Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Best there is, my ass,” Scott muttered, ready to smash the water glass in his hand into tiny shards.

That obnoxious, ornery, lone wolf wannabe was about to be responsible for making Jean a widow, sending Scott to an early grave from an aneurysm. He’d already taken an aspirin and advil today, yet he felt something in his brain was about to pop.

Every damn person in this house. He’d asked every person in this house if they so happened to be the one who left the glass. All because he wanted to give Logan the benefit of the doubt. Because Jean said he’d been confrontational and argumentative. That he was picking fights. So he didn’t start with Logan. He didn’t talk to Logan second or third. He saved him for last, even though he knew, he knew it was that surly asshole.

Scott knew Wolverine had to be in his room; he had been through all the other rooms where his offending teammate could typically be found. Unbothered by how heavy his footsteps were down the hall, he slammed open Logan’s door.

Logan was sitting on the floor, crossing his legs, his back to Scott. Without a flinch, without turning around, he acknowledged the intruder.

“Better have a good reason for bargin’ in like this, Summers,” he said, his tone surprisingly even. “Been told I’m less than agreeable company when my meditation’s disturbed.”

“Don’t see how you can meditate at all when everything around you is in total chaos,” Scott replied through gritted teeth. He cringed at the empty beer cans on the side tables and desk, the clothes at home everywhere but folded and hung neatly in the closet. He wondered if the closet even had any clothes in it, if it was somehow in an even worse state than the room itself.

“You just here to disturb a man’s peace without reason, then?” Logan was still unmoved. “Go find someone else to spar with, Slim, if that’s what yer lookin’ for. Bet you could wake Apocalypse early with how riled up ya are.”

Scott took a deep inhale through his nose. He was not going to lose face in this argument, just because Logan was acting like some kind of Zen master, in spite of the disaster site that his room was. He was in the right, and he was going to win.

“This look familiar to you?” He extended his arm, waiting for Logan to actually turn around, face him, and see the dirty glass.

Finally, Logan turned his head just enough to cut eyes at Scott, and made a soft hmph sound. Scott had no idea what that meant.

“Well?” he pressed further. He did not want to have to spell this out. He was sick and tired of spelling out basic house rules. God, there were too many people in this house, especially when not everyone could be counted on to clean up after themselves.

Logan snickered quietly, testing Scott’s final thread of patience.

“Yeah, looks awful familiar, Slim. Looks like you about to have a damn stroke.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Logan— can’t you take anything seriously, even for just one second? There’s what, a million people living in this house? What do you suppose happens if every single person figures, ‘oh, it’s just one glass, it doesn’t matter’? Next thing you know, we’re living in a landfill. I swear, I can’t be the only person who’s bothered by this. Or maybe it’s just that nobody else notices, since I’m the only one who’s cleaning up after everyone. What really gets me, though, is that it isn’t the children who are the main problem here.”

Scott could have sworn he saw the veins in Logan’s neck bulge and pulse.

“Yer damn right about one thing. Ain’t the kids who’re the biggest headache in the whole damn place.”

Scott couldn’t control the tightening of his fists, no matter how much he was assured of his position of righteousness in this. He was about to shoot back when he noticed a loud, obnoxious, high-pitched whistling coming closer and closer to him down the hall.

“And just what has you so damn cheerful?” he snapped.

“Bon soir to you too, mon ami,” Gambit stopped to cross his arms, an unbothered smirk pulled across his face. “Guess a man can’t have no song in his heart ‘round here wit’out yo’ say so? Sound like Cyclops could use a bit a’ ‘La vie en rose’ hisself.”

“That’s what’s so sad, Cajun,” Logan quipped. “This man is stuck in ‘la vie en rose’ and he still has this attitude.”

“You’d like for me to take off the rose-colored glasses and see how you enjoy that, Wolverine? Because we can arrange for that to happen.”

“Not sure how conducive that would be to yer precious housekeepin’, Cyke.”

“Ohhhh my god, this again?”

All three men turned their heads at the aggressive upspeak coming from down the hall. Jubilee and Kitty were both sopping wet from the pool, with towels wrapped around their shoulders, yet both of them dripping water on the carpet, leaving puddly footprints as they went.

“Oh!” Kitty said. “That was totally me who left the glass— so sorry, Cyclops!”

“I already asked Jubilee about it earlier, Kitty, I know it wasn’t you. Just keep it moving. And next time you kids use the pool, how about you actually dry off before you start cultivating mildew in here?”

Gambit leaned down to the girls’ level and feigned a whisper.

“T’ink y’all oughta take him swimmin’ next time, help him cool off a spell.”

“Nobody would need to cool off if you didn’t keep cranking the heat up in the middle of April. I swear, it’s the mildest spring in decades, and you want to make this place into a sauna.”

Logan winced before chiming in. “Much as I hate to side with this guy, Slim is right. You tryin’ to bake us, Gumbo?”

“Can’t help it, mes amis. ‘S in my blood. Gambit ain’t made fo’ zis harsh climate. Might be alright fo’ you cold-hearted bastards— ‘scuse me, mesdames—”

“Then why don’t ya do us all a favor and just crawl on back into that swamp you call home, quit costin’ Chuck an arm and a leg in heating this place for no damn reason?”

“Or at least put some more clothes on,” Jubilee said with an eye roll, scoffing at Gambit’s tiny athletic shorts and crop top. “No wonder you’re freezing.”

“Hey, how come zis all turn back on Gambit? T’ought we was s’posed to be gangin’ up on Cyclops. Was more fun dat way.”

“Nobody’s ganging up on anyone!” Scott said, with much louder volume than he meant to. “I’m just trying to keep house, and it seems none of you X-Men has an attention span of longer than fifteen seconds.”

Raising an eyebrow, Remy pointed to the glass in Scott’s hand.

“Zis all dat bot’erin’ ya?”

Tapping the rim for less than a second, the cup started to glow with that all-too familiar pink hue.

Scott startled, took a step back, and tossed the glass down the hall, away from everyone, before it disintegrated in a tiny explosion.

“What the hell, Gambit?” Kitty shouted. Jubilee matched her posture to a T, terrifying scowl and hands on her hips.

“Geez, dude!” Jubilee jumped in. “If this is how you solve problems, no wonder Rogue is so pissed at you right now!”

Gambit scowled, twisting his face into what could only be described as a pout.

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, trying too late to stop the violent headache taking over his already bad mood. At least now he wasn’t the only one who was upset.

“Gambit,” he said, fighting to keep his tone even. “Vacuum.”

The reckless X-Man cocked his head, looking even more oblivious than usual.

“Vacuum that up,” Scott ordered, his jaw already sore from how tight he’d been holding it.

“Pieces is so small, dey wouldn’t cut no one,” he shrugged. “ ‘Less you was plannin’ on invitin’ Ant-Man over or somet’in’.”

“Scott is right, Gambit,” Kitty said. “I don’t want to cut my feet on glass dust. That’s just horrible.”

For a second, Scott almost told her that cutting herself wouldn’t be a concern if she wasn’t traipsing around in her dripping wet bare feet. He cringed, already imagining the disgusting feeling of stepping on a soggy patch of carpet in his socks. But, no, he could only handle a certain number of problems at once. The pool etiquette would have to wait for the next lecture.

“Zis what I get for tryin’ to help a guy out? Maybe Gambit better off flyin’ south after all, if he can’t count on no backup from zis team.” He scowled at Logan.

“What I don’t understand,” Logan sighed, with the pretense of sorely tried patience, “is why all this friendly discussion has got to be happenin’ in my room?”

For the first time, he rose to his feet. Before anyone had anything to say in return, he slammed the door shut.

“That’s it—” Scott barked. “Emergency meeting, mandatory. All X-Men. Now.”

Jean, please tell the Professor to make that a formal announcement. I can’t take any more of this.

“Wait, are you kidding?” Kitty whined.

“You can’t be serious,” Jubilee echoed.

“I am more than serious,” he said. “We have X-Men repeatedly ignoring orders— disregarding safety protocols— and creating a hazardous and hostile environment within the X-Mansion. This is no longer acceptable behavior. Has never been acceptable behavior— It’s simply my fault for letting it continue on this long.”

I’m not going to tell the Professor that, Scott.

Great, now even Jean was no longer on his team.

Just then, Nightcrawler’s voice sounded through the intercom system.

“Entschuldigung, meine Freunde… there is something rather interesting on the news, and, Cyclops? I believe you might wish to see this.”

Chapter Text

“And it is with this hope for a safer tomorrow, we step proudly into the—”

A quiet electric buzz sounded as the TV was turned off.

“For such a nice spring evening, I’ve had more Summers’ hot air than I can take,” Logan grumbled.

A crowded room full of eyes focused on Scott, who stood there, stiff, pinching the bridge of his nose hard, his jaw set tight, hardly breathing. Once he heard Wolverine speak and noticed his teammates’ attention on him, he shook his head.

Kurt was brave enough to speak up first. “I understand this must be difficult, mein Freund,” he said gently, “but, do you suppose…”

The Elf sighed, seeming to struggle for the most tactful words. Considering what had already gone on upstairs, Logan was grateful for his best friend’s diplomacy.

Which, of course, meant Warren had to ruin it with his fat mouth.

“This is just typical for Alex.”

Cyclops clenched his jaw even tighter. Logan swore he heard a bit of amalgam from a dental filling crack. He still didn’t seem ready to speak, but Logan saw the vein in his temple throb.

Gambit leaned against the wide entryway, shuffling a deck of cards mindlessly back and forth between his hands.

“‘Mutants for Humanity’. Real cute. T’ink he smart enough to come up wit’ dat hisself?”

Rogue, already on edge from the relentless jabs, snapped.

“Y’all know we didn’t call ya down here for a roast, right? We got ourselves a real situation here.”

“Um…” For once in her life, Jubilee sounded hesitant and careful. It was almost cute to hear. “I get that I’m, like, the new kid on the block, but I feel like I’m missing some backstory. Like, former X-Man spouting anti-mutant bullshit is obvs bad. But what exactly is the situation? I mean, there’s bad mutants, right? We were just up to our necks in Acolytes. So why is Cyclops gonna pop a blood vessel?”

“You are new, Jubilee,” Scott said in return. “And you’re right that you don’t understand. And it’s better to keep your mouth shut and let the grown X-Men do the talking.”

Wolverine felt his claws begin to emerge as he rose up off of the couch. He sensed the buildup of kinetic energy behind him, certain that he would see the deck of cards glowing if he turned around. Neither he nor Gambit had the opportunity to release the festering rage he knew they both felt before a voice interrupted them.

“You are out of line, Cyclops.”

Xavier had been so quiet and pensive that Logan had nearly forgotten the professor was here. Scott immediately cast his gaze toward the floor, still visibly seething with agitation.

Nearly one hundred and fifty years old, Logan knew he ought to know better. But he couldn’t help himself. He smirked and the quiet words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“Someone’s in trouble with Daddy.”

“Logan—” Storm barked out.

He didn’t need her callout to understand he was acting childish. But her disappointed and authoritative tone was enough to motivate him to actually shut up for a bit.

“What has happened with you, my X-Men?” Chuck said, sounding genuinely vexed. “I said nothing over these past two weeks, while tensions escalated, because I believed— I truly believed that when a conflict arose, you could put all this bickering aside. Not since Krakoa have I heard you two arguing like this, Scott… Logan. And Gambit—”

He didn’t even have to say another word. Just raised an eyebrow, and then Gambit’s deck was at rest. Cajun relaxed even farther into the wall of the entryway and cut his eyes to the side, like a guilty kid who’d been caught in the act of a prank.

Xavier shook his head with a deep sigh. For a second, he seemed to mimic Slim’s permanent pose, pinching his nose bridge and squeezing his eyes shut.

“This matter with Havok is of great import— not a time for petty jabs.” He glared at Warren, who suddenly stood with immaculate schoolboy posture. “To the meeting room: Cyclops, Wolverine, Nightcrawler, Phoenix, Rogue, Gambit.”

“Aw, we miss out on all the fun,” Kitty whined, not so softly that Logan couldn’t hear her.

—

“It is troubling that an organization like Mutants for Humanity has mobilized so rapidly without our knowledge of its formation. Already, it has amassed lobbyists, interest groups, vocal supporters of mutants and humans alike. It is no strange thing to be faced with yet another push for anti-mutant legislation under the guise of peacemaking. But to successfully form such a large scale movement without detection from any of us suggests an even deeper cause for concern.”

“I’ll talk to Alex,” Cyclops said, almost before the Professor was done speaking. “I messed up— I haven’t been keeping tabs on him the way I ought to— the way I need to. I’m sorry I allowed something like this to slip by. I don’t understand how…”

It would have been easy to take another jab at the boy scout’s overinflated sense of responsibility, but Logan was not exactly in the mood for another reprimand from anybody at this table. Plus, Scott was starting to sound more depressed than angry, which took away the fun.

“Don’t ya go takin’ all the credit now,” he said. He needed to say something. “You ain’t the only one with eyes and ears. This group is somethin’ that slipped by all the X-Men— includin’ Chuck and Jean, which is the part that concerns me.”

“Although your sense of culpability… and surveillance… seems out of proportion,” Nightcrawler began, “I do not believe any harm could come of a conversation between you two brothers.”

“T’ink more’n’a conversation in order if zis t’ing big as you say.” Logan couldn’t help but snicker beneath his breath at the scowl on Rogue’s face as she watched Gambit speak, his hands resting behind his head, his legs stretched up and out onto the table. “Havok in DC wit’ all dem lobbyists, oui? Bet you good money dey’s information on ze ol’ MFH somewhere in one’a dem fancy gov’ment offices. Always wanted to show all dem politicians how Watergate was jus’ childsplay.”

“Surprisingly, I’m not against that,” Cyclops said. “We probably could find something useful.”

Now it was easy for Logan to keep his mouth shut. As dismal as the situation with Alex looked, this mission they were planning could turn out very advantageous for his own peace and tranquility. All he needed to do was lie low for the rest of this meeting, and wait for the two most obnoxious guys in this house to get the hell out of here.

“Hoo, and y’know, DC ain’t far from de Sout’ proper,” Gambit mused. “We might jus’ find us a reason t’make some kinda detour. Bet your Northern ass ain’t never had cracklin’ cornbread.”

“This ain’t some kinda vacation, Remy,” Rogue seethed. “If you’re already thinkin’ about the menu, you ain’t takin’ this seriously.”

It was obvious to see there were layers of heated arguments beneath what Rogue was saying. And Logan didn’t want any part of it. Hopefully, Cyclops would get him back on track, and maybe, just maybe if he was lucky, the two of them would hit the road before suppertime. One glance at Jean told him that maybe even she was looking forward to Scott getting some distance for a bit.

“Gambit talkin’ ‘bout nourishment, chère. Ain’t not’in’ more important’n dat. Hell, bet even Cyclops agree wit’ me on dat.”

“I couldn’t care less what we’re eating, Gambit. I care about getting to DC sooner rather than later.”

“None a’ y’all got no opinion on zis mission?” he asked the team. “Ain’t exactly used t’bein’ free t’ hatch our own plans.”

“I think you should go with them, Logan,” Jean blurted out.

Wolverine shot a vicious look her way. “Hell, no. There ain’t nothin’ I can contribute to this li’l party, ‘cept puttin’ Summers on edge. And I mean both of ‘em. Havok’s gonna think I’m there for blood. And the way things’ve been goin’ with Cyke… there just might be blood.”

“Jean is right, Wolverine,” Charles interjected. “Because whatever, or whoever, is behind this organization appears to have safeguards against any form of psychic detection, it is imperative that we have someone on this mission whose physical senses are attuned and reliable.”

Logan growled, crossing his arms in defiance.

“Hope ya know the fire yer playin’ with there, Chuck. Ya lookin’ fer an easy way to implement some permanent layoffs around here, huh? ‘Cuz ya might have fewer X-Men comin’ back than ya sent away, if ya think the three of us are yer dream team.”

“Are you three not already a part of the same team?” Charles questioned, taking turns staring intently at each of the men in question. “If this is something you seem to have forgotten, it is all the more reason for you to work together. Perhaps being united in a common goal will help you remember this, and lay to rest any squabbles that have arisen during this relatively idle time.”

“Well, dere goes our fun road trip…” Gambit lamented.

“Please, Gambit,” Scott said. “This was never going to be a fun road trip.”

—

“Oh my God…” Cyclops groaned. “I know we’re moments away from being out of the mansion, but can you please, please just try to follow the house rules for five more minutes?”

Gambit shrugged and put both his hands up. “Qui, moi? Gambit wudn’t doin’ not’in’, Cyke.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not talking to you.”

Oh, brother. There was no way Cyclops was actually bitching about this. They were in the garage, for God’s sake.

“You better be jokin’, Slim. Or I’ll have half a mind ta put this out on that clean-shaven face a’ yers.”

Logan took a long drag of his cigar— Romeo y Julieta— one of his favorite luxuries, and the best way he knew to calm himself after dealing with a hypertensive teacher’s pet.

“This ain’t smokin’ in the house. It’s smokin’ in the garage. The smell don’t cling to nothin’ in here. It’s a cement floor an’ then nothin’ but metal. So, seriously… what is yer problem?”

“I could say the principle of it, but there’s also upholstery… And ash, which I know for a fact you are not going to be the one to sweep up. Damn it, doesn’t anybody care about cleaning up after themselves? I hate to think what this place would turn into if we just let you and Gambit and the girls have their way with it.”

Scott pressed the garage door open and pulled on his motorcycle helmet. For a second, Logan naively hoped that Slim was done talking. He only drove out onto the driveway before he put his foot down, turned around and took the helmet right off again.

“And don’t go blazing ahead of us, Gambit. It's better for all of us if we stick together.”

Almost immediately after Scott turned to him, Gambit revved his engine obnoxiously longer and louder than was necessary.

“What dat, Cyke?” He shouted. “Want me takin’ point? Happy to oblige, mon ami.”

Before either Wolverine or Cyclops had any chance to object, Remy sped off, the sound of “I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing” quickly fading into the distance.

Logan scowled as he pulled up next to Cyclops.

“Best get the lead out if ya don’t wanna be scraping up spilt Gumbo off the road in a couple’a miles.”

—

It stood to reason that their luck would be bad. Setting off just before sunset with those two fools as traveling companions. Gambit insisting on bumming his gas money off of Logan from the get-go, claiming something about a lost credit card. But it was fine, Logan could tolerate it all. He was finally out of the house where Slim thought he was king, finally away from having to hear other people’s opinions, having to hear anything except the hum of his engine, the noise of the road… and Gambit’s pathetically sad power ballads. At least he, among the other two, could forgo a helmet and finally enjoy his cigar.

The whole northern stretch of I-95 was out of commission, demolished in some fight between the Avengers and Ultron a few days ago. Logan would have bet every dollar on him that Summers was stewing over Tony Stark not cleaning up after himself as they were forced to wind their way down the heavily trafficked detour. Even though it added hours onto their travel time, Logan didn’t actually mind. More time to clear his head, to forget how badly his evening had been rattled.

He hated, hated when his meditation was interrupted. He didn’t understand why the other X-Men seemed to think it was optional, or just a hobby. They wanted the Wolverine on their team, but they didn’t allow him what he needed to be Logan, to be an X-Man, more than Weapon X. Maybe there was a bright side to this trip. Maybe he could take this opportunity to show those two riled up kids how important his spiritual practice was. Maybe they could return to an X-Mansion where the others were more respectful of his needs.

Logan breathed deeply of the gentle spring air and his succulent Cuban cigar. The wind through his hair did its job to blow the negative thoughts away, at least for a little while. Beyond the noise of the highway, he detected the earliest songs of young frogs in the wetlands, the first emerging crickets, the tiny shrieks of juvenile owls. As depressing as it usually felt to enter the Rust Belt, there was one good thing about it. The fewer people there were, the more nature could begin to reclaim its space. He heard a sharp, shrill cry that for a second reminded him of Banshee. He glanced over to the darkening woods off the shoulder of the road, and saw the outline of a nighthawk. Fifty years ago, this place was too bustling, scared the shy little nighthawks away. Logan smiled to see and hear it.

Sixty miles before Harrisburg, so much farther west than they planned to go, Scott sped to pull up next to Gambit. He then threw Logan a turn signal as they approached the next exit, out to a town called Frackville. Logan didn’t too much like the sound of that name, but he admitted to himself that Scott made a good call. Without any intervention, Cajun would have tried to drive the whole night through and pull into DC a bleary-eyed, lightheaded mess.

“Oh, hell no,” Logan said, as they pulled into the parking lot of the first motel in Frackville. He shook his head, scanning the gigantic statue up and down. “Fuck this.”

“I’m wit’ Logan on dis one, Cyke. Dis feel like home to you?”

Cyclops stood there, stuck cringing at the statue in all its horror. “I mean, I don’t like it, either. But we’ve gotta get some food. We’ll figure things out from there. But it’s late, and we do need rest.”

“No way in hell Gambit gonna get no rest here. Gon’ be too busy keepin’ watch, lest dem fine folk up dere decide it ze night to come alive and make dey mark on zis place.”

Logan did think Gambit was overreacting a little bit. Shit was creepy as hell, though. Right in the center of the parking lot, uplit like it was an attraction, there was a twelve-foot statue on a five-foot pedestal. An 1840s-looking woman and boy, with huge, vacant eyes, painted in vivid colors, garish even in the dark of the night. The child bore the face of a middle-aged man, and in his hand dangled a headless doll. Logan could not tell whether the doll had once been whole and became damaged, or if it was intended to be this eerie from the start.

“You’re living up to Cajun stereotypes, Remy,” Cyclops sighed. “Didn’t know you were actually that superstitious… or easily spooked.”

“T’ink Gambit spooked ‘cause of some old ghost stories? You lucky you ain’t lived what make me jumpy round shit like zis.”

Remy crossed his arms and continued to eye the statue up and down. Clearly, he wasn’t intending on letting down his guard around this thing.

