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

“Merde!” Remy swore, leaping out of the way before Wolverine could take another swipe at him. A blossom of blood spread over his shoulder, wrapping from the front to the back in three gristly gashes that sliced through his trench coat, through his tee shirt, and into the flesh beneath.

Now how the hell was he going to explain this to Rogue, he thought.

“Logan, no!” Storm yelled, calling down a wind to force them apart. The damage had been done, and if he hadn’t been miffed before, Wolverine had done it with the turkey carving. Remy didn’t think himself meaty enough for the job.

“Dat was a bad idea, mon ami – ‘specially since Stormy an’ I were just comin’ t’ an understandin’,” he murmured, a thread of hostility leaking into his tone.

“Oh yeah?” he growled. “Only thing I understand is that ya got your buddies to attack the mansion so you could steal Rogue away right under my nose. How’d she get to ya, Gambit? What did it take for Mystique to buy a two bit thief like you?”

Remy dropped to a crouch, cards slung between his fingers and glowing. He pressed a palm to the ground, feeling the cement, learning its structure before thrusting a charge into it and forcing it down the alley towards Wolverine.

“Don’t know what y’ talkin’ ‘bout, homme, but I’ll tell y’ one t’ing, dere ain’t nothin’ two-bit about me.”

The ground on either side of him ruptured, exploding upwards in a v of broken cement. A warning. Gambit pulled back his injured arm, grimacing at the tacky feel of warm blood sliding over his elbow and into his cupped palm, dampening his gloves. He shook it off.

“You’re gonna be in a whole world of pain when I’m done with ya,” Wolverine rumbled, brushing at the debris left on his shoulders. Remy merely smirked.

“Can’t let bygones be bygones, hein?”

“Can’t let ya do the same crap ya done to Rogue twice. I can’t believe she hasn’t seen though your act.”

Remy snorted, tossing over his shoulder to Storm, “Who writes dis homme’s dialogue?”

“Who lets ya leave the house with that much cologne on?” Wolverine snarled.

“Same fille y’ after by de looks of it, and Rogue likes it,” he shot back.

“Stop this at once!” Storm bellowed. They ignored her.

“This is between me and Gumbo, Storm.” Wolverine took a menacing step forwards, but somehow, the threat of the approach lacked the fearsomeness that would have made Remy feel like Logan was actually a challenge.

“Y’ gonna let dis coyoon boss y’ around like dat, Stormy?” he taunted, smirking openly at Logan, who reddened.

“I will freeze both of you into the positions you are standing in if neither of you stand down!”

“Can’t.”

“C’est pas possible.”

“He had it coming.”

“He’s been wantin’ a piece o’ me unsupervised f’ too long. Dirty old Wolvie,” Remy clucked, baiting him. “An’ he almost took a chunk.” He inclined his head towards his shoulder.

“Powers actin’ up, Gumbo?” Wolverine taunted, leering like he knew Remy hadn’t seen him coming.

“Bones rustin’ yet?” Remy shot back, masking his irritability with the thin veil of sarcasm.

“Keep talking jail bait.”

“Go take a nap, old man.”

“Why don’t ya try and make me, punk?”

“Sure, I’ll put y’ t’ bed.”

Storm exclaimed, “Clearly, there is far too much testosterone in this alley.”

“Not for long,” they replied in unison.

Wolverine glared. Remy chuckled.

“You kids all think you’re invincible. Only one of us has a healing factor, bub,” Logan snarled.

“Dat so?” Remy asked lightly in return, the cards crackling ever brighter as he brought them to his chest. “Let’s test dat mutation o’ yours, hein?”

He flung the cards, two hitting their mark on either side of the Wolverine and one exploding squarely over his gut.

“Gambit, no!” Storm yelled a moment too late. Wolverine was flung backwards with the explosion, a gaping hole visible where his stomach had once been.

“Musta misplaced m’ conscience,” Gambit muttered coolly, fingering the slices in his coat as he stood. He shook his head, finally feeling the first vindictive throb of pain.

“What’s he talkin’ ‘bout, Stormy?” he asked, keeping one eye on Logan as he twitched against the concrete, claws dragging against the cement uselessly before retracting. “De both of y’ t’ink m’ workin’ f’ Mystique?”

