Chapter Text
British Columbia, Canada. The Present Day.
Rogue plodded down the creaking staircase with all the grace of a barn full of mutinying farm animals. With her mountain of tangled bed hair and mud-caked days-old pyjamas, she looked formidable yet pitiful, and please don't ask her about the cuts on her socked and swollen feet. Fuck bears, fuck life, and fuck time travelling mistakes that led to near-death experiences involving howled promises to the fish gods. Want to holler about salmon to an irritable, ravenous, restless bear? Follow her for more tips and tricks, and she would keep herself alive long enough to be murdered by Wolverine when he discovered the truth about the borrowed but stolen watch that had been flung from the top of a colossus tree as she wailed like a banshee.
She had woken with fire in her belly and a niggling feeling anchored to loss and despair. The present-day hated her just as much as the past. But what about the future? That clump of fiery, merry hell had buried her southern behind before she could raise a toast to the dancing devil. Yes, the devil. Let's slide back into biblical discussion because she was at a loss to explain everything to her birth daddy. All together now: Time travelling isn't my friend, your friend, our friend, or anyone's friend at all. Yes, friend. Repeat, recap and reprise to annoy Kayla's tutor-like sensibilities.
"I slept through Thanksgiving," Rogue complained with the gentlest huff, trudging awkwardly toward the front door as if she carefully walked a bending, buckling plank of wood. She wrinkled her nose when Logan tossed his newspaper onto the broken seat of the couch, abandoned his cup of coffee and blocked her route. "What's wrong? Did you burn the turkey?"
"I'm Canadian," he grumbled, resting a hand on her shoulder and searching every inch of her unclean face for signs of tears. Finding none, he breathed a sigh of relief. Good. She was over the sobbing, but he still wanted to know what he had missed. Digging through his crumpled jeans pocket, he pulled out a handful of loose change and dropped a dime onto her gloved palm.
Her anxious gaze plummeted to the Canadian coin lazing on her stained, muddied, torn glove as she chewed nervously on her bottom lip. Her flapping mind scattered far and wide to plot, plan and scheme until she escaped Logan's furrowed brow.
The Dime Game was a staple of their relationship and usually played out in the same bar on the same battered stools with the same colourful jukebox watching them from afar. Yes, the same. Continue to fuck off with that tutoring advice, Kayla. She would repeat words until the end of time if they drove the two-faced, double-dealing homewrecker's voice into the ocean beside a beach town called Get the Heck Away from My Birth Daddy Before You Break His Heart.
Rambling thoughts be damned, but first, please help her find a response to the dime. "I'm not Canadian," she replied faintly, returning the coin. "And I really need fresh air because I'm still a little tired."
He shook his head and held the dime out for her to take. His other hand remained steady on her shoulder because he remained fixed on his decision to fish for answers. "Well, how I see things is you're part Canadian, and you've already slept for twenty-six hours straight."
The words tumbled loosely from her lips, determined to confuse him, until he backed away slowly and returned to his paper and coffee. "Trees make me tired. I mean, have you ever stopped and studied one before? They all look prehistoric with their long, reaching branches and knobbly, rough skin. They belong in nightmares, not daydreams or real life. What do you think?"
He grew more suspicious because she had never refused a dime before. Come to think of it, most of her recent behaviour seemed to stray into a territory he wanted no part of. If she hadn't been his kid, he would have backed off and let her get on with whatever bullshit she battled, but something bothered him to his adamantium bones. Prying wasn't part of his nature, but his instincts went haywire every time she spewed another set of offbeat comments fit to be tossed into the river.
"Take the dime before I change tactics."
Rogue's eyes focused on the coin he flicked into the air, and before she knew it, she had caught it out of habit and cussed repeatedly in her mind. "I can't answer any questions because we only do this when we're in the bar, remember?"
Logan snorted roughly and, with one shake of his head, refused to play along with the teen game of I-Won't-Talk-Now-Get-Off-My-Case. He folded his muscular arms and stared at her, hoping his firmest scowl would work. After hauling her down that goddamn tree as she slept, carrying her inside and putting her to bed, he figured he deserved the truth.