“Okay, fine, whatever. You stay out here and make sure the statue doesn’t move or watch us or turn into a Sentinel. I’m going inside to check us in.”

The sharp stench of mildew stung Logan’s nostrils as he and Slim took one step closer to the front office of the motel. Since Scott didn’t react, Logan figured the smell must be pretty subtle or undetectable for those with normal senses. If Scott and Remy wouldn’t complain, Logan could live with it.

His eyes watered as Scott flung open the door. Okay, there was no way the stink wasn’t going to bother the other two. Scott wrinkled his nose slightly, but he didn’t seem extremely bothered yet.

A thin, weathered lady who looked about half Logan’s age was the only person inside. Lounging behind the front desk, she seemed more interested with her newspaper and coffee than her guests. The woman licked her finger to turn a page before she lowered her paper and greeted them.

“Evenin’,” she said. Her voice crackled from decades of cigarette smoke.

“Good evening,” Scott said. Logan could tell that behind his glasses, he was scanning the place, trying to detect the source of the smell. If only Logan were telepathic, he would have told him, it was everywhere. “How much do you charge for rooms for the night?”

“Room,” the woman said.

“Excuse me?” Scott replied, flicking up an eyebrow.

“Ain’t got but one room serviceable at the moment. Water tank busted. Sure ya can smell the carpet. Waitin’ for the repair man. Won’t be here ‘til day after tomorrow.”

“That’s great,” he sighed, running an anxious hand through his hair.

“How far’s it to the next town, then, miss?” Logan cut in.

“Hmm, depends on which way you’re takin’. Main road got washed out past weekend, reckon you could take a detour, get to Harrisburg in… hour and a half?”

“You got a map handy?” Scott asked her.

“Nope,” she said, looking back at her newspaper. “You ‘uns heard of these Mutants for Humanity? First folks I heard talkin’ sense about this whole mutant issue in forever. Good to know some of them muties still got some common sense.”

“Actually, yeah,” Scott said, convincingly. “I like a lot of what they have to say. Was wondering if there was a way to get more involved, y’know? Seems like they could really make a difference with that community.”

Logan had to hold back a laugh. All it took for Slim to pull the damn stick out was a random fascist in Nowhere, Pennsylvania. Now he was in his element.

“Heard somethin’ about some of the youths startin’ up a local chapter down in Harrisburg. ‘Fraid you have to get to the big city, before you got enough folks to gather together for somethin’ like that.”

“Figures. Well, we’re heading that way tomorrow, anyway. Thanks for the tip.”

“Hey,” the lady said, with a disconcertingly friendly smile, “usually it’s thirty-five bucks a night, but you ‘uns seem to really get it, you know? How about thirty— friends and family rate?”

“We’ll pay thirty-five, thank you,” Scott replied.

—

They didn’t even have to turn the key in the lock for the door to swing wide open. Gambit, the last one to enter, did not hesitate to push the dresser against the door once he was inside.

“Not like dat gon’ stop ‘em, but at least it make enough racket, dey try anyt’in’.” His eyes were fixed on the window facing the parking lot.

As though the statue people were the most off-putting folks in this place. Logan’s mood darkened to think of how badly things would go if Gambit had entered this place without his black sunglasses on.

He assessed the room and scowled.

“Thought she said it could sleep three.”

Two full beds, and a loveseat, not even a pullout.

Honestly, not even the troubling sleeping arrangements were the worst thing about the room. The carpet was discolored, not just by age, but numerous mystery stains that Logan had no intention of investigating further. Whether or not he wanted to, though, his nervous system told him exactly what they were. There would be no bare feet on this floor.

The wood furniture was scratched, warped by constant exposure to a moist environment. And no wonder the air was so wet, with the poorly maintained cinder block walls letting the weather have its way on this place.

Gambit was scurrying around the room at a frantic pace, doing… Logan wasn’t quite sure what he was doing.

“All dem eyes. Ain’t natural.” Cajun hopped up onto one of the bed, placing dirty boot prints on the slick, quilted cover. Logan couldn’t care less. Street dirt was by far not the worst thing on this bedding. Gambit picked up the cheap oil reproduction of a Victorian portrait and flipped it around, so that the back of the frame faced them. “Who do y’reckon all dem folks are, souls who died here?”

He jumped down and hurried over to the wall on the side of the tiny box TV. There were two more weird portraits there for him to take care of. “Dey ain’t even de same as ze fam’ly in de parkin’ lot. What de hell is goin’ on in zis place?”

“It’s all just cheap estate sale finds, Gambit. Nothing unnatural about it.” Although Scott’s words were cynical, his tone was not so assured.

Logan and Scott seemed to be in agreement for once about something, to let Gambit do his neurotic rearranging in peace. Remy kept talking to himself as he flipped over picture frames and covered up the mirror with his leather jacket and crossed himself.

Scott shook his head, his posture tightening with every second passing in this horrible room. “You guys figure out sleeping arrangements, I don’t even care,” he said. “I’m taking a shower. Besides, I don’t even know how much sleep I’m gonna get. The ‘food’ from that place is already giving me heartburn, I think.”

He threw down his backpack onto one of the beds, not to claim it, but probably just because he was too nervous for it to make contact with the carpet. Then he disappeared around the half-wall into the bathroom.

“Surprised he ain’t bitchin’ more ‘bout all zis,” Gambit said, in a volume that clearly showed he didn’t care whether or not Scott heard.

“Good thing he ain’t, considerin’ it’s him makin’ the call to stop here.”

Logan glanced for a second at the No Smoking sign posted on the door before reaching into his backpack and taking out a cigar— a cheap domestic one this time. No need to waste a Cuban on a horrible place like this.

“Light up, buddy,” he said. “Ain’t no way we’re makin’ this place smell any worse.”

Gambit shrugged his shoulders, then pulled his pack of cigarettes out from the jacket protecting them from the spirits in the mirror.

“Merde,” he sighed, after taking Logan’s light and pulling in the first long drag. “What we got ourselves into, Logan?”

“Start like this, no way it can go anywhere but up, eh?”

“Non, what you tryna do to us now, couyon?” Gambit snapped. He rapped his knuckles angrily on the nightstand. “Damn, an’ zis shit chipboard! You t’ink it still work?”

“I think I’m more concerned about Mutants for Humanity than I am about anything in this motel, Gumbo. I’ve stayed in seedier joints than this, an’ you have, too. Somethin’s got you on edge, somethin’ more than ol’ Prairie Marm outside, or Summers’ neuroses.”

Before Logan was able to probe Gambit’s scattered psyche further, he was interrupted by a loud cry.

“Ugh, what the fuck?” Scott’s voice echoed from the tiny bathroom. He stepped out from there in a discolored towel, his hair damp. Logan and Remy looked at him questioningly.

“Frogs. Fucking frogs. Two of them, leapt right out of the sink drain as soon as I turned it on.”

“And you let a perfectly good snack for Cajun get away?” Logan scoffed. “Can’t be wastin’ resources like that, Slim.”

“You watch yo’ mouth, ol’ man. We don’t eat dem typa frogs. That shit nasty.”

“Ugh, you’re telling me. Thank God, they disappeared right back down the shower plug.” Scott shuddered in revulsion. “Fuck this place. I mean, frogs? Do we think maybe Apocalypse is coming back?”

And just a second ago, Logan was sure Gambit was the craziest one in this motel room. But Scott seemed genuinely on the edge of a psychotic break, standing there dripping, half-naked, twitching from stress.

“Pretty sure bugs is ze next plague, wouldn’t be surprised if we pull zese sheets up, find a nice family a’ bedbugs and lice make deyselves at home here.”

“Gambit, you have to stop talking.” Clearly, some psychosomatic symptoms were already setting in for Scott, who started scratching at his forearms. “And why doesn’t this place have a minibar? I wouldn’t even mind funding that weird lady’s anti-mutant agenda if it meant I could get a mouthful of vodka.”

In an unexpected wave of compassion, Logan tossed Cyclops his flask. Maybe a good swig would shut him up and end this whole shitshow of a day just a bit sooner.

“I don’t give a fuck if there’s bedbugs, or ghosts, or some wooden granny come to life in these beds, I’m turnin’ in.”

Without shedding any of his clothes from the road, without taking off his shoes, and without pulling up the covers, Logan lay on top of one of the beds, closed his eyes, and that was that.

Chapter Text

06:00. Like clockwork, Scott awoke— but something was obstructing his breathing. He coughed and shoved the thing out of his face. Heavy.

The weight was on his chest, too. And across his legs.

“Gambit, get off me.”

Remy LeBeau was an immovable obstacle, sleeping the sleep of the dead— bare, limp limbs sprawled out on top of Scott.

“Seriously, Remy, wake up.”

Scott shoved 180 pounds of unconscious Cajun away, freeing himself so he could roll out of bed. Gambit didn’t stir even a little.

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

Wolverine was sitting on the loveseat near the window, a cup of coffee in hand.

“You kids have a nice sleepover?”

Scott had hoped a night’s rest, however unpleasant, would at least give him a renewed sense of control over his frayed nerves. He had no such luck, and was torn between wanting to shove Gambit off of the bed and smacking the smug look off of Wolverine’s face. But he couldn’t let his very first decision of the day be determined by them.

Silently, he walked over to the coffee pot and poured himself a serving into the one other styrofoam cup. It was the worst brew he had ever tasted. In a way, it gave him some strange satisfaction to know there was such perfect cohesion to this place.

“How far d’you think it is to Washington?” he mused. He wasn’t willing to start in on any abuse or hazing, not this early in the morning. “We’re pretty far from I-95 still.”

“We could maybe figure out if that fascist lady woulda given us a damn map.”

“Was there even a service station nearby? I couldn’t see anything when we pulled in last night. I don’t think there’s a single streetlamp in this entire town.”

“Only light I saw was to shine on ol’ granny out there.”

“Somehow, I think Gambit’ll be disappointed she didn’t come to life.”

“We sure she didn’t? Mighta taken Gumbo’s life force while we were sleepin’.”

They hadn’t bothered to keep their voices down as they were talking, but it didn’t seem to matter. There was no sign of Gambit rousing, even as he had managed to splay himself out across the entire bed after Scott got up.

“Gambit!” Scott called. “We gotta hit the road.”

Logan cocked an eyebrow at their unconscious teammate. “Never read any fairy tales, did ya, Summers? That ain’t the way to wake Sleeping Beauty.”

“Eugh, you’re disgusting.”

Scott walked over to the horrible bathroom where the frogs had appeared the night before. He took a careful look at the sink drain before he turned the tap on, not wanting to be taken by surprise again.

“You showered already?” he asked Logan.

“Just gonna get covered in road dirt again, don’t make no difference. Didn’t you shower last night?”

“Like I’m not gonna wash whatever was in that bedding off of me. Please, try to get him up by the time I’m out.”

Just like the night before, Scott had to lean over to get his head under the shower. It was lower down than any showerhead he had ever seen, so much so that he wondered if the average height of the people of Frackville was significantly less than the rest of the nation. He didn’t mind the temperature of the tepid water, but it smelled and tasted like rust. It certainly did nothing to ease the stress he was carrying.

Gambit was still comatose by the time he’d brushed his teeth, shaved, and stepped back out, partially dressed, into the room.

“H. pylori,” Logan said.

Scott squinted his eyes. He had no idea what Logan was talking about. “What?”

“Helicobacter pylori,” he repeated.

“They’ve got that in the water here?” Scott said, worried more about that than the frogs or the bugs.

“No, Slim, you’ve got it. Couldn’t sniff out fer sure who it was with the infection, back at the mansion. But it ain’t Cajun. Ya gotta get that shit treated.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Scott sighed and shook his head. He had no idea what to do with that. Problems for another day. He turned his attention back on Remy.

“Did you even try to wake him up?”

“Tried everything but claws. Well, that and the Sleepin’ Beauty method.”

“Right, well… Let’s not put claws off the table, if it comes to that. I’m gonna see about buying us a map. Breakfast in the next town sound good to you?”

“Ain’t gonna argue that.”

At least that’s one fight I don’t need to have, Scott thought.

“Seriously, if he’s not awake by the time I get back I’m either going to leave him here or haul his ass on my bike and drag him all the way to DC. Depends on what mood I’m in, how many bigots I’ll have to deal with between now and then.”

—

Scott almost had to make that decision, as Gambit was just yawning awake when he returned with a map from the service station.

“Believe it ‘r not, Slim, this was me doin’ my best,” Logan said.

Scott believed him. He knew Logan wanted to hit the road almost as bad as he himself did. So he didn’t hesitate before talking at Gambit.

“Remy. It’s three and a half hours to DC, if we’re lucky. Which, based on the events so far, I don’t think we can count on. So, let’s say four. Four and a half. We still need to fuel up. I’m okay with skipping breakfast, but I don’t trust you to be grown up enough to handle that. So that’s another hour. It’s almost eight o’clock now. We want to get to the capital while everyone’s still in their offices so we can figure out what the hell is going on with Mutants for Humanity.”

“In other words,” Logan said, “get movin’, Gumbo.”

Despite his body moving, pushing himself upright, Gambit didn’t look awake. His eyes were heavy, his face expressionless. Scott wondered if he even heard a word either of them said.

“Got it?” Scott pushed.

Remy turned in his direction and scowled. He mumbled a reply that barely sounded intelligible.

“Usin’ a awful lotta words for someone in such a hurry.”

Scott wished Gambit could see through his thick red glasses to take in how violently he rolled his eyes.

“It’s a luxury I have, and you don’t. Get moving.”

Slowly, with what Scott swore was a flair of defiance, Remy threw the covers off, stretched, and stood up.

“Oh— good God, Remy, if you’re sharing a bed with someone, you have to put some damn clothes on!”

A shiver of discomfort ran up Scott’s spine, realizing he’d been under the covers with Gambit wearing nothing but a pair of trunks.

“Gambit got not’in’ to hide,” he yawned, stretching indulgently, as if to show off every bared inch of himself.

“Thought ya wanted to keep the cold out, Cajun.”

“ ‘S what central heatin’s for, mon ami. Sleep light, sleep warm. Ol’ Cyke work like a hot water bottle.”

If they weren’t already in such a rush, Scott would have thought about taking another shower after that. He hoped the shudder he felt didn’t externalize.

“Shut up. Get dressed. That’s an order.”

Scott did not like the look that flashed across Gambit’s eyes.
—

How can a man possibly take over an hour, just on his fucking hair?

Scott could not stop from letting this thought consume him the entire drive to DC. Surely it wasn’t possible. Remy had to have been fucking with them, or doing some secretive Thieves’ Guild ritual under the guise of getting ready. There was no way, no way, he could have locked himself in the bathroom for so long just to get that ridiculous mane of his looking just the right amount of teased.

It reminded him of the petty fights he would have with Alex, when his baby brother would call dibs on the shower, but remain stationary on the couch for another hour. When Scott would be tired of waiting, and take the initiative of heading that way himself, Alex would scream at him that he was just about to get up. If Scott didn’t get himself behind the locked door in time, showering to the sound of swearing, insults, and a pounding door, there would, inevitably, be some sort of physical altercation. It was an established part of their brotherhood for years.

He wished Gambit hadn’t evoked those memories. He didn’t want to dwell on past conflicts with Alex, however juvenile, however long ago. Yes, he was furious with his brother. But he knew, as much as he hated to admit it to himself, that his emotions had been steering him for the past few weeks. He was tired of whatever horrible chemicals were running through his body to take over his cool, calculating, consistent way of thinking.

The final hour of the drive, he tried, desperately, to center himself. Remind himself of who he was, and what he was doing. Nothing from the past weeks, or hours, or years mattered. What mattered now was the mission, was getting to the bottom of this clearly nefarious organization. He told himself that over and over, up until the moment that he was led to Alex at the Mutants for Humanity office.

“It’s good of you to take the time to meet, Scotty.”

Alex gave him a side hug around the shoulders and Scott tried hard not to shiver. He figured his little brother would greet him with some level of caution, skepticism. Surely Alex knew Scott would not be happy with what he heard on the news.

“Yeah, well.” Scott cleared his throat, searched hard and deep in his brother’s eyes for some kind of readable sign from him. “Alex, I’m not trying to be off-putting, but I hope you know this isn’t a friendly meeting or anything.”

Alex’s brows knit together. “Sit down?” he suggested, and then offered his brother a fresh cup of espresso. Mutants for Humanity certainly had a very swanky office in downtown DC.

Scott took a seat and sipped the espresso, only because he knew he would get nowhere from being standoffish. Alex was so sensitive. Anyway, it was good to actually get a nice cup of coffee for the day.

“What’s wrong, Scotty? I mean, I know you always look worried, but you seem… heavy, even for you.”

Scott breathed out a tense laugh. “I don’t think you can blame me for that, Alex. I mean… what’s going on here? You never spoke a word of any of this to me, to the Professor. I had to call Lorna on the phone to tell her what you were up to and she almost cried.”

“I wasn’t keeping secrets, Scott. You didn’t tell me when you and the X-Men went to Hong Kong. I found out about all that stuff with you and Bastion from Warren. I mean, I guess we don’t always do a good job staying in touch…”

“Are you trying to mess with me, or—”

“Scott, I wouldn’t. You’re my brother.”

Cyclops’ stomach knotted. Something was very, very wrong.

“Okay, okay, Alex… I believe you. So, then, just tell me what you’ve been up to. Tell me about Mutants for Humanity. None of us back at the school had heard of this organization, and then Kurt calls me downstairs to say I should check out the TV. And there you are, advocating for… I don’t entirely understand what it is you’re advocating for, to be honest. But it puts a bad taste in my mouth. I want to trust you, Alex, really I do. However, I don’t think you can blame me for having some concerns, right?”

Alex scowled hard and huffed out an aggressive sigh. Just like when they were kids.

“God, you always get like this, don’t you, Scott? You’re so defensive when I find something that works for me.”

Scott stopped himself from cutting in. He didn’t want Alex heated. He wanted to understand.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings. I know I often misstep, whenever we talk politics. I’m trying to do better.”

Alex shook his head. “Mutants for Humanity is going to do some really good things, Scotty. Things that Charles Xavier used to stand for, before he lost his way. Before he started sliding. Accommodating Magneto. You see where that’s gotten the Cause.”

Scott swallowed his emotions. This is just poker with Gambit. Don’t let on anything, don’t let it show. “What’s Mutants for Humanity gonna do, Alex?”

“Make a safer tomorrow, for everyone. I know your paranoid brain always goes to Mutant genocide, but this isn’t that. You know I would never support any such thing. Have at least a little faith in me.”

“I do have faith in you,” Scott lied.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter what you say, anyway. The X-Men won’t go to war with us over this, that’s for sure. Not after all Magneto’s Acolytes have done. You guys can’t take the PR hit. We’re going to have the Avengers on our side for this, once it hits the mainstream. We’re already polling with seventy percent approval in major cities. Rural areas, we’re doing even better.”

“Those numbers are great, Alex,” he said, trying to assuage his brother’s sensitive ego, yet cut to the relevant information. “Who started this movement?”

“I can tell when you’re being condescending, Scott, I’m not stupid. It’s a grassroots movement. Similar groups came together in lots of different cities. They banded together— unlike the X-Men… always infighting.”

“You’re not wrong there, Alex. I know our teamwork hasn’t always been ideal.”

“Tell me about it,” Alex huffed.

“But what are the goals?” Scott asked. “No offense, but I hear a lot of sound bites and not a lot of concrete information.”

“We’re Mutants who think cooperating with humanity is the answer to peace. How is that different from what Xavier used to teach us?”

Scott remained silent, not willing to argue. He was determined to stay gentle until Alex finished explaining himself.

Satisfied that his older brother was listening at least for now, Alex continued. “We’d like to tamp down threats presented by Omega levels… Don’t look at me like that, Scotty.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You tensed up.”

“It makes me tense, okay? I’m still listening.”

“No, you’re not, you’re strategizing.”

“I’m listening, Alex. Cross my heart.” It was childish, but he made the gesture, hoping it would remind his little brother of a simpler time, when they were teammates, when they were even a real family.

“We can’t all live together in a peaceful society while there are Omega levels,” Alex explained, as casually as though he were updating his brother on the weather. “I’d think you would be sympathetic to that. It’s no different than the call for nuclear disarmament.”

“I’m not sympathetic, Alex.” He allowed the sadness in his voice to cut through, tried to hold back the anger. “Jean’s an Omega. The Professor… These people are your family.”

“And you don’t think the world would be a safer place without their powers.”

“Of course the world would be a safer place,” he barked, finally failing to restrain himself. “It would also be safer from sexual assault if you castrated everyone. You can’t think you can steamroll over other people’s lives, just in the name of…”

“I knew this is where this discussion would go,” Alex snapped. “This is how it always fucking goes. You’ve got way more in common with Magneto than you ever had with Xavier. You stopped listening, and you’re just angry. Hurt and angry. I can’t deal with it, not when your emotions get in the way of your logic.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Alex—”

“Go back and whine to the Professor about it. It’s what you always do.”

“We used to be a team—”

“That was when you wanted the same things as Mutants for Humanity do now.”

“I never wanted a world like you’re talking about.”

“Then I guess I never should’ve been an X-Man. I can tell it’s what you always thought.”

“Now, this is childish. I came all the way to DC to talk with you, to learn about what it is you’re doing. You’re obviously passionate about it. I just want to learn.”

“Sorry, I don’t believe you, Scott. Like I said, I can tell when you’re condescending. Obviously, this isn’t getting anywhere. I’m sorry we can’t figure out how to have a civil discussion.”

Surprisingly, Alex looked genuinely regretful. Scott suddenly felt a bit guilty. Then, he realized that was just an old and useless reflex. What he really felt was concern.

“I’m sorry about that, too.”

“You can tell Lorna I said hey. She doesn’t have to be a stranger.”

“I’ll let her know.” Scott tried to offer a smile, but his chest was too tense for him to pull it off.

“I’ve got a meeting with one of our organizers coming up. I don’t mean to kick you out, but…”

“It’s okay.”

“Please try to keep an open mind, Scotty. We’re not the bad guys you think.”

