his eyes still cast in the same unnatural gold hue.

“It has been foretold,” was the only reply offered before he turned and left the room.

As the shape shifter’s footfalls faded, Mattie slipped beneath the door once more – a steady trickle of liquid that coalesced in the hallway. She summoned her form together, turning first into a clear puddle, and then rising into her natural shape. A moment later, she brushed at her skirts fretfully, her eyebrows knitting together in a look that belayed her troubled disposition.

Down the hall, Gris Gris and Questa peered at her, unmoved by her sudden appearance.

Rapping hard on the door with her knuckles, Mattie swallowed the ill sense that a terrible agreement had just been concluded. She would go to thieves as soon as permitted. She would speak with Remy, but not before she could try to reason with her charge on the other side of the door.

Her children, she thought sadly as Belladonna called for her to enter, what had become of them?

---

Sunlight clotted in the curtains, washing the floors in dull ochre where pinpricks of light seeped through the thick damask. It made the shadows untrustworthy. Rogue blinked blearily against the heavy veil of sleep, scrubbing her face and propping herself up on her elbows.

How had she gotten here?

The thought woke her fully. Remy.

She sat up, ignoring the stiff straining of her muscles against the effort, the sheets bunching at her waist. Her clothes felt sticky and a little damp from a mixture of sweat and dried swamp water, and her muscles twinged with the ache of being left in cold clothing for the duration she’d slept.

What time was it? She had no idea.

Kicking off the covers, Rogue slid from the large bed and padded across the floor to the covered windows. Remy had taken her boots off, she guessed, and left her in her own room in the Guild mansion. He hadn’t bothered undressing her, for which she was at least partially grateful. Sleeping in wet, dirty clothes wasn’t exactly her idea of comfort, but at least the Cajun had his limits.

“What a gentlemen,” she muttered, her voice grainy as she tugged on the drapes.

The sunset spilled in the room, rose-coloured and warm where it touched the exposed skin of her forearms and shoulders. No gloves, she noted. She’d lost them in the swamp. Wincing against the light, Rogue looked out over the dusk-drenched bayou. It was like the juice of a blood orange had been smeared across the sky – leaving a messy, watery red staining the tops of the trees.

She’d slept all day, probably. Rogue sighed; rubbing at her face and trying to ignore the persistent subconscious nagging that declared Remy had carried her to her room and put her to bed. She felt a little foolish that she’d fallen asleep on him out in the swamp, but beneath that, the steady, warm blossom of something comfortable insisted that it was all right. It had felt good.

She reined in a small smile, lidding her gaze against the glare of twilight and clinging idly to the curtains, twining the tassels that lined the edge of the drapes in her fingers, memorizing the texture.

Had she done the same to his hair before he’d coaxed her into slumber?

Would it be so bad if she had?

She sucked in a breath, remembering slowly. With the ghostly feeling of Remy’s arms wrapped around her, his fingers kneading gently, working out the knots of tension coiled through her back, came the sort of nightmarish clarity that makes the heart stutter.

She could have hurt him.

Though it hadn’t seemed like much of a concern when he’d held her so tenderly, but the knowledge that his shields had failed the previous night when they’d… Rogue swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry… kissed, was a serious, serious problem.

There was also the recollection of his ex-wife, grazing lightly beneath the surface of her conscious thoughts. It was a fading image, but the memory was still there though she couldn’t feel the emotions tangled around it as clearly as she had when she’d woken that morning. It didn’t, however, make it sear any less to think she was a second... a rebound, or perhaps not even that.

She could be the three hundred and thirty eighth rebound for all she knew — another notch on a bedpost, another conquest to blot out Remy’s ex-wife.

He’d said he’d kissed her. He’d announced it with the sort of fierce pride that declared he’d one-upped her in their little battle of wills. Worse, he said he’d cared for her.

“Well, shit,” she huffed, staring outside though no longer focusing on the dying daylight.

Was he just exercising the sort of guile that had her wrapped around him after they’d fought?

Rogue found she didn’t have an answer for that, though her body seemingly did; her knees wobbled, and her legs suddenly felt a little less sure beneath her. Hell, he wasn’t afraid of her, and to prove it, he’d tucked her against him, pressed her so close that she felt every ripple, every notch, and every indentation of the muscles in his chest.

