---
The Ante
Chapter XXIII: Shade Work
(Part 1/2)
---

As clear as the sound of church bells in winter, Theoren’s memories came at her in a barrage of sights and sounds that swept her backwards. Rogue crashed into the server, the tangle of wires digging into her shoulders and popping loose as she sagged, dropping to the ground. The pain in her back was a distant discomfort as the images overtook her. She bit down on her tongue to keep from screaming.

Swallowing the taste of copper, Rogue’s feet skidded out before her and she hit the floor with a thud, listing to the side where she curled in on herself.

---

Belize is a large man. Bulky in the way that a redwood pine has girth, he is a tall mass of muscle and blond hair that has faded to white as he aged. Theoren likes to think of his father as snow-topped. It’s a shared euphemism between he and his brother that never fails to coax a smile out of the youngest of the Guild’s offspring.

Theoren had seen those trees once, when the now seven-year-old Etienne was still just a baby. Looking at his father now, seated at his desk with he and Etienne positioned in chairs opposite, Theoren is reminded of those massive Californian redwoods. There is something earthy and wooden in Belize’s cologne, something pungent and constant that reminds both his children to be strong despite the odds.

Now is one of those times.

“Mes fils,” Belize begins, linking his hands together loosely atop the blotter. At his side, Etienne at least knows enough not to glance at him. They both exercise whatever innocence they possess, meeting their father’s stolid scrutiny. This is serious.

Theoren answers for them both, just in case Etienne decides to bring up that debacle from last week involving Tante’s houseplants and the makeshift stink bomb Emil had designed. The wilted ficus is currently residing in its resting place, otherwise known as the dumpster beyond the Thieves’ property. The infusion meant to be boiled down into a powder had gone rancid sometime during the separation process – they hadn’t realized it was poisonous until Emil re-read the instructions on his chemistry set.

Theoren figures it’s best not to bring that up unless Lapin was around. They agreed collectively, between Henri, Etienne and himself, that is, that it was entirely Lapin’s fault.

“Oui, pére?” he says instead, swallowing the ripple of unease as his pulse speeds up.

At least it was Tante’s ficus that suffered the horrible death and not one of them.

“I must discuss somet’ing wit’ y’, boys. It is important business, y’ understand – an’ I can’t tell y’ enough how much it’ll mean t’ y’ Oncle Jean Luc an’ I if y’ make de effort t’ be grown up about dis.”

Theoren swallows harder, knowing that instead of that stupid plant, it could very well have been his kid brother who’d gotten a dose of homemade cyanide. He doesn’t want to think of the consequences, although realistically, that is all Theoren can do. It leaves a cold weight in his gut, like he’s eaten too much ice cream too fast. He decides then and there their fathers will go easier on them all if he just confesses, if he just explains…

“Pére, it was an accident,” Theoren blurts, feeling his cheeks grow hot.

To his left, Etienne swivels in his seat and gapes at him, his jaw dropping open. Theoren doesn’t look at him, choosing instead to straighten his spine and stare at the wood panelling behind his father’s head. He’ll shoulder the responsibility for this. He’s man enough at fifteen to know the difference between stupidity and egotism. Belize has taught them better, he berates himself – and Etienne is his responsibility.

“I shoulda never gone along wit’ it, pére,” he continues, concentrating as hard as he can on the square of oak just over the larger man’s shoulder. “I shoulda stopped Emil before t’ings got outta hand.”

“Theo,” Belize interrupts gently.

Theoren forces back the lump in his throat. If he had only listened to what his father had told him about being responsible. He is the eldest among the Guild’s children. He is supposed to look out for the younger ones. Henri is twelve, Emil ten, and with Etienne barely seven, it’s hard enough to keep track of his own brother in the melee of the Guild house half the time.

“M’ sorry, pére. I’ll – I promise – I’ll do better next time,” he chokes out, hating the way the corners of his eyes began to burn.

“Mon fils,” Belize says, comfortingly. He steps from around the desk, moving to stand right in front of Theoren and place his hands on his shoulders.

The scent of him swirls around them both. It is familiar and warm, like dry cedar and dark resin, lingering cigar smoke and fine scotch.