"That's not how it works, and I want to know what took you up that tree?"
Caught in a tricky web of heck-no-I'm-frightened-to-death-of-spiders, thoughts warmed up, bowed and then sprinted until they collapsed in a heap of fucking-help-me-I'm-unfit. Why did she quit those distance running classes? Maybe because she had accidentally walked in on Victor with his hand up Storm's blouse in the store cupboard.
"I feel sick," she murmured, gazing at Logan and batting his scowl away with the dramatic wave of a hand. "But what I can tell you is climbing a tree was always calming for me, and I've recently learned that hugging a branch a million metres from the ground and hollering until my face is red raw is a great way of dealing with anxiety. Think about it: close your eyes and pretend you're screaming on a branch in the middle of a wintery forest in British Columbia. It's soothing because hollering to the skies is the only all-American pastime that doesn't involve gun violence." She cringed as she finished speaking, her truths diluted with smouldering trash. Fingers crossed, she had won this battle of suspicious vs worn-out.
He didn't close his eyes but mulled over the words until they made sense. Eventually grunting, his gaze darted from the kid's face to the slab of Storm's homemade meatloaf on the kitchen counter.
"Keep the dime, but you need to eat something and then shower because you stink." He walked off to serve up two plates of food as he brooded over who the hell had decided he was fatherhood material.
"Thanks. I'll just air my stench outside for a second, alright? Just one short stroll across the grassy snow and around the trees across the way," she muttered, chasing the blush away because she really did smell.
"Whatever you do, don't go getting lost. There's a snowstorm due later today, and we need to pick up some supplies before nightfall," he warned, carving into the meatloaf with a butter knife.
Troubled thoughts of an abandoned baby plagued every step as she shuffled through the snow in Logan's oversized boots and beaten leather jacket. Her feet ached, and her body shivered, but the misery refused to mould into solid blocks of tear-drop-shaped ice. She wiped the salty tears away, pale skin matching the wintery conditions on the frozen ground as she searched for the familiar tree.
What happened in the future? Was the baby healthy, happy and safe? Did Logan succeed in coaxing her down the tree? Who had she ridden in a field of flowers this time? Was the baby's daddy Gambit? She could be Mrs Gambit. Mrs LeBeau. Have you met Gambit's wife, Mrs Marie LeBeau? It had a shameless ring to it. The lingering names bouncing off her brain brought a shy and watery smile to her face.
Repeating his name won't help matters, Mystique's voice advised, sauntering free from the deep hibernation in her daughter's mind. I understand. No, I truly do. For a start, he's handsome. What, you don't think I've met him before? I know he's charismatic, lies, steals and brings disorder to every room he parties in. Apart from his inability to stay faithful to whoever pays his wages, he's almost the perfect man. Faithfulness in the line of fire is essential, Anna-Marie. Can you trust him? I don't mean the teenage version of trust that exists solely in the lunch hall. You know, that save my seat, and I will kiss you behind the bleachers level of trust. Oh no, we've sailed past that like an escaped Macy's Thanksgiving Parade balloon. Can you trust Gambit to keep you safe in the line of fire?
Rogue spotted the familiar tree ahead and kicked lightly at the snow underfoot, searching desperately for the watch. "I can't even trust you, and you're my mama. Right now, I need a lobotomy and a bath, not a lecture about love from a mama who doesn't even care about her daughter." She noticed a faint, flickering glow several feet away and crouched to her knees, digging with shivering fingers and a determination to complete a task without failing. "And another thing. Why hang around in my mind like we're friends? I have one true friend who dresses in yellow, laughs at her own jokes and crushes on Logan because she has no taste."
She breathed a sigh of relief when Mystique's voice faded as the tips of her fingers brushed against the frozen face of the watch. Brushing the snow from the rigid strap, she fretted in concern. Relieved she found the watch in less than ten minutes, she worried because it looked close to death. Could a watch that time travelled ever die? It didn't seem possible, but neither did sex in fields or abandoning a baby to a dangerous daddy.