A warmth spread through her belly at the thought, and to staunch the sensation, Rogue shut her eyes, flattening her palms against the cool glass. She forced herself to breathe evenly, inhaling through her mouth and exhaling through her nose.

It didn’t help.

“Shit,” she swore again, her voice uncertain, unbelieving that she’d let her defences drop entirely when she was around him.

She turned back to the room, unsure of what she should do. It felt foreign to her. She was a stranger in a house full of criminals, a mutant in the midst of baseline humans who were at risk since she no longer had her gloves. What if she went out and someone touched her by accident?

Liar! Her subconscious yelled. She wanted to avoid him. Rogue grimaced, looking at her hands and the flecks of muddy brown still staining her bare forearms. She could shower and buy herself some time before she had to leave the room. There, she decided. That was a plan. She needed time to think without the swamp rat in the immediate vicinity. He had a very bad habit of clouding her judgement.

Hell, had she really fallen asleep in his arms?

Rogue shook herself, glancing at the discoloured bed sheets. Shower first, she decided, frowning at the huge, dried stains left on the linens. Swamp water on fourteen hundred-thread count Egyptian cotton. Man, she thought, swallowing her unease. The family must have been loaded for Remy to have left her like that without worrying about the damage done by letting her sleep in her wet clothes.

Or had he? Rogue cocked her head to the side, approaching the side of the bed where she hadn’t slept. The pillow was indented; the sheets creased, but not slept in. They were slept on.

She swallowed thickly, reaching out to press her palms against the smooth dip of the covers. They were cool to the touch, the sheets remarkably soft beneath her fingers.

He’d stayed with her.

Before she could contemplate the Joker tucked into the sheets, Rogue turned on her heel and marched to the bathroom, a searing blush burning her cheeks as she shut the door forcefully behind her.

---

“This is…” Bobby struggled, his index finger smashing down forcefully on the panel that would open a direct communication line to the Institute, “the reason why I don’t like dealing with Tabitha.” He punctuated the last word with his fist hitting the dash.

“Cool off, Iceman,” Cyclops warned.

“That’s so redundant it’s almost funny,” he shot back, glowering at their team leader.

Bobby scrubbed at his face, weary with the lack of sleep. His teammates appeared in no better condition, though they remained inside the jet after having spent more than eight hours circling the city, awaiting clearance from the airfield to land.

Standing near the jet’s entrance, at the top of a plank that descended to the hard asphalt below, Kitty bounced on the souls of her feet. “Why aren’t they back yet?” she asked, turning to Jean who stood nearby. The psychic shook her head with a frown.

“Something’s happened,” Jean said simply. “They’re on their way. Kurt’s teleportation is erratic, but he knows we’re here, and he knows that we need to reconvene before it gets dark.”

“Is Wolverine with him?” Storm asked.

Jean cast a glance at Cyclops. “Yes, and from what I sense, he’s not particularly happy about what they’ve found. They will both be here momentarily.”

“Vould it not be more effective if ve vere to establish a search area?” Colossus asked.

“It has been more than twenty-four hours,” Storm said. “Not only have we prolonged the mission considerably, but it would not be safe to continue without rest.”

“If one-eye hadn’t been so damned preoccupied with the legislative landing crap, maybe you wouldn’t need to take a nap,” Logan groused. His shoulders hunched as he stalked out from beneath the wing and into view of the jet’s occupants. A wispy cloud of dark grey smoke trailed him, preceded by a defeated-looking Nightcrawler.

“Kurt?” Kitty asked with marked concern, her voice pitched an octave too high to pass as perfectly level.

“Katchen,” he replied, his voice strained as he tried to find the right words to express himself. When he could not, he swallowed and turned away with a small shake of his head. He looked to the ground as he teleported passed Logan. A moment later, Kurt collapsed in a seat near Cyclops, his fingers splaying over his mouth. When Kitty tried to approach him, he merely shook his head once more, his eyes glazed as he stared past the dash and out to the wide stretch of Louis Armstrong International’s air field.

“What’s wrong?” Kitty asked, her gaze snapping to Wolverine who hung back in the door. “Mr. Logan, what happened?”