“I’ll do my best, Alex. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Alex’s smile was weirdly hollow. The back of Scott’s throat burned from the espresso. He thought about the diagnosis Logan gave him earlier that morning and frowned.

—

“What the hell did you do?”

Scott tried not to draw too much attention to them, but of all the ways he expected to rejoin his teammates at Union Station, it was not with Gambit leaning against Wolverine, blood seeping down his left arm. Luckily, the subway crowd around them was far too busy with their own comings and goings to care about what anybody else was doing.

Gambit barely had the strength to lift his head, but he put on a wavery smile. “Got us de best intel since Watergate, just as promised.”

Just like the day started, Scott didn’t know who he was more pissed at. He decided to focus his anger on Logan first.

“I thought you were supposed to be lookout.”

“I can’t help Cajun got away from his own plan. Took a different exit than he said he would, just for shits and giggles, I guess.”

“Gambit improvise,” their wounded teammate said, still grinning stupidly. His eyes were glassy.

“For God’s sake, don’t let go of your arm,” Scott said, scowling at Gambit’s limp hands, dangling uselessly by his sides. He knelt in front of the bench where the two sat and pressed his hand against the hole in Gambit’s jacket. “You were just gonna let him bleed out, Logan?”

“Ain’t gon’ bleed out, capitain,” Remy hummed. “Feelin’ top-notch. I got us ze good goods.”

“You’re delirious,” Scott sighed. “So what are we gonna do now? You’re in no shape to drive yourself, and you’ll fall off the back of someone else’s bike.”

“Oh, you calm yo’self right down when you see what Gambit got y’all fo’ Christmas…”

“Okay, so either you’re not in any pain at all, or the pain has driven you fully insane… I’m guessing the latter?”

Gambit let out what Scott could only figure was a laugh.

“Gon’ be Kelly hurtin’ when his house a’ cards come crashin’ down.”

Wolverine growled, slightly jostling the shoulder on which Remy’s head rested heavily.

“Yer so worried ‘bout him bleedin’ out, Slim, then maybe y’also oughta worry ‘bout both of ya shuttin’ up and findin’ a place to lie low ‘til this idiot’s back on his feet. Unless you want him to die of every infection known to man this lovely place is housin’.”

“Point. Motel it is, then. Let’s just grab somewhere quick in the city so we can get to the bikes fast, once our master of espionage isn’t fainting from shock.”

“Jus’ pick someplace nicer ‘n las’ night…” Gambit slurred. “I ain’t in no shape t’be protectin’ y’all from no curses.”

“Quit being stupid and walk,” Scott said, still keeping a hand against the wound as he helped Gambit to his feet.

—

They had made it to the outside edge of the city, heading toward Alexandria, before Logan was confident no one was on their tail. Gambit was sleepy and nauseous, his walk an almost drunken stagger, by the time they got off at their exit and Scott checked them into a motel.

The place seemed clean, at least. The bedding was white, no smoke smell, no holes. Scott wondered for a second if this was where junior senators or representatives went to bed their out-of-town mistresses when Congress was in session. The place was weirdly luxurious for a pay-by-the-hour joint.

Scott carefully lowered Gambit onto the bed, mindful to keep him lying on his right side. They needed to slow the bleeding, and couldn’t risk staining the sheets, either.

“Get the first aid kit out of my bag,” Scott told Logan.

As pissed off as he was acting, he actually felt pretty sorry for Remy, and Logan, and himself, too. It was clear that Gambit wasn’t injured too badly, but the combination of the pain and the adrenaline comedown was definitely taking a toll on his nerves. Logan did well in saving their thief from anything worse than a medium-sized puncture wound, but Scott knew that Wolverine hated when anyone got hurt besides himself. And Scott tried not to beat himself up for letting all this happen in the first place. Rationally, he knew he wasn’t responsible that Gambit had been spotted, then wounded, but the habit of blame was an impossibly deep rut in his own brain.

“We’ll get you patched up,” Scott reassured, “and then you can sleep it off for a bit.”

Gambit laughed that addled laugh again.

“Got an earful for sleepin’ last time.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve kind of hit a dead end as far as leads go, so there’s no rush.”

“Non, Gambit know ‘zactly where we goin’ next.”

Logan laid Scott’s first aid kit on the bed and then slowly began to ease Gambit’s arm out of his jacket. “Do us a favor, kid, and save the talkin’ until yer done bleedin’.”

“Den I never get to tell y’all ‘bout how I found dem goods… how Gambit save ze day.”

“Looks like Logan was the one who saved your day, Gambit. Maybe listen to him for a minute or two… And don’t throw up on the bed.”

He didn’t trust the dazed and hurting look on his teammate’s face, or his thick, repeated swallowing.

“Y’all bossy,” he complained. “Gambit got outta Nawlins so’s not to have so many folks tellin’ me what to do all ze time.”

Scott shook his head. “I know for a fact that isn’t why you left. Now please shut up.”

Gambit whined like a petulant little kid while Logan peeled his shirt sleeve off the bullet wound. He was even more edgy as Scott set to sanitizing the hole where the bullet went through.

“Come on, Gambit. You’ve gotten hurt worse than this in the Danger Room, by the kids. What’s your problem?”

“Don’ got no problems, mon ami,” Remy hissed through his teeth. “Jus’ a bleedin’ heart, bleedin’ out.”

“Oh, Lord, here we go.” Logan rolled his eyes. “Figures that this is what’s botherin’ ya, not the lead that just ripped through yer arm meat.”

“You’re not bleeding out, Remy,” Scott said. “It actually clotted pretty well while your coat was stuck on it. The bleeding’s gonna stop pretty soon, since it did earlier.”

“Eh bien, my arm stop bleedin’ but not de wound what really hurt.” Gambit lay his hand over his heart. “Don’ know how Gambit gon’ go on livin’, mes amis.”

Logan shook his head, then handed Remy his flask. “This here’s goodnight juice. Drink it and go ta sleep. We’ll wake ya once ya got some color back in yer face.”

“Non. Ol’ Cyclops don’ know, he de team leader, ain’t he? ‘S important…” Remy sniffled and blinked a couple tears out of his unfocused eyes.

“You really got no sense a’ shame, do ya?” Logan sighed. “Li’l Kitten back home cries less easily ‘n you do, Cajun.”

“It’s just a hormonal reaction,” Scott said, pointlessly trying to rescue his teammate from the embarrassment that he clearly did not feel. “Everybody crashes after an adrenaline rush. Leave him alone, Wolverine.”

Remy aggressively rejected Scott’s save.

“Maybe it’s ‘cause Kitty ain’t got no good reason t’cry. Dat li’l kid ain’t know heartbreak. Got a blessed life. Gambit wouldn’t wish zis pain on no one.”

Scott applied a second dressing on top of the one he’d pressed against Remy’s bare arm. A small circle of blood seeped through, but the bleeding was already slowing a lot. He hoped that the stanching of his blood loss would help improve Gambit’s mood, but his teammate was just looking sadder and more wistful. Scott decided to go ahead and secure the dressing in place, get this first aid over with so Remy would have less of an audience for his angst.

“Logan, you ain’t tied up jus’ now… Do me a favor an’ call Rogue, tell her Gambit alright?”

“I don’t need to call her, Cajun, because she doesn’t know that you were shot.”

Scott did not like the spiraling. He needed to put a stop to it.

“Okay, you’re good, Gambit. Kick back for a while and we’ll talk things over when you’ve got more blood circulating through your brain.”

Remy sighed, curling into himself.

“Y’all gimme a hour an’ a Red Bull, I be back in shape den.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Gambit was out before Scott was finished.

Logan sat on the couch, kicked his feet up, and took a shot out of the flask.

“How’s it that son of a bitch can take explosions, falls, buildings collapsin’ on top a’ him, comas, and go completely soft gettin’ nicked by a bullet?”

Scott opened his hand, silently asking for a shot as well.

“I dunno… guess we’re all running kind of sensitive these past few days.”

“Heh, speak fer yerself.”

He did Scott the favor of sharing his liquor.

“Don’t act like you’re above whatever the hell this combative dynamic has been. I’ll admit maybe I’ve been a bit high strung lately, at certain times, but I haven’t been alone in all of it.”

“Ah, mighty humble a’ you to admit it, Slim. Did ya sprain yer ego? Do ya need ta lie down like Gumbo?”

“Shut it, Logan. We’ve gotta survive the next week or however long this will take, and it’s not gonna do any good if we’re all at each other’s throats. It’s enough that Alex has turned on us. We X-Men need to stick together.”

Logan arched a curious eyebrow.

“That well turn up dry, eh?”

“Yeah.” Scott took a slow inhale to keep his anger from rising to the surface. Like he said, he couldn’t afford to get heightened right now. “He had a lot of political catchphrases. A lot of evangelism. Not much in the way of concrete information.”

Wolverine grumbled in response, taking the flask back from Cyclops.

“Guess Cajun gettin’ shot ain’t the worst thing that coulda happened, not if he’s got the intel he says he does.”

“Good point. Although it does mean we need to get the hell out of DC. You think he’s gonna be okay to drive in like an hour?”

Scott wasn’t really that familiar with Gambit’s usual recovery time. The only time he’d been around when Remy had gotten hurt, it was the freaking coma. He knew that Wolverine had much more experience working alongside their thief.

“Kid rallies fast. Once he’s through feelin’ sorry fer himself, he’ll wanna hit the road. He mentioned somethin’ about Orlando. If we’re headin’ south, he’ll wanna get movin’ extra fast.”

Scott couldn’t help but let out a groan.

“Orlando? Seriously? What the hell could there possibly be to look into there?”

Logan shrugged.

“Beats me.”

He started pulling off his jacket.

“Got a sewing kit somewhere in that pack.”

It wasn’t a question. Logan understood Scott too well to doubt there was any situation he wouldn’t be prepared for. Cyclops grabbed the kit out of his bag and tossed it to Wolverine. He now noticed the tiny, bloodied holes that perforated the side of his jacket.

“Wait. How much trouble did you two get into? Are we gonna have the entire CIA on our asses? How did Gambit come out of there with only one bullet when you look like you got turned into swiss cheese?”

Logan didn’t look up from mending the tears.

“May be ridin’ Gumbo hard about his bellyachin’, but he knows how not to leave a trace, even if we were gettin’ shot at. No way anyone’s comin’ fer us.”

Scott hoped that was true. That, for all the nerves everyone was grating, they could count on each other to do what they did best.

—

Soft music hummed near Scott’s ear, slowly, gradually drawing him out of sleep. He didn’t notice when he’d passed out, but even in his half-conscious state, he realized he felt a lot better than he had earlier that morning. Clean sheets did a lot more for his attitude than he would have expected.

Then the music had words. “Issa new dawn, issa new day, issa new life… pour moi!”

Okay, now the music didn’t sound so good. Especially now that Scott realized he was somehow sharing a bed with Gambit again.

“Wake up, sleepin’ beauty, Gambit got some good news for ya.”

Scott blinked his eyes, realized he’d dozed off with his glasses still on his face.

“Logan back yet?” he murmured.

“I been here half an hour, kid,” Logan grumbled.

“How’re you feeling, Gambit?”

“Mo’ refreshed’n you, I’d say! Ol’ Wolv’rine get us dem Red Bulls, I’m ready t’go.”

Two small missiles flew at Scott and Gambit, a Red Bull and a Slim Jim, respectively.

“Getcha juiced up again, Slim. And you replace that iron, Gumbo.”

Scott grabbed the can mid-air. Energy drinks were not his speed, but he figured it was better than nothing, and pulled the tab.

“Fill us in on what you found, Gambit.”

“Oh, y’all gon’ love zis.” Remy stood up, already gesticulating flamboyantly. Clearly, he was feeling more like himself. “Figured, if zis t’ing gone big enough dey got dey own office space up in ze capital, gotta be dat Senator Kelly have some involvement in it. So I see myself in his office while he out, take a peak at zis t’ing he got his mark on.”

Gambit pulled a manila folder out of his jacket, throwing it down on the bed.

“Wouldn’t ya know, our ol’ friend Creed ze one pullin’ ze strings behind zis whole operation.”

Scott opened the file, studying its contents.

“I can’t say I’m shocked about that. Probably should have come to that conclusion myself already. It also makes sense that he doesn’t want to be the public face of the MFH, not after how all his other ventures have gone down.”

He scanned through the pages quickly, seeing if Alex’s name showed up anywhere.

“Find out what Slim’s airhead brother’s got to do with it?”

“Papers say plans t’recruit mutants who’s public figures. Stand t’reason zey got dem a X-Man.”

“Did it suggest anything about psychic manipulation, or coercion?” Scott asked hopefully. He didn’t like being hopeful.

“Not’in’ in writin’. Don’ t’ink Kelly’d be so keen on knowin’ ‘bout dat if it got a part to play. Y’all know ze way dat man is about control. Don’ figure he fuck wit’ no telepaths.”

Gambit leaned over, pulling a page out of the back of the file.

“He sure interested in what dem dirty muties fuck wit’, t’ough.”

Scott stood up and came around to read over Remy’s shoulder.

“Oh, my God.”

“Go on, Cajun, spit it out,” Wolverine said, tracing his fingers over his cigar but not lighting it yet.

“Creed’s talking full-scale eugenics,” Scott breathed, taking half a step backward. He was too angry to try to read anymore. Gambit could handle explaining it, since he’d already been through the file.

“Man don’t wanna see us makin’ no mutant babies, dat for sure. Gon’ see to it dat can’t happen, one way or anot’er. Seem like dose who comply get to keep breathin’, just wit’ a bit less a’ dem zen how dey was before. Dose zat don’t…”

It seemed Logan was becoming a telepath during this road trip. Gambit opened his hand and received the flask. He took a quick shot, wiped his mouth, then tossed back his hair.

“I mean, shit, you want yo’ vas or yo’ life? ‘Cause dem’s ze choices.”

Scott shook his head.

“There’s no way Alex would be okay with this. I mean, we don’t always agree on politics, but this…”

Gambit handed Scott the flask almost before his palm opened to take it.

“Oh, can’t fo’get zis beaut,” Remy continued, waiting for Scott to take a shot. He pointed to Cyclops, then himself. “Us’n dem zat classify as Alpha’n above, we gettin’ special attention. Don’ jus’ worry ‘bout losin’ yo’ manhood, Cyke, we don’ even gotta burden ourselves wit’ havin’ our abilities no mo’.”

“Great,” Scott shuddered, glad Remy had offered him a shot beforehand. “That’s just… really, really excellent.”

He decided to forget about Alex. Trap his brother in the Black Bug Room till he had any resources to deal with that. Now it was half the people he loved who were under imminent threat of gene editing, not to mention the slower rollout of mutant genocide. His fingers twitched as he failed to keep out the mental image of little Jubilee, Kitty— their tiny, innocent lives stamped out before they even got a chance to start. He thought of Magneto and his heart ached. He thought of Logan, who died over and over in Auschwitz and kept coming back to haunt the SS.

“So what do we do?” Scott asked. “Where do we head for? There’s gotta be a weak link in the armor.”

Gambit nodded.

“Creed got a itinerary. Still workin’ in ze shadows, but he overseein’ all zis real close. Followin’ some’a zese interest meetin’s goin’ on. First one comin’ up in t’ree days. What better place to start’n ze happiest one on earth?”

Scott had hoped what Logan said wasn’t true.

After bearing such morbid news, Gambit began to quickly and steadily light up. “Et regarde, way I figure, good stoppin’ point zis evenin’ is Charleston— we get us some good French cuisine, make up fo’ ze slop we eat las’ night. Or maybe even better yet, we make us a detour into Gullah Geechee country. Eat us some seafood boil…”

“No detours, Cajun. The way our luck’s been rollin’ out, I say the sooner we get to Orlando, the better. We go as far as we can today before you pass out, sleep as much as you kids can in one go, an’ stay on 95 until Disneyworld.”

“Disneyworld,” Scott sighed. “Oh, joy.”

Chapter Text

Welcome to Dunn, North Carolina, The Dump Truck Body Capital of the World

Logan did a double take at the sign. He read it twice, three times over before he allowed himself to believe it. One hundred and thirty years on this planet had taken him to all sorts of shitty towns in all shitty corners of the world. But this slogan was something else.

And it was where Remy, who was given the lead again, decided to finally pull off. Though he knew Gambit was more than happy to be on the other side of the Mason Dixon Line, he also knew their teammate would not have pulled off at such an exit if he weren’t feeling the wear and tear of the road. It couldn’t have been a comfortable trip, running solely on sugary drinks and high protein snacks to replace the energy he had been drained of.

They drove into the parking lot of the first service station off the exit ramp, where Gambit immediately pulled off his helmet and wiped his face on his sleeve. Logan would have to give the kid credit for probably the first time ever— he made a good decision. A couple more miles probably would have meant one hell of a road rash, in the best case scenario.

Scott kicked out his side stand and immediately headed for the convenience store.

“Getting you some water,” he told Gambit. “Need anything else urgently?”

“Yeah,” Remy replied. “Need t’be in Sout’ Carolina. We in ze Dump Truck Capital?”

“So that wasn’t a hallucination,” Scott mused, before he headed inside.

—

“Well, aren’t y’all just in luck,” the girl at the front desk said as she typed into the computer. “We got one room left. Folks have just been rushin’ in from out of town for this weekend!”

Logan actually heard Scott’s pulse shoot up. Hopefully this place would at least be clean and free of evil spirits. Logan was a patient man, but those two kids acting insane for one more night would be sure to drive him to homicide.

“Hell, what-all you got goin’ on zis weekend?” Remy asked, placing his forearm on the counter, leaning in.

Great. Mr. Lovesick, who was down probably a pint of blood, was trying to make up for his physical and emotional pain with flirtation. The worst part was that the girl was into it.

“Oh my God, I love your accent,” she said. “Where are you from?”

“Thanks for the room,” Scott cut in, handing over his credit card. “We’re just here for one night and then we’re hitting the road again.”

“Sure y’all don’t wanna stay another night?” she asked, punching in the information. “S’posed to be the biggest festival the county’s ever seen. Bigger’n Mule Days!”

“Mule Days?” Scott whispered in distaste, not quietly enough.

Logan wished he had telepathy. He would have told Summers he was risking getting them run out of this town. Just smile and nod, idiot.

“Hot damn!” Remy said, brushing his hand through his mullet. “I’ll see if zese two jokers can’t spare ze day tomorrow, see what kinda party ze Dump Truck Capital t’row.”

The girl twirled a hair ringlet and batted her heavily mascara-covered lashes. Logan caught a whiff of Juicy Couture on her— probably the most expensive thing she or a boyfriend of hers had ever bought.

“Thank you,” Scott said as soon as he received his card and the room key. He grabbed Remy under the arm, dragging him away from the desk and down the hall.

“You need to shut up,” he told Gambit as he fiddled with the lock on the door. “There’s no reason to draw attention to ourselves. It’ll only cause complications, especially in a place like this.”

“Place like zis?” Remy questioned. “What is it ‘bout ze Dump Truck Body Capital of de World put you on edge, mon ami?”

“Much as I hate to admit it, Slim is right here. Saw a Graydon Creed 2000 sticker on a couple cars in the parkin’ lot. Wouldn’t hurt to keep yer sunglasses on and yer mouth shut while we’re here.”

He hated to say it. He never liked to tell anyone in his family to hide a part of who they were. Maybe if Remy were in better shape to put up a fight, he wouldn’t have. But, for now, it was best for all of them to lie low. Maybe in a couple of days they could indulge in an anti-mutant fueled bar fight to make up for it.

“You are fucking kidding me,” Scott said as they walked into the room. Two queen beds, a desk chair. No sofa at all.

“Problems for later, Summers. Let’s just get us a bite ta eat and figure it out when we get back.”

The truth was, Logan was too fed up with everything to consider the logistics. He wanted a beer and he wanted a smoke and he wanted a decent meal. His day started with Gambit’s drawn-out primping and preening, and had already involved gunshot wounds and a eugenics plan. The least he could ask for was an okay burger.

—

“You boys in town for the festival?” the waitress said as she brought waters out to the table.

It was clear that these Dump Truck Capital natives could smell outsiders miles before they crossed the county line.

“Mais oui, me an’ my friends, we all about zis festival! We come from way up Nort’ to visit yo’ fine festival. Zis guy here,” he elbowed Scott in the ribs. “he jus’ crazy ‘bout zem Dump Truck Bodies. You jus’ ask his wife.”

“The hell is wrong with you?” Scott snapped.

“I’ll give you gentlemen a second then,” she said. “My name’s Shelley, by the way. Ya need anythin’, just holler.”

She then went to attend to the neighboring table, which was occupied by a group of noisy rednecks. In fact, the whole place was packed with rowdy people, all fired up for whatever this festival was. At least it meant the three of them were more likely to slip by, hopefully unremarkable to Creed’s people.

Scott leaned in close to Remy and whispered, actually quietly enough this time. “You know about the psychic rapport thing, right? Jean heard that.”

“Good luck when we get back to Westchester, bub.”

Gambit just shrugged and picked up the laminated menu. It made a sticky sound when it made contact with his fingers.

“At least the food looks better here than in Frackville,” Scott said.

Logan almost told him that it didn’t matter what he ordered, that he’d be suffering afterward until he got on some fricking antibiotics. He decided to keep his mouth shut. They had all been bossing each other around too much already. He would just plan to shank the kid if he complained about any pain later tonight.

“ ‘Scuse me, Miss Shelley?” Gambit called, waving his hand politely.

Shelley walked briskly to their table.

“What can I help you with, baby?” She lightly rubbed Remy’s shoulder for a second, and Logan watched the kid’s lip quiver just a bit.

“Was tryna see, what y’all got on tap? Maybe I missed it on de menu.”

“Sorry, sweetie, don’t got tap. We got Mich Ultra, Bud Lite, and Miller High Life. First two’s cans, Miller’s in bottles. What sounds good to you, honey?”

“We’ll do Millers all around,” Logan said, quick to make the best call, given the sorry situation.