Already, Logan’s wound had begun to re-knit itself. Remy wasn’t so lucky, his shoulder stung vengefully. It might’ve been a flesh wound, but he should have known Wolverine was creeping up on him. Why hadn’t he sensed him with his spatial recognition?

There was no time to think on it. Storm landed before him, a buffer to prevent him from attacking as Wolverine healed. Her eyes were the colour of an avalanche.

“Mystique was last in possession of the Gem of Cyttorak,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. Logan was still down, but there wasn’t much time. Yet, she was helping him. Maybe it was because Remy was their only link to Rogue, and maybe Storm knew that having him killed wouldn’t bring them any closer to finding her. Smart woman, he thought, gritting his teeth against the white-hot flare of pain in his arm. His fingers were slowly growing numb, and that was not a good sign.

“To our knowledge, she has been unaccounted for this past year,” Storm continued. “We were led to believe that she might have contracted you to bring Rogue to her.”

Remy’s expression darkened, and he stood to full height. “C'est une blague ou quoi?”

Storm shook her head. She couldn’t speak French, but she understood the gist.

“This is deadly serious. If not the stone itself, then the woman in possession of the stone –”

Wolverine stirred, and Remy cut her off.

“Tomorrow night. Come t’ de Quarter. Bring whoever y’ need, an’ we’ll draw her out. If I know Mystique, she can’t resist de lure of a good show,” he said quickly. Neither could the Assassins, but that was a secondary consideration at this point. “I need t’ talk t’ m’ source.” He needed to talk to Tante. He needed to know if it was true.

“And Rogue?”

Remy had hauled himself up on a set of garbage cans, yanking his staff from the place where it stuck between the buildings. In two bounds, he was on the ground and running past Storm.

“She’ll be dere.” If she doesn’t kill m’ first, he added silently.

“You intend to lure Mystique out with Rogue?” Storm called after him.

Remy didn’t reply as he leapt onto the fire escape, barrelling up the side of the building to collect his packages from the rooftop. The taste of shame in his mouth was too strong to talk around, though Storm continued to watch him as Remy made his escape.

---

“Gawd, oh gawd!” Rogue gasped, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on the hardwood. “Make it stop!”

“Rogue, snap out of it!” Lapin bellowed.

“Don’t touch me, Lapin!” she gasped again. She’d repeated the same thing nearly fifty times in the past hour whenever she became lucid. “It’ll pass,” she said shakily.

“What’s wrong wit’ y?” he asked, leaning over her. “What can I do?”

She shook her head violently from side to side, her eyes bright and green once more, though at the edges they pulsed with a roiling darkness.

“There’s a lot… Ah… Ah absorbed Theoren… he touched my skin… it was an accident… Ah didn’t mean ta… gawd, it ain’t done…” she moaned, bowing over. Rogue gripped her head, curling into a foetal ball, her bare toes scrunching with the strain.

“Does it hurt? Tell me what t’ do!” Lapin insisted.

“It’s never been like this before…” She shuddered. With his palms curled into fists where he crouched next to the girl, Lapin first felt the heat radiating off her and mistook it as the sheer effort of trying to maintain control. When he looked down, however, he noticed the dim, spreading pool of fuchsia light. The floor glowed, a pulsating pink that edged from the point of contact between Rogue’s body and the hardwood.

Lapin swallowed, edging backwards as the first dull burn of kinetic charge reached his fingertips.

“Rogue…” he croaked, for the first time, deathly frightened of what was happening. He’d seen Remy do the same thing once – and it hadn’t ended well.

The only response she offered was a low ululation.

“Merde, merde, merde!” Lapin muttered, scuttling backwards, crablike, while the charge grew steadily stronger.

---

A mist has settled over the bayou. It crawls steadily in wisps and tendrils where the waterline recedes into the cypress. Finger-like, twining to meet the dull night air like old friends grasping hands after a long time spent apart, the fog blankets and softens everything beneath its heavy hand.

It blurs the edges of the trees that line the gravel drive, making the black shapes hazy and dreamlike in the gloom.

Theoren sits on the porch in a rocker once favoured by his father, and waits for the boys to return home from Etienne’s tilling.

