RogueStar
brucepat@iafrica.com

Charmer

False though she be to me and Love,
I'll ne'er pursure Revenge;
For still the Charmer I approve,
Tho' I deplore her change.

In Hours of Bliss we oft have met,
They could not always last;
And though the present I regret,
I'm grateful for the past.

Song by William Congreve

"I don't care if he is the devil incarnate as long as he pays." The man shrugs his
shoulders, "I'm running a business, not a courtroom."

"Is that what you're going to say when the police come round asking
uncomfortable questions?"

"You're being ridiculous, Linda." He says, "Last time I checked, being single
and liking double lattes wasn't a crime."

She looks at him, trying to work out what it is about him that gives her the
creeps. Shortish auburn hair, eyes hidden by dark glasses, expensive suit by
the looks of the fabric and the cut. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"If you've finished playing Agatha Christie, table four needs to be served."
Ronnie says impatiently.

"Yeah. I'm on it." She fakes a smile, although she is disturbed. Scared. Mainly
because she has no idea why . . . .

New York, New York. More specifically, Poppa Gumbo's Cajun Cookout.
Best cajun food out of New Orleans, or so Gambit used to swear. Not much
has changed with the cuisine. He stirs his double latte and remembers the
person he most wants to forget. He doesn't know why, of all the restaurants in
New York - in Chinatown, in Little Italy - he chose this one with all its
memories. Not painful in themselves, but painful nonetheless.

"Shoulda gone straight t'de mansion, Remy. Shoulda bitten de bullet, stead o'
puttin' it off like...."

The coward that Eric the Red said he was. Like he had all his life. Evading his
responsibilty to Belle. The truth of his actions long ago. Rogue's questions.
And now, her ultimate judgement. A judgement he is scared the others will
share.

"It be bout time I stopped runnin' an' started facin' up t'what I did."

He pushes the half-empty latte away from him and leaves a crisp dollar bill on
the plate. It is time to face the jury. . . .

The water flows around her body, eddying around her ankles as she kicks.
Arm up. Arm down. Leg up. Leg down. The repetitive strokes relax her,
provide her some respite from thinking.

"Enjoying the swim, traitor-lover?" A voice pulls her back to consciousness.

"Marrow."

"Look how pure the water is. How clean. How transparent." Marrow cups
water in her hand, "So different to the effluent that we Morlocks swam in.
Brown until it ran red with blood on the day of the Massacre."

"Ah don't know why you're tellin' me this." Rogue climbs out of the pool and
wraps a towel around her body, painfully self-conscious of Marrow's probing
stare, "Sure. Th' massacre was terrible, but Ah - we - did everything we could
ta stop it."

"Did you?" Her blue eyes flash, "Did you really?"

"Ah don't like where this is goin' . . . ."

"Tough, traitor-lover." She approaches Rogue, drawing a bone knife, "If you
don't like it, you'll have to shut me up yourself."

She drops the blade at the Mississippian's feet.

"Back off, Marrow. You'll be glad y'all did."

"Maybe you should have done that with leBeau, before falling in love with him.
People like him don't deserve to be happy. People like you."

"Shut up."

"Not that I blame you." She smiles, "I know from first-hand experience exactly
how . . . charming Mr leBeau can be. How he makes you believe that
everything turns out for the best. He makes you think a miracle is a wish away.
But you realise that he is lying when you wake up cold and afraid on a New
York sidewalk. No family. No friends. Nothing."

"How dare you?" Her green eyes blaze as she steps closer to Marrow. "You
don't know him. You nevah have. Ah've been inside his mind, Ah know what
he's made of."

"Which is why you left him to die."

"It ain't your place ta judge me . . . any more than it was mine ta judge him."

"Yet you did and I will do the same."

"Believe in capital punishment, Marrow?" Rogue bends and picks up the knife.

"Do you?"

"Push me an' you'll find out."

The thrust of the knife is sudden and tears through Rogue's bare leg. Blood
streams down and pools on the tiled floor. Her green eyes narrow as she
looks at the Morlock.

"I don't take to being threatened by anyone." Marrow says, "Especially not
traitor-lovers."

"SHUT UP." She flies at her, knocking her to the ground.

"Oolmph." Marrow gasps as the wind is forced out of her lungs. Scrambling
back to her feet, she extracts a bone-dagger.

"Ah've defeated assassins without mah powers. What makes you think that
you stand a chance?"

"Assassins have honor. I don't."

The knife flies at her and Rogue catches it, crushing it into powder beneath her
fingers.

"Nice try. Take more'n that ta defeat me though."

The powder begins to glow in her hand, exploding as she throws it at
Marrow.

"Even use his powers?" Marrow's breath is ragged. Painful.

"If'n Ah have ta."