“Dis is a day t’ celebrate,” he says kindly. “Not t’ mourn Tante Mattie’s dearly departed shrubbery.” He winks. “Boys will be boys, Theo. Y’ will be more careful next time, m’ sure. Y’ don’t need t’ look so ashamed of y’self.”

Theoren looks up, and then cautiously, to the side at Etienne. He’s slid from his seat, his sneakers squeaking a little on the hardwood as he moves to stand beside his father. Belize embraces his youngest fondly, leaving one hand on Theoren’s shoulder to remind him he stands with them both, leaving neither out of his consideration. Warm, chocolate brown eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at his children.

“Dere be a new addition t’ de family. Jean Luc is adopting a second son.”

---

“I’d tell y’ dat y’ a sight f’ sore eyes, belle – but m’ afraid y’ might send a plague o’ locusts down on m’ head.”

Storm smiled benignly, approaching him at a steady clip. Gambit took the time to extract his cigarettes and pop one in his mouth. He offered her one wordlessly, but the weather witch merely held up a hand politely, declining as she drew to a stop.

He shrugged, and ignited the tip, keeping one hand strategically concealed behind his back where he fingered his deck of cards – slipping them beneath his wrist sheath for easy access.

“Perhaps not locusts, Gambit,” she said evenly, tipping her face to the sky as the clouds condensed overhead. “But hail?” A loud clap of thunder sounded, preceded by a dull, angry rumble of thunder. “Or perhaps something more localized – a hurricane, for instance.”

“Dis mean y’ not happy t’ see me?” he asked innocently enough.

Overhead, a streak of lightening bisected the night sky, bathing the rooftop in a concentrated, blue-white glow that illuminated her features. She did not appear amused.

“We might settle this matter with a few words, my friend,” she continued. “It would be preferable to the other options I have presented.”

“I thought de X-Men didn’t kill, Stormy.”

“Call me that once more, and perhaps I will consider revising our code of ethics for your benefit,” she returned. He smirked. He liked her. Overhead, the clouds swirled together, gathering momentum and pulling the sky into a cyclone of power. With a flick of her wrist, Gambit wagered that she could bring that cone down straight on his head.

Nonplussed, he raised an eyebrow. “As de lady wishes.” He gave her a small bow from the waist, not breaking her gaze.

“Where is Rogue, Gambit?” she asked, her face a serene mask that demonstrated her absolute mastery over her talents, and over herself. Impressive, he thought. She commanded respect. Put the lady in leather and give her a whip, and any other time, Remy would be dog chow.

Pity, she wouldn’t get him barking willingly.

“Safe,” he replied with an indolent shrug of one shoulder. He peered past her into the night, exercising his best bored expression at the same time as he cast his own sensory powers out and across the largest distance they would cover.

He found the Wolverine scaling a building four blocks away, claws digging into the mortar between the bricks. The third person that had been following him had gone, disappeared entirely off his radar. Curious, but nothing to be concerned with for the moment.

“I hardly think you are one to judge,” she returned evenly. “You have endangered Rogue more than you could possibly know – regardless of your intentions or affiliations.”

He peered at her, taking a drag. The smoke unfurled from his mouth and nose as he responded casually, “I have no affiliations, Stormy. M’ a lone agent just doin’ his job f’ an old friend who deserves more den she allows herself.”

Thunder boomed, a crash so sudden and violent he felt his ears pop as the barometric pressure changed. He didn’t flinch, but Storm was pissed.

“A son of New Orleans Thieves Guild, second in line to inherit the legacy of your father, a former Acolyte of Magneto, and abettor to Mystique – do not dare lie to me, Remy LeBeau. By the goddess, I will bring the sky crashing down on your head.”

She rose up suddenly, a tearing wind speeding across the rooftops and carrying her forwards so that she hovered over him, regal and fierce.

Accomplice to Mystique? The accusation brought a grim curl to his lower lip.

A card was shucked into his palm, bathing the rooftop in bright fuchsia before he even registered his reaction. The cigarette was gone, torn away from him and sending sparks scattering with the wind she brought down around him. It made the tails of his trench flap at his legs, but Remy held his ground, staring up at her coolly.

