Title: The Ante
Chapter 7: Mechanics
Fandom: X-Men: Evolution
Author: Lucia de’Medici
Summary: Never bet more than you are willing to lose.
Extended Summary: When Remy LeBeau left Rogue on the shore of the Ripper’s bayou hideout, he slipped a solitary playing card into the palm of her hand. It was a conciliatory gesture — an offer for friendship, an unspoken apology, and the beginning of a less-than-friendly game between rivals. A year has passed, the stakes have been raised, and Remy is not a person who enjoys entertaining the idea of folding before the bluff gets called.
Rating: Teen/Mature
Pairing: Rogue/Remy
Secondary Pairings: Hints at Wanda/Pietro, Lance/Kitty, and an unfulfilled Todd/Wanda
Warnings: Language
Author’s Notes: Thanks are extended to Lisa725 and Sionnain, my two brilliant betas.
Audio: "Drowning" by AK1200

---
The Ante
Chapter VII: Mechanics
(Part 1/2)
---

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so tired.

“Y’ gonna hold on?” Remy murmured, settling her against the back of his Harley. He’d done so in a most genteel fashion, proffering his arm to her as she placed one foot on the exhaust and hauled herself over the seat.

Rogue couldn’t help it if the worn leather beneath her pert bottom had made a rude noise as she’d plopped down. The seat was still relatively comfortable, though, all things considered.

She nodded and rubbed at her face. Her hands itched beneath her gloves, but it was a distant discomfort. Her head was a lead balloon; Remy’s voice a detached echo that wavered in clarity and volume. She hummed, and she felt the sound in her chest rather than hearing it clearly.

“We’ll ride as long as you can stay awake. If I feel you slipping, we’ll stop. D’accord?”

She nodded again and shivered a little. The night had left its mark on Bayville. It settled around them, damp and shifting where the condensation in the air grew thicker. There would be fog soon. It was the sort of chill that would make a cold morning beautiful — dewy and touched with a lingering mist — but now, sometime after midnight, it was just uncomfortable.

Remy shrugged off his trench coat and draped the garment over her shoulders. It was far too big for her, the sleeves falling several inches past her fingers, but the heat from Gambit’s body had warmed it, making it cozy. He pulled the collar up around her neck, careful not to touch her chin with his bare fingers.

“You’re gonna get cold,” she murmured, trying to blink the sleep out of her eyes. She yawned instead, covering her mouth a moment too late to be polite. “Sorry,” she muttered, her voice thick and cottony to match the feeling in her head.

“It’s fine, m’ powers’ll take care of th’ chill; I won’t even feel it.”

Rogue looked at him for a moment, and slowly, her vision became a little clearer.

“What happened to you?” she asked blearily. “How could ya touch my hand like that and still be standing there, right as rain?”

Remy smirked and straddled the bike. His weight caused the shocks to sink a little, and Rogue slipped down the seat. She came to rest against his back with her thighs brushing his hips, and cautiously, she looked behind her. There was a bare two inches of seat left for the second passenger, which should have been fine, except there was no back rest.

If she moved back any farther, and Remy hit a pothole, she might actually get a quick flying lesson.

She squirmed a little, trying to give him some distance, her head beginning to clear. What was she doing here? Hadn’t they been fighting just a little while ago?

“Y’ shy now?” Remy smirked over his shoulder at her.

Oh, right. Rogue shook herself, sitting up straighter. She blinked at the back of his head. It must have been another dream – one to match her Geometry class naptime from yesterday.

“No!” she returned defiantly, though she hesitated to place her hands on his… on his… oh no. She’d forgotten about the belt. The damned thing was slung low on his waist. Much like a gun holster, it had several external pockets attached to carry his tools and packs of cards. What was she supposed to do? Grab his legs, or his pectorals?

Rogue’s eyes widened, her breath hitching as the motorcycle roared to life, and Remy lifted the kickstand with his heel.

That was it. She was dreaming. There was no way in her right mind she’d be sitting on the back of the swamp rat’s bike, contemplating where she was supposed to put her hands while still trying to be discreet. Still, her head didn’t feel like it was screwed on straight.

“Y’ sleepin’ back there?” He chuckled and twisted the throttle warningly.

“Ah’m just checkin’ for holes in my eyelids,” she muttered sardonically, her voice drowned beneath the purr of the bike. It sure did sound real, though.