“Sure thing, baby,” Shelley replied. She looked back to Remy and Scott.

“Too bright in here for ya? I keep tellin’ that man of mine we don’t need to keep buyin’ those fluorescents, even if he can get ‘em wholesale.”

Remy smirked and shook his head.

“No ma’am, t’anks for ze concern. Him an’ me, we jus’ got a eye condition is all. Zese baby blues don’ do well in no kinds’a light.”

“Aw, you poor darlins. Well, you just let me know if there’s anythin’ I can do to make ya more comfortable. Sure y’all been on the road for a spell. Saw you rode in on those bikes. Fans a’ country music, then?”

“Country music?” Scott cocked his head.

“Wait, aren’t y’all here for the festival? Or was this one just pullin’ my leg?” She rubbed Remy’s back while she talked. Gambit tilted his chin up like a happy cat being petted.

Logan tried not to sigh. Attention-starved. Remy was a black hole for affection, and was obviously dying inside from how things had gone with Rogue lately.

“I know it ain’t no dump truck festival, but no one’s told us what’s de celebration.”

A different voice sounded from the kitchen. An adolescent boy’s, raspy from a very recently smoked joint.

“They’re celebratin’ old people country music. Some boring guy no one ever heard of.” The boy coughed.

“Wallace Rich Kivett, you mind yer mouth— these nice people might jus’ like Link Wray. I’m sorry, y’all, that’s my boy in the kitchen, sometimes he just run off like that. I swear, I tried my best to teach him manners. There’s a reason I put ‘im back there mindin’ the range, ‘stead a’ waitin’ tables. Lord, can you imagine?”

“I know how them kids can be, miss,” Logan said. This lady was cute and all, but he was hungry, and he had two twenty-something-year-old toddlers who he just knew were about to get cranky. “I think we’ll just each have whatever’s today’s special.”

“Oh, that’d be our chicken fried steak. Comes with two sides…”

“We’ll trust yer judgment on them sides, darlin’,” he replied. “I’m sure all you’ve got is good home cookin’.”

Shelley just beamed. She had gotten a tiny dab of lipstick on one of her front teeth but didn’t seem to notice. Honestly, Logan wouldn’t have minded shooting the breeze with her if he weren’t so damn worn out from this shitshow of a day. And if Slim wasn’t about ready to throttle Cajun.

“Aren’t y’all just the sweetest things. Three chicken fried steaks comin’ up, with all the fixin’s. And three Millers. Be right back, boys.”

Gambit hadn’t even gotten any calories or hydration in him, but he was already getting some better color in his cheeks. The kid’s mood had definitely lightened since DC.

On the other hand, Logan had literally seen Scott looking more at home on an alien planet.

“What are you two doing?” Scott lowered his voice.

Logan saw the confusion twist Remy’s face.

“...orderin’ supper?”

“What you just saw is called Southern hospitality, Slim. Ya might do to warm up to it. And stop lookin’ so scared. Shelley seems a perceptive lady. I figure she’s keen enough to know not to touch ya. There’s a reason she’s only babyin’ Gambit.”

“But aren’t we supposed to be lying low? I don’t know how inviting a waitress into our life stories counts as inconspicuous.”

“Less conspicuous’n actin’ like you some outsider tax agent come to audit ev’ryone in zis fine establishment, mon ami.”

Logan didn’t add anything to Gambit’s assessment, but it was true. Cyclops had no idea how to look like he belonged anywhere that didn’t resemble a military academy.

“ ‘S alright, Cyke, git a couple beers in you and you feel a whole lot better about zis restaurant, and ‘bout Miss Shelley.”

“Sure. Okay. I’ll shut up.”

Thank God, Scott was true to his word, and instead of asking annoying questions, simply sat back and scanned the entire restaurant like some kind of Sherlock Holmes, looking for clues. That was fine, Logan figured. Anything that kept the kids quiet.

Well, at least one of them. He didn’t even try to find a way to shut Remy up. The man didn’t seem to need an excuse to ramble. While Miss Shelley always lent a willing ear to whatever he was on about each time she checked back on them, bringing them their drinks, then their food, then another round, and another, he was happy to carry on talking to his silent teammates. The blood loss he had from earlier in the day had him already seeming tipsy. A few beers on top of that pushed him over the edge into full-blown inebriation.

“Explain me dis, hommes…” Remy leaned far across the table, talking into Logan’s face. “How’s it a belle say you better off friends… real polite way a’ sayin’ break up… an’ den her feelins hurt when you can’t stand t’ hang around her no more? Gambit weren’t de one who end t’ings, non. Gambit want t’ stay toget’er. T’ings was gettin’ better ‘tween her an’ me. Hell, got Gambit t’inkin’ ‘bout li’l white hair, red eye babies, y’know? What she wanna go t’row all dat away for? Den she say she wanna see more a’ me, Gambit ought not go hidin’ away. How dat right? How dat make a lick a’ sense? How she t’ink zat don’t wound Gambit heart?”

“Rem… you two are always on and off, I don’t see how this is any different than that, y’know?”

Logan would have been surprised to hear Scott actually engage in the pity party, if not for the six beers he knew were taking effect. While Wolverine could have had six scotches in the same amount of time and not felt a thing, anyone else keeping pace with Gambit’s misery drinking was bound to come out worse for wear.

“Listen, Rem. We’re gone for a week or more… she’ll cool off… or heat up… or whatever it is she needs to do. And things’ll go right back to normal. It’s the way you two have always been.”

Remy turned in Scott’s direction, still keeping most of his weight on the table.

“How’s a man ‘spose ta live a simple life when he dealin’ wit’ all zis X-Man shit, Scotty? Folks like us, we even allowed to be happy? How’s it you an’ Jeannie manage it? Universe always tearin’ y’all apart, but y’all—” A hiccup interrupted his trailing thoughts. “Don’ t’ink we askin’ for too much, is we?”

Scott swallowed down half of his seventh bottle and wiped his mouth. He shook his head clumsily. “It’s what this whole X-Men thing is about. We are supposed to be happy, and we’ll fuck up anyone who wants t’stand in the way of that. These MFH assholes. Creed’s bullshit. We got enough problems even without the bigots… Shit, it’s hard being a mutant, y’know? Rogue not being able t’be with you, just ‘cause of the way she’s made. Me taking so long to get with Jean for the same reasons… Why is everything so damn hard all the time?” Another swig and he finished the bottle. “Like, take you, for example. You worked your ass off to be a legitimately good person. And it’s like, it doesn’t make a difference what we do, any of our mistakes, they could or couldn’t’ve happened, and these COH or FOH or— who’s the problem now? I can’t keep ‘em all straight! There’s so many of ‘em. Wait, what happened to my beer?”

“Gotcha one right here, Slim,” Logan said, sliding him an eighth. At this point, he was just kind of curious to see where this all went. It was the best Scott and Remy had been getting along in months. They had an entire day to kill before the MFH rally in Orlando. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let the kiddos indulge their emotional problems for one night, especially if it would help things further down the road. Surely, it couldn’t make things worse than they had been.

“Oh, thanks, Logan.” Scott took a long drink and coughed a bit. “Oh, yeah, anyways, Remy. You do deserve to be happy— totally. You’re a good guy, y’know? Rogue’ll come around because she sees it. Like, seriously. You’re a good-lookin’ dude, you’re charming, you can cook, you can dance, you’re bilingual, and, like, you’re a freaking X-Man! She’d be crazy not to like you. Trust me, okay? She’ll be back.”

Scott leaned back in his chair just a touch and seemed to startle. “Wow, I’m drunk,” he said in disbelief, as though he had not been paying any attention to himself so far. “Oh, and Remy— you caught the stupid-ass garter, remember? Jean and me didn’t want to do that shit, it’s gross and kinda skeevy, but you were gonna pitch a fit so we did it and you won. That’s gotta mean somethin’.”

Gambit nodded clumsily, almost knocking over his beer as he reached for it. “You is right ‘bout dat, Scotty-boy. T’ing ‘bout anyt’in’ good dat happen in my life, is ‘cause I make it. Got not’in’ handed over, gotta see what I want an’ take it. Dat just it t’ough, ain’t it? She ain’t no prize for ze takin’, oui? She got her own mind ‘bout t’ings, ain’t not’in’ for ol’ Gambit to do ‘bout it, jus’ wait it out, or push it, or die wit’out her or have her kill me an’ get it over wit’.”

“No, Rem! Another dead mutant ‘s exactly what these people want. We gotta stay alive and wave it in the faces of the Creed guys. Ugh…” Suddenly, Scott’s shoulders slumped and he ran both his hands through his hair, turning his face down toward the table.

Logan almost told Scott to keep his voice down. For a man who was so concerned about being surrounded by a bunch of men who wanted them gone, Cyclops apparently drowned those worries at least two or three beers ago. He couldn’t get the words out before Remy slumped toward Scott, nearly falling out of his chair. He regained his balance and tried again.

“You got troubles up in zere, Cyke.” He briefly set a hand on top of Cyclops’ head. “Y’got you a team here, y’know. What ze mission, cap’n?”

“What’s wrong with Alex?” Scott frowned, then drank some more beer. “I don’t get it. I know he’s always been more okay than I am with the government. More cooperative. More respectable. But he wouldn’t wanna castrate us. He wouldn’t wanna hurt us. He’s been open to th’idea of registration before, but I didn’t think he’d ever wanna take things this far. Am I wrong? Do I not know him like I thought? I mean, I know I haven’t always been a perfect brother, but I’ve tried.”

For a second, his mouth quivered like he was on the verge of tears.

“Somethin’s wrong. I’m worried about ‘im. This shit is creepy. I don’t know why Jean an’ the Professor couldn’t pick up on anything shady. I’m serious, guys, it’s freaking me out. I get the feeling Remy’s documents only scratch the surface. An’ I dunno how much Alex is complicit or a victim… probably some combination of the two.” He hiccupped behind his hand. “I dunno how I let this happen without noticing anything.”

Gambit laid a heavy, forceful hand on Scott’s shoulder.

“Ain’t not’in’ y’can do ‘bout none’a dat, mon ami.” He struggled coordinating his other hand to pull out two fingers. “Two t’ings a’ universal truth ‘bout petits frères. Un. Dey all shits. Ev’ry one of ‘em. Deux. Dey always gon’ get into trouble. Ain’t not’in t’be done ‘bout it. Jus’ how life work. Not’in’ to do ‘bout it, but dat what grands frères for. Dey born for bossin’ an’ wranglin’ an’ all dat stuff keep us from gettin’ ourselves a early trip up to dem pearly gates. You jus’ worryin’ ‘cause Alex doin’ what he born to, but dat what you born to, non?”

Scott sighed heavily and made a gesture that was possibly supposed to be a shrug. Both those kids were so sloppy at this point that it was hard to interpret any body language.

“Non, stop it, Scotty. Ya gotta turn zis shit—” he put his palms on each side of Scott’s skull, messing up his even more, “—off! We in ze Dump Truck Capital a’ ze Universe, mon ami! Ya gotta… say it wit’ me, Cyke!...”

“I’m not a telepath. I dunno what you’re gonna say.”

“D’accord, I say it an’ den you say it wit’ me. We laisser les bons temps… rouler. C’mon, Scotty, say it. Say it wit’ yo’ chest— you gotta mean it.”

It seemed that Remy’s Cajun spirit was already manifesting results, without Scott needing to fumble through the words. The attention of the crowd shifted to the corner of the restaurant. Loud enough to burst an eardrum, music blasted over the speakers.

“Let’s go, girls!” a woman sang into a microphone. She was almost as drunk as Remy and Scott, and clearly a popular regular, as everyone was cheering her on.

Logan saw the look that came over his teammates. He didn’t know what urge was stronger, to pull them out now, or to watch the disaster unfold.

“Y’see, Scotty? You done it. Laisser les bons temps rouler. It happenin’.”

“Yeah…” He hiccupped again. “Maybe I have somethin’ I gotta get outta my system… Hold on.”

Scott completed the difficult job of standing up again, then headed up to the man running the karaoke, only bumping into a couple chairs along the way. Once he completed the obstacle-laden trek back to their table, he looked like a man without a care in the world.

“You gotta sign up, too, Rem. There’s, like, a zillion people who wanna sing karaoke, so you gotta make your ask now if you don’t wanna have to wait, like, two hours.”

He took another bottle in his hand, and just like that, number nine was downed.

How the person running this thing would be able to make out these boys’ chicken scratch writing was beyond Logan, there was no way their song choices could be legible. But, somehow, Scott jolted to attention when he saw the title he picked come across the screen, and made his way to the mic.

“Oh, Lord Almighty…” Logan sighed heavily as the reverb-heavy guitar riff sounded. His mind immediately went to Girls’ Movie Night, a tradition that Kitty had created, back when she and Jubilee weren’t getting along too well. The thing was, the ritual was a bit of a misnomer, considered it actually included the two of them and Logan. Kitty thought that by bonding over particularly emotional movies, they could learn a bit more empathy for each other. The Breakfast Club had quickly become the girls’ favorite fuel for tearful late-night conversations.

He had no idea Scott Summers possibly felt the same way about that teen movie. But judging by his passionate and full-bodied performance, he certainly did. As did many of the other patrons, who couldn’t stop themselves from singing along.

Thunderous applause and shouts accompanied Scott’s stagger back to the table. Logan tried to keep a straight face as Remy brushed a tear out of his eyes.

“Well I sure as hell ain’t gonna fo’get about ya after dat, Scotty. How long you been holdin’ out on us wit’ dat croonin’ voice?”

Scott pushed his hair back in a motion that Logan was pretty sure he remembered Judd Nelson doing. He managed a nonchalant shrug and tipped over his bottle as he tried to grab it. Logan put it upright for him, although not entirely sure he was doing the right thing by indulging the boys this much anymore.

“You watch the Breakfast Club, Remy?” Scott leaned in, with both his elbows on the table. “It’s, like, the best movie ever made. Those kids, you think, Oh! The Jock, that’s totally me. And then, the movie goes on, and the kids are talkin’, and like, you understand the Brain and, shit, that part makes me cry my eyes out. And the Princess, you think there’s no way I can have anything in common with her, and that part makes me cry even more. And Basket Case, that’s literally what the kids at the children’s home called me, so I feel her. And then the Criminal, he’s tryin’ so hard to make you hate him, but he’s just hurting inside, and I think that’s what you and Logan were both like when you first got here. But ya open up like you guys did, like we all did through bein’ a team, and Logan, you remember Krakoa? That was like detention. I got to really trust you, and… oh, God.”

There was the look of dread Logan was hoping would hold off for a bit longer.

“Washroom’s down to the left, Slim. Best a’ luck, kid.”

Scott gave him a shaky nod and thumbs up and got himself down the hall as quickly as he could.

“How ya holdin’ up, Gumbo?” Logan decided to finally check in. Remy was on his eighth or ninth bottle, but he was a pint of blood poorer than he’d started out that morning, and he’d been through a mild case of circulatory shock already.

“Hopin’ Scotty don’t miss my performance,” Gambit said. “ ‘S gonna be one fo’ de record books.” He lifted his bottle to Logan as though he had said something worth toasting.

Logan decided to humor him and clink glasses with him. The kids were far gone enough, they deserved to have as much fun as they could before the killer morning that awaited them.

“You alright, Logan, y’know dat?” He must have forgotten the last five seconds, because he extended the bottle out again. “Y’know, y’talk a lotta shit an’ y’take a lotta shit, but ain’t none’a us be here if you weren’t ‘round, watchin’ out. You alright, y’know dat?”

Logan smiled in spite of himself. In vino veritas, he thought. Or in Miller High Life, in this case. He was hesitant to admit it, but there was something kind of endearing about the childlike emotional honesty brought out by the disgusting amounts of beer those two had put away.

“You ain’t half bad yerself, Cajun.”

Remy turned his head back and forth to scan the restaurant. “Wait, where Scotty get to? We lose him?”

“Nah, kid, he just lost.”

Gambit looked confused.

“Slim’ll be back in a minute. Long as he didn’t acquire another head injury in there.”

As though Logan’s words were a magic spell, Scott came back from around the corner, looking a little better with less alcohol in his system. And, of course, the moment he sat down, he grabbed Logan’s beer.

“Weird,” Scott said, still slurring a little, “I didn’t even think I drank that much. Probably just that, whatcha call it, Logan? H. pylori or whatever. Alcohol’s an antiseptic, I’m sanitizing my insides.”

“Don’t know whether that fortitude is admirable, or just stupid, Slim.”

Suddenly, Gambit sprung to his feet— and knocked over his chair in the process. “Hoo boy, an’ you recover jus’ in time for ze power ballad of all time. Make sure ya good an’ hydrated, ‘cause I bouta make you cry even more’n de Breakfast Club.”

Remy nearly bowled over a group of wasted fifty-somethings on his way to the microphone. He closed his eyes, cleared his throat, and waited for the moody synth to cue him in. If Logan had any thought left that Remy had forgotten his angsty pining, it was squashed as soon as he heard what rock ballad they were in for.

“ ‘Til now, I always got by on my own,” Remy belted, with a surprising amount of pitch control for how little control he had over the rest of his faculties. He did lag behind the beat, but made up for it with the amount of passion behind every note. His volume only had two modes: soft, mumbling, introspective, and soul-rending, blasting, fortissimo. Heart would never take him on tour for his performance, but they sure as hell would have to commend him for the sincerity of the cover.

The music wound down, soft as it began, and Remy’s head slumped down to his chest as the crowd applauded. He kept a downcast posture on his uncoordinated trip back to the table and melted into his chair, boneless.

“That was powerful,” Scott said, half-standing to clap Gambit on the shoulders. “You gotta chin up, Rem. The people, they shut up to listen to you. That’s how ya know you got ‘em. If Rogue coulda heard you, she’d get it, y’know? Like, I dunno, maybe can mine an’ Jean’s psychic rapport make it so… so… like a radio transmission, or somethin’... my ears t’ Rogue’s brain. I’ll ask ‘er. I dunno. I think maybe she shut me out a little bit ago. ‘S quiet up here.”

“Smart gal,” Logan smirked. He had already taken care of the check while Remy sang his heart out, and placed a comically generous tip on a part of the table unsaturated by the numerous beer spills. He pushed out his chair and stood up. “C’mon kids, it's way past yer bedtime.”

It was a short walk across the dirt parking lot and through a vacant grassy field to get back to the motel. The two establishments were in eyeshot of each other. That didn’t mean, however, that it would necessarily be easy getting those two drunkards there in one piece.

Scott and Remy staggered with arms across each other’s shoulders, belting out the chorus to “What About Love,” unfortunately, for the people of Dunn, in two different keys. Logan never would have guessed the two of them were such fans of Ann Wilson. Somewhere in the reverie of the music, Scott lost his bearings as to where the ground began. He took one false step and fell forward in the rocky dust, before even Logan could do anything to prevent it.

Scott let out a raucous laugh, and awkwardly got to his feet, not helped at all by Remy’s clumsy attempts to give him a hand.

“Oh, shit, you bleedin’, homme,” Remy said.

“Huh? No, I’m not,” Scott said, brushing his dusty and bloodied palms against each other.

Not only were the heels of his hands skinned, so were his elbows and knees. Logan saw the blood seeping through those places on Slim’s clothes.

He grabbed Scott’s wrist and turned the kid’s hand so that his palm faced up. He needed to remind Cyclops that he was, in fact, still intensely drunk, plus he thought Remy looked like he could do with a moment to steady himself.

“Oh, wow, I am bleeding. That’s so weird, I can’t feel it at all!” He laughed again. “Is this what it feels like to have your healing factor?”

“You got it, Slim,” Wolverine moved over to help steady Gambit, not wanting to deal with another kid eating dirt. “No pain, good times all the time.”

They managed to make it to the motel entrance before Remy made a beeline for the bushes at the front of the building.

Logan shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

Despite his enhanced senses making it extremely unpleasant, he came behind Remy to hold onto his shoulders, to keep him from falling.

“There, there, kiddo. Feel better with that outta yer system?”

Gambit cleared his throat, then straightened his posture as much as his impaired nervous system would allow. “Dey charge us fo’ damages if dey happen outside?”

“Not if they can’t prove it was you,” Logan said. “Let’s get a move on.”

Somehow, Scott managed to get distracted by the night sky while Remy was recovering, and Logan had to go back and grab him.

“Look,” Scott said, pointing to what he probably thought was a single spot, but in reality was wavering all over the place. “Those stars are, like… blinking in and out. Isn’t that weird?”

“Slim. That’s you. Yer blinkin’.”

“Oh.”

Once Logan was convinced Remy wouldn’t get sick again, he pulled the boys by the arm into the motel, down the hall, and back in the room. Remy was all but dead weight by the time Logan eased him onto the bed, but Scott had slightly more life left in him.

“Wait,” he said, even though he was sitting down of his own accord. “Gotta brush my teeth.”

“Knock yerself out,” Logan answered, knowing it wasn’t going to happen. He knelt down and untied Remy’s boots. Cajun’s legs dangled limply as Logan pulled his shoes off. And Scott wasn’t making any moves to actually get up. Logan went ahead and got his dusty boots off as well.

“Thanks,” Scott hummed. “You’re a really nice guy, you know that?”

Meanwhile, Remy started snoring loudly.

“So I been told.”

Chapter Text

The dark was too damn bright, the silence too damn loud. Antarctica, Shadow King possession, Sinister’s knife, all of these were preferable to whatever was tormenting Gambit now. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, to pull the pillow off of his face, to move a fraction. Staying completely still was the only thing keeping his brain inside his skull, his guts from spilling out. He tried to remember where he was, what had happened to him, but even that much activity was too much.

“Welcome back ta Planet Earth.”

Wait, who was talking? And how were they so loud?

“Why you Banshee-screechin’?” Remy grumbled. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, pressed his pillow hard against his face. All he felt was the sensation of spinning, tumbling, falling.

“Good Lord, Cajun, I’m tryin’ ta be nice. I got medicine, fix ya up real quick.”

“Zis Purgatory? I understand why I died, but how come you here, Logan?”