“Dat was m’ last smoke,” he muttered.

“Do you not deny it?” Storm boomed.

Remy sneered, feeling the rush of kinetic charge leap from his fingers to the card, dripping off the ends of his digits. It was as if the air had gained a tactile quality to it, and if he reached out, he could charge the very oxygen molecules that they breathed.

“Would y’ believe me either way?” he yelled over the wind.

The crash of lightening hitting a nearby satellite dish was answer enough. Remy flung the card, not waiting to survey the damage as it detonated where it hit. Already, the air was filled with the pungent scent of fried plastic and scorched concrete as he flung himself backwards.

---

Rogue gasped, her vision swimming into focus at the jarring halogen brightness of the room around her.

Two feet to her left, Theoren lay sprawled on his back. The same boy, nearly a decade older, but his features hardened. His brother, she thought, where was Etienne?

Rogue moaned as she doubled over, digging her fingers into her scalp as a fresh burst of his memories sped through her mind.

---

“He’s got de devil’s eyes,” Etienne whispers heatedly. Tucked beneath his arm, the top of his younger brother’s head is a scraggy mop of dandelion yellow – so blond it’s nearly orange at the roots.

Theoren peers down at him with a frown.

“Manners,” he replies out of the corner of his mouth, turning back to the scruffy-looking nine-year-old standing between Oncle Jean Luc and his pére, Belize. He feels Etienne’s fingers tighten into the hem of his shirt, and cautiously, he pokes his head out from beneath Theoren’s arm.

The kid, a scrawny-looking thing in clothing that had seen better days, if not the back of some other poor unfortunate soul, glances between Theoren, Etienne, Henri and Emil suspiciously, as if trying to gauge which one of them is dominant in the motley crew of Thieves Guild children.

Unusual red on black eyes are narrowed to the point of being sceptical, but Theoren knows better. The child is taking their measure; assessing which one he’d need to win in his favour if he wanted the run of the place. It’s no wonder that Oncle has chosen to adopt him – the kid is shifty, his hands already dirty with the trade.

Finally, after a long stretch of staring on everyone’s behalf, he peers up at Theoren and cocks an eyebrow. The gesture is exaggerated. It looks like he’s been practicing in front of a mirror.

“Y’ all gonna look at m’ like y’ scraped m’ off de bottom of y’ shoes?” he asks, smirking. The expression is too old for such a young face.

“Not too far off, I don’t t’ink,” Emil replies, scrunching his nose. It earns him a cuff upside the head courtesy of Henri.

“Dat’s m’ brother y’ talkin’ ‘bout.”

Towering over them, Jean Luc grins. “Already makin’ Remy welcome, fantastique. We’ll just leave y’ boys to it, den, hein?”

“Y’ mind y’ brother, Theoren,” Belize adds. “Y’ Oncle an’ I got some work t’ do.”

Etienne’s cheek brushes his forearm, and Theoren settles his hand on his brother’s shoulder as the men leave the boys to get acquainted. The seven year old looks on with something close to apprehension, his freckled face turning upwards to gauge Theoren’s reaction to the family’s new addition.

Theoren lets out a breath, offering him a small nod.

“Have dey always been like dat?” Etienne whispers, directing his question to the strange boy with the even stranger eyes.

Remy smirks, tipping his head to the side and crouching to Etienne’s eye-level. It isn’t much of a difference, since the nine year old is little more than a few inches taller than him.

“Have y’ always been dat foreword?” Remy asks, bemused.

Theoren stiffens, not liking the kid’s tone. No one makes fun of Etienne and gets away with it when he’s around.

“Have y’?” he shoots back coolly.

Remy straightens, puffing out his chest and taking a bold step closer. He has to crane his neck back to hold Theoren’s gaze.

He scrutinizes him, sticking his lower lip out and narrowing his eyes. “Hard not t’ be,” Remy replies. “Where I come from, y’ don’t get nowhere bein’ a pushover.”