“Best hold on then.”

“Gambit!” she cried, throwing her arms around his stomach as the Harley roared to life, climbing to sixty and leading them off one of the mansion’s back alleys within a matter of seconds. She dug her fingers into his sides.

Rogue could feel his laughter beneath her hands and against her chest where she pressed herself to his back. That felt oddly true to life too… not that she’d ever touched the Cajun like that.

“Y’ keep holdin’ on t’ me like that, chèrie, and I’m not gonna need that coat back.”

“Ah thought ya said your powers’d take care of ya,” she yelled, her voice carried away on the wind.

“It’s my favourite coat,” he returned almost defensively, but not without a wry grin over his shoulder. “’Sides, I think y’ look better in that skimpy thing y’ call a uniform.”

She pinched him below the ribs, her fingers straining to find something other than muscle to squeeze. Gambit laughed out loud, and Rogue forced her gloved fingers to clasp together instead of settling on the ripple of his abdominals.

She flushed, glad he couldn’t see her, and yawned again into his back. This wasn’t the worst possible arrangement, she thought. In fact, it was rather nice… for a dream.

“Remy?” she tried again, the lull to slumber coaxing her once again. Did you get tired when you were sleeping? Was that even possible? The though was distant. She hummed.

“Oui, ma belle?” he called, taking a corner sharply near Bayville’s mall and gunning the engine before the lights could turn from yellow to red. They shot through the intersection and tore out onto the quiet thoroughfare that led to the interstate.

“Ah… Ah lost the Queen at the Institute,” she said, resting her chin on his shoulder.

When Gambit didn’t reply, Rogue ducked her head, pressing her cheek into the strong dip between his shoulder blades, and closed her eyes against the rush of wind that whipped around them.

After a moment of feeling Rogue settle against him, Gambit smiled. A little bit of charm went a long way, it appeared.

“No matter, chère. Got you, don’t I?” he murmured softly, turning off onto the interstate.

---

“Is that it?” Jean asked, landing near Scott.

Cyclops nodded wearily. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” He turned to look over the Institute grounds from the top of the portico steps. “What a mess,” he muttered.

“Come on,” she smiled and gave his arm a reassuring tug. “Let’s debrief everyone and see if we can’t sort this out. I’m sure there was a logical explanation.”

Scott shook his head but allowed her to lead him into the mansion, which, thankfully, was still standing despite the outward appearance of the grounds.

“When has the Brotherhood ever needed a reason to instigate a riot?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, man,” Ray called, hauling a limping Bobby down the corridor beneath one arm. “That was great! I am so going to sleep well tonight. My shocks are totally tweaked out.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bobby grumbled. “The next time I see that fungal infection –”

“Toad?” Ray offered helpfully.

“Don’t say his name,” Bobby bit back. “The only reminder I want of his existence is the carving on his tombstone.”

“Hey!” Scott called, straightening his back despite the fact that all the Team Leader really wanted to do was take a hot bath with some of Jean’s preferred form of self-indulgence: scented soap and a bit of sea salt. “Bobby, that is not what X-Men stand for. With that kind of attitude, no wonder the Brotherhood think its fair game to come knocking on our door.”

“Knocking down our door, more like,” Sam muttered, staggering into the foyer and rubbing his forehead. “Golly, is it just me, or has Blob gotten thicker around the middle? Ah thumped myself good tryin’ ta knock him off that fountain.”

“Uh, Sam?” Jamie asked, contemplating his mud-soaked uniform, unmindful of the tracked footprints he left behind him as he walked into the foyer. “I thought you hit the fountain itself?”

“Students,” Professor Xavier projected. “We are congregating in ready room number three. There is something Hank and I would like to discuss with you about the events of this evening. Kurt, if you could leave the door open, Logan has just arrived.”

Nightcrawler paused, one blue finger held over the security system’s numeric panel near the door. “I guess there’s not much point arming the mansion is there?” He laughed nervously and dropped his hand to his side.

He was met with a snarl a moment later.

“Logan?”

“You heard the Prof, Elf. Move it.” He sniffed the air and bared his teeth. “We’ve got more problems than just a few trampled petunias out front.”

Kitty phased up through the floor a few feet away, hefting herself to her knees on the rug and looking around the room. Two crunched playing cards poked out of her fist where she braced herself against the carpeting.