“You ain’t that lucky, Gumbo. We’re both still alive and kickin’... Don’t know yet if we can say the same fer Summers. Sit up. The longer you lie there, the worse yer gonna feel.”

What the hell did Logan know? The cocoon Remy had made for himself was the only thing keeping him together. He was in the stage of metamorphosis where he was no longer a caterpillar, not yet a butterfly, but a liquid mess of nothing, held together by a fragile shell. He couldn’t even imagine breaking out, becoming anything but a puddle.

“Drink yer coffee while it’s still hot. Time ta turn back into a person, Gambit.”

“Why you don’ pick on Scotty? I’m ‘wake, dat’s better’n he doin’.”

His throat hurt when he talked. He imagined it had probably been a long time since he drank any water. He also figured there probably wasn’t a single part of his body that didn’t hurt.

“One battle at a time, bub.”

Remy felt the weight of the pillow leave his face, felt Logan lift him up by the shoulders. He thought they might dislocate.

“Put dem claws away,” he groaned, his eyes still closed.

“God, yer a princess,” Logan complained. “I’m treatin’ ya as gentle as a newborn kitten, Gumbo. Don’t know how much nicer ya expect me ta be.”

“You feelin’ merciful, mon ami? Get me a handgun, one shot’s all I need.”

“Maybe try fer the less extreme option first, pal.”

Remy felt the warm styrofoam cup placed into his hand. He didn’t want to move, but he was already being tormented, he may as well do something to stop the nagging. He almost gagged at the first swallow of bitter coffee, but once he got it down, he was pleasantly surprised that it helped him feel less violently nauseated. Maybe Logan did know what he was doing, even if not from any firsthand experience.

Then, Remy felt some motion, a faint sign of life from the previously corpse-still body asleep beside him.

“Ngh, why are you guys yelling?” Scott mumbled. His back was turned, and he spoke with his face turned down into his pillow.

“Dat’s exactly what I was sayin’,” Gambit slumped back against the headboard. It was soft. The pillow that previously covered his face had been placed behind his back.

“God— can you take that coffee out of here? I’m trying really hard to keep my insides inside.”

“Didn’t think you would be even more sensitive than the Little Prince of Thieves. Coffee’s good fer a hangover. What do you normally do?”

“Get Jean to fix it.” His voice was almost completely muffled by his pillow.

Gambit would have strangled Cyclops right there if he had the strength. Scott had been with Jean since they were kids, right? Had this man never had to suffer the full consequences of a hangover? How could he expect to follow a man that never had to face the music the next morning?

“Well Red ain’t here, Summers, and I doubt she’s gonna tune back in any time soon, so what’d’ya do when she ain’t around to kiss it’n make it better?”

“Ask you guys very politely to shut up and get that coffee away from me. Please.”

“Dat ain’t gon’ happen, Cyke. Zis here restorin’ my life force, I t’ink.”

He said that. He didn’t fully believe it. In fact, the coffee was making his guts hurt worse than they already did. But Remy weighed the two options of what could go wrong with his digestive system and decided the nausea-reducing properties of coffee overruled the downsides.

“Uh, sorry, Scotty, I’m gon’ hog zat washroom for about… two hours an’ den prolly shower for forever,” he said, scrambling to pull himself out of bed. “Good luck wit’ whatever battle you up against.”

—

He was surprisingly about right with his time estimate. Through the door, he could regrettably hear that Scott was having a rough time of his own, so he made a quick escape back into the room to grab his portable radio and turn up the rock music loud. It couldn’t make his headache any worse, and it drowned out Scott’s struggle, cutting Remy’s sympathy pains.

When he came back out, he was feeling weak and swimmy, and down at least a couple pounds of water weight.

The steam filled the motel room, where Scott was still in bed, wilted over a trashcan.

“I hate you,” he rasped.

Gambit realized that Logan must have switched out Scott’s glasses for his eye mask last night.

In a motion that made Remy’s head spin, Scott pulled himself out of bed and carried his bin to the bathroom, threw the radio out on the floor, and turned the shower back on.

“Zat comin’ out a’ yo’ salary!” Gambit complained.

“I dunno, Cajun, I think Cyke just became my favorite X-Man,” Logan said, glancing up from the newspaper he was reading. Somehow, none of the body horror that had been going on between the two of them seemed to bother Wolverine at all, even with his enhanced senses of smell and hearing. He was sipping his coffee and sitting with his legs crossed in the arm chair, whistling a tune.

Gambit fell back on the bed, stretching his arm across his eyes.

“Homme, I give you my first born if you be a real one, go down an’ gimme a big ol’ fries an’ Coke.”

“I’ll hold ya to that, bub.” Logan fished Remy’s wallet out of the jeans he’d discarded on the floor and headed out.

After about an hour, the sound of the showerhead cut off, and Scott emerged, his hair wet from the shower, but his face pale and sticky with sweat. He flopped down on the bed, wrapped in his towel and let out the loudest, most dramatic sigh Gambit had ever heard— save from himself. Without knowing it, Scott matched Remy’s posture, covering his eyes with his arm.

“I think I lost some internal organs. Is that possible?”

“Heard tell someone in ze Guild once coughed up a kidney. But dat were ‘cause of Candra, not Coors.”

“It was Miller, not Coors. You were more blacked out than me, I guess.”

Gambit grumbled in acknowledgement, then rolled face down onto the bed.

Of course, that was when Scott just had to have the audacity to ask something of him.

“Hey, Rem. Can you get me my glasses? I’m guessing Logan must’ve put them somewhere nearby.”

Another moan answered his request. Remy’s voice was muffled by the pillows he had buried his face into.

“Ain’t not’in’ worth seein’ on zis day, homme. Don’ even bother wit’ ‘em.”

“Much as I’d love to languish here all day, we do have a timetable, in case you forgot. Unfortunately, we have to live with the consequences of our actions. Prepare for one shitty ride to Florida.”

Gambit didn’t take in half of the words spilling out of Cyclops. It didn’t matter, anyway. No way was he moving until the minute they needed to hit the road.

“Wolverine grab ‘em when he get back.”

“I liked you better when you were Ann Wilson,” Scott said.

“Touché, I like you better when you was de Breakfast Club.”

“Oh, God,” Cyclops groaned. “Was I really on about the freaking Breakfast Club?”

“Said you and ze Princess understand each other better’n anyone else.”

“Mm, it depends on the day,” Scott said. “Today I’m not even a person.”

“Gambit toast to dat if we hadn’t drunk zis town dry.”

“Do me a favor and don’t talk about it? I think I’ve finally dehydrated myself completely, but I don’t want to test that hypothesis out.”

Just then, Logan opened the door and Gambit sat up to see his friend looking like more of a hero than he’d ever seen in his life. The smell of the McDonald’s fries restored his energy before he even took a bite.

“Nectar of ze gods,” Remy sighed, taking the cold Coke in his hand. “Bless you, Wolverine.”

“Gotcha a health potion, too, Slim,” Logan said, handing Scott a styrofoam cup. “Good fer what ails ya. C’mon, glasses on. Ya need to at least try to be a person.”

“You missed the conversation between me and Gambit. Not sure that option is on the table yet.”

“Summers, quit bein’ an infant.” Logan grabbed Scott’s glasses from the bedside table and passed them over. “Now, you kids through purgin’ yer brains out yet? We got a lotta road to cover.”

“We’ll tough it out one way or another,” Cyclops said, before reaching over and stealing some of Gambit’s fries. Suddenly, Remy wished Logan hadn’t given him his glasses back. He much preferred being the only thief in this group. “Damn, those are good.”

“Shame you didn’t order none,” Remy said.

“Gambit, play nice. Sharin’ is carin’.”

Gambit scowled, moving himself and the fries further to the edge of the bed, away from Scott.

“Um… we left the bikes here last night?” Scott asked hopefully.

“Yup. You boys had a peaceful, quiet, uneventful walk home.”

Scott looked down at his skinned palms, twisted his arm and touched the scrapes on his elbows.

“Good to hear,” he replied, deadpan. “Give me a minute to get some clothes on and I’m ready to go. You, Gambit?”

“Y’all sure y’don’t wanna check out zis festival? Can’t think of no better time’n celebratin’ dump trucks and dead country singers.”

“Well then, you just go ahead and put in fer time off so ya can catch Link Wray Fest 2001. Up and at ‘em, kiddo, Orlando’s callin’.”

—

Gambit followed Scott as he pulled onto the shoulder of the highway, just outside of Orlando. Scott kicked out his side stand, pulled off his helmet, and let out what was only fair to call a scream of despair.

“I hate the South. I hate it here. I hate it.”

He untied the bandana off his wrist and started to wipe frantically at the visor of his helmet.

“Got me driving blind. What the hell is this?”

“Aw, dat’s mighty kind a’ you takin’ de point, killin’ all dem lovebugs for us, frère. Need ta get you some windshield fluid.”

“They’re not coming off,” he said, trying very hard to regain composure. “Eugh, lovebugs?”

Scott’s face looked almost as pale as it had first thing that morning.

“What’s the hold up?” Logan grumbled, as he joined them on the shoulder.

“Our fearless leader ain’t too keen on ze natives ‘round here.”

“Who the hell sees these bastards and thinks ‘lovebugs’? What the fuck is wrong with this place? I’m wearing more insects than clothes at this point.”

In the past twenty-four hours, Remy had seen Cyclops drunk off his ass and sick as a dog. Even so, this was the most unraveled he had ever witnessed their rigid, uptight, unflinching leader. And it was not something Gambit could easily let go by without milking it for all it was worth.

“Looks good on you, Cyke. Ain’t never seen ya zis one wit’ nature before.”

“Next exit is for downtown Orlando,” Scott said, seemingly to himself, sounding suspiciously like someone trying to talk themselves down from a panic attack. “We’ll be out of the swampland. Evvvvverything is going to be fine.”

He scrubbed even more furiously at his visor shield. Gambit chuckled, as it dawned on him that he might actually get the pleasure of seeing their field commander genuinely break from reality.

“Slim. Ya know the swamp don’t stop just ‘cause…”

“Shhh!” Gambit hissed at Wolverine. “Non, you right, Cyke, dem bugs naught but a temporary problem. Dey hose ze streets down wit’ deet in zis beautiful city.”

“Jokes are great, really excellent morale building, and I so appreciate it, Gambit. But we’re not going anywhere if I can’t scrape out a line of sight here.”

Snikt. With a motion like sharpening a knife against a whetstone, Logan cleaned a good swath of the visor. He flicked his wrist and pulverized love bug spilled onto the ground, like blood from a katana in a samurai movie.

Scott shivered, and spat on the ground, as though by having the bugs that close to his face, his mouth had been contaminated. “Thanks. Gambit, take the point.”

—

Gambit’s shield was clear as it started out that morning, by the time they rolled up to the first motel with a vacancy sign. And yet, somehow, Scott managed to catch another coating of pests across his visor on the short drive. Even though they were nowhere near his own corner of the South, Remy couldn’t help but feel like he had been given a welcome home gift.

“A vacant motel, eighty percent humidity, an’ a whole lot a’ lovin’ from all dem bugs. T’ings is finally startin’ t’ look up on zis road trip.”

Remy smiled, stretched, felt the moisture in the air settling all dewy on his face. Scott cussing under his breath was just the happy soundtrack to the start of a beautiful evening.

He left Cyclops to his psychosis in the parking lot, and Wolverine to the managing of that psychosis, and headed into the motel office. The place looked completely empty, but the heavy smell of dank let him know somebody was on shift.

“Yo. Y’got some customers out here.”

He heard a wet coughing fit from the back room, followed by a dazed looking teen plodding up to the desk, as though in a sleepwalk. The kid didn’t seem to quite have his verbal faculties at the moment, and greeted Gambit with a slack-jawed stare.

“Yo name tag upside down, homme.”

“Wha?” The kid glanced down, confused.

“Never you mind, child. We in from outta town. In need a’ t’ree rooms, if you got ‘em.”

Remy hoped, hoped, that this time, he could score some privacy. Sharing with those two wasn’t the worst ever, but he could do without their miserably early wake up time, or bedtime, for that matter. Sure, it wasn’t the smartest use of their money, but it wasn’t like this team had ever been strapped for cash.

“We don’t got three rooms,” the kid rasped. He continued to stare, probably not realizing that what he gave was not exactly useful information.

“Alright…” Remy replied, waiting for the boy to continue.

The open-mouth stare went unchanged.

“Den how many rooms you do have?”

“Huh?”

“You see dat big, bright ol’ neon sign out dere?”

The kid leaned to look past Gambit out the front window.

“Uh… yeah.”

“You read what it say?”

“What does it say?” he asked.

“Boy, you musta paid high dollar fo’ yo’ supply. Damn. Anyways, yo’ sign say vacancy. So you got any rooms up in here?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, dis good, we makin’ progress here. You happen to know how many rooms you got free?”

“It’s forty dollars a night.”

Remy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and looked back at the teen.

“Dat just great, couyon, but how many rooms dat get me?”

“We only got one room, dude.”

Not wanting to hold this boy’s diminished brain capacity hostage for any longer, Remy simply handed him his card, and watched carefully as the kid took his information. He grabbed the key and card and started back for the front door.

“Take some free advice an’ maybe ret’ink yo’ career in hospitality, mon ami.”

Moving down the stairs to rejoin his teammates, he flashily displayed the single key.

“You’re fucking with us, Gambit,” Cyclops said through gritted teeth. “Tell me you’re fucking with us.”

“Don’ tell me you want a break from us roomies? We gettin’ t’ick as t’ieves on zis here adventure.”

Scott looked like he was coming out of his skin.

“How the hell is it that every place we go, everybody else in the entire country is there too? I swear, there’s never been a hotel shortage like this in the entire history of hotels existing.”

“Not since ze first Christmas, mon ami, and look what ze world got outta dat. We on ze brink of great t’ings, it just fate.”

Suddenly, Cyclops hissed in pain and swatted at his neck.

“Damn,” Logan remarked, taking his cigar out of his mouth for a second. “Never seen a horse fly that size before.”

Scott’s shoulders slumped as he let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the sore spot on his neck. “The things we put up with for the Cause… Let’s get the hell inside before any more vampires come out.”

Chapter Text

No matter how much sweat condensed on his face, it never evaporated. Maybe there was just too much water in the air for evaporation to work anymore. Maybe the South made natural physical processes go haywire. Made as much sense as anything else down here.

Scott squeezed his eyes shut as a sharp blow to his face made his glasses slide down. Before the angry words could leave his mouth, Gambit spoke up.

“Skeeter on yo’ face.”

Remy’s stupid smile made his anger rise. Scott could not take much more of this.

“Listen, we didn’t come to Orlando for a food truck festival. I never knew there were so many festivals on the East Coast. We came here to learn what the Mutants for Humanity are up to next. In case you forgot.”

It certainly seemed like Gambit forgot. Remy was lost in a world of pleasure, licking melted cheese and plantain mash from his fingertips after polishing off yet another arepa.

“Slim, there’s a time fer gatherin’ intel, and there’s a time fer fuelin’ up. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with gettin’ some food while we figure out what’s next.”

Logan took a huge, feral bite of his gyro, didn’t seem to mind the tzatziki dripping everywhere.

“Okay, but we are not going to find information about MFH in the middle of a… what are they calling it?”

“Food Truck Round Up, mon frère! An’ you best get some Carolina barbeque while we here, seein’ as we missed it when we was back in Dunn.”

Honestly, the smells of all the fried food in the hot, humid air were a bit much. Scott wondered how Logan was able to deal with it all. Then again, Logan wasn’t the one being eaten alive by more species of insects than Scott knew how to identify.

Gambit must have acquired some kind of psychic ability in that moment.

“Dem bugs’ll stop lovin’ on ya so much if ya eat somet’in’ spicy. Dey only go in for dat sweet blood.”

Scott knew how well-versed Remy was in folk cures, but couldn’t tell if it was a sincere piece of advice, or his teammate continuing to screw with him. Either way, he was in no mood for anything that would make him sweat even more.

“Anything against eating and walking?” Scott asked. “I’d feel better if we were at least passively looking for any leads.”

“I think ya confuse the meanin’ of passive, Slim. Sit down a spell and do some people-watchin’, why don’t ya? Ya might be surprised what we find.”

“People-watching doesn’t help us locate Creed,” Scott protested. “Without any further data to act on, all we can do is sit on our asses and wait for the MFH interest meeting tomorrow.”

“Sounds pretty sweet to me,” Logan replied.

“I’m wit’ de old man on zis one, Cyke,” Gambit said through a mouthful of food. “Why make mo’ work for ourselves when we got as good a openin’ as any jus’ waitin’ for us on ze ot’er side of ze night? Gotta learn to let ze good times be good, y’know?”

Whatever united front these two had going on was going to make Scott lose it. It was just like housekeeping in the mansion all over again. Logan and Remy not giving a damn about what needed to be done to keep an operation running smoothly. Just kick back, let somebody else take care of things, it will all fall into place. How did they ever get anything done on their own?

“Yer just pissy ‘cause ya ain’t had anything to eat since NC. Just park yer ass here for a minute. I’ll be back.”

Logan whistled a quiet Johnny Cash tune as he stood up and slipped back into the crowd. Scott took Logan’s place next to Gambit on the bench. He swatted at the heavy air around his ears. Something vicious was buzzing, probably getting ready to feast on Mutant blood.

Remy raised an eyebrow at him.

“Zis yo’ first time gettin’ bug-bit or somet’in’?”

“Me and insects don’t get along too well,” Scott said, trying not to shudder. He wiped the rolling sweat off his lip— like it could do any good. His hand was nearly as drenched with perspiration as his face. “How are you not sweating to death out here?”

“You sweatin’ now, frère, you be dead an’ rottin’ come August.”

“You forget I come from Alaska, Remy. This isn’t exactly my M.O. Bugs and humidity are kind of far from my comfort zone.”

“Ain’t dat what ze Danger Room for? We shoulda programmed in some Florida for you.”

“With any kind of luck, we’ll be out of here before I need to learn to get used to it. Find Creed, and follow our leads wherever they go.”

Just then, a loud and drunk college kid shouldered his way through the crowd, his small and skinny girlfriend clinging onto his hand, probably trying her best not to get lost and left behind. The drunk kid began bellowing something about those idiots in DC. It took Scott a few moments to try to make out the low-contrast text on the guy’s T-shirt.

He nudged Gambit and whispered, “Hey, Rem, does that say…”

“Yeah, we got us one a’ yo’ brother’s friends.”

The young man’s speech was pretty headache-inducing, but it was worth paying attention to. This was the first explicit MFH supporter they had seen since Pennsylvania.

“See, I don’t like that Alex Summers guy too much, I think he’s a government shill, y’know? But this new Beaubier dude, he tells it like it is.”

Scott didn’t even have time to react before Remy spoke up.

“Damn straight,” he said loudly, straightening clumsily on the bench, slurring his speech slightly. It caught the man’s attention. “Summers a fuckin’ coward. Too scared to push too hard ‘gainst dem mutie bastards. May as well sit down, fat lotta good he doin’.”

“Whoa,” the kid sputtered, holding up his hands, splashing some beer on himself, “this guy don’t hold back.” Gambit’s use of the slur seemed to catch him off-guard. “Can’t say you wrong, though. MFH, we don’t got use for guys like Summers. This Beaubier, he ain’t afraid to tell the truth. Mutants got no place in today’s society, y’know? That Alpha Flight, X-Men, X-Factor bullshit, those people just flaunting their freakshow— it’s garbage, leave that shit in the past. I think Summers is still tryin’ to hold onto some of his old clout with that crowd— have it both ways. Beaubier ain’t afraid to dunk on Alpha Flight, that’s why I respect him.”

There must have been a dozen or more mosquitos actively stabbing into his skin, for how itchy Scott was. He desperately wanted to take the lead on this, drill for the information he wanted. But Remy had started this, and he wasn’t letting go. Gambit laughed, slumping back into the bench.

“You got dat right, homme. Voices like Summers’ don’t mean shit if dey just tryin’ to cover they own asses. Hope Beaubier show up for dat meetin’ tomorrow, got some questions I’d wanna t’row his way, size him up, y’know?”

“Damn, buddy, ya just missed him! He was at my college just yesterday. Dude’s a good debater. But he ain’t makin’ another appearance ‘til, I think, Salt Lake City next week.”

“Just ‘tween you an’ me, how close to ze top you t’ink he at in all zis? Don’ t’ink dey got no one better to front it, but you really t’ink he got ze brains to keep zis t’ing movin’? Can’t help but wonder who behind it all, why he ain’t wantin’ his face out in front, y’know?”

“ ‘Tween you and me?” the kid slurred, lowering his voice to a loud whisper. “I heard they got Moira MacTaggert in on this movement. There’s talk about pullin’ in Gabrielle Haller, too. My theory? Whoever runs the show is too big to go public right now, without upsetting the whole frickin’ world order. Maybe we’re talkin’, like, Von Doom, or Wakanda or some shit. Big players… Hey, you.”

The young man pointed a wobbling finger at Scott. The student’s girlfriend blushed, maybe worried about a confrontation.

“You been awful quiet. Got somethin’ you like to say?”

Scott shrugged and played up some awkward mannerisms, rubbing the back of his hair. “I’m kinda new to this whole MFH deal. It’s embarrassing, but I used to go in for that Charles Xavier shit. But the more I learned about Summers’ message, the more it made sense. I’m just trying to learn.”

The college kid looked like he wanted to say more, but his girlfriend, who had been sighing and rolling her eyes the entire time, tugged at his arm.

“Come oooonnnnn, Travis. You said no politics tonight. And you promised to buy me a churro.”

Once the kids were gone, Scott and Remy exchanged somber looks.

“Shit,” Remy sighed.

“Poor Logan,” Scott replied.

Then, they heard Wolverine’s voice.

“That ain’t a phrase I like to hear, Slim.”

He handed Scott a paper tray of fish tacos drizzled with chipotle sauce. It was probably the healthiest option in this whole place.