Marrow lashes out with a leg, connecting with Rogue's lower back, and
swears softly as she realizes that she has hurt herself more than the other
woman. A hard punch to her jaw. A kick to her head. Nothing. Pain explodes
behind her eyes as Rogue uppercuts her then dissipates into darkness. The
young woman bends over the Morlock's silent frame.

"Ah'm sorry, Marrow, but this time y'all went too far."

No answer. Rogue dips her wounded leg into the swimming pool and redness
spreads over the transparent surface. . . .

"My dear, you have sustained some damage to the quadraceps." Beast peels
off his surgical gloves and throws them in the trash, "Fortunately, it seems that
it will heal by itself and not need surgery."

"Thanks." Rogue replaces the towel around her slim waist and jumps off the
table.

"Not so fast, Rogue." Beast smiles, "I still have to suture the wound."

"Great." She sits down again and stretches out her leg, "Go for it, Hank."

"Now that you are at my tender mercy, I would like to ask you a few
questions." He pauses, "Starting with why you'd attack a woman who
evidently is a few molecules short of a polymer."

"She provoked me. Ah snapped - it won't happen again." She says curtly,
"Frankly, Hank. Ah'm surprised y'all agreed ta see me aftah what Ah did. Ah
know you didn't approve o' mah choice."

He inserts the needle into her skin and begins to close the wound, "Even if I
did not believe in the sanctity of all life, my encounter with my deplorable
doppelganger has shown me that Gambit could very easily be me. None of us
are above making mistakes. Not even you."

"It wasn't a mistake, Hank."

"Wasn't it?" He looks into her eyes, seeing the false brightness that is there.

"Ah'm not so sure any more." She says quietly, "Ah loved Remy. Ah nevah
wanted ta hurt him . . . but . . . but . . . he used me."

"Used you?" Beast bends back over his suturing.

"Th' ol' shrink's trick o' repeatin' th' last words of a sentence, Hank? Ah
thought that was beneath y'all."

"Y'all?" He repeats, grinning.

"Forget it. Ah'll get Reyes ta finish th' job." She stands.

"Sit. I will not let that barely-competent surgeon lay her hands on you."

"Professional jealousy?"

"Not in the slightest. Just because she has more experience in emergency
medicine than I have is no reason to envy her." Beast says, hastily, "But you
were saying that you felt Remy used you?"

"Ta judge him, like he wouldn't judge himself." She sighs, "He controlled me.
Made me leave him behind ta die. Made me say Ah didn't care."

"Do you?"

"Hank. He's everythin' ta me." Tears fill her eyes, "An' Ah'm scared that he
hates me. That he can't forgive me. That . . . ."

He takes her in his arms and comforts her, blue fur preventing any contact
with her bare skin.

"Shhh . . . . Although I cannot give you assurance that his feelings now are not
as you described, I can say that he indeed did love you. May still love you."

"Now . . . Ah feel like Ah'm losin' control, Beast." She sobs into his chest,
"Attackin' Marrow like Ah did."

"She's hardly Miss Morlock Personality, my dear." Beast replies, "Even I
sometimes feel that I should create a need for my surplus Plaster of Paris."

"But . . . but . . . it coulda been anyone. Scott. Storm. Bobby. Joseph." Rogue
says, "An' Ah wouldn't've cared that they were my friends."

"Rogue. Everyone goes through periods in their lives where they feel that they
are losing control." He strokes her hair, "I went through my personal crucible
when Infectia caused the reemergance of my hirsuite condition."

"What?"

"When Infectia caused me to once more become hairier than an English
Sheepdog on Rogaine."

"Oh."

"Dry those eyes." Beast passes her a handkerchief, "One pair of red ones per
couple is usually enough."

Rogue laughs weakly and dabs at her eyes.

"Is that a smile I see on that beautiful face?"

"Thanks, Hank." She squeezes his hand, "Ah don't know what Ah would do
without you."

"See that quack by the name of Cecilia Reyes?" He suggests.

"You *are* jealous, Hank."

"Get going before I decide that you need a tetanus shot to go with those
stitches."

The smile fades off his face as he closes the door behind her and sits down,
face in his clumsy-delicate hands. Talking to Rogue has reminded him of his
own pain, which he thought he had forgotten. Exorcised. And while he may
hide it, he knows that it is still there, lingering on the borders of sensation,
waiting for the moment when he lets his guard down to cripple him again.

The young man stands on the doorstep and looks up at the mansion. He is
wearing a dark suit and darker glasses which hide his unusual eyes. He runs a
nervous hand through his shortish auburn hair, as if improving his appearance
might change the way they feel about him. Change the outcome of the trial . . .
.

To be continued . . .

Footnote:

Rogue refers to having defeated an assassin without her powers. This happens
in the Rogue miniseries where she goes toe to toe with Belle and kicks some
serious heinie!