It is a rite of passage that dictates whether one will become a full member of the Thieves Guild of New Orleans, or whether one is permitted merely to live at the house, shunned from their rituals, and kept forever away from the deeper secrets. There are benefits of being successful, of course – things that delve into the arcane. Their Benefactress measures out the futures of those worthy enough of the status, and Remy has found it bitterly amusing that Etienne’s tilling should bring him to steal something from her home in Grenada, Spain.

Theoren does not think on her long. Rather, he contemplates Etienne’s success, as it has been six days since both he and Remy, acting as shepherd, have left the Guild house. Remy’s role is to oversee and not to intervene, to keep Etienne safe should trouble befall the boys and Etienne fail in his mission.

Nonetheless, six days is nearly too long, and Theoren can’t help but sit pensively on the porch each night, awaiting their return, waiting for word whether or not his brother will return victorious, a man, a full Thief, or an outcast.

In the distance, shapes coalesce in the mists, mere shadows in the gloom that are inconsistent and changing as they draw closer. The distant rumble of motors break the stillness, and Theoren stands, his heart hammering.

The boys are home.

Two cars pull into the circular drive, black as pitch but visible with the security lights shining on their dew-kissed surfaces.

The doors open, and suddenly, Jean Luc is on the porch beside him. He wears an expression that is troubled, his mouth pinched together in a sharp line, his hand on Theoren’s shoulder.

“Oncle?” he asks, distracted by the shape of Remy as he steps from the vehicle, bundled in blankets. The boy is soaked to the bone, supported by Henri’s arm around his shoulders.

Etienne is nowhere in sight.

“Dere was an accident, as I understand it,” Jean Luc mutters.

Theoren can’t look at him, instead, he fixes his attention on his cousin, the heat rising to his skull and putting pressure behind his eyes.

Remy freezes, three feet before the porch as the others cluster around him at a safe enough distance. His red eyes have dulled to the point where they are nearly as black as the sclera surrounding the irises. He is gaunt-looking, his hair wet and plastered to his forehead like he’d gone swimming fully dressed.

Frantically, Theoren’s gaze tears through the crowd, looking for a shock of matted blond.

“Where is m’ brother?” he croaks finally. It’s a whisper, but it makes Remy recoil like he’s been slapped.

“Where is Etienne?” he asks again, panic rising to his throat.

Remy swallows, his jaw working as his eyes shine with a wash of tears. Theoren knows, even as he sinks to his knees, before he can howl, before he can cry, that Remy has failed him.

Etienne is dead.

---

Choices, Remy thought. It all came down to choices. Open one door, and shut another. Then you live with the consequences.

At his age, he’d made far too many bad ones and even too many of those came back to bite him in the ass. As it were, the divide between right and wrong is a thin grey line, and he’d been skirting it for too long.

With his cargo stuffed under his good arm, he was utterly useless defending himself. Stopping by the first decent looking hatchback he came across, he didn’t bother finessing the locks – he smashed a window, flung the dress box and painting into the passenger seat, and lobbed himself in after them.

The engine rolled over a minute later, wires crossed beneath the dash expertly. He extracted himself from beneath the steering wheel and peeled off into the night.

Mystique. He didn’t want to believe it, but she was ruthless – and up until that moment, they had no explanation for the deaths of those two Assassins in the cemetery.

The problem was that Remy couldn’t sort out a motive.

He smashed the steering wheel with his fist, driving straight through a red light and not caring in the slightest.

If Mystique was in possession of the stone, that meant it must have been Mystique who he’d met at the botanica. If she’d needed him alive, there was a distinct possibility that Rogue’s accusation that he had blown the place to bits was true. Mystique could have dragged him out of the rubble if he’d lost control if she still needed him, left him alive long enough to mull over his newfound powers, and head back to Bayville thinking he was doing something good for a change.

He laughed at himself, shaking his head. “As-tu perdu la tête?” he moaned without humour. That’s what he’d get for his troubles. It figured.

He’d dragged Rogue right into it, just like Mystique would have wanted… but what did she want with her daughter after all this time?

He didn’t know. He didn’t know. What would Rogue think?

She’d never believe him.