Wildly, she searched her teammates’ faces.

“Where’s Rogue? She’s not in the briefing room,” she said, her voice two octaves higher than normal and shrill enough to make Logan wince.

He snarled again, his claws making a distinctive snikt as they extended and then retracted just as quickly. He glowered a moment, his eyes flicking to the cards clenched in Kitty’s fist which she gripped even more firmly when Rogue failed to appear among those gathered in the foyer.

Logan sniffed, catching the smear of scent left on the King and Queen of Hearts.

“Problem numero uno,” he growled and stalked past Kitty and down the hallway, banging his fist into a recessed oak panel. The wall popped with a hydraulic hiss and slid to the side obligingly, revealing the elevator that led to the sublevels of the mansion.

“Get in,” he rumbled to the remaining X-Men. “Now.”

Logan pointed to the cards that were now pressed to Kitty’s chest. She yipped, knowing she was singled-out. “Bring those with you.”

---

It smelled like sweet grass, Remy thought, breathing a little more easily now that they’d cleared the state lines. Pennsylvania, however, was still too close to New York, and for the first time Remy had to repress the irrational discomfort that if the wind changed direction, it’d be blowing straight back into the nostrils of Rogue’s overprotective bulldog of a father figure.

Wolverine would be more than willing to claim a pound of flesh for this particular offence, he thought. He’d promised as much the last time they’d had an altercation. The coyoon had torn six puncture holes into his jacket as a reminder, and tacked him up against a cypress tree.

Idly, Remy wondered if Rogue would be willing to stop Wolvie again if it came to that.

Somehow, he figured she might be the one to really give him a thrashing when she returned to her full senses. His subtle coercion tactics wouldn’t have been worth a tick without the backing of his mutation — at least, not with her. Rogue was single-handedly the most stubborn femme he’d ever met — save Bella, but with Rogue nestled comfortably against him, Belladonna Boudreaux was the furthest thing from his mind.

Nonetheless, he’d given Rogue just a small mental nudge, just a tiny brush of that charm he was renowned for — and now she was snuggled up around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He wished he had a Polaroid camera.

She really was going to kill him for this later; he smirked, enjoying the feeling of her trembling thighs against his hips as she strained to stay upright behind him. The warm weight of her arms around his stomach assured that she was still holding on, though since half two, he was noticing the steady droop of her wrists. She’d reposition herself occasionally, brushing against him and sighing — and if that wasn’t utterly disconcerting, the mental images that accompanied those slight shifts of her weight had nearly driven him off the road twice.

When she moved, which wasn’t often, he could feel the light press of her breasts and the angle of her hips as she fit herself to his back. In fact, if his compacted staff hadn’t been in the way, he’d probably sense the concentrated warmth pressed against his tailbone too.

Remy shook himself.

It was… nice, he thought stiffly. And if he didn’t leave it at that, he’d really be in trouble.

They needed time — a day at best — but if the X-crew were really determined to find them, they’d disappear. What good was a thief who could be found when he didn’t want to be?

“Rogue?” he asked after a stretch, feeling her slump a little heavier against his back. Her hands fell idly into his lap before she roused herself with a small groan.

Remy cocked an eyebrow, peering down at the juncture between his legs where her fingers had been a second ago, and restrained the string of lewd thoughts that raced through his mind with some difficulty.

“Time t’ pull over,” he muttered, more to himself than to the girl behind him, and eyed the illuminated sign for lodgings and food that passed on his right.

He took the exit ramp, and within a few minutes, Remy had parked the bike and collected the key to a battered motel room from an equally battered-looking receptionist. He’d leered and asked if he’d be paying for the night or by the hour. It had been an exercise in self-restraint to not blow up the magazine the clerk had been reading. Finally, after negotiating the stairs to the second floor balcony, he’d carried a sleeping Rogue over the threshold to a dingy room.

With the peeling paint flaking off in furrows that left the dull puce undercoat exposed, Remy peered at the dangling, rusted number fourteen nailed to the door. The rusty nails tacking the plated numbers right side up clung stubbornly to the old wood, though the ‘one’ looked as if it was heading patiently southwards. If the door still hung on its hinges when he kicked it open, he’d be mightily impressed.

Granted, Remy had seen worse, he decided, though a niggling thought at the back of his mind declared that while he deserved worse accommodations, Rogue should have seen better.

