MILAN Dedication: For R. You might recognize the longing. The sun rose at last, friendly and sure, over a dew-soaked lawn. Despite its prodigious size, the lawn was neatly and evenly trimmed. The birds were shaking the dampness from their feathers, and opening their throats to greet the morning. Even that belated gesture only served to make the day seem charmed. It was an energizing morning. Never one for early mornings, a man nevertheless sat astride a motorcycle in front of a great house. The architecture spoke of good taste, and the size of the building implied old money. That the place was so well kept made the house seem more like a public building than a private residence; indeed, the sign on the front informed passers-by that the house was the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. The man didn't look like any kind of teacher. He looked too old to be a student, though perhaps he'd come to the calling later in life. The wet had settled into the folds of his trenchcoat, which was of brown oilskin. His denim jeans and T-shirt weren't enough for the chill, and he shivered a little. The shirt was white; the damp had made it nearly transparent, revealing substantial pectoral muscles and a rippling stomach. He was too slender to truly appear powerful, but he owned a lithe grace that called to mind a leopard or cougar. His hair was a muddy reddish-brown in colour. It shone even though it was a little damp. Stubble graced his chin, which was as chiseled as the rest of his face. His cheekbones were prominent, his forehead broad and unlined. Particularly captivating were his eyes, glittering red in the morning light. The key was housed in the ignition, though the bike wasn't running. A two-button remote control device, set to open garage and gates, lay on the driveway beside his right foot. On his left, a satchel overstuffed with clothing lay. He paid neither any mind; he stared instead at a window set on the second floor of the house. The windows reflected the sunlight, allowing little of the interior of the building to be seen. Nevertheless, the man swallowed and flushed a little when there was a hint of movement inside. His gaze dropped from the window, and he closed his eyes tight, clenching his jaw. A light knocking sound jerked his head up. He glanced up at the window, but that was not the source of the sound. Belatedly, he noticed that there was a woman standing outside of a small cabin nearby. It was nestled in the trees that framed the great lawn. He frowned in mild concentration as she knocked again. "Logan?" she asked, opening the door. "I would like to talk to you, please." "He left this morning, 'Roro." the man on the motorcycle said. "Before it was light." She turned to regard him gravely, and sighed a little. He almost imagined that her shoulders slumped. "Thank you, Remy. If you see him..." Remy nodded. "Yeah. You feelin' okay, p'tite?" "A little upset." she replied. "Pay me no mind." He glanced up at the window again. There were definite signs of movement. In fact, it slid open a little. "You know what, Stormy? Why don' we go out, just you an' me?" She perked up a little. "Really?" "Yeah." he said quickly. "C'mon, it'll be fun. We'll go to Europe. I don' wanna hang around here today." He picked up his satchel and threw it into the brush. "All right. Just let me get some things." she said. "Shoppin' trip, 'Roro. You don' need anyt'ing. Let's go to the Blackbird right now." She nodded a little, and glanced backward, hesitantly, at the cabin. "Oh, he'll be gone all day." Remy pressed. "Let's go. I'll meet you there." She smiled, for the first time in days, as he started up his motorcycle and roared it around the side of the house, crossing the back lawn toward the hangar. The noise almost drowned out the sound of a window banging shut. Storm called the wind and rose over the house, also headed for the Blackbird. In her wake, all the windows on the side of the house rattled, which was very satisfying. ***** A narrow street; a warm breeze with a hint of salt; a friendly sun that seems somehow more... sophisticated. More worldly. Older. A sun that has seen the heyday of the Roman Republic and the worst sins of the Empire. An indulgent sun. A shop on that street, dark, redolent with the heady odors of mahogany, perfume, and hauteur. "What do you think, Remy?" "H'm. Looks good on you. But do you look your best in it? That's a whole 'nother question, 'Roro." The woman was tall and leggy, wearing an open button-up demishirt over a matte leotard and tight knit pants which came down to mid-calf. She was clad in sandals, otherwise, which showed off her well-turned ankles. She