She barely trusted him as is.

“Merde!” he swore, nearly missing the turn off into Baton Rouge. The car skidded as he yanked the wheel around.

Worse, it was his own damned fault for not coming clean sooner. That was the problem, wasn’t it? He could have told her about Belle, about Etienne, about Paris of all things – and maybe she’d hate him for a while, but she’d have the truth of his life up front for examination. He could have said he had nothing to hide from her, but his own hang-ups had left him uneasy confessing all of it. More importantly, it would have been a bold-faced lie. He had his own agenda, one that scraped the edges of involving Rogue, but up until now, hadn’t directly. Better to be guilty by omission that guilty through confession. Fatally flawed, he was – and now he was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

He was bait. Mystique used him to get to Rogue, and Rogue… Remy grimaced. She’d never forgive him for this if he told her. The thought dug into a place below his ribs, making his lungs constrict. It shouldn’t hurt so much, he thought. It shouldn’t be this hard.

Whatever happened to boy meets girl, girl likes boy, boy and girl run off into the sunset together on the back of a motorbike?

The stuff of fairy tales. Dieu, he hadn’t known he wanted to give that to her until that moment, but he did, and it stung.

Peering at the dress box beside him, Remy stilled, his hands loosening on the steering wheel.

He’d bought himself twenty-four hours. Borrowed time, but still enough to make things right between them. Maybe. He couldn’t hope for it, but he could risk it. He swallowed tightly, realizing the value of what he was about to do. He would tell her everything, anything, all of it. Lay it all out on the table before them, hold her hand and tell her he was wrong, that he’d miscalculated. If Rogue valued honesty as much as she claimed, it would mean more to her than trying to absolve them of the mess he’d made. She’d be hurt. She might never even want to see him again, but if it kept her safe, if he could do that for her, then it was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

Remy took a calming breath, his shoulders relaxing and he slid lower in the seat. The engine protested, the car rattling as he shifted gears.

Inwardly, he settled. Sombre composure loosening his limbs and heart as Remy made his decision.

If it was all going to go to shit anyway, then why not make it worth their while? Why not roll the dice a little harder? Why not draw out the bluff? Why not?

Remy smirked, a slow upwards curving of the side of his mouth that spoke of self-defeat so deep that it cut worse than the lacerations over his shoulder. He pulled out a deck of cards with his free hand, smearing blood across the faces as he fanned them out before him.

Chances. He had fifty-two of them.

That’s why.

---

“Rogue! Stop it before y’ hurt y’ self!” Lapin bellowed, his back pressed into the far wall.

On the ground, hands fisted before her, Rogue drew herself fully to her knees. Her shoulders rose and fell harshly, breathing too hard for the level of power she was exerting. Slowly, the kinetic charge spreading across the floor to Lapin’s feet dimmed, crawling back into her.

He breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short lived.

Through the shock of hair failing over Rogue’s face, she tipped her head to the side and peered at him coolly. Shadows fell into her eyes, keeping her expression hidden. He knew one thing for certain; she wasn’t smiling.

“Dey said it was an accident,” she murmured, her voice pitched so low that is was barely a rumble in her chest. “An’ I remember much of dat night, an’ de night when dey found m’ poor brother. Remy got lucky, like he usually does,” she spat bitterly. “But Etienne… he drowned. Why de y’ t’ink dat is, Emil? Why was Remy picked up by dat fishin’ trawler, and dey couldn’t find m’ brother’s body until t’ree weeks later? Dere was barely anyt’ing left of him by den, an’ I would know, I had t’ identify de body.”

Lapin froze, pinned by her stare – not willing to move forwards, and without enough space to scrabble further backwards, he’d backed himself into a corner and now he had no place to run.

“D’ y’know what t’ree weeks of water damage does t’ a corpse?” she asked quietly in Theoren’s accent. “D’ y’ know how swollen Etienne was, de colour of his skin so grey blue, his fingers de size of sausages – so bloated de nails had fallen off? I couldn’t even touch him, Emil. I couldn’t bring m’self t’ hold his hand, t’inkin’ de skin would slide from his bones because it was too soft.”

Lapin swallowed.

“Rogue?”