Wolverine shook his head, pulling off his mask and stalking up the plank into the jet.

“Why does Nightcrawler look like someone died?” Bobby quipped, glad to be relieved of his post and Tabitha on the com link.

Clearly, it was the wrong thing to say.

In a large puff of sulphuric-tinged smoke, Kurt was upon him. His blue fists twisted into Bobby’s uniform, yanking him forwards so closely that his breath fogged with the cold. Kurt crouched over the seat, his feet straddling the armrests, his prehensile tail thrashing erratically, smacking into the controls to their left at intervals.

“Was bedeutet das?” he seethed

“Whoa!” Bobby yelped, icing up so quickly that part of Kurt’s fingers frosted over. “Back off, man!”

“Nightcrawler!” Logan snarled.

Kurt turned slowly, his mouth twisted in such a way that bared his pointed incisors. Yellow eyes darted around the cabin, until finally, drawing a shaky breath, he released Bobby.

“Es tut mir leid,” he muttered under his breath, backing off. “I’m sorry,” he ground out. “It’s been a long day.”

“And it’ll be an even longer night for you if you don’t get it under control!” Logan growled. “Sit!” he ordered, and begrudgingly, Kurt turned and slumped back to his seat.

Kitty asked, “Did you find Rogue?”

Logan shook his head, acknowledging Kitty’s question, but keeping his eye trained on Kurt.

“We were too late,” Kurt muttered, wilting under Logan’s scrutiny though his fingers failed to unclench from around the armrests.

“What?” Kitty’s voice rose another octave, and calmly, Colossus moved to place a hand on her shoulder. “She’s not… oh my god!”

“No, half-pint, Rogue’s alive,” Logan answered levelly. “Got her scent all right, but Gumbo’s got her mixed up in something bad,” he continued, nodding to Cyclops and Storm. “I’m going back out there, see what I can find before the trail dies.”

“She is still in the city?” Storm asked.

Logan nodded. “We ought to get to her before the police do, or worse.”

“Worse?” Scott asked. “Wolverine, you need to be debriefed –”

“Later. Talk to the Elf. He’ll give you the details.”

Kurt swallowed, turning away.

“We tracked them all day,” Logan continued. “But the Cajun’s stink died out at the river. The blue one’s nerves are worn out. He stays. I’ll be back before dawn.”

Nightcrawler didn’t acknowledge the statement.

“Jeannie?” Logan asked. “Take care of the kid. Half Pint, quit gaping. It’ll be fine.” He peered around them, and as an afterthought, he added, “You all look like hell,” as he turned and stalked out of the plane.

Kurt merely shook his head, his mouth twisted in a hard frown. In the fading light, his eyes shone a brighter shade of yellow as he glanced around his teammates uncomfortably.

“Storm?” Cyclops asked.

The Weather Witch nodded, turning swiftly to follow the Wolverine back out onto the airfield. They were all tired, but leaving Logan to his own devices in the mood he appeared to be in was not prudent. Perhaps with Storm’s help, they would stave of an incident if Logan lost it once he found Gambit.

“Kurt?” Jean asked quietly. “Just relax, okay?”

He held up a hand, silently telling Jean he did not want his mind probed for the information. Slowly, his accent thickening with obvious grief, he began telling them what he’d seen.

---

The bathwater had turned milky white.

Rogue had scrubbed herself pink; the flesh of her knees, where they broke the surface, were dewy rose from the combination of the hot water and her vigorous cleansing. There hadn’t been the option of a shower, so she had sat, immersed up to her neck in the claw-footed tub, knowing full-well that the tips of her fingers were turning wrinkly the longer she refused to get out.

Getting out meant seeing the Cajun.

Getting out meant swallowing the ridiculous nervousness that had peaked not more than an hour ago, and facing the proverbial symphony of self-doubt, self-loathing, self-reprimand and last, but not least, self-restraint if she had to see him in the condition she was in.

Rogue growled, wrapping her fingers around the lip of the bathtub and gripping the porcelain like she’d drown if she let go suddenly.

A wet cloth hung over the side of the bath, and a bar of soap floated idly in front of her. She poked at it with her toe, watching it bob idly along as she stewed – both literally and figuratively.