Traipsing back to the house with a huff shackled to unease, she tucked the watch under the hem of her left glove, whispering apologies to the ailing invention. "Please don't die. We have a blackmailer to catch and a serial killer to stop, and I want to meet my baby. Think of all the fun we've had together, alright? I haven't had this much adventure teasing the roots of my hair since I ran away from home."
She climbed the porch steps and hurried inside, instantly struck by a wave of crackling heat from the fireplace and the smell of reheated meatloaf. Kicking off the boots, she pulled the jacket free and hung it on the coat hook. As she ducked to reshuffle Logan's footwear, she sneakily tucked the watch in one of the boots. Glancing at him sitting at the table with a fork in his hand, they shared a look before he nodded to an empty chair where her plate of food waited.
"Aren't you too old for fairy stories?" he questioned in a half-hearted grumble as he ate a mouthful of food and reached for his chipped cup.
Rogue sat opposite him, a confused gaze focused on his face. Fairy stories, meatloaf, a time-travelling watch hidden in a boot that belonged to her birth daddy. It's just another ordinary day in Roguesville, home of abandoned babies and every misdemeanour and felony under the sun, but forget about that because crushes spanned from the future to the past.
It's time to put that pretty head of yours to use, Mrs LeBeau, Mystique's voice scoffed in her head. Wolverine's on the suspicious prowl for information. Tell him to mind his own business. Point out the holes in his memories. Mention his lack of fatherly attentiveness. Tell him I know for a fact Victor's better in bed. Throw that plate of miserable-looking food at him and give yourself a round of applause. Go on, make me proud, and don't forget to curtsy as he seethes at your brilliance.
Wrinkling her nose at her birth mama's histrionic tirade, she shuffled awkwardly in the chair and fidgeted with the plate. Sliding it to the left, right and then centre, her eyes skipped to the lukewarm meal and stayed there.
"You heard me talking outside," she whispered softly, picking up a fork and poking at the steaming beef, carrots and breadcrumbs. Impulsive thoughts rained down, and she plucked words from the imaginary puddles. "Sometimes the voices create stories, and I play along because it's polite."
He returned the cup to the wrinkled, out-of-date newspaper and snorted at her answer. "And by voices, you mean Mystique?"
Rogue's curious gaze snapped to the doormat. A frail, faintly flickering rainbow circled Logan's scuffed combat boot as an effortless cloud engulfed the leather from heel to toe. The mist of hazy iridescent light suddenly swallowed the boot, and it disappeared in a dulled dazzle. Her frantic eyes returned to his face, relieved he had his back to the unauthorised magic show. The watch hadn't died; it decided to take a trip without her instead!
"Uh, maybe a little, but it's alright because she only hates you. She usually talks about shoe shopping, adventures and why she avoids meatloaf."
My father once fired a cook because she made meatloaf for dinner, Mystique admitted with all the warmth of a torpedo destined to strike an orphanage. I still remember him ranting as his tail swished furiously, 'Do we look like a family who eat meatloaf?!' He would turn in his grave if he knew his granddaughter ate it willingly from the microwave of a Canadian who refused to shave. He despised Canadians. Actually, he detested everyone, even his own daughter.
Mumbling in stunned surprise, Rogue had never pictured any of her lost-in-time grandparents before, let alone imagined them spiralling because of meatloaf. Staring wide-eyed at the half-empty doormat, she added further confusion to the discussion as she silently prayed for the return of the runaway boot. "He has a tail."
Logan glanced over his shoulder with a furrowed brow and a suspicious sniff of the air. Nobody loitered in his line of sight, and all he could smell was Storm's homemade cooking mixed with the stench housed under the kid's armpits. "Who does?"
Worried he would catch the stray and wandering boot's reappearance, she reached forward in a panic and knocked his coffee over with a swift poke of her finger. When he turned around to scowl, she had already resettled in the seat and continued to pick at the small mound of meatloaf. "Mystique's daddy. He had a tail that swished."