She shook her head slowly, turning calmly to the sprawled body of Theoren nearby.

“He didn’t look peaceful, Emil. He looked rotten. Dat’s no way f’ a kid t’ go.”

Lapin caught a sliver of her expression, the darkened shade of her pupils as she turned to him, and from Rogue’s face, Theoren’s eyes stared back at him.

“It wasn’t y’ fault,” he said tentatively, unsure of whether he was actually talking to Theoren or Rogue. The expression she favoured him with was uncanny; making his mouth go dry with the familiarity of that reproachful look.

Rogue’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I know dat now. It was Remy’s.”

Lapin tried not to shiver at the twist of her mouth, the cold, narrow glare she gave him. It was a look of hatred so pure that it made the hair on the backs of his arms stand at attention.

“I trusted him wit’ m’ brother’s life, Emil. Remy saved himself before he even thought of Etienne.” She paused, her hands fisting atop her thighs as her composure broke and she slammed a fist into the floor. She didn’t even flinch, though she rubbed at the knuckles lightly. “It shoulda been him,” she said, the calmness of her tone splintered by emphasis she placed on the last words. Deep down, Lapin knew Theoren believed exactly that. It was his greatest failure, one that he’d never acknowledge. Rogue had done it for him.

Rogue turned away, tipping her head to the side as if finally seeing the unconscious body to her right.

“Emil,” she said levelly, in that no-nonsense tone that Theoren always used when he was running short of patience. “Dit moi, why am I on de floor over dere, when m’ talkin’ t’ y’ from over here?”

---

The Guild house was quiet, light spilling in slats from the porch as Remy weaved through the trees with his burden. Henri’s car was gone, which meant he’d received a call from Tante to collect her.

Good. That was good. He let out a breath, finding his nerves to be a distasteful rattle in his stomach.

He swallowed it down, mentally forcing his mind into a blank. The more Remy thought about what he would say to her, the more it pained him to think about how Rogue would react.

It would bring them back to square one, shunting them into the place they’d been last year when he’d manipulated her for the first time. It made him sick to think of it, the brush of trees lining the property laughing at him all the while, though he knew he’d brought it on himself again, despite his good intentions.

What would it mean to lose her, he wondered. Was it even possible to lose something you never had to begin with?

He knew intimately that the answer to that was a resounding “yes.” The like had happened with Belladonna, once upon a time. The thought made him slow his pace to a sluggish drag through the corridors, heading for the server room where the Thieves conducted their deliberations.

His head swam, an uncomfortable blotting of his thoughts. Too much blood lost, following him through the corridors, leaving a long, dotted trail of red drips behind him.

---

“Get outta my head!” Rogue screamed, her eyes shifting once more.

It was like a hand had gripped her around the base of her skull and begun squeezing as she forced Theoren out. He protested loudly, his voice echoing in her mind.

She peered up at Lapin, her eyes tearing with the effort of holding the psyche back. “It’s fine,” she ground out. “He’s just bein’ an asshole.”

Lapin looked between Rogue and Theoren, not quite understanding still.

“God, Ah need a drink,” she laughed mirthlessly, squeezing her eyes shut. A ripple of fresh loathing bubbled upwards, but it wasn’t directed at her. Theoren’s psyche was not a happy man, less contented with the fact that he had to share his life with her, of all people.

“What do I do?” Lapin asked, still squashed into the corner as far away as possible.

“Nothing,” Rogue breathed, gasping as spots threatened to wipe out her vision. The psyche was going to give her a migraine if he didn’t settle down soon.

“Y’ talked t’ me in his voice,” Lapin said, his voice too shrill to be welcome at that moment, even if it indicated she was back to reality. Rogue waved at him, trying to get him to hush up so she could concentrate. “Y’ charged de floor like Remy!” he insisted. “An’ den it just disappeared!”

Rogue groaned, pushing her fingers into her temples, her eyes still shut.

Theoren spat something at her angrily, and she hissed out loud.

“It was the part of me that absorbed Remy reactin’ ta Theoren. They don’t like each other too much, if ya haven’t already gathered.” And now she knew why. Rogue forced herself to swallow back bile, determined not to let Theoren gain control again. She’d throw up with the strain before that, she vowed.