had creamy coffee-coloured skin and a beautiful tumble of snowy-white hair. Pale blue eyes, slitted like a cat's, gazed upon her companion quizzically. He was taller still, with an insolent smirk that gleamed out from under artfully kept stubble. He wore a very tight T-shirt that showed off an athlete's physique, and a pair of run-down blue jeans over scuffed brogues. His eyes, twinkling playfully, had strange red irises that seemed to spin slowly if they were stared at for too long. His reddish-brown hair hung over his eyes a bit. She made a moue. "I suppose that the knits, at least, can be saved?" He grimaced. "In charcoal? Take off that leotard an' shirt, grab the knits in burgundy, put on the matching jacket, and maybe somet'ing in lightweight white wool for the blouse." She shook her head. "Too boring. Far too boring. Also too hot for this weather." Remy waved his hand. "You want daring? How 'bout the silk blouse?" She raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to be arrested?" "I was arrested by it." She chuckled and kicked him. "Charlatan!" He raised his hands in surrender. "OK. Summer clothes, not too boring, but street legal. I get you." She ran her hands lightly over her stomach, and sighed regretfully. "The price tag on this leotard is ridiculous." "Take it off." "In a moment. I want to pick out something new first." Ororo ran her eyes appreciatively over the merchandise. "I t'ink you're making the girl angry, 'Roro." She waved her hand. "The devil you say. An off the rack place like this cannot afford to have such poor service." "I'll go smooth her feathers." he said. She sighed and pulled another blouse from the rack to regard it critically. Nodding at last, she laid it over her shoulder and looked for a few more items. She resolutely ignored the simpering noises coming from the area of the till, and returned to the change room. A giggle came from outside. Ororo's lips quirked a little as she removed the old outfit and selected some items to comprise the new. The giggle became a titter, and Ororo changed her mind. She put on the T-shirt and denim shorts that she entered the store with, and went up to the till with some favoured items. Remy was leaning on the counter, his head tilted toward the girl, who was in a similar posture. He was speaking very quietly so that she had to lean very close to hear him. His lips were almost touching her ear. Ororo almost hated doing it, seeing a master at work, but she cleared her throat. The girl jumped guiltily. Lebeau, on the other hand, merely looked up and widened his smile. "Sorry, p'tite. Jus' making some friends." The girl licked her lips. "Will that be all?" "Yes, please." "Cash or charge?" Remy smiled expansively. "Let me pick this up, 'Roro. Cash." "Remy, that will not be necessary." "Please." She sighed. "Very well." "That will be six million, six hundred forty-four thousand, six hundred ninety-eight lira." the girl said. Remy blinked a little, but to his credit, he didn't miss a beat as he pulled most of the bills out of his wallet. ***** "Thank you, Remy." Ororo said impishly as she pulled on her chaps. He chuckled. "Once a t'ief, always one, I guess." he said, leaning back as he sat astride his touring bike. "I do love being in Milan again." she said. "How long has it been since the two of us had some time together?" "Too damn long, girl, that's for sure. I aim to enjoy it." "What would you like to do tonight?" she said, as she removed her sandals. "I don' know. Dancing? Maybe we catch some dinner, afterwards..." She raised an eyebrow. "What? What afterwards?" He smiled a bit. "I'll let you decide that." Having stowed the sandals in the saddlebags, she pulled on the long leather boots that she had set aside for riding. "We shall see." she said. That being said, she got to her feet, and walked with an audible clack toward Gambit's bike, which he was astride. She laid a delicate hand on his shoulder and swung her leg over the seat. He kick-started the bike, and eased it into first gear. It taxied slowly down the narrow street, which was occupied by too many pedestrians to really allow him to open the throttle. As they moved slowly along, Ororo took in his scent, which was subtle, a faint hint of cinammon and horseflesh. Strangely appealing, like the man himself. She rested her chin on his shoulder, and reflected that his motorcycle, unlike Logan's, was definitely built for two. They moved out onto a wider thoroughfare, and Remy turned up the speed. Soon, they started passing the other vehicles on the road, slowly at first, and then almost as if they were pylons. Back and forth across the lanes he weaved, in a