It hadn’t been more than four days since the last time she’d been in this position; in a bathroom, prodding a bar of soap to see if she could fill it with kinetic charge. It felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened since then, and like Monday night, Rogue found herself thinking about Gambit again. Except, it wasn’t quite in the same way.

She had let herself get coerced into taking an impromptu vacation, led on a wild goose chase for a stone she knew nothing about, for the sole reason that there was a sliver of hope that with it, like Remy, her powers would reach their plateau, and she’d gain complete control.

She had been attacked, seen two murders, had her hopes dashed when they’d found the Botanica blown to bits, and had absorbed Remy not once, not twice, but three times in the span of a week.

It completely negated the efforts she’d expended in not absorbing a soul in a year.

A year! Gambit had managed to disarm her in less time than it took to realize what he’d accomplished. So much for strengthened resolve and all that other garbage Scott always talked about.

Her conscience twinged at the thought. She hadn’t spoken to her family since she’d called them from the phone booth in Virginia. It had been three days. She ought to get in touch, and soon, considering when they were left to their own devices, the X-Men tended to assume the absolute worst.

It wasn’t like Remy was plotting to take over the world with her facilitating the conquest, but still, her emancipation could be easily misunderstood by those who didn’t quite “get it.” They just didn’t understand what it was like to live like she did. None of them had any problems cozying up to each other; none of them ran the risk that they could kill another person with something as simple as a hug. Good intentions didn’t mean plum dixie when you were the one responsible for putting someone in a coma.

Moreover, they didn’t “get” Remy either. She did. A little. But for the most part, he was a riddle all unto himself.

What Rogue did understand was that Remy, as reluctant as he was to reveal too much of himself, had thought of her when his powers had been boosted. Previously married, his family’s scapegoat, a cast-out; Rogue knew all that. It wasn’t that difficult to empathize with, really, she just wished he was willing to give instead of forcing her to take those pieces of his past from him. It made the picture of the man she knew patchwork at best, nebulous even, and it made her feel like she was the thief in this relationship.

Wait.

Relationship?

Where had that come from?

Rogue felt the flush in her face, spreading quickly to the tips of her ears where it burned pitifully.

“Ah’m so screwed,” she breathed, vainly trying to ignore the million reasons that said it was a very, very bad idea to even consider it. They burst behind her eyes, a flurry of possible scenarios, many of which left her feeling hollowed out, used, and left discarded when Remy realized that the game wasn’t fun anymore.

Shit. It had stopped being fun even before she’d even met him.

How was this any worse, she asked herself.

She’d seen how easy it was for him to shift in personality. From seducer, to vindictive bastard, to the intense, driven mercenary who thought it was good fun to crack jokes with her in the midst of a fight with people who were trying to kill them. He was more of a rogue than she was. Worse, Rogue had the distinct impression that he was just warming up.

Their scrap in the swamp that morning had practically been foreplay, for heaven’s sake!

Rogue shuddered, though not unpleasantly, as she sank lower into the tub. Her chin dipped into the water, and she stared fixedly at her toes poking out of the placid surface at the far end.

In the simplest terms, she understood that he blamed himself for a lot of things that he still wasn’t willing to share with her. The thought left her nettled. He’d been doing his best to convince her that he cared for her in whatever misguided way he was capable of, but truly, he’d missed the point. He’d be happy to receive, but he wasn’t willing to share himself – at least, not in the way that would get her to trust him fully.

“Stupid swamp rat,” she muttered to the empty bathroom, her voice sounding louder to her own ears, making her feel marginally crazier than she had been to begin with.

Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d trained himself not to. That would explain the offhanded way he responded when she’d tried to bring up Belladonna.

Rogue couldn’t touch anyone physically, but Remy wouldn’t let himself be touched emotionally. They really were alike in some ways, she admitted to herself begrudgingly.

At the end of it all, she found she really didn’t know that much more about him, and the thought unnerved her almost as much as the silly streak of acrobatics her stomach insisted on doing when she thought about him sleeping next to her all night… in the same bed.

She’d slept with Remy.

“Oh my gawd,” she moaned, squeezing her eyes shut and sliding down into the murky bathwater. Rogue held her breath, her ears filling with the impenetrable, comforting hum of quiet. A bubble escaped her nose, and the underwater silence pressed in around her – but it didn’t stop the incessant, roundabout chatter in her head.