“Where y’ from?” Etienne asks, edging out from beneath Theoren’s protective hold. For a second, Theoren considers yanking him backwards. This Remy punk is little more than carrion. For all they know, he might slip a knife into his brother’s ribs if any of them turn away for just a second. What the hell had pére and Oncle been thinking, bringing him here? A common street thief?

Without turning his head, Remy’s gaze travels to Etienne, and Theoren’s spine turns rigid.

“Everywhere,” he replies, shrugging noncommittally. A scuff of worn-in sneakers against polished floors, the uncertain wedge of fingers into his belt loops is all it takes. “Anywhere,” he adds, his shoulders sagging a little. He’d probably never fit in, never known family or a real home… until now.

It is Etienne who seems to realize it first, before even Henri or Theoren himself. Emil, as it were, has a tendency to remain blissfully ignorant of even the subtlest nuances of character.

Etienne pulls away fully, swatting at the fingers that linger at the back of his coveralls. Reluctantly, Theoren lets him go – hovering just close enough in case he’s forced to haul him away from the Guild’s newest addition.

“Dat’s a pretty big place,” Etienne says. “Y’ t’ink y’ gonna like it here after dat? I mean, de mansion’s pretty big, an’ I know dere are a few good spots t’ hide out in, but s’ not like…” He shifts uneasily. “Everywhere. I bet y’ seen a whole lot o’ de world, huh?”

The kid blinks, his scrawny frame stilling, like he’s trying to figure out if the awe in his adoptive cousin’s face is genuine. After a moment, he grins. The smile changes his entire demeanour, lighting the gaunt planes of his face in a way that makes him look less hard, less filthy – almost endearing.

Just a kid after all.

He sticks his hand out, inviting Etienne to shake it. Remy has apparently made his decision, and as Theoren meets Henri’s raised eyebrow and Emil’s look of utter bafflement, he decides that perhaps Jean Luc and pére have their reasons after all.

“De name’s Remy,” he says.

The smile Etienne gives him could light the entire city of New Orleans for a week.

---

A tower of flame rose from the spot where the card exploded beneath the weather witch. Storm reeled upwards, her trajectory thrown off course. Out of the corner of his eye where he saw her falling, Remy tore for the lip of the roof, darting around the flames and aiming for the narrow gap where Storm disappeared.

It had been a well-placed throw; the light from the charge lit the entire top of the building and the walls of the alley to the west. He could see perfectly, but more importantly, with his power spreading out around him, he found her tumbling though an air current so he knew precisely where to reach her before they both took a bite out of the pavement.

Whoever says chivalry is dead hasn’t spent enough time in the South.

Remy leapt over the side, legs sailing out behind him, pulling his bo from a back pocket and extending it. With both he and the staff heading in a vertical line towards the ground, he rushed towards the tumbling Storm, locking an arm around the X-Man’s waist and brought the staff horizontal. Sparks flew from where the ends of the adamantium rod ground against the building walls, slowing their momentum with the drag, but making a racket as the pair descended. He grit his teeth together, ignoring the strain in his shoulder and the nails-on-chalkboard sound of metal scraping against stone.

The staff snagged, bending beneath their shared weight and sending both their legs dropping beneath them. For a moment, the pair bounced midair, the tendons in Remy’s shoulder twanging painfully as Storm turned upwards to look at him, her hands resting lightly on his forearm, and her eyes a bright sky blue.

He grinned at her expression, trying not to wince.

The alley below them wasn’t more than fifteen feet down. He said a little prayer of thanks to no one in particular, and managed, “Stormy, y’ gotta lay off de chocolate,” before his fingers slid off the staff.

---

Rogue groaned, the room coming into focus before her. Below her cheek, the floor was sticky with her own sweat, and with trembling arms, she pushed up just enough to see Theoren’s profile again.

She couldn’t understand it. The memories were sequenced, but buffered by other things that moved too quickly to pick out. Those would return later, she knew. The transient things; flashes of people, snippets of laughter and shrieks, late nights, little sleep, days on end spent before a computer terminal, codes, numbers, passwords, security cracks, free time spent fishing on the bayou, playing Half-Life until dawn and the sweet waft of perfume from a mother Theoren never knew – she’d died too young, a photo kept on a bedside table – Jean Luc’s sister, maman with baby Theoren and Belize, celebrating Henri’s tilling – his first rite of passage, formal robes that were scratchy with starch and ritual incense tickling the nose, the thrum of pride in successful heists, the rush of adrenaline when alarms failed to go off, the dusty smell of the air vents – those memories would return to her when she slept and her subconscious tried to process them.