The escaped coffee pooled on the crumpled pages of the open newspaper, drowning stories of hibernating bears, weather warnings and hockey stats. Blurred and coffee-logged print sent ink seeping into the tabletop as Rogue raised the fork to her lips. The cup rolled toward the table's edge, and Logan caught it before it smashed on the floor. He glared at the mess and closed his eyes briefly as the burning liquid dripped on his lap. Scooting the chair backwards, he heaved a heavy sigh and counted to ten under his irritated breath.
Anxious as the situation continued to implode, she wore an innocent look anchored to deliberate calm as Mystique applauded in her mind. "You should really be more careful. Hot drinks can be just as dangerous as driving without a seatbelt."
Snorting roughly at those prickly words, he headed to the nearby kitchen counter to grab a cloth. Returning in seconds flat with long strides and all the gruffness of an impatient-as-hell father about to grapple with the fallout of a misbehaving teen, he dropped the chequered cloth beside her plate. "Clean it up, and then you can let Mystique know it'll take more than spilled coffee to sock me in the goddamn jaw."
Rogue brushed the cloth across the slippery tabletop, mopping up the pond of doom and caffeine as her nervous gaze floated to the doormat every half-second or two. When she spotted the sudden return of the boot, she sprung to her socked and tender feet, hurling the dripping fabric toward the sink.
"I need to shower my stink away," she explained eagerly, ignoring his grumble when the coffee continued to trickle onto the floorboards. "Sorry. I'm so sorry. I've had too much sleep, and I'm grasping for chaos and family stories. Let this not be a lesson in how I usually act when someone accidentally spills their drink. I'm normally helpful. Really helpful and kind, but lately, things are Canadian and cold, and I can hear the shower calling my name."
As she hobbled across the room with all the embarrassment of a dishonest, mug-poking mutant, she speedily cussed in her mind. If she weren't careful, she would turn Logan into a coffee-stained wreck.
When he complained and stooped to clean the coffee, she rifled through his time-travelling boot, snatched the risk-taking watch and sprinted up the creaking staircase. Battling the bouncing pain radiating from the soles of her feet, damned and guilty thoughts almost teased the tangles from her hair.
"What's wrong with me?" she murmured in a tense and snappy tone, locking herself in the bathroom as she fought against the blameworthy, coffee-spilling memories.
Logan shook his head at the question drifting from upstairs. "Where do I start, huh?" he answered gruffly with all the patience of a mutton-chopped saint.
Westchester County, New York, September 2003
A disorganised Rogue readjusted the disobedient watch on her wrist in the deepest, dark corner of the stationary cupboard. Continually cussing to herself, she felt her agitated way to the door and fumbled with the handle. The corridor appeared empty in the early morning hour, but so did her overrun and overstretched mind. All she had done in British Columbia was shower, yank a dressing gown on, tie her damp hair in a hazardless hurry and then vanish from the bathroom in a mist of 'what the heck's happening now?' She had to go shopping with Logan and didn't have time for a spontaneous trip into the future to battle an overgrown field of coupling, babies and blackmail.
"Oh no," she whispered, spotting Victor's scowl as he turned the corner and caught sight of her pathetic attempt to hide behind the door.
His suspicious eyes narrowed, and he stalked toward Rogue's hiding place. As he approached the cupboard, he cleared his throat and considered questioning her but thought better of it. Who cared if she had returned without Jimmy? The brat still wasn't his problem. He heaved a sigh heavier than his brother's and headed along the hall without a single word cast the girl's way. It was high time he learned to mind his own business before he started to collect shells on a fucking beach.
A cautious Rogue released the breath she had been holding and plodded out of the claustrophobic cupboard. Fidgeting with the abrasive dressing gown belt, she monitored Victor as he loitered at the bottom of the hall as if he were fighting his own battle to retrace his steps. Worried he would unravel the unintentional time-travelling flounce, she ducked into the dimly lit classroom and disturbed the prowling Gambit. It was three in the morning. Did nobody sleep in the future?