“What’s the bad news?” Logan asked.

“MFH recruited Northstar… I’m sorry, Logan.”

Through his teeth, Wolverine let out a low growl. “He ain’t my teammate,” he said after a moment. “Fuck Alpha Flight.”

He said that, but his eyes looked sad.

“It’s smart of them to swap Alex for Beaubier,” Scott admitted. “Diversity makes their platform look more legitimate. Having a gay Mutant speaking for them doubles their value.”

“Jean-Paul’s an asshole, but he’s a good kid,” Logan sighed. “He knows discrimination more’n most of us. You suspected it with Alex, and this proves it… Somethin’ ain’t right with these recruits.”

“What kinda Koolaid you t’ink Creed mixin’ up to make zese folk go along wit’ all zis?”

“Must be somethin’ even sweeter than Slim’s blood is to these mosquitos,” Logan scoffed, then slapped Scott’s forearm hard.

Scott glanced down at the dead mosquito’s bloodied body. Disgusting.

“Okay, can we talk about all this back at the motel, at least?” Scott suggested, scratching violently at his wrist. “Creed’s in Salt Lake City, we’re not gonna learn anything else useful by sitting around donating blood.”

—

If they had to share a room, again, Scott was at least grateful that there were two beds and a pullout couch this time. Finally, some semblance of personal space. And they couldn’t have gotten back to the motel soon enough.

But Gambit, unfortunately, delayed them with a good point, that they ought to buy some clothes that made them blend in a bit better, if they wanted to make the most of their opportunity. Scott and Logan grabbed the first tanks and shorts they saw in their respective sizes, but Gambit seemed to think it was a full shopping excursion, and a chance to play dress up. An hour after finding the store, they were finally able to go get some rest.

And God, Scott needed the rest. He almost didn’t care about making a plan for the morning at all. He cared about showering, scrubbing his skin raw until the bug bites just eroded away from the friction. He cared about going into a coma until he didn’t have to feel anything these insects had done to him anymore.

He was so out of it that he didn’t notice when something came flying at him, barely missing hitting him in the face. He looked down at where it landed on the bed. Hydrocortisone cream.

“Knock yo’self out, homme.”

“Thanks.” Scott unscrewed the cap and began to slather himself with it, not caring that it would wash off in the shower and he’d have to apply more. He needed the relief now. “So, for tomorrow, we’re going to be quiet and observant, not start anything with any of these MFH losers. We’re open-minded seekers, maybe curious to convert, but we don’t have any hard beliefs yet.”

“Dat’s us. Ain’t no hard heads in zis lot. Easy.”

“Think we’ve all been at this game long enough to know the drill, Summers. Don’t see what good it’s gonna do any of us to make an itemized agenda of it. Best just turn in for the night, give yerself plenty time for that inflammation to go down.”

Scott had barely looked at how bitten up his arms and legs were, it was bad enough just feeling it. But the raised bumps, the redness, the swelling, all looked so much worse than they should have. Clearly, whatever these Florida bugs were made of, Scott’s immune system was not a fan.

—

“Cajun, I swear to God, ya open that window one more time—”

The digital clock read out 3:35 AM. And it was the third time Remy had gotten up to switch off the air conditioning and invite more toxic insects into their room. Logan didn’t bother keeping his voice down. On this trip, he was learning that Cyclops could sleep through anything.

Gambit must have realized the same, as he didn’t worry about answering quietly either.

“Y’know zis torture, oui? Ain’t got one minute’a sleep since we turned in. Y’all tryin’ to turn Gambit into a ice sculpture?”

“Try puttin’ some damn clothes on. Maybe yer immune to this place, but yer gonna give Slim malaria. He’s pissy enough as it is.”

“Don’t make no difference to him, he out for ze night whet’er or not a few more bugs come to say hello.”

Logan growled under his breath. “Well, maybe, just maybe I have an opinion on this matter, too. Just ‘cuz I have my healing factor don’t mean I just gotta bear whatever swampy bullshit you want to inflict here. Windows stay closed. Got it?”

Gambit’s eyes narrowed, throwing a cutting glare in Wolverine’s direction.

“It fallin’ on yo’ shoulders when you wake up in ze mornin’, find me as frostbit as Cyke is bugbit.”

Somehow— miraculously— Logan’s speech worked, and Remy actually stayed put. After so many days of having to look after these two whiny, sick, and immature kids, he finally let himself give into the rest that he needed— for his mind, at least, if not for his body. The hum of the air conditioner gave him a pleasant sense of vindication, and lulled him into unconsciousness.

He actually was able to drift into a pleasant dream, a rare pleasure. Nothing specific, just sights, sensations. Cherry blossom season. Foamy petals on the fragrant breeze. An onsen. An onsen where he wasn’t alone… someone important there with him. Someone lovely, someone who felt like home.

But a sound of sheer violence ripped him out of it. Logan awoke, suddenly upright in bed with his claws out.

“Oh, what de fuck, Cyclops?” Gambit shouted, hurling a pillow at their teammate, who was evidently in the middle of an extremely loud nightmare. Logan was grateful that Cajun didn’t charge up the missile before deploying it.

Wolverine swung his legs over the edge of the bed and poked Scott’s shoulder with his claw.

“Summers— wake up or shut up.”

He even drew a tiny bit of blood where he stuck him, but Scott was deeply asleep. And suddenly quiet and peaceful, as though he hadn’t just raised everyone’s adrenaline.

“Mon dieu,” Remy huffed. “He always like dat? How come Jeannie ain’t leave him by now?”

“Accordin’ to her, this is the usual,” Logan sighed. “Couldn’ta believed it till now. Man could sleep through a nuclear war.”

“What you say we add a gag to zat blindfold situation he got goin’ on? Be a less disturbin’ night if Gambit have a couple’a cicadas stuck ‘tween his ears.”

“Windows stay shut, no matter what, Gumbo.”

Logan rolled over and went back to sleep.

—

A nauseating scent pulled Logan out of his rest, nearly turning his stomach. He looked at the clock. 5:45am. Scott was still asleep, but Remy’s bed was empty. A distinctly irritated tone colored the quiet singing coming from the bathroom. Even through the closed door, the smell of Gambit’s aftershave hovered around Wolverine like a noxious cloud.

Remy was rich. His whole family was rich. What excuse in the world did he have to be wearing knockoff Dior? And a piss-poor knockoff, at that. It couldn’t have been that the man was trying to be frugal, not when he had to have used the entire bottle this morning. Logan breathed through his mouth so as not to gag.

Like clockwork, Scott roused not a second after 6:00. He groaned as he sat up.

“Ugh. How is it that after a shower, an entire tube of hydrocortisone, and an uninterrupted night’s sleep, I feel a thousand times worse now than I did last night?”

Logan didn’t feel like responding to any of that. With the somersaults his insides were doing, on top of how pissed he was at both of his roommates, he knew anything he had to say would come out edgy. It was inevitable, but he figured he may as well put it off as long as possible.

Scott put on his glasses and surveyed the room.

“Wait, how is Gambit the first one out of bed?”

Remy shouted back from behind the bathroom door. “ ‘Cause Gambit didn’t sleep none! T’anks to you hollerin’ an’ Logan freezin’ me out.”

He swung the door open and stepped out into the room, bringing with him a huge waft of the chemical horror. His outfit seemed a taunting invitation to all the bugs in the state. Between the extremely short cutoffs and the midriff-baring tank, he was showing about as much skin as possible, while not breaking any laws.

“Oh, shit, Cyke! You gon’ die.”

Cyclops said nothing, but immediately got out of bed and walked quickly over to the long mirror in the hallway.

“You’re kidding me,” he groaned. “What the hell is this?”

“So much fo’ bein’ inconspicuous.”

Logan covered his face with his sheet, took a deep breath of filtered air, and decided to finally see what all their fuss was about. By the time he was within a meter of Cyclops, he could feel the kid had a fever.

“Great. Just fantastic,” Logan sighed.

Scott was standing in front of the mirror, twisting his arms and legs to examine all the damage. Where there had been simply bug bites before, there were welts the size of his hand. They covered his forearms, his shins, his neck.

Logan saw the veins and tendons of Scott’s hands bulge as he stood there, more rigid than he had ever witnessed their team leader be. Balling his hands into tight fists, he sighed deeply.

“I don’t have time to think about this. We’re getting out of here, stopping by the drug store to grab every antihistamine they have, and heading to the meeting.”

Logan wondered if Cyclops really did have the mental capacity to simply set aside the pain and pretend it wasn’t there, affecting every movement. He watched as Scott pulled on his jeans, not wanting to imagine the rough feeling of the denim on his hot, swollen skin.

“You gon’ bust dem welts wide open like dat, mon ami.”

“Better than parading around looking like a leper. Like we talked about— inconspicuous.”

Scott shivered as he looked around for his bike jacket, sweat already rolling down his face.

“Ugh, I think I have a fever. Please just tell me this isn’t the Brood.”

“Don’t even joke about that, Slim.”

Now it was Logan’s turn to shiver. His skin crawled at the memory. He could feel those critters in his veins, his guts, his brain.

Remy took turns staring them both down, clearly unhappy with being out of the loop on what they were talking about.

“Who’s joking?” Scott said, his teeth chattering from the chills. He pulled on his jacket and zipped it. “These bugs aren’t normal.”

“Y’all gone and fought some monster bugs wit’out me?”

“Hardly a fight,” Scott replied, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

Logan noticed that he, too, had the same reaction in his body.

Gambit took a second to think, cocking his head.

“Wait… y’all got pregnant wit’ bugs?”

“I said we’re not talking about it,” Logan snarled.

“Damn, Gambit miss out on everyt’in’. Dey some bug daycare out dere wit’ a bunch a’ li’l X-Man bug babies crawlin’ around?”

“Shut up, Gambit,” Scott said. “We’ve got a meeting to infiltrate.”

“Who-all else bug mamas and daddies I don’ know ‘bout? Why everyone keepin’ all zese bug nieces and nephews a’ mine a secret?”

“Listen, Remy, we genuinely need you to stop it. I started out yesterday morning puking my guts out, and I don’t want to head that direction again today.”

“Musta been some bad mornin’ sickness.”

“Gumbo. Do ya want Rogue ta find out ya got dumped in one a’ these nice gator-infested canals? Or do ya want to continue bein’ a livin’ and breathin’ X-Man?”

“Hell, Gambit jus’ sad t’ know he be missin’ out on sendin’ y’all Mot’er’s Day cards ever’ year.”

“Yer that cut up about it, maybe we’ll send the Brood yer way, see what ya missed out on.”

—
What was every Floridian’s obsession with turning on the A/C in early spring? Even the crowding of bodies into the small church fellowship hall did nothing to help the temperature situation. As if Gambit needed one more reason to justify his bad mood. The only thing giving him any amount of pleasure this morning was watching Cyclops try to keep his composure with an obscene amount of Benadryl in his system.

It seemed that Wolverine felt the responsibility to direct the group. It surprised Remy that Scott either didn’t notice, or didn’t care, about the regime change. As much as Gambit disliked taking orders from Cyclops, it wasn’t as though it was any better taking them from anyone else. But, at least this shook things up a bit.

Logan strode past the sad, awkward refreshments table and led his teammates over to one of the unoccupied round tables, near the back center of the room. He kept a hand on Cyclops’ back, evidently not trusting his former leader’s gross motor coordination. The second they sat down, Scott folded his arms on top of the table and laid his head down.

“Wake me up when they start talking…”

“Right now, Summers. Ain’t ya ever been drugged before?”

“I wasn’t in Weapon X,” Scott said, forcing himself to sit up and straighten up. “Just need some caffeine. I think they got coffee here…”

“I got you, frère,” Gambit said, hopping to his feet.

The truth was, he didn’t feel totally comfortable just taking a seat and waiting for the propaganda to begin. He didn’t have a complete map of this church in his mind yet, hadn’t spotted all the ways in and out. Maybe Logan’s processing was faster, or maybe he was just more comfortable slashing his way out of a situation. Gambit knew how well he could improvise, but with a still-hurting bullet wound in his arm, right now, he had a definite preference for stealth.

As he moved toward the table with the coffee urn, one person caught his eye. One real pretty redhead, closer to the Professor’s age than his own, dressed better than everyone else here. Good posture, smooth hair unaffected by the humidity. Definitely the leader of the meeting. But something didn’t sit right with him about her. He filled up a coffee cup and casually took the long way back to his team’s table, to get a closer look at her.

When he was close enough to really see her face, he kept his eyes down, and felt grateful that she probably wouldn’t recognize him. In the past, she’d only seen him from afar. Only with his red eyes uncovered. Only in his armor. Only in combat.

“Look alive, hommes,” Remy whispered as he took his seat again. “We got, uh, the ex-Mrs. X.”

“Oh, yeah, didn’t that guy say something about maybe Moira being behind—”

“Guess zis just a whole convention a’ ze Professor’s old flames,” Gambit interrupted. “Ain’t Moira MacTaggert I be seein’ over dere.”

“Amelia Voght,” Logan whispered to Scott, even quieter than Remy.

Even drugged halfway into oblivion, Cyclops still had some subtlety about him. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and took a sip of his coffee.

Somehow, Scott managed to lower the conversational volume even a little more. “Keep me out of her line of sight. I don’t think there’s a chance I can slip under her radar.”

“We on it, Cyke. Jus’ do like you was doin’ before an’ curl up all roly-poly style, we got zis.”

Sure, they were on the job, but Remy was not about to drop the bug references.

After another couple minutes of people shuffling about, finding their ways to their seats, Amelia made her way to a shoddily made pulpit on rollers, at the front of the room. She welcomed the guests to the fellowship meeting, and thanked them for their interest in forging peace between mutants and humanity.

As high alert as he was on, Gambit found it surprisingly hard to maintain his attention throughout her speech. A strong part of him wanted to make like Cyclops and sleep until something interesting happened. Amelia gave the same vague talking points as Alex had on the evening news a few days ago— the same ones Scott said Alex gave with him one-on-one in Washington.

But around them, people seemed to be into it. Bright eyes, nods of agreement, occasional mumbles of “amen” and “got that right.” Remy made sure to match their level of interest, and put on a thoughtful and observant face.

Amelia finished her talk, took a few questions from those who asked, answered in sound-bites, pointed everyone in the direction of the table with flyers and pamphlets, and thanked them all for their time and interest. An uproar of applause and a standing ovation closed the official part of the meeting. People remained to mingle and talk over at the information table, but Remy’s eyes never strayed from Amelia.

“How likely y’all reckon Ms. Voght remember zis handsome face?” Gambit asked his teammates.

“You best be real smart about it, Cajun, she’s a slippery one. She gets one hint of a lure and she’s off the hook fer good.”

“Remy… try t’not do so much… the way you talk, y’know?”

“Huh?” Gambit cocked his head, genuinely not understanding.

Scott waved his hand, as though vague gesturing could help get his meaning across. “Mon ami. Swamp stuff.”

He held his face in his palms for a second before trying again.

“I don’t think she’d remember your face, but she might… your other thing… Voice!”

“You askin’ a bird not to sing, Cyke.”

Gambit sighed, stood up, and made his way over to where Amelia was straightening up all the pamphlets and literature.

“ ‘Scuse me, ma’am,” he said, imitating Cyclops’ military posture. He figured a shift in body language would almost do more to disguise himself than a different accent. “I hope you don’t mind my askin’, not tryin’ to be rude or anythin’, but got a question to put to ya, if dat’s alright wit’ you. How is it dat someone who not dat long ago was runnin’ ‘round with Magneto makes her way to a fine cause such as dis? See, I got some real radicals in my family, wonderin’ what’s ze right t’ing to say, get ‘em to listen to some sense.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes and let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “What are radicals if not idealists, who are just frustrated with their options? Yes, I associated myself with Magneto. But his tactics didn’t exactly do much to further mutant rights, after all. When Asteroid M went apart, I suppose so did my faith. It’s time for some fresh air, some new ideas. Your family, sir— I assume they’re pro-Mutant?”

“You could say dat. Not like we even got dat many of ‘em ‘round where we live anyways, but it’s like dey only see one half of ze story, all dem sob stories. I mean, sure, not like dose stories don’t exist, but dey just actin’ blind to all ze damage some a’ dose folks done, y’know?”

“I mean, it’s not as though my only job is to push literature, but… perhaps sharing some of these?”

Amelia picked up an assortment of flyers and booklets and rack cards and handed them to Gambit. They bore titles like “The Path to Equality” and “How to Talk to the Mutants in Your Life.” Green-scaled people and kids with fangs and wings were pictured laughing next to typical-looking models. Picnics and shit. Like all the people in drug advertisements, just with a little more visual diversity. The whole thing was gross. Gambit tried to keep an open, curious expression and not let his lip curl.

“T’ank you, ma’am. Actually, zis whole meetin’ has kind of inspired me. I’d like t’ get more involved, if I could. What sorta volunteerin’ y’all in need of? Like I said, I got family I’d like t’ get on board wit’ ze platform— and I also got a couple a’ mutant coworkers, y’know, we get along alright, an’ I t’ink I might have an openin’ wit’ dem, get dem to consider what you-all got to say.”

“I have to admit, volunteering is a little bit outside my scope of operations. However, there is a number on all our literature— you can call our DC office to learn more. I’m sure there are plenty of roles that need filling, especially as we’re moving towards election season. It was lovely talking with you, Mr…?”

“Boudreaux. Nice meetin’ you as well, Ms. Voght.”

As much as Gambit would have preferred to gain something of substance from their conversation, he was fine with letting things end for now. Mr. Boudreaux had gotten his foot in the door undetected, and Remy LeBeau was more than capable of picking up where he left off. He turned to where his teammates had been sitting, grateful to see they had enough sense to go ahead and leave the church without him. It made his own exit far less conspicuous.

He found Logan and Scott loitering outside the corner store, Logan smoking a cigar and Scott sitting on the curb, chugging an energy drink.

“Well, dat turn up a whole lot a’ not’in’,” Gambit sighed, lighting a cigarette of his own and plopping down on the curb next to Cyclops.

“What a stupid waste of time and gasoline,” Scott said.

“Ain’t like she gone an’ disappeared on us, Cyke. They’s always a trail t’follow.”

“There’s nothin’ I’m better at than trackin’,” Logan said. “But I’m inclined to agree with Scott. Voght is feelin’ like a dead end. She ain’t a talker, and we’re not gonna get anywhere with her as long as we’re runnin’ with the red-headed stepchild. Sorry, Slim.”

“No offense taken. He’s right, Remy. This isn’t the right team for pursuing Amelia any further. I’d like to have some X-Men at the fundraiser in Salt Lake City, but that isn’t for almost another week. Let’s get back to Westchester and regroup. I’m… a little less dizzy, almost good to drive. We’re not giving up on this MFH thing, but we don’t have the resources here.”

“Aw, Scott, I can’t let you drive all the way back up to the school in this condition. What would Charles say if something were to happen to you on the way?”

Amelia stood there on the sidewalk, leather satchel of literature over her shoulder, looking perfectly composed as she had in the meeting. Gambit and Cyclops both got to their feet. Remy could not help but cringe as Scott went slightly off-balance for a second and relied on his teammate’s hand to steady him.

“Refreshing,” Scott said. “So we can drop the act now. What is this crap, Amelia? I know you of all people can’t truly be into Creed’s ideology.”

“You’re as naïve as the day Charles picked you up. Unlike you X-Men, I’m able to change my mind when presented with new information. And don’t kid yourself into thinking you can convince me you three are our allies.”

“We ain’t tryin’ to convince nobody, Amelia,” said Logan. “We’re just here fer information, plain and simple. Northstar and Havok didn’t join ya ‘cause of yer dazzling debate skills. Who’s runnin’ this operation, honey?”

Amelia let out a condescending laugh. “Oh, Logan. It’s cute, it’s really cute that you think you have any chance of getting what you want out of me. Unless you and your little road trip buddies are interested in a detour through the Astral Plane, I’d just drop the whole thing, cut your losses.”

“Listen, chérie, I don’ know what-all you heard about Gambit, but cuttin’ losses ain’t exac’ly how he operate. Got me a propensity t’ keep a ace up zis here sleeve…”

He realized then that his blustering was a little less effective when he didn’t have his coat on. Still, the playing cards worked the same. He pulled his deck out of his pocket— Scott and Logan shouted something at him in unison— and then an icy white wind sliced through him.

Chapter Text

Damn it all to hell.

Wolverine hadn’t been pushing through the snowstorm for long, not more than thirty minutes or so, but damn, it felt like hours. The landscape was monotonous, even as he saw the bright red beam grow larger through the thick white haze of snow pelting his vision, freezing his eyelashes together. This wasn’t the worst weather he’d ever been in, or the most stranded he’d ever found himself. If he only had himself to take care of, he would barely consider it an inconvenience. But somewhere in all this barren hellscape were two busted up, vulnerable kids who weren’t immune to the cold, and who needed him to find them, fast.

Fuck. It was unfortunate, to say the least, that Cyke was the one with a built-in beacon. He was much more likely to be able to survive an hour or two longer than Gambit, for a multitude of reasons. Alaskan, bigger by a few pounds, actually wearing clothes that covered him, and who knows, maybe that fever would turn out to be a protective factor. Remy was shivering last night in a room at seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Hopefully, the dumb kid was able to keep his strength up long enough to head towards Scott’s beacon. Hopefully.

Everything would be easier if it weren’t for this damned wind. Any trace of his teammates’ scents was swept clean from the barren landscape.

Gambit, kid, just keep movin’. I need ya to stay alive.

Logan did the only thing he could do. Keep pushing through the snow, forging his way toward the one teammate he knew for sure where he was.

For all he could tell, he and the other two X-Men might have been the only living beings around for miles. Definitely all the animals had flown away or gone underground. Logan tried to pick up any clues as to where in the world they’d ended up, as he walked against the bitter wind. No trees. No mountains. No bodies of water.

