Work Text:
The mission's going well so far— and that should be the first sign something's about to be very wrong. When does anything ever go according to plan with the X-Men?
Gambit was supposed to play bait, and he’s done so remarkably well. He'd thrown a few cards around, laughed at the guards' faces and dashed out of the room, leading them in a wild chase and, most importantly, drawing the goons' eyes away to the wrong side of the facility. How could that man go from imperceptible to grabbing everyone's attention in a second, Rogue might never know. She's lost him after that, following the rest of the group to free the mutants trapped down in a lower level. He knows they have to meet outside after, try and reach the blackbird together, and she'd never known Remy to let her down on a rendez-vous.
It's short work from there: they get the mutants out of those awful cages with little resistance. It's almost funny how few guards they meet— most of them are still desperately trying to grab at her man up there. There's a siren blasting now, and she thinks it's more than time to hightail it out of here but Hank's collecting some datasheets and vials, trying to figure out what exactly those fuckers where trying to find about the mutants' genes. Whatever it is, Rogue's pretty sure she doesn't want to know about it. But grabbing all that takes time, and the weakened mutants they're helping slow them down even more and it's not their fault but damn it, she hates to be late for him.
They're definitely late when they emerge, and the sight that greets them seems stolen straight out of an action movie. She doesn't know how long he'd been holding out, but it's far too long. There's energy guns blasting and he's dodging, hiding behind a wall for an instant before throwing yet another flurry of cards, blinding them as he moves to take down the closest one with his staff. Then, he lunges, and she's pretty sure one of those idiots shoots his colleague in the leg trying to get him. He's holding off almost twenty guards she thinks, but more are coming. There's a rush of affection in her heart— they were definitely late, but he'd bought them enough time.
Storm grabs a few of the escaped mutants and soars into the air, bringing them to safety, away from the battle. On the ground, Hank clears up a path for the remaining ones. A few drones emerge to try and block their efforts, targeting Storm first. Well, that just won't do. She takes a piece of scrap metal from the hole Scott tore into the side of the building and throws it up, before rising high in the air to take care of the damn thing herself. No one touches her friends without a fight, robot or not.
Wild swings take down the first few drones, and it's chaos in the air just as down in the ground. She spots blue fur — Kurt ?— taking down one of the guards and ah, nope, judging by the strong kick that guy got, it was definitely Hank. There's sparkles and blasts and the shine of metal all around, and if it wasn't for the life threatening danger it might almost be beautiful. There's more and more of them now, reinforcements incoming and is that the military? She hopes it's not, they really don't need to be declared enemy of the state again right now, but even if it's not, those guys have a whole lot of equipment. Cyclop's leading the group on the ground, trying to get the last few civy mutants out of the battlefield so they can all leave this sorry excuse of a hellhole. One of the guards notices Jubilee falling behind, and he's aiming towards her and shit, he's going to—
Remy's there in an instant and the man is down before he can even think of pulling the trigger — but that means he's in the middle of them now. They're shouting, and she's not sure what they're saying; it might be something like "surrender, we have you surrounded", judging by his grin. As if. He's dodging, she thinks, but the explosions are blinding her. There's a low pitched scream, she's not sure from who, and she nearly rips off the metal pipe she'd been using. She can't see right, and he's still moving, he's okay, but she can't reach him and she can't see—
There's more drones now, and a few helicopters out there, which she pointedly ignores, leaving the sky of the battlefield to find him.
The dust is just as blinding down below, but there's the added noise, both helpful and unclear. Confusion's taken the field, guards shouting, a few red blasts from Cyclops landing nearby, and she's running in the middle of this mess like none of them can hurt her. They probably can't, she thinks but it's best not to put that theory to the test.