He was trying to break her down, get by her defences. He’d said he would, but Rogue had been so adamant about fighting him, it had sopped her energy. The one instant she’d let her guard down, he’d waltzed straight in.

She held her breath though her lungs began to burn.

Reluctantly, she admitted to herself again that it had felt good in his arms. It felt even better knowing that regardless of the inherent risk in being close to her, Remy wasn’t giving up. It would be a heartening thought, flattering even, if he didn’t act like such a cornpoke jackass swamp rat with a nasty chip on his shoulder when she’d tried to give him a real taste of his own medicine.

Her vision spotted with black dots, and Rogue shot back up, gasping for air before she drowned herself.

He could dish it, but he certainly couldn’t take it.

The thought emboldened her. What had it been? She strained to remember – when she’d said she was going to go back to Bayville, he’d started acting funny. Remy had fed her the same lines that he’d probably used on a hundred other women, and because of that, she’d retaliated. They’d snapped at each other consistently until that morning when she’d woken from the dream of Julien’s murder.

As sorry a state as it was to resort to physical combat, the fight had helped. Knocking him into the swamp would have been a promise well kept, if he hadn’t taken her down with him.

Rogue sniggered, the sound echoing off the walls.

If they were this bad facing off with one another, she couldn’t imagine the possibilities if they actually teamed up. The X-Men wouldn’t stand a chance. She grinned, thinking of Scott breaking down in an apoplectic fit at Gambit’s antics. The pair of them could probably damage the Danger Room enough to get them out of training for at least a week.

Rogue sighed, slapping the water with her hand, finally fed up with the train of thought. She was supposed to be angry with him, but why in tarnation could she not stop smiling?

She had to call the Institute, just to check in. Doing that meant getting out of the tub, and getting on with facing him. She could do it, she decided, swallowing the nervous bubble of apprehension that accompanied the thought. She would just avoid him as long as possible until they figured out what to do about finding the stone.

Rogue stood, snatching a nearby towel of a small rack near the tub and drying herself absently.

Her legs, thankfully, felt a little less wobbly.

She could do this.

The Cajun had nothing on her.

Not a thing, she assured herself, stepping out of the tub and collecting a thick, white, fluffy bathrobe from off the back of the door. Her clothes were ruined from the impromptu swim in the bayou, but Mercy was nearly her size. If she could find the girl in the massive mansion without running into Remy on the way, all the better.

Seeing her in nothing but a robe might be detrimental to the odd sort of truce they’d established that morning.

Rogue ignored the nervous flutter in her stomach, wrapping the robe around herself and cinching the belt tightly at her waist. Her wet hair hung over her shoulders, dripping into the collar. She snatched up the towel and went to work on it, not even minding the stubborn way it began to curl around her face.

He may have been truthful about caring for her. Maybe, just maybe it was genuine, she thought, but that didn’t mean she had to moon over him. Then again, Remy may have been trying to coax his way into her heart and bed too – but then why hadn’t he tried to make a move on her that morning? He was crazy enough to try something like that again.

Again.

Rogue stopped fussing with her hair. The thought sent a warm wash of hope through her chest.

Staring at her reflection in the large mirror over the sink, she drew a shaky breath.

Would he stick around if they actually found the stone and she had the chance to use it?

Would it even be permanent? She didn’t even know the extent of her powers, much less what that damned rock could do to her – but if it meant that there was the possibility of not being so damned afraid of herself, she’d leap at the chance.

She wanted it, she decided suddenly. She craved control with every weakened muscle, every inch of her deadly, cursed body that she could lay her hands on.

That Remy could lay his hands on.

Rogue flushed brightly, biting down hard on her lower lip, embarrassed that she could even think it. Before her imagination could drag her away, she swore, once, loudly. Why the hell didn’t this place have a shower with a cold-water tap?

She opened the bathroom door, still grinning a little to herself and working the towel through her damp hair.

“Bonsoir, chére.”

Rogue froze, the towel dropping limply in her hands. It slapped to the ground a moment later as she swivelled to face the intruder.

Gambit stood in the doorway, his heel propped against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest, looking particularly smug.
 

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