Fitting the key with its tacky plastic tag into the lock while holding the girl aloft had been no challenge. She was precious cargo, and precious cargo needed to be treated as such — didn’t matter if it was an ancient artifact or a person. Trained as a thief almost from infancy, it had been deeply ingrained in him early on that damaged goods were utterly useless.

Remy tried not to linger too long on the metaphor. Rogue wasn’t damaged — not outwardly anyhow. But to him it was clear that being used as the catalyst for Apocalypse’s resurrection hadn’t done anything to help her… situation.

Rogue snuffled in her sleep, her wrists folding over themselves against her chest.

Even in slumber she managed to draw inwards on herself.

Remy frowned.

He should have been there until the end. He should have gone back after Magneto had been defeated and stood alongside the X-Men. He should have kept a closer eye on her, and yet, he hadn’t. He’d stayed in Louisiana with Jean Luc and had stood by uselessly as his own future was determined for him.

Maybe Rogue’s stubborn insistence that she could take care of herself had been excuse enough for him at the time.

Or maybe it had taken the reminder that he was no longer a welcome party among the Guilds to get out.

Remy edged into the room sideways, careful not to bump her dangling feet against the door, and slid the deadbolt without so much as a grunt of effort. He turned, frowning at the peeling wallpaper, the stained carpet and…

“Merde,” he said flatly.

The double bed. The only double bed.

Pursing his lips, he eyed the coverlet suspiciously. At least the sheets were clean.

He deposited her gingerly in the middle, carefully sliding his trench from her shoulders as she rolled onto her side, and pulled her boots off. These he deposited at the foot of the bed, and moved around quietly to stand over her. He’d have to lift her legs to coax her beneath the sheets, but somehow the prospect of handling her too much made him uncomfortable. She wouldn’t appreciate it at all, but he highly doubted she’d thank him graciously if she awoke cold and with a stiff neck either.

Even that was overshooting expectations a lot.

Hastily, Remy slipped an arm beneath her calves, enjoying the soft press of relaxed flesh beneath the suit she wore for just one guilty moment, and then pulled the cover from beneath her, draping it over her side quickly.

“You’re a dead man, LeBeau,” he reminded himself, unsure weather he’d be grateful to be throttled by such a fine looking femme, or whether he should seriously consider worrying about how she’d react in the morning.

Rogue sighed, snuggling down into the sheets, and Remy permitted himself a small smile before tossing himself into the one uncomfortable chair nearest the door. Unceremoniously, he propped his feet up on the mismatched table beside it.

“Here’s hoping Henri remembers t’ bring out the Jazz band for y’ funeral,” he murmured to himself.

A tug on the moth-eaten drapes allowed a weak beam of murky amber to fall across the bed. It struck Rogue’s face just so, casting matching crescent shadows beneath her eyes. Her mouth was tinted to faded plum where her lipstick had smeared across her chin, and there’d probably be remnants of that dark color against the back of his shirt, but Remy remained unconcerned. The study took priority. Truth be told, he hadn’t had much of a chance to admire the changes a year could bring earlier, but with Rogue sleeping soundly a few feet away? It was almost like old times; when Remy could appreciate at his leisure.

The tousled white streaks in her hair slid over her cheek. She’d let it grow out some since the last time he’d seen her. He cocked his head to the side and surveyed her expression.

She was peaceful like this, pretty even, and although Remy LeBeau relished the supple curves beneath the sheet and the repressed innocence that managed to cling to the girl, somehow, it just wasn’t right. It was such a stark contrast to her usual scowl.

Remy smirked, trying to get comfortable with the chair back digging into his shoulder blades uncomfortably.

He couldn’t help but anticipate the downturn to those pursed lips and the dimples that would form in her cheeks when she woke up and saw where she was.

Frankly, Remy couldn’t wait to see Rogue back in her natural element: flushed beneath the collar, limbs tense as anything and ready to snap him in half, each muscle clearly defined against the taut body armor that covered her from head to toe, and that brilliant, beautiful darkening of her eyes. There was nothing more striking than that very girl when she was angry.

With a chuckle, Remy pulled out a pack of cards. He cut the deck, the soft sounds of paper sliding against paper a comforting lull to whittle away the early morning hours.

---
 << Go to Part 2 of this Chapter >>
---