If Amelia had wanted them dead, she could have sent them into the vacuum of space, no sweat. Obviously, she saw them as only an annoyance— maybe even had a soft spot for the X-Men. So, maybe she also kept them inside the States. If that were the case, then they were somewhere in the Midwest or the Badlands, somewhere having a hell of a bad weather day in the early spring.

The bright red beam held steady, only blinking out for about a quarter of a second, every few moments. Logan figured he’d covered about half the distance over to Cyclops by now. He had to give the boy credit, he had some solid willpower to keep from blinking even more often, with all the brutal wind and snow. Not that Logan was really surprised. He knew how strong his teammates could be when their heads were actually in it. This trip had been fluke upon fluke, and shown them at their most pitiful and annoying so far. But this, right now, was the team that he chose to show up for, over and over again.

No. No, no, no, fuck no.

Without a moment to think, Logan was on all fours, running the way he had when he’d just busted out of Weapon X.

The beam had gone out. Logan had no doubt in his ability to stay his own course. He could hold the memory of Cyke’s exact location. But this was not good.

Wake up, you stupid kid. Open them red eyes.

Without Scott’s beams, finding Gambit before the weather got him was going to be nearly impossible, as long as the wind kept up like this.

A faint ruby spark, fluttering on and off. That’s better. Hang in there.

It bothered Logan that even within a hundred meters, his nose still couldn’t pick up a thing. Don’t think about that yet. Not a problem yet. Just get to Slim and then figure it out.

Finally. A silhouette at the source of the beam. It was faint, barely perceptible through the impenetrable sheets of white, but no doubt, it was there. Logan dashed toward Cyclops. It wasn’t until he was directly in front of the kid, an inch away, before Scott even realized he was there.

“Sitrep, Slim.” He hated having to spend any time talking at all, while the next thing on his mind was how much bare skin Remy had exposed to the elements. But he needed to know what he was working with, in terms of Cyclops’ health and state of mind.

Just the delay in Scott’s response was enough to tell Logan that he was not in good shape. When he finally did begin to speak, it was slow, words slurring together between chattering teeth.

“How long’s it been? Tried to keep track, lost count. Fingers feel like ice. Fuck, where are we?”

Wolverine quickly assessed Cyclops’ physical state. He was still standing, still shivering, his face was completely white, but not blue. Three good signs. But he was swaying, breathing way too fast, and obviously disoriented. Unfortunately, things could only get worse from here. They were still in a blizzard, still in the middle of nowhere, still no resources to get any warmer, and still one man down. And that man had to be in a far worse state than Scott.

“Wait, no, fuck, Logan. Where’s Gambit? Where—”

“We’re on the trail, Slim. Ya good to walk?”

Logan had checked; there was nowhere safe for Scott to wait while Wolverine went looking for their other teammate, no place to start a fire, no shelter from the snow and the wind. He needed to keep Cyclops with him, no matter how much it may slow down the search effort. There was no other option.

Scott nodded clumsily. Wolverine grabbed him firmly around the wrist and all but dragged him on their way.

“Logan…” Scott struggled out, after stumbling forward with Wolverine’s support for a few meters. “We gotta… resect… split up… or we won’t find him.”

Okay, Cyke’s thinking was even more clouded than Logan had initially estimated. Resection only worked when you could actually see shit. And Logan knew his own body heat was the only safeguard Scott had against a slow and confusing death.

“Ya don’t happen to have yer visor on ya?” he asked, trying to think of ways to simplify this SAR operation.

Logan was pretty sure the visor was in Cyke’s backpack, and thus abandoned back in Orlando. But it was worth checking.

Scott didn’t answer. Wolverine didn’t know if it was because the kid couldn’t hear or couldn’t understand. Logan stepped in front of him and held both his arms, looking him in the face.

“Cyke. Yer visor. Do ya got it?”

“In… in my jacket— wait— why did I forget that? I think… my head isn’t right…”

“Hey— wait. You don’t touch the zipper. Yer fingers are gonna be fucked as it is. I got ya.”

Logan could deal with ripped-off fingertips if that was what had to happen. Scott was dealing with enough already— and they needed to move as fast as possible. Wolverine tried not to go to worst case scenarios, but seeing Scott this bad made his anxiety for Remy peak.

He peeled his frozen fingers off the steel zipper after opening the jacket, and sliced open the interior pocket, rather than bothering with yet another fastener. Scott shivered more violently with just a thin layer of cotton protecting the front of him from the wind. That’s good, still got enough energy to shiver. Gambit’s a tough sonofabitch, he’ll keep his energy up for a while. He told it to himself, whether or not he believed it. Wolverine took a second to be grateful Scott’s glasses were ruby-quartz through and through, without any metal components, and put the visor on his face. Poor kid’s hands were practically useless now.

“Thanks… this works better.”

Logan got behind him again to help him continue to walk. Cyclops fired a beam up at the sky with surprisingly regular rhythm, considering how muddled he seemed otherwise. At about two hundred meters past their starting point, Logan began to call out Remy’s name. Scott shouted out, too, but Logan hated thinking about him burning up any unnecessary calories and made him save his strength.

“Elevation…” Scott slurred, after about fifteen minutes of walking. “…changed— different here.”

“I agree, he wouldn’ta gone this way, and definitely not uphill. We trace back in the direction I found ya.”

“Logan, if he’s… opposite side of where— where… farther away…”

Cyclops was breathing too fast to get out anything like a decent phrase, but Wolverine knew the gut-wrenching notion he was getting at. If Logan had landed in the middle of the three of them, if Scott had been the furthest out, then an X-Man was sure to die in a blizzard, in some unknown wasteland.

No. Never. Remy was a hardheaded bastard. Motherfucker had survived the Antarctic, only a heartbeat ago, really. There was no way he’d be cut down like this.

“We circle back to the starting point, give ‘im a wide circumference. Good news and bad news is there’s nowhere to hide. We’re findin’ him.”

As they started on their long spiraling path, Logan noticed Scott’s gait growing stiffer and clumsier.

“Need ya to find a store of adrenaline somewhere inside ya, Slim,” Wolverine said. “Can’t have ya givin’ out on us this soon.”

“The wind—” Scott replied, clearly not registering his teammate’s speech anymore. “Do you— Logan, got anything?”

Logan was actually pretty impressed that Cykes still managed to be this observant. The wind was calming down a bit. And with it, his senses cleared up— exponentially.

“Shhh, quiet down,” he said, grabbing Scott’s wrist hard. Logan closed his eyes and just let his body do its thing. Take in information. Feel it all. The flapping wings of a flock of snow geese, half a mile away. A scant amount of traffic, where the storm had cleared in a settlement further down the plain. The earliest traces of decomposition… a mammal body… something small, something unlucky. And something toxic. Something unnatural.

“Fucking knockoff Dior.”

In no situation but this could Logan have been grateful to catch a whiff of that stench. Immediately, he took off in its direction, as fast as he could without literally dragging Cyclops behind him. The scent grew stronger fast, and Logan both blessed and cursed how close Remy had been to them all this time. None of that mattered now, all that mattered was they had found him, and he was going to get the three of them out of there, alive, and in one piece.

With the wind calmer, it was easier to see more than a couple of inches in front of him. As they drew near the big ball of magenta cotton and blue denim shorts and gray and purple limbs, Logan picked up another scent that had been undetectable underneath the horrible aftershave. Stress, sweat… neither were good things for the kid’s body.

Only when they were directly at Remy’s side did Logan let go of Scott. He knelt down and placed a hand in front of the kid’s nose and mouth. It took a few seconds before he felt that the boy was still breathing. Just his rhythm was as slow as Scott’s was fast. Snow had started to stick to his hair, but not his skin. He couldn’t have been lying there for very long.

“Remy.” He shook the kid’s shoulder, hard. It was going to take a fair amount of effort to wake him, if that was even going to be possible at all. “Ya gonna make us carry ya the rest a’ the way?”

Light bullying was the best way he knew to get a response out of their teammate. If there was any energy left in him, they could count on at least an attempt at a comeback. No movement behind his blue eyelids. His lips were cracked, bloodied, frozen— and still.

“Damn it, Cajun.” Logan shook him a little harder, praying for an increase of tension, anything to show he was conscious.

The extended exposure to the elements really was taking its toll on Scott. He had remained entirely silent, addled, until Logan vocalized his distress.

“Shit… no. Is he…?”

“He’s alive, Slim. But he ain’t gonna be for much longer if we don’t get the hell outta this storm. And it ain’t gonna be no picnic makin’ our way outta here.”

Scott knelt down in front of Remy. Well, knelt was generous. He fell on his knees.

“How close d’you think— the nearest…” Scott’s vocabulary was failing, but his protective instincts were not. He put his arms around his fallen teammate, trying to shield him at least a little bit from the continued injury of the wind, while they talked.

Logan tuned his ears to the slightly calming storm. There was one small structure, maybe a fifth of a mile back towards the hills, where the wind went around it. A building of some sort. He hadn’t been able to detect it while the snow was whipping everywhere.

“There’s somethin’ to the northwest. Beyond where Amelia planted ya. It’s small and it’s isolated, but it’s definitely a building.”

Cyclops hummed in acknowledgment, then seemed to struggle against a new pain all through his body. Like he was trying to get out of his own skin.

“Logan— I need this offa me. Hands won’t work.”

Shit. Logan knew it was going to hurt him to inflict pain on his teammate, but Scott was right. Gambit needed the jacket more. Best get this over with fast, and get them all moving towards the indoors.

He tugged the zipper down again, and pulled the jacket off Scott’s shoulders. Logan tried to ignore the brutal shivering that immediately came over the kid, told himself it was a good thing his body was still trying to produce heat in that way. Taking the jacket and holding it close against his chest, he then grabbed Remy, and pulled him into a semi-upright position. He sliced the shirt off of his unconscious teammate. It wasn’t like it had done him much good to keep the cold out anyway, and now that it was damp from the snow, it would only do more harm if it stayed on. Remy was rigid, his limbs tightly, protectively curling around his core. It made it all the more difficult to work the jacket onto him, but Wolverine was able to massage his arms loose enough, relatively quickly.

Logan tried to put the anxiety over Remy’s frostbite out of his mind. No use worrying about it until he got the kid warmed up. Just needed to get moving.

Cyclops struggled against a stutter and chattering teeth. “I can carry ‘im… you just— lead the way to the— what was it… you said it was out there.”

Surprisingly, that actually seemed like a pretty good call. They might just move a bit faster if Scott truly did have the strength to carry Remy toward shelter. Plus, Scott would benefit from the shared body heat.

There was no need to discuss it any further. They had a plan, they were setting it in motion. Wolverine helped move Remy onto Scott’s shoulders and made sure he was steady on his feet, with the added burden. Kid was moving pretty shaky just a minute ago. Logan figured that the adrenaline he asked Slim to use before was kicking in now. Through all their years together as teammates, even when they were at each other’s throats, Logan knew, more than anything, that Cyclops was reliable when it counted most. He was a survivor, and he did not entertain losing. Not a fight, and certainly not a team member, or friend. He would not let Remy, or Logan down now.

“Pushin’ forward, Slim.”

Wolverine stepped in front of the frostbit kids and led the way. In his mind, it was a constant alternation between trying to distinguish where the wind reached the obstacle that Logan prayed was a cabin, and listening for Cyke’s heavy steps against the crunchy snow.

Normally, Logan relished working in silence, whenever he could, but now seemed like a situation for some encouraging words.

“It ain’t far. We’ll get ‘im warmed up. Kiddo’s gonna be okay.”

He knew Scott’s mind was only on Gambit’s safety— that he had no conception of how badly off he was doing right now.

“Okay,” Scott coughed in reply.

Shit… Logan had been complaining pretty damn hard about his team all week, but right now, he wouldn’t trade this crew for the world. He steeled his hope by thinking of how Scott was warming Remy as they walked. The kid was going to be alright. Both of them were going to be alright.

He could have cried from happiness as the sight of the shelter became clear through the snow. It was a cabin. A fucking cabin. Nothing big or fancy, but it had four walls and a roof, and that was all they needed. Seeing it must have given Scott an added burst of energy, because he was moving faster than he had since Logan first found him.

Logan tried the door, but it was locked. No matter. A quick slice made it swing open. On the inside, there was a chair by the entrance. Logan carefully pulled Scott inside and pushed the chair against the door.

Relief from the wind was a blessing of its own, but the cabin itself was still just as cold inside as it was outside. Heat was the only thing on Wolverine’s mind, and the large fireplace was the most beautiful thing he had seen in his life. He continued to thank his luck that there was a large stack of firewood against one of the walls, as well as a book of matches on the mantel. He wasted no time getting a fire started, building it as big and strong as the fireplace could hold.

“Oh, God…” Scott breathed. He tried to kneel down to the floor, but it looked like he was too stiff to move. Logan helped him get Remy onto the ground. “Fuck. Logan. I really love you.”

“You just sit tight there,” Wolverine replied. “Just sit tight.”

Knowing Scott, between the combination of his need to take control and his impaired mental state, the kid was definitely wanting to get up and rifle through this place for supplies. He still didn’t realize how truly frozen he was. The pain hadn’t really registered with him yet, and he wanted to be useful.

“Best thing you can do for Remy is stay right there.”

Logan crouched in front of them and took Cyke’s jacket off Remy. The kid’s shoulders tensed a little bit more once his bare chest was exposed to the air again. He wasn’t shivering, but it was the first sign of responsiveness Logan had seen since they found him. It was improvement, and it was something to keep up hope that he was making it out of this hellscape alive.

“Hold onto ‘im, Slim, and don’t move. I ain’t goin’ anywhere, just lookin’ fer some blankets or somethin’.”

In front of the fire now, Cyclops’ breathing sped up even more, to the point where he sounded like he was hyperventilating. Logan suddenly remembered the one time he’d gotten this chilled, before his mutation had ever kicked in. He was little and cold and Alberta was fucking cruel. The pain he’d felt in his bones then was every bit as bad as the days when his adamantium got to him, when his healing factor couldn’t keep up with the toxins. He remembered the clenching sensation in his chest, squeezing tighter, tighter, tighter, forcing him to overbreathe. He knew now that it was fine, it was safe, it was just a phase of the rewarming. But, damn, it hurt his heart to know both his teammates were going to have to get through it.

Scanning the cabin, he saw a rudimentary cot, underneath which was a huge waterproof storage container. He pulled it out and opened the lid, revealing plenty of blankets, as well as a first aid kit. He grabbed every single blanket there was and brought them over to the boys.

Scott was holding onto Remy tight. Probably it would take some doing to loose his arms from the kid, just as it took work to get the jacket onto Gambit. So Logan started with stripping the boys’ shoes and socks, giving Scott some time to try to relax his body.

“He’ll wake up,” Cyclops said. Wolverine wasn’t sure if the kid was talking to himself or to him.

“Cajun’s gotta be the most stubborn son of a bitch I ever met, yers truly included,” Logan replied as he continued to work. “No way he’s wastin’ an opportunity to bitch and moan about somethin’ like this.” He tried to sound confident and casual, but really, he knew he was trying to assure himself just as much as Scott.

With some patience and persistence, he managed to work Slim’s muscles loose enough for him to let go of Gambit. Kid’s shirt was completely wet from the snow and had adhered to his body, giving Logan just a bit of trouble as he tugged it off. Remy’s cutoffs and trunks were easy enough to remove, but Scott’s jeans had frozen solid in every spot wherever they didn’t make contact with his skin. Wolverine sliced the rest of Cyke’s clothes off and then wrapped the boys together in the heaviest blanket from the stack.

Next, Logan grabbed the first aid kit. There was only one hot water bottle. It was obvious that Remy was in need of it far worse than Scott. Still, Logan hated that Cyclops had to go without something that would help improve his condition faster. He would just have to find another way to help the kid out.

A large iron pot with a sturdy handle sat on a shelf, beside some other cooking supplies and stocks of food. It was looking like he would be able to help both of these boys after all. He took the pot outside, making sure to shut the door quickly, and filled it to the brim with snow. Back inside, he hung it on the hook that protruded from the side of the fireplace. It wasn’t soon enough for his liking, but, eventually, he had ample hot water to do what he needed. He poured the saving liquid into the hot water bottle and placed it to Remy’s core, rewrapping him snugly in the blanket.

Then, he took some of the food items he found, instant coffee, powdered milk, sugar, placed them in a mug, and mixed them with the water. He sat down in front of Scott, extending the drink to him.

“Drink this. Do ya a world of good.”

He knew Scott was shaking too much, and wouldn’t be able to hold the mug without spilling its contents everywhere. Logan placed it into Scott’s trembling hands, keeping his own wrapped around them to steady them, and guided it to the kid’s lips. It was slow going, getting him to drink any of it.

After managing to get down probably just a teaspoon, Scott said, “You gotta— warm up, too.”

Logan chuckled under his breath. “Thought ya knew me better ‘n that, Cyke. I’m coldblooded, remember?”

“You sure… you’re okay?”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I was born fer this. Keep drinkin’. Warm up yer insides.”

He helped Scott get a couple more sips down before turning his attention back to Remy. Even after lying in front of the fire, with the hot water bottle and Scott’s body heat, the kid was too still. There was only one more source of heat Logan had left available to give. Finally peeling off his own frozen clothing, he grabbed the rest of the blankets and sat down on the floor beside Remy. Getting under the blanket, he wrapped his arm around the boy, pulling him close. Scott’s weight shifted as well, and Logan was grateful Gambit was now flanked by heat in all directions. He arranged the rest of the blankets around them, making as insulated a nest as he could.

As much as he hated it, all there was left to do was wait. These kids were in horrible shape, and would definitely need attention for whatever frostbite or other complications they bore. But none of that could happen until they were both warmer, until Remy was conscious, until he knew their bodies could handle anything other than rest.

Half an hour went by in near-silence, save for the howling of the wind around the windows. Logan listened to Scott’s fast, gasping breaths, and felt Remy’s weak, shallow ones. If Amelia hadn’t actually wanted to kill those two, she definitely made a damn reckless choice. The fire went down as it consumed its fuel. Logan wanted to get up and add firewood, but he figured the flame would persist quite a while longer, and that he was doing more good here. Steady. Waiting.

As if directly responding to Wolverine’s concerns of how he was most useful, Remy made the smallest movement. Logan shifted all this attention onto the minute details of what was happening to the kid’s body. The constant tension Remy was holding remained, but Logan now felt the faintest of muscle contractions, starting and stopping in somewhat regular intervals.

For as out of it as Scott had to be, he must have noticed the change too.

“Logan… Remy. He’s…”

“He’s thawin’, Slim. Finally shiverin’.”

Logan pulled him closer, willing all the heat his own body could produce to pass onto the boy.

“Yer doin’ good, kid. Keep it up.”

Maybe it was an illusion, just that spark of hope getting to his head, but Wolverine swore the kid’s heartbeat felt stronger. Remy’s face was changing, too. He was beginning to wince. Logan never could have guessed he’d be relieved to see a teammate in pain. But this was an entire world better than the unconscious bundle of frostbite Cyclops had picked up out of the snow.

“It’s good if it hurts, Gambit. Yer senses are comin’ back to ya. Stay with that pain. It’s leadin’ ya the right way.”

Logan noticed Cyclops rubbing his hand over the top of Remy’s chest, as though he could encourage his circulatory system that way. It was kind of sweet. And sad.

“Yer helpin’ him just by lyin’ there all nice and still, Slim. Just stay still.”

Both these kids were the types to need constant reminders to look after themselves when they were hurt. All Scott could see was that Gambit was in need. Pretty soon, Wolverine knew he would be dealing with a Gambit who could only see that Cyclops was hurt. They were impossible. Maybe the best thing to do for Scott now was to give him a mental task, one that would, hopefully, distract him from needing to be useful.

“Know that brain fog’s a bitch. Think yer clearin’ up at all?”

“Uh… yeah. Maybe. Easier to find the words.”

“Count down from a hundred by sevens.”

Cyclops went silent, save for the sound of his teeth violently chattering. “...shit. I can’t figure out the first one. Like… ninety… something.”

“Keep thinkin’ about it.”

“ ‘Kay.”

Meanwhile, Remy was demonstrating a few more signs of pain. Which was good, even if it made Logan’s stomach clench. Kid was breathing a little faster, muscles contracting faster, a soft hum or whimper occasionally making its way out.

“That’s good, kiddo. Yer alright. Yer safe. Amelia just sent us on a scenic detour. We’re okay.”

He thought he heard Gambit trying to say something. Definitely using his voice on purpose, even if it was slurred as hell. His eyes and fists were still clenched shut.

“It’s, um… a hundred and seven,” Scott croaked out.

“Wrong direction, Slim. Yer s’posed to be countin’ backwards.”

“I can’t… I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“It’ll come to ya, kid. Just keep at it.”

The mathematical diversion was losing its hold on Cyclops as signs of Remy’s pain became louder and more physical. His shaking was violent and constant. The wounded moans were only interrupted by haggard breaths.

“Oh, no. Logan… first aid kit, it’s… back with the bikes.”

“Whatever guardian angel built us this cabin already got that covered, Slim.”

Scott hummed in acknowledgment. “When we— get back… I owe Nightcrawler… one mass attendance.”

“Think we all do,” Logan replied.

Again, Wolverine tuned his ears to whatever Remy was trying to say. Kid was really working hard to get it out, fighting against his quickening and jagged breathing pattern, and his frantically quavering jaw.

“...off…”

Finally, Gambit’s fists were unclenching, at least somewhat. He was opening and closing his hands in a steady rhythm, his fingernails scratching against Logan’s bare arm.

“Easy there, Remy. Ain’t no rush to get outta here. We ain’t doin’ nothin’ but restin’ here fer a while.”

Gambit let out a whine that sounded genuinely pitiful. Logan thought about trenches in France filled up with snow. He hated, hated that these two kids— these good kids had to go through this kind of suffering.

“Turn off…” Remy repeated, his words coming out just a bit clearer.

“No electricity in this place, kid. Ain’t nothin’ turned on.”

Remy took a viciously sharp inhale and coughed out the full phrase. “Turn off… fuckin’... AC.”