There's light, quick steps behind her, familiar but not his — Kurt. Her brother's not alone, half carrying Gambit, arm slung over his shoulder to keep him upright. Of course he's found her, he always does, but the "swamp rat" she was about to utter dies in her throat when she notices the blood trickling down his right side. The wound is obscured by the torn clothes, sticky blood hiding the damage — a flurry of howbadisitpleasebeokaydontyoudaredieonmenow is wrestling around in her head, and her heartbeat's in her stomach now. And despite it, the only sound that escapes her mouth is a pitiful, pleading noise: "Remy—"
"I'm okay, chère. Don't you worry now." He's smiling, a weak grin and he looks anything but okay and she wants to scream, to lay him down, to check his wound herself— to do something—
Before she can move, he's handing her a pack of cards, queen of hearts overturned on the top. She stops to stare at him, and the pain seeps through his smile when he says, "Gambit 's out of commission, but that don't mean the cards have to be."
It's stupid. It's reckless and it's the worst idea she's ever heard, and he looks infuriatingly sure about it. He's hurt already— she can't take the risk ."Ah'm not stealing your powers, Remy."
"Listen, Rogue—"
"No," she cuts in, "You need rest, and you need your energy."
"Gambit's always got plenty of energy for you, ma chère." He winks, and somehow manages to make the gesture feel dirty." 'sides, I ain't hurt that bad~"
That damned fool."No. Ah ain't— Ah can't hurt you," she says, shaking her head.
"You ain't going to hurt me— just borrowing my skills for a bit, nothing more." He gets closer, and her eyes fall down to the blood still pouring out of his ribs at every pained breath he takes. He needs to leave, to go get treatment or stitches— now.
He just laughs when she tells him so. But his hand is still handing her the packet, a silent invitation and he looks so sure— somewhere in her heart, she knows he's not leaving the battle, one way or another. He's hurt, but she's seen him power through worse, adrenaline and guild training keeping him moving till his body can't take it anymore. He'd stay, he'd keep fighting like every bone of his body wasn't aching, self preservation be damned, and she can't let that happen again.
So she nods. It's dumb and she shouldn't agree to his stupid plan, but she does, and she hates that she does.
He shoves the cards in her hands as he steps away from Kurt, hand coming to rest at the small of her back. "Have fun for me, promise chère? "
She only hums in response, face now mere inches away from his. She can feel his breath on her and for a moment she wishes she was back home, in his room or hers, where she'd have all the time in the world to get lost in his eyes. A better poet could have written a thousand sonnets about them without ever reaching a tenth of their beauty, she thinks— but she's no poet, so all she can do is stare. She hopes something within her gaze conveys enough of her feelings. Her hand reaches to cradle his cheekbones and he leans into it, pressing a kiss to her gloved hand before getting closer, so close their noses almost touch. A smile dances on his mouth, a blush colours her skin and their lips finally meet. He's kissing her, and if love's a poison, then it's the sweetest one.
It only lasts an instant, years of restraint kicking in to ensure she doesn't take too much— and she hates that her own fears can taint this beautiful moment, but she can't risk it. She wants to let go, wants to let herself melt into him — but there's a tightness in her chest at the thought of seeing him lying in a hospital bed, deep in a coma like the last fool who had dared to get close enough to her. Still, her heart screams when she breaks contact.
There's a few seconds of getting lost in his memories — a familiar house in the middle of the bayou, a scorching summer day where deft hands learnt to pick pockets, the fever and rush of powers awakening, a stern and solid man congratulating on a mission well done, a blonde woman (Bella, a mind helpfully supplies and she's not sure whether it's hers or his) a feeling of affection, soon trampled by betrayal, a last dash to flee the only place that had ever been home, and then there's her. Images of herself, smiling, laughing or teasing, met with an unwavering love. Sweetness and warmth colour the thoughts, lingering for an instant before more recent memories, the battle, Jubilee falling, him getting shot - he'd definitely been hurting more than he let on, but at least the wound didn't seem life threatening. The last thing she recalls is the kiss, a rush of dizziness and affection, breath meeting skin then lips sweet as heaven on her own- his own? It doesn't really matter right now, but she knows that memory's going to warm up the coldest nights.
It's only an instant and yet it's a lifetime. It takes her a few seconds to find the limit between her and him again, if there ever was one in the first place— to shake off the accent that wants to overtake her tongue, to remember her mind in her body and to try to force back down the grin that's definitely his creeping onto her lips. She's absorbed his energy enough times that none of this is truly new, her soul lingering in the comfort of his mind. Yet she's almost surprised when she opens her eyes and she's her own height rather than his, body seeking a familiarity that was never hers in the first place.