Rogue barely had time to register the wavering shape of Lapin as he padded back into the room, the crash of a glass pitcher and the bright green contents spilling across the floors.

They came at her again, voices coalescing together in a thick braid that wove around her mind, and pulled her back under.

---

Custom dictates it. Despite the heavy humidity that makes their suits sticky with sweat, they have spread their father out in the front room. The grey coffin with its white satin lining seems misplaced, like it had been belched up by some passing funerary procession and forgotten.

Theoren’s hands are sweating on the linen shoulder pads of Etienne’s suit. It was specially made in a drab shade nearly the colour of their father’s final resting place.

Theoren wears black.

Outside, scattered around the gravel drive, lined by bowed oaks offering their shade for the mid-afternoon procession, the band is warming up. It seems fitting, somehow, that Jean Luc would want to celebrate Belize’s passing in the tradition of New Orleans – loudly, with the gaudy pomp and circumstance of a jazz funeral.

The horns spike, blaring noisily and drowning out the sounds of the gathered mourners who converse in hushed tones. They make him wince with their crass tuning, and yet, he can’t ignore the sound.

“It’ll be fine,” Theoren says to Etienne, his voice strained.

“He doesn’t smell like pére anymore,” Etienne whispers. The boy can’t tear his eyes away from the coffin, from the man lying peacefully inside it.

The band starts a slow dirge, signalling the beginning of the processional. They will come in to close the coffin soon. This is their last chance to say goodbye. Theoren swallows tightly, unable to find the right words to instruct Etienne; how to continue, how to act, how to be strong. Instead, his hand grips his brother’s shoulder tighter, fingers digging into the soft linen of a suit that makes the ten-year-old look older than he should. It makes Theoren feel older than he is.

“Theo?” Remy asks, stepping abreast of him. Theoren catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, the dark charcoal of Remy’s jacket blurring into his features. “De band’s starting,” he says quietly, reluctantly almost.

Opening his mouth, Theoren can’t force the words out. He merely nods and squeezes his brother’s shoulder once again. Etienne bows beneath his touch, his chin dropping to his chest and popping off his clip-on tie. Remy catches it deftly, sliding it into his pocket. His eyes stinging, Theoren looks to the boy, pleading with him for once, just this once…

Remy understands intrinsically, mimicking Theoren’s gesture by placing his own hand on Etienne’s shoulder. He glances up at Theoren, and gives him a barely perceptible nod over Etienne’s head. Relief uncoils in Theoren’s chest as one tear spills over his cheek. He turns away before either child can see, but nonetheless, he is grateful for Remy to be there.

Etienne sniffs, fat tears rolling off his chin into his shirt collar. Beneath Theoren’s hand, the boy shakes with a sob. Hesitantly, Theoren lets him go as Remy tucks the boy against his side.

“Be strong, Et,” Remy murmurs. Theoren sees his brother’s delicate fingers clutch at Remy’s hand, and he is grateful. He can’t be strong for the both of them this moment. His whole world is about to be marched down to St. Louis Cemetery and slid into the family crypt.

Two pallbearers move into the room like shadows, flanking the three boys who still stand in the parlour. Theoren can only shake his head, his lungs constricting to the point of being painful as he wills the men away with the sudden, bottomless urge to scream. The men remain despite his silent protestations, and leaning on the side of his father’s coffin, fingers digging into the cold, bunched satin, Theoren chokes down his own tears.

“Viens,” Remy murmurs, turning Etienne into his side so he won’t see Theoren break down.

Someone pulls him backwards, gloved hands guiding him so the pallbearers can seal Belize away. Theoren shakes his head, his teeth gritting together while ignoring the comforting silence of Jean Luc, who had no words to express the loss of Belize himself.

Gingerly, Remy urges Etienne forwards as they shut the lid.