“Lil’ help, s’il-vous-plait?”

“Fils de putain!” Lapin cried, scrabbling out from the corner.

Rogue looked up, her eyes slanted, turning just enough to see Remy sagging against the doorframe, his arm hanging limply at his side. His shoulder was soaked in blood so dark it was nearly black in the dim light.

“I left m’ Queen o’ Hearts,” he chuckled; fingering the three large slashes in his jacket that crossed his shoulder. His fingers came away smeared red. “An’ de damn coyoon ruined m’ favourite coat.”

She couldn’t get up. Theoren bellowed something obscene in her head at the sight of him, and Rogue clamped her fingers into her hair, trying to direct the pain elsewhere as she pulled on the roots.

---

“Chére?” Remy looked between Theoren on the floor, unconscious, and Rogue, doubled over and clutching the sides of her face. A cold sweat broke out over her forehead as she struggled with the psyche. Remy watched, transfixed, as her eyes bled from green to brown, bordering on the colour of coal, and back again.

“He’s inside my head,” she hissed through grit teeth.

His heart sped up; all sense, all reasoning wiped clean away. The look of pain on her face, Rogue struggling with his demons, was too much. He wanted to protect her, he realized, he wanted to take that ache away from her even if she hated him for the way he did it – but he knew, then and there, that he couldn’t cause her any more agony.

Not like this.

His palms were sweating as he dropped his packages, his heart climbing to his throat.

Remy walked over, his footfalls even despite his injury. Already, Lapin was trying to pull his coat off him. Wincing, Remy let him tug the jacket off as he kneeled in front of her.

Just like that, the game changes, he thought distantly.

“Remy, gawd… stay away from me or Ah swear Ah’ll hit ya,” she bit out, her eyes tearing.

Three large slashes lanced across Remy’s shoulder, exposing three matching cuts beneath. The wounds were cleanly made; so precise that she shuddered at the stain that spread over his chest, a mixed wash of emotion twisting her features. From concern to satisfaction, she moaned through gritted teeth while Lapin fussed at his side, prodding at his injury.

“S’ just a scratch,” he said to both of them, reaching for Rogue with unsteady fingers.

“I’ll get de first aid kit,” Lapin said fervently, leaning over him. “Remy, y’ gotta lie down.”

He batted him off, putting his hands on Rogue’s knees and forcing her to look at him. His fingers left a messy smear of scarlet behind on her sweatpants.

“He touched y’?” he asked. Forcefully, Rogue nodded. A swell of anger so strong brought the heat to his face as he looked over at Theoren’s form. He’d hurt Rogue, maybe to get back at him, or maybe not – but that wasn’t something he’d let slide.

“How could y’ leave him, Remy?” she ground out, her voice sinking into a low baritone, fraught with an old pain that wasn’t hers. “How could ya do that t’ me? T’ Etienne? He loved y’ like a brother!”

“Rogue, look at me,” he instructed. “Now.”

She shook her head, wincing as if she were hearing things that he himself couldn’t. Theoren’s psyche yelling, Remy concluded. He would do that.

“It hurts. He’s hurtin’ me,” she moaned. It was a sorry sound that made Remy’s anger sharper than ever. This was his fault. He could have told her, and she would have been prepared for the worst. He could have stayed with her, and kept her safe from his cousin and his cousin’s vendettas, but he hadn’t. He was to blame, and for a moment, Remy understood that there were things he could never tell Rogue – things that would make her feel towards him the things Theoren did. She wouldn’t understand, and if he could protect her from those parts of himself – he’d stop at nothing to do so.

He couldn’t bear knowing that he was responsible for the look on her face.

“Look at me, Rogue,” Remy said evenly. Her eyes unfocused, Rogue forced herself to meet his gaze, as gradually, they settled into a murky green.

---

A sudden eruption of pain burst at the base of her neck, and then, it dulled. Remy’s eyes were glowing.

“You will be fine, chérie.” An echo of his words from long ago. “Theoren can’t hurt y’. He’s passed out, and his psyche is very, very tired.”