When she releases her touch he is slumped back, lips still curled into a smile. A second and a flash of sulfur later, Kurt disappears with him, teleporting him inside to the safety of the blackbird.
There's energy buzzing at her fingertips now, begging to be released. 52 cards— she won't need that many to finish the fight.
She's no good at throwing cards- she's never learned, never needed to. But in that moment, a reflex only borrowed makes her fingers curl around the eight of diamonds, arm extending to aim. When her palm releases it, the card goes flying in a burst of energy, exploding when it reaches a drone.
It's messy, and he would definitely have gotten a better shot, but oh, how exhilarating it feels. For a moment she understands why exactly he's always sporting that stupid grin on his face during missions. It's chaos and panic on their side now — she hears " Didn't we get rid of that one alre—" before another explosion silences the guard. There's almost a science to it, in the way Gambit's memories whisper in her ears how much to charge the cards, where to aim or when to send the cards flying. Somewhere within the movements that are not entirely her own, there's deadly precisions and years of training. Another explosion lands. And yet there's something almost instinctive too, energy flowing like music, singing to her ears, becoming her to set in motion what should be still, une danse mortelle. Every object, every debris has potential, energy stored that now calls out to her in a beautiful melody. For a moment she wonders how amazing it would feel to soar up into the skies, the thrill of flight mixing with the fun of the fight- but she would be an easy target then, exposed to their bullets. It's safer on the ground, where guards are struggling to reach her, half protected by the smoke of the battle. Between the dust and the blinding light, they have no hope to reach her. They were already no match for one X-Man, but two in one? They don't stand a chance, and they're about to learn that real soon.
When one of them gets too close and tries to land a hit, it's his reflexes that answer, protecting her, even out of battle. She dodges with unnatural agility and maybe that's when she remembers that there's more to his powers than just throwing cards. Nobody knew the exact extent of them—hell, not even Gambit himself—but there was definitely something above any regular human. She's got her fair share of super strength, yet it's the dexterity and swiftness within her that surprises her. She throws herself back, landing with stability - and then it's time for her own reflexes to shine, grabbing his gun and pushing it away while she throws the man somewhere in the distance.
Another hit misses, flying near her ear. They're all focusing their shots at her- Scott and the others must have managed to get the last mutants out. It's more than time to leave this hellhole, then. A shame. But that doesn't mean she can't give the fight a proper ending, finir en beauté. She gives a strong kick to the nearest one, the stolen gun still in her hand catching her eyes- can I?
It takes her far more energy than a card, her own weariness piercing through the mess of feelings in her mind. The energy strums along the metal, flowing into every component and lighting up the battlefield. Her arm clenches around it, ready to launch it, and she meets the eyes of one of the guards through his mask, fear dilating his pupils— she almost feels bad for the poor fucker, until she remembers the mutants trapped in the basement and the blood covering her man's side, and then she doesn't feel so bad anymore. One last spark into the weapon and she throws it in the middle.
She doesn't turn back to look at the blast that deafens the field, already too far up in the air, trying to reach her friends.
——————————
She barely has time to scream goddamnit before yet another mug explodes in her hands. It's not the first time this has happened, and it's not even the first time today— she really should stop picking up stuff when his powers are still active. She'd just been trying to warm up her tea; she knows he can heat up stuff with his powers, so why can't she? He does it all the time to make himself coffee— it really shouldn't be that hard, she pouts.
In a way, it's a good sign. His memories are fleeing her mind, and her control on his powers seems to be disappearing, which means he might wake up soon.
She hopes so, at least. Her eyes are hurting from the strong lights of the infirmary, black sclera she's borrowed from him struggling to take in the brightness. How does he not have a constant headache in here? The chairs in here aren't the most comfortable either, and exhaustion from the fight is starting to seep in every bone of her body. She'd taken a quick shower as soon as they'd been back, scrubbing to get rid of the dust that stuck to her body and hair, and then headed down to the lab.