“Come an’ kiss de coffin,” Remy says. “It’s a sign o’ respect, Et. Y’ make y’ pére proud.”

Remy makes him proud that moment, thinks Theoren as his adoptive cousin helps Etienne up to place a brief, shaky kiss on the smooth grey surface. It is Remy who covers the lid with a spray of gladiolus and calla lily – white flowers, the sombre, creamy-coloured blooms that smell like a mourner’s perfume, and leads Etienne from the room. Jean Luc follows, the floorboards soundless beneath his weight.

Outside, the first slow notes of the requiem ballad carry on the still air, filling the silence in Theoren’s heart and head with a sweet ache, a longing for his father’s guiding hand that will haunt him for the rest of his days.

When everyone is gone, Theoren permits himself a shaking breath, running his fingers through the decorative sprigs of baby’s breath and imagining that he smells the grounding aroma of cedar beneath the cloying flowers and polished coffin wood.

---

“Not that I am ungrateful for your impromptu rescue, but if you do not get off of me this instant, Gambit…”

He rolled to the side, winded but alive and ever the more grateful for the pile of dumpster-spill they’d landed on. His heels squished in the plastic bags and cardboard boxes as he crossed his ankles, looking over at the woman at his side. Somehow, Storm still managed to look collected despite the fact that there was a banana peel clinging to her shoulder.

“We should do dis again sometime.” He grinned through a grimace, hefting himself to one elbow.

She peered at him askance, one delicate eyebrow raised.

“Or mebbe not,” he conceded, flopping backwards onto the heap. “Dieu, dat’s gonna leave a mark.”

“That was unprecedented,” she said finally, her tone firm.

He shrugged, and it hurt. “Damsel in distress, was m’ pleasure.” He grimaced. “Really,” he added, though it was strained.

“Which you invariably caused.” He heard the slight, amused smile in her voice without having to look over.

“We gonna start fightin’ again?” he asked with a sigh, more for the added drama gleaned through feigning exasperation. He could do it if he had to; he just didn’t want to do it. To be blunt about it, even sitting beside such a beautiful, caramel-coloured goddess, Remy’s thoughts were drawn back to the bayou, and what waited for him there.

Storm hesitated, stilling beside him. After a moment, she rose to a seated position. “I will ask once again, where is Rogue?”

It seemed like both of them were preoccupied with the very same thing. Remy peered at her out of the corner of his eye. “Y’ want de address?”

She thought for a moment, plucking the browned fruit peel from her shoulder and depositing it lightly on the heap beside her. “I want the assurance that no harm has befallen her. Were you to show the same consideration to Rogue as you just have to me, then perhaps it would be fitting that I offered you an apology for my rash behaviour. We have been… concerned for Rogue’s well-being.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Dat’s an understatement, Stormy.”

“Do not call me that.”

“She’s fine,” he replied, enjoying the incensed reaction he received at the use of his newfound pet name for the X-Man. “Decided t’ stay in tonight; we had a bit of a problem last night wit’ some local riffraff,” he explained casually, side-stepping the fact that the problem had in reality been two murders and a Voodoo Botanical that had been nuked from the inside out.

“Then Rogue has not used the gem?” Storm pressed.

He sat up fully, hefting himself off the pile of garbage and offering her a hand, which she accepted graciously.

“Dat stupid rock has given me more problems den its worth.” At Storm’s stern look, he added in an undertone, “No, Rogue hasn’t used de gem. De gem in question happens t’ be missin’ in action.”

She breathed a sigh of near-relief, causing Remy to raise a quizzical eyebrow.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered. “F’ Rogue’s family, de lot of y’ really don’t seem t’ be too concerned with her quality of life dese days. Y’d t’ink y’d all be jumping f’ joy de instant she’d be able t’ control her mutation, but no – me? I get attacked f’ tryin’ t’ be helpful.”

“We have assumed the worst, Gambit,” she said firmly. “And perhaps with good reason.”

“Remy,” he corrected, but waved her on.

“Remy.” Storm nodded, offering him a slight smile. Ah, an ally, he thought. You save a woman who probably could have saved herself from near-death, and how the tables turn. Remy cracked his spine with a groan, and tried not to look too pleased with himself.