The delighted Gambit stepped away from the whiteboard and whistled a spirited tune that tickled her funny bone. Giddy with reflections of sex instantly flooding his mind, he opened his athletic arms in invitation. "You left your papa's trip like you promised." Grinning wildly, the keen Cajun embraced the sheepish Rogue tightly, a little disappointed their physical reunion was cut short by one of the prying X-Men.
Scott Summers switched the blinding light on and glanced questioningly at the silent Gambit, Rogue and the whiteboard. Puzzlement wilted, and his face immediately drained of all colour. Fists clenched, he stormed into the classroom, harbouring a simmering rage and pushing past them. Speechless and overwhelmed by the circumstances, his gaze was drawn to the paper stuck rigidly to the centre of the algebra assignment Storm had forgotten to wipe away the previous day. A fountain of thoughts colluded and conspired until he relinquished his temper.
An inquisitive Rogue followed his fury and inhaled with a slushy mixture of horror and surprise. Someone had taped an enlarged photo of a topless Jean Grey on the whiteboard. It matched the same posture and attitude as the polaroid they had discovered in Logan's bedroom drawer a few days previously. She barely managed the fallout, lost for words as Scott ripped down the crinkled picture and swung around to face them.
"Do you think this is funny, Rogue?!" he bellowed, self-control slipping away as he battled to abandon Jean's latest betrayal. "You shared a naked image of my… No, I'm not even going to repeat it. This is… This is just… I knew you would turn into him. Yes, you're just like Logan. You're thoughtless, disrespectful, and offensive; all you see in front of your nose are your own needs!"
Gambit toyed with her dressing gown belt and rolled his eyes at the dramatics of the X-Men. He had it all under control. She didn't need to trouble herself because he was the King of Revenge and would happily share his weighty crown with those beautiful two-toned locks. Let that be a lesson to Scott Summers and the X-Men, he thought with an unhelpful smirk. Chaos means less teaching time for Remy.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, lies parachuting off her panicked tongue to protect the men in her life. "I found it in Jean's office and thought a prank would lighten tomorrow's mood."
Scott ranted angrily, hands shaking as he worked on composing himself. He knew what this image represented because Jean would only pose topless for one person. He looked at the Southerner with a face drowned in treachery, but as soon as he stepped forward, somebody interrupted them from the doorway.
"I ain't one for numbers, but I'm willing to count to three just this once," Victor barked in warning, the scowl blackening until shadows appeared on his face. He stalked over to the group, looming over Summers's threatening stance until the younger man backed away.
The X-Men leader took another step toward the far wall but reached for his visor to regain control. "This has nothing to do with you, Sabretooth. If you walk away now, I won't use my powers to defend myself."
The chuckling feral picked at a stubborn piece of meat wedged between his incisors and prowled forward. With each comfortable stride, his eyes darkened with threats of violence. "You best ask my brother what happened to the last piece of shit that intimidated the girl. Go on, pick up the phone and wake him. We don't have a warehouse, and there's no sign of a stage, but you never know; you, too, could be pleading for death by the time he hauls his useless ass down here."
An overly cautious Rogue craved another warm shower in a frozen breeze before she died a death akin to one of her favourite paperback heroines. Life had a way of unravelling, no matter how sneaky you pretended to be. She didn't need anyone gossiping to Logan and desperately wanted to avoid Scott blasting another hole through a roof. "Victor, it's fine. It's only a little misunderstanding." She turned her gaze to Gambit, annoyed he remained tight-lipped. "I'm fine, alright? Scott wouldn't hurt me."
Victor's eyes flickered to the rattled girl, then back to Summers. It wasn't fine because he could detect the untamed rage oozing from the X-Man's pores. With a snarl, he slammed him against the wall with enough force to shatter the plasterboard. "Boy scouts like you can't handle revenge," he goaded in a low-slung growl. "Now, put a fucking lid on it before I send your broken body to the sickbay."