complicated syncopation that he was making up as he went along, and Ororo threw back her head and screamed in delight. He injected the cycle into a traffic circle without slowing at all, and after making two revolutions, shot out again. "Here!" he shouted over his shoulder. "I know another place. After all, you need a gown, p'tite!" She laughed. "You have spent enough money already, Remy." "Oh, so I'm payin' again, here?" "Naturally!" He shook his head in mock amazement. "You are one bad woman, you!" "I expect to be judged by the company I keep." "So long as they don' judge me by mine." She smiled broadly. "Horrible man!" "The worst." They slowed down some, and Remy took a sharp corner into a residential street, which wound its way up a hint of a hill. At the top, Remy carefully pushed the cycle onto a brief footpath, and then off again where it rejoined a street. This he followed for a quarter mile until businesses began to reappear. Beside one of these, he pulled into a small parking lot and shut off his bike. "This is the place." Remy said. He paused, holding the bike steady while Ororo removed her boots and chaps, replacing the former with sandals. Once her gear was stored safely in the saddlebags, the two of them stepped through the boutique. It was spacious and elegantly appointed. Gowns and dresses of all sorts were hung along the walls with care, with artfully placed low-watt spotlights to emphasize especially beautiful garments. Wooden plinths arose from the floor infrequently, each bearing a small work of sculpture in marble or bronze. The floorboards were old and worn, sanded down dozens of times over the years by hand, and by the tread of its patrons. Near the entrance, a girl of perhaps fourteen played Mozart on a baby grand. Through an archway, a man could be seen huddled over a drafting table, pencil in hand. His brow was furrowed in concentration. "Oh, Remy." she breathed. "I could never afford a gown from this boutique." "Maybe not, 'Roro, but I can. Whatever you like." She brought her hand to her mouth. "I could not." He smiled. "Get some shoes an' a handbag, too. I'm goin' to talk to the proprietor." Ororo walked haltingly toward the dresses, and came to a complete halt before a sleek black evening gown. Her eyes drank it in. Behind her, a pair of heels clacked across the floor toward her. They came to a halt some small distance to her left. "Voi hanno bisogno dell' aiuto?" asked a short, swarthy man in his middle forties. Ororo turned her head slightly and smiled. "I apologise, but my Italian is very poor. The only word that I understood was 'help'." "That will not be a problem, bella. My name is Ignacio. I hope that I can help you find something that you will like." She smiled at him. "That would be very nice." Ignacio coughed slightly. "Is economy a concern?" "I am not paying. My friend has insisted." "Well then." the man smiled. "If this is an opportunity to make certain that monsieur Lebeau must pay a great deal of money, then I must make the best of it." She smiled wryly. "He has been here before, I take it?" He nodded, and leaned closer to whisper hoarsely, "You are the prettiest of them." Her smile broadened. "Thank you. How many times have you reassured a young lady in my position?" "Too many times to count." he chuckled. "I feel bold today, Ignacio. What would you recommend?" He gave her an appraising look. "It is not often that I can say this honestly, but I think I have the perfect dress for you. This way, miss." The two of them crossed the floor, skirting around several sculptures. "Is that a Cellini?" Ororo asked of a particular bronze. Ignacio smiled deprecatingly. "A copy only." "It is very beautiful." "I am sure that the proprietor will be gratified. She sculpted it." "Did she sculpt all of these pieces?" "Yes." "How many of them are originals?" she asked. "Of the pieces on display here, four." "Impressive." she murmured. "I think that you will find this dress equally impressive." Ignacio said expansively. He selected a black garment and took it down from the wall, offering it for inspection. "From the fall and winter collection." "It is stunning. May I?" He nodded. "Msr. Lebeau will certainly settle the account. Let us try it on so that we can properly adjust the fit." Ororo took the dress, reverently, and followed Ignacio toward the back. Past all of the beautiful garments they walked. She glanced down a hall, and happened to see Remy through an open door at the end. He was lounging in a comfortable chair, presumably in the proprietor's private office. He seemed to be listening with all of his attention. Of course. They passed the hallway, though, and turned