“The stone in question is dubious in its power. It is known as the Gem of Cyttorak, a powerful catalyst that may have adverse effects on those who abuse it.”

“M’ fine,” he returned evenly. “An’ I used it.”

The Gem of Cyttorak. He imbedded the name into his memory, imprinting it as best he could for later when needed. It seemed familiar, somehow, but offhand, he found he couldn’t place it.

Storm stilled, peering at him with a gaze so piercing that he felt his expression settling into his regular, preferred mask of indifferent amusement.

“We have been informed of as such,” she replied. “Though outwardly, you appear no different than our last encounter.”

Remy cocked his head to the side, flashing a roguish grin. “Dat a compliment? ‘Cause y’ not lookin’ so bad y’self.”

She pursed her lips, but her eyes shone with appreciation nonetheless, much like you would humour a small child when they did something particularly cute. He ignored it. Remy’s ego was just fine as it was. In part, he had Rogue to thank for that.

“See dis?” he asked, gesturing to the buildings surrounding them. “De amount of exertion it’d take f’ me t’ blow up a whole city block would be less den it takes f’ y’ friend Wolverine t’ lift a can o’ beer t’ his mouth.”

“I certainly hope you have not tested that theory,” she said warningly.

Remy shook his head. “Haven’t had de occasion f’ it.” He winked, managing to look charming and bashful at the same time.

She bought it.

“Our concern,” Storm continued, “is not what the gem has already done to you, but the potential outcome of exposing Rogue to the stone. As it is, Rogue stands as a class three mutant with latent abilities that are unpredictable, at best. We believe –”

“Dat’s not m’ decision t’ make,” Remy interjected evenly.

“Nor should it be Rogue’s without proper council,” Storm returned. “She is impulsive, much as I feel you are as well. You may feel that you have found a kindred spirit, Remy, but I caution you – if you claim to be unawares of the origins and potential of the gem, do not pursue it. For Rogue’s sake.”

Something told him he didn’t want to hear the end of the conversation, but curiosity was getting the better of him – or so he thought. Partly, the nagging desire to demonstrate that in some way, he did care for the girl was winning out, and partly, he found that if he was being honest with himself, it was the truth.

“Dat’s a hard case, Stormy,” he said quietly, his tone controlled, his expression neutral. “Considerin’ all I been doing is f’ Rogue t’ begin with.”

“The best you may do for her is to let her go, Remy.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” It was barely a growl, as from behind him, the sharp sound of six adamantium claws puncturing Wolverine’s knuckles was dull background music for the sharp stab of pain Remy suddenly felt in his shoulder.

---

“Rogue!”

She gasped, shivering. “Don’t touch me!” she keened, the sound giving way into a guttural moan, and then a sob.

“Pére! Pére, oh Ah miss ya, pére!”

“Mon dieu,” Lapin breathed, hovering over the hunched girl, uncertain what he should do about the comatose Theoren sprawled a few feet away. It didn’t look like he was about to get up anytime soon, but he was breathing.

More disturbing was that the red-faced, sobbing girl on the floor was alert – her eyes wide and shell-shocked. Though it seemed that Rogue wasn’t looking at him directly, Lapin couldn’t help but choke off a surprised exclamation when she turned her face to him, and her eyes shifted in colour like a switch had been flipped.

From vibrant green to the darkest brown, for a second it seemed as if Theoren was looking back at him from Rogue’s face.

He… she… they looked terrified.

---

“Non, I don’t t’ink so, mon ami,” Remy cuffs Etienne on the shoulder. “Too young.”

“Pshaw! In less den a year, m’ gonna go on m’ tilling. Den what? Hein? Still gonna be too young, Rem?” Etienne shoots back. “’Sides, Theoren says it’s ok. So let’s go.”

Remy glances around him, his red on black eyes glittering in the gloom of the overhanging cypress. He pauses as if weighing out the truth of the statement, but Emil, to his left, merely shrugs. The movement is backlit against the trees, the silhouettes of the three boys barely discernable in the midnight darkness.