And she'd been waiting since. “What if you took too much ?” her mind whispers, though she tries her best to silence the thought. “What if you've hurt him for good this time?” Hank had said he would be fine but even Hank could be wrong.
Logically, she knows he should be fine. Gambit's proved time and time again that he's as resilient as a human can possibly be, even with a bit of energy drained. It's the life of an X-Man, after all. Getting hurt, getting up and getting back into the field. It doesn't stop the worry, of course. Not for him, not for any of her friends. The anxiety remains, just... lessened, silenced by the chaos around. Like a nagging little voice, always at the back of her head, reminding her that they're just a moment away from tragedy. One wrong move, one wrong hit and that's all it would take for the team to be one member poorer. And the worst part might just be the fact that they'd keep going. Oh, they would grieve, would scream and cry until their throats burned and their eyes were dry. They'd find revenge, maybe. But they would keep going nonetheless — getting hurt, getting up, and getting back into the fight. That's just part of being an X-Man: the constant fear that you might just lose another friend today, and the guilt that comes with the hope it won't be him. She could take a lot, just— just not him. Not him, please.
Still, she tries to find comfort in the constant beeps of the machine around them, monitoring him— strong and steady, as always.
She's not sure what she notices first — the high pitched noise of the monitor, or the smile that's coming onto his face — but it doesn't really matter, because soon enough his eyes are fluttering open. Darkness surrounds his pupils, shining bright as ruby and she thinks Troy fell for eyes not half as beautiful as his.
"Hi, sugah."
"Missed me, chère?" His voice is still raspy, the weariness of sleep not yet fully worn off, but the smile he gives her is as blinding as the sun.
"Not all that much— ya were right in there with me,” she says, tapping her temple.
"Did you have fun at least?"
"Maybe," she answers quizzically. She almost misses the energy strumming in her fingers. The light buzz, the thrill of the fight, the exhilarating feeling in her chest. It'd been fun, actually- more fun than she'd had in a mission in years, but that might just be remnants of his mind coloring her memories. It must show on her face, because he protests, "C'mon chère, you can't say that and not tell Gambit the story!"
“Blew up a few guards, kicked a few butts and had a whole lotta fun.”
“We'll have to do dat again, then. For training, " he winks, and blows a kiss at her.
She narrows her eyes at that. "No. Ah ain't putting you in a coma, sugah."
"You ain't hurting me one bit, chère."
"I knocked you out, Remy!”
"Did you?" he shrugs. "Can't remember. Didn't happen."
"You're an idiot, Cajun." And despite her outward annoyance, her voice betrays her fondness, cheeks tinted pink as she tries it to fight back the smile making its way on her lips.
"You don't mean that," he says as he presses a kiss to her glove. She hums in agreement, and wishes, not for the first time, that she could get rid of the piece of cloth and feel his lips on her skin herself.
They fall into a comfortable silence then, relishing in the feeling of them both being safe, home and okay. The machines are still beeping around them, breaking the tranquility, and his thumb is rubbing circles on the back of her glove. A small, peaceful instant away from the fight— not something they get often. The air tenses when he raises his head again. He hesitates for an instant before saying, "Dat was a real offer, Rogue."
She sighs, and her voice is far more shaky than she'd like when she answers. "And y'know why I ain't taking you up on it, sugah."
"You gotta play the hand you're dealt, but that don't mean you can't have fun with it, chérie." He leans in, far too close for safety. A smile breaks on her lips against her best attempts, and he's looking deep into her eyes, breath warm against her skin. She hates that she can't close the gap between their lips; he pulls away, and she hates it even more.
"It's a good skill to learn. We're X-Men, it's sensible, good protection. Pour le travail," he says, dismissively waving his hand.
"Right. For 'work’," she answers, gesturing quotation marks in the air.
"Purely professional, of course."- and there's a glimmer in his eyes that lets her know this will be neither professional nor pure.
It's still a stupid, reckless and terrible idea. It's still far too dangerous. She can't believe she's agreeing to that.
——————————
No one in the mansion is surprised to find the Danger Room occupied next morning, flashes of purple and laughter spilling from beneath the door.