A sudden sensation tore through Logan’s chest. He hadn’t felt it in a long minute. He laughed.

“Welcome back, Cajun,” he smiled. Remy was complaining. Soon the world would be right again.

—

The sun cast long shadows across the single room of the cabin as the sky began to grow dark. As the wind continued to howl away, Logan took some time again to thank those guardian angels for the ample firewood and provisions. Sure, he would be okay facing the storm again, but he didn’t want to let the cold air in for even a second, not with the boys still so fragile.

“...sixteen, nine, two.”

Logan made sure not to laugh to himself over Scott’s commitment to the assigned math homework.

“Glad yer brain’s firin’ on all cylinders again, Slim.”

“What dem numbers even for?”

Gambit groaned and massaged his forehead, as if the subtractions were personally assaulting his mind. His blistered hands shook against his head.

“Psychological first aid,” Logan said.

“I think the…” Scott paused for a second, working to retrieve a word. That was still happening a bit, but not as often as even an hour ago. “...Benadryl. Wore off. Tired, but not totally fuzzy like before.”

The kid had definitely warmed up, but sitting on the floor in front of the fire, wrapped up in his own blanket now, he still shivered a little. Logan was afraid he knew what that meant. Cyke had probably only spent an hour at a decent, normal temperature, and now it was on its way up.

Gambit winced and inhaled through his teeth. “Ow— dat shit cold. T’ought we was tryin’ t’ treat zis… hypo…”

Poor Cajun was definitely struggling with his vocabulary, too. And struggling with his thawed nerves waking up. Wolverine knew there was a chance the aloe gel would hurt. But he also knew that after the initial pain, it would help soothe all his burned skin. And, God, there were a lot of burns.

“I know it hurts, Cajun. This is gonna help ya heal, okay? Yer skin got froze somethin’ bad. Holler if ya need a break from this.”

“I’d be hollerin’... couple hours ago,” Gambit struggled, as Logan continued to massage the gel into the red and purple blisters on his feet. This whole process was going to take a while, considering the boy’s entire body was frostbit. Wolverine had to hand it to the kid— he had some fucking endurance.

“Storm’s still going,” Cyclops said. “We’ve got… basically no clothes, except for one jacket. Bikes are in Orlando. Not that those would do us any good out here. We’ve got very little idea where we actually are.”

“One issue at a time,” Logan said. As glad as he was to see Scott starting to act more like the man he knew, he was still pretty busted up, physically and mentally. He’d rather not have to deal with a Cyclops who overestimated his limits, who pushed because he thought it’s what he had to do. The kid needed to take a step back, and it was the one thing he struggled to do most of all.

“We need to take stock of our…” Scott frowned as the word took its sweet time coming to him. “...assets? See what we have, what we can do next.”

“Got everything we need right now, Slim. And what we do next is the same thing we’ve been doin’. Think you may be forgettin’ you ain’t Wolverine. Gotta let yerself heal just like everybody else.”

Wolverine scanned over the medical supplies again, and took comfort in seeing the yards and yards of gauze the owner of this cabin had stocked. Whoever used this place seemed to be wired a lot like Cyke. Organized, prepared.

“Sure zis healin’?” Gambit mumbled, hugging the blanket around himself tightly. Logan couldn’t tell if the question was coming from a place of sarcasm or addled sincerity.

“Ya think it’s Slim’s turn for the torture gel?” Logan asked good-naturedly, trying to give Remy a graceful break from the continuing pain of first aid treatment.

Gambit pulled his newly bandaged feet under his blanket and curled up on himself.

“Hey, before ya go all potato bug—” Logan said. He handed the kid the mug of sugary milk coffee he’d been keeping warm in front of the fire. “Yer still dehydrated, kiddo. Drink as much as ya can. We ain’t gonna run out of this stuff.”

Remy clutched the mug to his core. With his arms pressed against his body, he could keep his hands from shaking too badly. Instead of drinking, he just put his face over the cup and breathed in the steam.

Good enough. At least he was getting some benefit out of it. He’d try to get him to hydrate later.

Logan moved over to Scott, knowing, dreading what he was about to see.

“Ah, kid…”

He hated to express his sympathy for those wounds out loud— figured Scott hated it even more. But this looked bad.

Cyclops’ fingers were just the purple and red that he expected. Kid had been lucky enough to be able to keep his hands in his pockets for most of the time outside. But up his arms, his neck, across his stomach, each of the big allergic welts had turned into angry red blisters. Logan was pretty sure the one on his neck had gotten truly frozen through— it was purple on the edges and seeping out serum. He would have given anything to share his healing factor with these two boys right now.

“I figure…” Scott said, then held his breath as Logan cleaned the neck wound with gauze. “...we take a day, maybe, to rest up. Depending on how you’re feeling, Gambit. Then we can—”

Another careful inhale when Wolverine applied the aloe.

“Well, maybe Logan could… you could head to the nearest civilization. Get our bearings. Find us some clothes. And then we can figure out our route… out of here.”

There was no reason to tell Scott not to worry about all of that right now. He was in pain, and if trying to strategize for the future, however optimistically, was what he needed to push through, then so be it. Logan continued to treat and dress the wounds, keeping a steady pace, so long as Scott could bear it.

With the slow, careful progress Wolverine had to make, taking care of the kids’ wounds and burns and blisters, plus trying to push the hot drinks in between, it was well dark by the time he was done. And it was clear the boys were too tired to eat anything, much as Logan wanted to get them some more calories. Scott was running a fever by the time he fell asleep, and Gambit was shivering again as he started to nod off, a reliable sign that he was about to follow in their leader’s footsteps.

It wasn’t until the two were asleep that Logan realized how exhausted he was as well. It felt wrong to let himself rest, to even give himself the chance to sleep. There was still too much to do, too much to look out for. The kids were making steady progress in the right direction, but things could turn south just when he wasn’t watching.

Catching his thoughts racing, Logan closed his eyes and took a deep, centering breath. He needed to think clearly. There was no reason why he couldn’t use this time wisely. He needed to take his own advice. Rest, sleep, was not the enemy. These boys needed him to be at his best. He knew his own body well enough. He would wake up in a few hours, and everything would be fine. There was nothing that couldn’t wait until then. These were X-Men. He trusted them, and he trusted himself.

—

A scream woke Logan long before dawn. Unfortunately, his life experiences had made him extremely observant when it came to sounds of despair. This was pain, terror, soul-wracking grief, desperation.

He rolled over to face Remy, whose miserable face was illuminated by the fire.

Scott spoke up before Logan could get his words together.

“Remy, it’s okay.” Cyke’s voice was worn and raspy. “We’re all okay.”

Gambit was shivering violently. Logan touched the side of the kid’s face and felt his fever finally rising.

“Ya ain’t freezin’, kiddo. Yer just sick. I got ya. Cyke has got ya. Go to sleep.”

If it was even possible, Remy was pulled more tightly into himself than when they first found him, practically frozen solid. He muttered unintelligibly between his shaking breaths. Logan had an idea of what this may be about.

“This ain’t Antarctica. It’s just someplace cold. Ya got two X-Men here who ain’t leavin’ ya.”

Cyclops turned over so that he also faced Gambit. He laid his arm across the kid’s shoulders.

“Wolverine’s here,” he mumbled. “You know that means everything is gonna be alright.”

Logan didn’t know anything about what happened with Remy and Rogue and the others in Antarctica. Hell, that short period of time for everybody was the purest chaos he had ever witnessed. It was an unwritten rule that nobody talked about it, nobody wanted to. They probably all would have been better off if they had a mandatory conference, maybe even in the Danger Room, duked out all their thoughts and feelings, and had everything open and done. That didn’t happen, and it never would. But the silence clearly festered in some more than others. Whatever happened with Remy still had a hold on him, seemed to be trying to destroy him in the dark and the quiet.

A few, clear words finally cut through Remy’s heaving breaths.

“Désolé… home…”

He doubted the kid would talk about what any of this meant any time soon. Like Logan had said, he really was a stubborn little shit. Maybe this nightmare was a one time occurrence. Maybe it was a regular battle. Either way, this was one battle he didn’t have to fight alone, not this time.

Logan placed a firm hand on Remy’s trembling back.

“You are home, Remy. Yer home, kid.”

Chapter Text

“Quit fidgeting,” Scott huffed. He unwound the fresh bandage to readjust the dressing on Remy’s hand, before starting to wrap it again. “You’re like a toddler.”

“Quit tryin’ to flay me and I be still den.” Remy grimaced. Really, Scott couldn’t blame him. Gambit’s hands, almost his entire body, looked completely wrecked from the frostbite. The man probably couldn’t move a muscle without dealing with some kind of pain shooting through him. But his wounds still needed to be taken care of. With Logan gone to look for supplies for the first time since they made it to the cabin, Scott was feeling all the more stir-crazy. He had to do something to make himself useful.

“Yeah, well, it's either getting flayed or getting gangrene. Pick your poison. Actually, don’t.”

Gambit stuck out his lip in a childish pout. It reminded him of Kitty from four years ago. A whiny teenager.

“How come you rougher’n Logan?”

“There is no way.” Scott shook his head. “You were just about crying two days ago. Get over it.”

Slowly, awkwardly, Remy made the saddest attempt at flipping Scott off with his unoccupied hand, cringing all the while. Gambit managed to remain relatively quiet as Scott continued redressing more of the burns, save for the occasional wince that escaped him. It left Cyclops with too much space to think, stew, really, over their hellish situation.

The two of them were in rough shape. Even if they had their bikes with them, he couldn’t imagine either of them making it more than a mile before having to pull over from the pain. Still, it gave him no comfort to think about their rides stranded in Orlando. If they were lucky, all they were doing was sitting in the beating sun where they had been parked, not taken by some opportunistic punks.

Not only that, Scott learned from Wolverine that Amelia had relieved them of all their belongings. Wallets, keys, knives, pens, even chapstick. It would be impressive how thorough she was, if it weren’t so damn frustrating to dwell on. Scott knew Logan would find a way to get them what they needed, but he still hated to think about how helpless they were. No money, no clothes, no electricity. He wanted to be thankful for what they did have: shelter, heat, food. But it was hard to let those things sustain a positive attitude when he and Gambit were stuck inside the tiny four walls, with broken bodies, and nothing but blankets to cover them.

Scott must have been thinking loudly, because Gambit cut right to the core.

“Seen some better times’n dis, ain’t we?”

Cyclops exhaled an emotionless laugh.

“Can’t say this makes the chart of times we’ve come out on top. Naked, frostbit, and broke in the middle of the wilderness is not what I was counting on when we set out on this mission.”

“Hey, ‘least we ain’t pregnant by bugs.”

“Point,” Scott ceded. “How’s that aloe doing you? Feel any better than yesterday?”

“Eh, Gambit had worse’n zis,” he said with a shrug. He immediately winced from the movement.

“I know, we’ve all had worse. Still, I have to admit, Remy, you scared the hell out of us when we found you in the snow. I didn’t like seeing you like that. Promise you won’t get shot, or almost freeze to death again. At least, not until we get back to Westchester. Then you can do whatever you want, I guess.”

“Scratchin’ dem points off’a ze agenda, mon ami. Ain’t somet’in’ Gambit lookin’ to repeat. ‘Sides, X-Men got nowhere to go but up from here, oui?”

“God, let’s hope so.” Scott rapped his knuckles against the wooden floorboard, then regretted it when he felt how badly that stung.

“Any luck gettin’ Jeannie t’ tell us where we at?”

“The point in her wanting me to go was for her to get some distance. I’ve been on everyone’s nerves lately, I know. Maybe if I really start psychically screaming at her, she’d listen, but that’d put me sleeping in the boathouse for the next few months. Logan’ll be able to get us oriented, once he gets back.”

Gambit sighed.

“Gotta stop havin’ dat old man draggin’ our asses outta trouble.”

“Yeah, I can’t say I’m proud of the way you and me have been conducting ourselves so far.”

“We make it up to ‘im by hustlin’ us some cash, oui?”

“Sure. Long as there’s a pool hall nearby, I can get us back on track. At least enough cash to grab a Greyhound out of here.”

“Sound like a plan, den,” Gambit said. A mischievous spark glinted across his eyes, for the first time since he made that almost deadly mistake in Orlando.

Scott shivered as a sudden, biting chill forced its way into the cabin. Logan quickly shut the door behind him. He was carrying a bulging laundry bag, which he emptied out onto the floor in front of them.

“Thank the good people of Watford City that they don’t keep a close eye on their laundry, boys.”

Despite the pain he’d been showing, Gambit moved stiffly over to the pile and quickly started rifling through it. He pulled out a pair of red long johns that didn’t look particularly old or worn.

“Gambit call dibs,” he said, and clutched them protectively to his chest.

“Ain’t nobody fightin’ ya on that, Cajun. Nobody wants iced Gumbo.”

“Watford City?” Scott asked Wolverine as he began sorting through the clothes. “Never heard of it.”

“North Dakota. About a hundred miles south a’ Canada. That’s a bit of luck, at least. We don’t have ta sneak through the border.”

“Hey, lots of luck,” Scott replied, as he read the tag inside a pair of plain blue jeans. “Thirty-four, twenty-six. What are the odds?”

He tossed the jeans to Wolverine.

“Dey jus’ make ‘em short an’ feisty out zis way?”

“This ain’t luck, Summers. It was a huntin’ trip. I’m good at what I do.”

The understatement almost made Scott laugh. He continued to look through Logan’s quarry of stolen clothes.

“Oh, wow. That’s cute.”

A Mutants for Humanity hoodie, with big bold letters.

“Honestly, I’m impressed they’ve made it out this far. Good for their marketing department.”

“What size is dat? I want dat one.”

Scott shot him a quizzical look.

“Thought you were done with playing the MFH disciple.”

“Oui, Gambit t’rough wit’ actin’. Zis purely for de fashion of it.”

“Fine, knock yourself out.”

As Scott worked his way through the rest of the pile, he noted that the clothes in Wolverine’s size were quiet, practical… normal. Whereas he and Gambit were left with some extremely questionable choices. If they had jumped back in time a week, he knew he would have pushed the subject, interrogated Logan’s methods and intentions. At this point, he almost didn’t have a care to raise. What did he care if Logan made such selections on purpose, or if it was just a coincidence, or if he only cared about finding whatever was warm? The man had pulled their frozen asses out of the badlands singlehandedly. At least for today, he could do whatever he wanted, unquestioned.

“Logan, what else did you find in town besides a laundromat? We’ve run out of most of the first aid supplies, we don’t have any way of getting out of this place, we need to contact the mansion, and we can’t do anything about any of that until we get our hands on some cash. Was there a bar or something?”

“What, ya reckon we arm wrestle our way toward some funds?”

“I mean, it’s not the worst idea. But no, Gambit and I were talking about some more skilled gambling. I know you two have your specialties. I used to shoot pool for money back when I was a student. And obviously, Gambit’s got cards.”

Logan made a gravelly hum. “Yeah, saw a sports bar in town. Know they got pool there… darts ‘n some shit. Might just be our best bet.”

“And we can use a pay phone there. I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna save our bikes, though.” Scott sighed and shook his head.

“Don’ see why you so hung up on dem bikes,” Gambit chimed in. “We cash in dem insurance policies, get us some upgrades.”

“...Just how do you think insurance works, Remy? We’re gonna get back, like, half the value, if we’re lucky. This isn’t some film noir.”

Gambit shrugged— and winced. “Sound like we got us a plan, non? Gambit got a feelin’ our luck abouta turn round.”

—

The walk into town was surprisingly short and easy. Scott never could have guessed they’d been so close to a human settlement all this time. That storm they were dropped into had disoriented them all pretty badly.

Not that he was feeling great. His dozens of open blisters chafed against the hideous clothes Logan had stolen for them, and he was still pretty weak from the fever that had only broken last night. Gambit was feeling even worse, since his feet had been frostbitten, and now he was forced to wear the snow boots that belonged to the cabin owner, which were a size and a half too small. At least it gave Remy the opportunity to do something he was truly great at— complaining.

He bellyached about the cold, and his feet, and the stupid-looking clothes, and the too-bright sun reflecting off the snow and hurting his oh-so-sensitive eyes. Oddly enough, Remy’s bitching helped soothe some of Scott’s anxiety. Gambit was on the mend, and things were getting back to normal. Soon, they’d be on a Greyhound heading back to Westchester, sleeping in their own separate beds in just a few days. Maybe even, with enough time, they could look back on this shitshow and laugh.

Scott immediately noted the cold stares pointed in their direction as they entered the bar. It was clear this place was not used to seeing anyone but its regulars, and their trio certainly did not blend in with the local color. Still, the hostile looks didn’t faze him as he, Logan, and Remy approached the bar.

Logan took a seat on the bar stool.

“Molson and two root beers.”

Both Scott and Remy glared at Logan.

“When the two of ya look like ya ain’t gonna keel over from somethin’ stronger, I’ll be the first to let ya know.”

Logan was correct. Scott didn’t want to think about what one drink would do to him or Gambit right now. Still, he didn’t love having to operate under a chaperone. The faster they could get some cash, get home, get healthy, the better.

The bartender handed them the drinks, mumbled something under his breath in Logan’s direction about babysitting, and walked away without another word.

“Wait,” Scott said under his breath, “how is it you have beer money?”

“Twenty bucks in the pocket of them stolen jeans. Here…”

He handed Remy and Scott each a five dollar bill.

“Now start whorin’, boys.”

—

Scott was a little shaky starting out. Nearly three days of frostbite and fever did a number on his system, but in a way, it was an advantage. Looking a bit pathetic, especially with the costume to help, gave him an edge over the old oil men who populated this bar. In a way, it was just like being sixteen again. Preppy, nerdy, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet… none of the geezers in Westchester ever expected him to mop up the way he did at the pool table back then. None of them knew that trigonometry was the basis of how he operated.

He wasn’t at his best, not while having to compensate for every angle with the weakness of his achy body. That didn’t matter. These guys were no pool sharks. They were only used to playing against each other. Really, Scott barely needed any mental energy to sweep every game. He kept tabs on the locals’ reactions, sure to only push as far as he needed before they would be out for blood.

“Excuse me, young man.”

Scott fought back a gasp of pain as someone gripped his shoulder, coming up from behind. The person’s hand was small, but the voice was androgynous and rough.

He slid the hand off of him before he turned around, already pissed off.

It was the owner of the bar. A tiny woman who had brutally aged by nicotine and the climate of this place.

“Gonna have to ask you to take yer hustle someplace down the road. Gettin’ complaints from my regulars, and none of ‘em appreciate yer sportsmanship.”

“Sportsmanship?” He raised an eyebrow. “Listen, we were just playing some friendly pool. Don’t tell me gambling’s illegal here.”

“I don’t care what money changes hands between you fellas. But I do care when you’re cleanin’ these guys of their mortgages.”

“Okay, okay, fine. Sure.” Scott made a big show of putting his cue back on the rack. He knew he ought to choose his battles. This certainly wasn’t a hill to die on, especially after the Badlands had just tried to kill them. But, he found he couldn’t stop himself. “...Y’know, any of those guys could’ve cut their losses whenever they felt like it. It isn’t my fault your patrons are addicted to sunk cost.”

Just then, Wolverine pushed his way over and grabbed him forcefully by the blistered wrist.

“Alright, Slim, looks like that root beer’s gone to yer head.”

“Fuck you, Logan,” he said under his breath.

Sitting side by side at the bar now, Logan began to fill him in on the phone call he’d just made to the mansion.

“Looks like the X-Men’ve been havin’ ‘bout as fun a weekend as us. Think I was lucky anyone was at the mansion to pick up the phone. Must be rough if Kitten and Jubes are the ones holdin’ down the fort.”

“What’s going on?”

“Sounds like the team weren’t too keen on fillin’ them in on the details.”

Great. Just great. One more thing to be worried about. Here Scott was, in the middle of nowhere, two out of three of his field team busted up, the rest of his team out dealing with who knows what, with not a damn thing he could do about it.

“Kids said they’d pass the word on to the others when they get back, but it sounds like if you still want the X-Men on Creed’s trail, we’re it.”

“Fuck,” Scott muttered, dragging his hand down his face.

“You up fer some more asphalt, Slim?”

Scott sighed. “Yeah. Of course. Got us around…” he checked subtly, lowering his voice. “Seven hundred bucks. Should be more than enough for a Greyhound to Salt Lake City. With whatever else Gambit managed, I’m sure it’ll cover food and motel.”

Straightening in his seat, Scott looked around the bar.

“Wait, where is Gambit?”

“Ain’t seen him since we split off.”

“Ugh, shit.”

It’s not that Scott was that worried. Remy was more than capable of taking care of himself. But the guy was still in rough shape from the fever and the burns. He also wasn’t wearing anything to cover his eyes. This place didn’t seem like a particularly mutant-friendly establishment, and Scott hoped to avoid any explosive confrontations, for everyone’s sake.

The layout of the bar was pretty open, nowhere for anyone to peel off out of sight. Since neither he nor Wolverine heard any brawls or shouting, Scott didn’t think there was any reason for concern, unless an altercation was going on outside or in the bathroom.

Wolverine closed the tab as Scott stepped back out into the cold. Leaning against the building, just beside the entrance, he saw Remy, arms crossed, cigarette in hand.

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” Scott said. “How long have you been out here?”

Gambit took his sweet time responding, first having an obnoxiously long draw on the cigarette, a smirk on his face.

“Get what you come for, Cyke?”

“Enough money to get us to Salt Lake City by Greyhound, if we can clear out of here before the villagers start gathering torches and pitchforks. I’m guessing you got something better?”

Wolverine joined them outside just as Gambit reached inside his coat pocket. For a moment, Scott thought his vision must have been playing tricks on him. There was no way he was seeing a wad of cash that thick.

“Shit, Cajun,” Logan said, careful to keep his voice low. “How the hell did—”

“Prince of T’ieves ain’t takin’ him and his team cross country public transport-style, mes amis.”

How many ways could a man manage to not answer a question?

“Now, gen’lemen, let’s go buy us a lemon an’ make some lemonade.”