“Dis wasn’t m’ idea,” Lapin mutters, the top of his head barely visible as he hunkers to whisper. “I t’ink y’ lyin’ – Theo wouldn’t let y’ out of his sight f’ more den two seconds. Why’d he say y’ could come now, ein?”

Remy grins broadly; handsome features in a fourteen-year-old face breaking wide in a brilliant smile over the little cover offered from the tangle of stunted weeds. It is a flash of teeth, shining in the shadows with a wicked gleam that indicates Theoren should step out from around the corner of the Guild mansion, letting his presence be known beneath the security lights.

If Theoren didn’t know Remy better, the expression would have made him nervous.

The three boys are squatted in the weeds nearest the perimeter fence, a favourite spot of Remy’s. Twice now, Theoren has caught him smoking in the trees just overhead, but he hasn’t yet said anything to Jean Luc. They have an agreement amongst themselves – a non-verbal concord that Remy is Etienne’s watchman. It has been that way since his father’s death, three years prior. Theoren, in turn, says nothing about Remy’s smoking even though it is against the rules.

In fact, Remy has a general disregard for the rules that borders on neurosis, but Jean Luc humours him, just like Belize once humoured Theoren. He can relate to that, at the very least, even though Theoren’s grown out of the mischief-making phase. That leaves him responsible for the boys who still seem to be neck-deep in it. Propping his shoulder against the wall, he continues to eavesdrop on the three teenagers without an ounce of guilt. Where Etienne was concerned, his kid brother’s safety is his prerogative – and by association, Remy’s.

“Y’ sure, Et?” Remy asks. “S’ gonna be dangerous,” he warns.

Emil drops his voice. “We could get…” he swallows with an exaggerated gulp, “…killed.”

“M’ not scared,” Etienne replies boldly. Theoren tries not to chuckle. Leave it to his brother to mimic Remy’s mannerisms.

“’Course he’s not.” Theoren hears Remy clap his brother on the shoulder. “He’s a Marceaux. He’s gonna take after his big brother someday.”

“Is it true Theo’s gonna be de Harvest Master f’ de Guild?” Etienne asked.

Theoren smiles into his chest. The sound of admiration in his brother’s voice rings pure in the way that only a twelve year old can muster when talking about the people they admire.

He’d let him go this time. Remy would look after him, he always did. Granted, it didn’t mean Theoren wouldn’t worry. Between Lapin and Remy, they concocted enough trouble for the whole household.

Remy might be the family’s black sheep, but it was Lapin who started the real trouble.

Jean Luc had the FBI on their backs when Emil had gotten his computer upgraded at Christmastime. Who would have thought the pipsqueak had a propensity for cryptology?

Remy’s tendency to blow things up when he got excited wasn’t half as bad as dealing with the feds, Theoren wagers. Besides, he’s a good kid. In the five years he’s been a member of the LeBeau clan, Remy has proven his skill and quick thinking on more than one occasion. Letting Etienne out for a little bit of mischief before his tilling will be good for him, and with Remy looking out for Etienne, there isn’t really anything to worry about… not too much, anyhow.

“Sure,” Remy replies, a little more loudly than before. It’s as if he knows exactly how his voice carries, as if he knows exactly where Theoren stands and what it will take to be overheard.

“Who else would be better f’ it, huh? Me?” he sniggers. “Y’ brother’s a smart man, Et. Might not be all dat much fun, but if anyone deserves it, it’s him.”

Nah, nothing to worry about, Theoren decides, trying to ignore the swell of pride that accompanies Remy’s praise and failing just the same. Smart kid. They wouldn’t do anything too stupid, Theoren assures himself. He’s just being overprotective.

Theoren hears the creaking of the metal fence a moment later as the three scale the wire mesh.

“So… what are we doin’?” Etienne asks, a hint of wariness evident in his tone.

The muffled thump of six pairs of feet is barely discernable over the bullfrogs’ sonata from the swamp. Distantly, Theoren catches Remy’s reply as the trio slides into the cover of the bayou. “Dere’s dis plane Lapin an’ I found, thought we might go f’ a quick spin…”

By the time Theoren reaches the fence, eyes wide and searching the darkness frantically for the three teenagers, they are gone.

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