The ever-vigilant Gambit predicated the explosive exchange and towed the horrified Rogue from the classroom before the ceiling collapsed. One swift movement from Scott and a ruby-coloured optic blast had knocked Victor off his feet and pulled chunks of debris raining down from above.
She skidded to a panicked and distressed stop outside the storage cupboard as sirens wailed in the distance. She had never heard the haunting sound because it only activated when an attack penetrated the school's robust defence systems.
"Why did you do it?" she hissed helplessly at Gambit, wearing a furious frown when he joined her in the cramped space.
He calmly closed the door and smirked proudly in the darkness. "Remy could tell you about the art of retaliation, but wouldn't our time together be better spent making belle or beau babies, Chere?"
She slapped his wandering hands away with a balancing act tipping from concern to irritation. "Have you lost your mind? Victor and Scott might be dead. I'm grounded, and my daddy will kill us when he finds out about the photos and the roof. And you know nothing about babies, and neither do I! This is all your fault, Remy LeBeau. I'm about ready to die from some silly panic disorder because you ran around with a titty picture of Jean Grey! Oh my God, do you have any idea how dead we are? He blew the ceiling off!"
Gambit released a petite snicker, his brow creasing in intrigue when the enclosed walls began to glow around them. "Only because his femme is blowing Wolverine instead."
British Columbia, Canada. The Present Day.
Rogue grimaced as those stomach-churning words faded from her tumbling and twirling earshot. Nauseated, revolted, and shuddering at the thought of the carnage she had left behind, she studied the watch dial and leaned against the bathroom wall. Relief flooded through the twisting, turning dread eating away at her insides. Scott and Victor would be fine.
"It's just a ceiling," she muttered breathlessly, bracing her panicked palms against the radiator before she collapsed.
Outside in the frozen temperatures, an impatient Logan settled behind the wheel of the SUV and lit another trusty cigar. He honked the horn a third time and eyed the bathroom window with an irritated glare. She had one job: getting clean, dry, and then dressed. He spent several minutes muttering a string of complaints about teen girls and their fixation with the bathroom mirror. Raising a bookworm with a hazardous mutation and clumsy outlook on life seemed above his pay grade or capability, anyway. The kid had a mind of her own and tapped into a Bullshit Bible every time he tried to steer her away from trouble.
Thumping his adamantium-laced fist on the horn again, he puffed away on the cigar, grumbling when he finally spotted her gazing down from her favourite spot in the house.
"We don't have all day," he called up to the familiar face at the bathroom window as he fiddled absentmindedly with the dials on the radio. "If you hadn't noticed, the weather's already taking a turn for the worse."
"Okay, keep your blow-dried hair on," she huffed in a sullen response, slamming the window closed and twisting the lock tight.
From behind the slender figure of the temperamental teen, a perplexed Gambit perched on the bathtub's edge and nudged the damp towels on the floor with the toes of his boot. "Papa Wolverine sounds like he needs a nap," he announced with a partial smile teasing the corners of his lips.
Glancing over her slumping shoulders, Rogue's ashen face skated from the clumps of drywall in his frazzled hair to the confused look burrowed in the irises on his handsome face. Words absconded from the tip of her tongue welded to the roof of her mouth, and she repeatedly shook her head. This couldn't be happening. Oh my God, this couldn't be happening! Please don't say she had smuggled Gambit into the past like a chiselled and attractively cute container overflowing with clutter and contraband.
She inched closer to the unwelcome visitor, expecting him to fade away like the moon and stars once daybreak bled through the overcast skies, but when she reached forward and poked him with a gloved finger, he failed to wither or die. Every potent inch belonged to a two-time crush and future partner in crime, which now involved the misappropriation of titty pictures and the deliberate act of riding shotgun in fields until Xavier's School for Gifted Teens crumbled one roof tile at a time.
Disappointed and disheartened, Gambit folded his arms and observed her quietly. Eventually, he spoke again. "You've been keeping secrets, non?"