Slowly, she lifted her head. It felt like her mind had suddenly disengaged from the rest of her body. She tipped her face to him willingly, blinking away the last slivers of pain. It felt fine. Theoren’s psyche quieted as if Remy had turned the volume down on him, until the loud, angry French became little more than a hushed whisper at the back of her skull.

Gently, his blood-covered fingers staining the fingertips of her bleached white gloves, Remy tucked his hand beneath hers, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles consolingly. That felt good too, she decided. His eyes didn’t leave hers, and Rogue understood with the dull, anesthetized acceptance of hypnosis that he was helping her. He’d charmed both her and Theoren’s psyche.

“It’s not you Theoren’s mad at,” he assured her calmly.

Distantly, Rogue knew Lapin was fidgeting beside him, a wadded roll of gauze in his hand, and Remy was bleeding freely. It rolled in rivulets down his elbow, puddling on the floor beside him.

“M’ sorry, Rogue,” he said, lifting the heavy blanket of his powers for just a moment, allowing her the freedom to accept the apology. The voice inside her head had quieted. Theoren was nothing more than a hushed whisper. Slowly, Rogue nodded.

“Later.” It was little more than a puff of breath. “We’ll talk about it later.”

Her throat was awfully dry, and despite Theoren’s psyche being shut up stoically by Remy’s natural abilities, Rogue found herself having a sudden yen for the green slop spilled across the floor. Somehow, she knew it’d require a chaser – bourbon would be best. She wet her lips, less disgusted with the craving knowing that it wasn’t hers. Hell, if it kept Theoren quiet, she’d down whatever she had to – green or violent purple. If it was wet, it was fine by her.

“You’re bleeding all over me, Remy,” she croaked, her eyes growing dewy with tears.

He smiled a little at that, still holding onto her hand gently. He brought her knuckles to his mouth, placing a lingering kiss on the fabric that heated her hand through the thin cotton. Something swam in his eyes as he smiled at her, a touch of sadness, perhaps – something deeper than his usual expression. Maybe it was delirium setting in after he’d lost too much blood.

“Sorry.” He shrugged, still giving her that soul wrenching smile and not giving a damn that he was bleeding. He didn’t let go of her hand as Lapin fussed at his side, trying to force on a pair of latex gloves. They stuck to his shaking fingers awkwardly, ballooning at the palms in a web of plastic, fingers flopping half-off his hands.

Rogue sobbed openly, half laughing with relief. It was all too much, all at once, and no matter what Remy could do with his hypnosis, it didn’t blot out the memories – those swam to the surface, making her heart clench.

“Lapin – gimme those darn gloves. Ah’ll do it,” she managed with a hearty sniff.

Shakily, Lapin flopped backwards onto his butt beside them, a wad of gauze in one hand, the contents of the first aid kit hastily scattered around him, and the latex gloves held out unsteadily to Rogue.

“Merde.” He barked a harsh laugh. “I need a drink.”

“Bourbon,” Rogue said automatically, her voice cracking, tears still running freely over her cheeks.

“Bring the bottle,” Remy added.

Lapin nodded. “Yeah,” he said breathily. “Yeah,” he repeated, nodding a little too enthusiastically. “Sure.”

---

Translations:
Mes fils: My sons
Mon fils: My son
Oui, pére?: Yes, father?
Homme: man
Fille: girl
Belle: beautiful/pretty
Fils de putain: Son of a bitch!
Viens : come
mon ami : my friend
C’est pas possible: That’s not possible
C'est une blague ou quoi: Is this a joke, or what?
As-tu perdu la tête: You’ve lost your mind.
Merde: Shit
Dit moi: Tell me
s’il-vous-plait: Please

Post Script:
- Shade Work: Markings placed on the backs of cards, additions made to the natural design (as additional circles on a clock face or spokes on a bicycle wheel), for the use of cheating players or dealers.
- I’d like to dedicate this chapter to my homegirl, Dreambastion, since she asked for it and I was trying to be obliging (this whole Wolverine versus Remy thing wouldn’t have happened otherwise, so you know... much love. See, reviews are a good thing! You folks feed the plot bunnies, and in turn, the plot bunnies don’t try to chew off my fingers. I like my digits where they are, thanks.) ZOMG, I can’t believe we’re already at chapter twenty-three…

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