down another. After a few short steps, Ignacio paused, and he drew aside a curtain to reveal a fitting room. "Here, bella, we will see how it looks. I promise you, it will only enhance your beauty." The room was small, with a small platform in the middle for standing upon, several three-legged stools, and a floor-to-ceiling mirror on one wall. They entered, and Ignacio twitched the curtain shut. Ororo sat on the platform , kicked off her sandals, and pulled off her shorts. She glanced at Ignacio, who was affecting not to watch. Smiling slightly, she pulled off her T-shirt and shrugged out of her bra. Mysteriously, Ignacio turned around at exactly the moment after she composed herself. "I think," he said, "that this dress is going to show off your neck to full advantage." He removed the garment from its hanger and unfastened all of the clasps. "Try this. I think, once you have pulled on the garment, that you should stand on the floor and I on the platform. I am not used to such tall women." Ororo stepped into the dress, and pulled it up over her hips. Ignacio stood on the platform and held the collar delicately while she slipped her arm gently into the single sleeve. He gently tugged at that panel of the wrap, until it was loosely fitted to her torso, and pulled it around her back to the waist, where he fastened three flat loop clasps. He took up the other panel then, and pulled it up over her shoulder toward the back of her neck. There it met the other panel, gently anchored as it was by the sleeve and the clasps. He tugged at both of them until they met around her slender neck, and then frowned. "I may have to leave the collar less snug than I would like. You have rather more generous breasts than the ladies who would model this dress, and we do not want to have too much strain on the collar." "Very well." "We shall see how the clasps perform." She gathered her hair up into a loose pile on her head. Ignacio fussed with the collar, tightening and loosening it in turn. Finally, he settled on a particular gauge, and fastened two clasps, cupped in his palm, to the dress. At last, he engaged the clasps, and stepped back to look at the result. The dress was dark as jet, with a single pale chiffon sleeve that was marked with intricate designs in thin, lustrous black satin. The sleeve was long, with a band of satin to mark the position of the wrist, not quite at the end of the sleeve. The body of the garment was a wrap, with a narrow, well- defined waist over lightly flared hips. It extended almost to the knee. The dress met with three flat loop clasps in the back, just above the waist, but these were well-concealed under the panel itself. Above the clasps, a smooth expanse of skin in a distended diamond shape was revealed, but her right shoulder was covered with fabric. The collar, high, covered her throat, but was concealed by her hair at the back. A narrow lozenge- shaped area extended across her chest, from a point where her left shoulder met her neck to her sternum, revealing the deep curve of her right breast and a hint of the left. Her left arm remained bare to the shoulder. It felt like heaven. She walked in it, noticing a fine slit extending perhaps three inches up her left leg. For a dress that so efficiently outlined her figure, it allowed a surprising freedom of movement. Ignacio beamed. "Of course, the effect will not be complete without proper shoes." "Could you bring me a pair? I would like them to be suitable for dancing." she said, turning to see her left side in the mirror. "Do you know your size?" "No." she said apologetically. "I do not know my European size." "Never mind. I will have my daughter bring three pair that I judge to be closest." He poked his head out of the room, and called out his orders. "I adore this dress." Ororo said. "This is really very extravagant." "Of course! But it is a sad life that has no call for occasions of extravagance, don't you think?" he said. Before she could answer, a girl swept in with three boxes, which she handed to Ignacio. He patted her hand and shooed her out. "She is very pretty." Ignacio beamed. "Her mother, of course." "Is she your only daughter?" "I have another, older. In dental school." he said. "But let us look at these beautiful shoes. Creamy, black Corinthian leather, fashioned into shoes by hand here in Milan. Coloured, in fact, with this dress in mind. I doubt you'll see a closer match." They were the same hue as the dress, of course, with fine grain and a smooth, soft texture. Fine piping edged the sole, highlighting the shoes in gold. The heels were an inch and a half tall, and fairly broad. "You hardly need more height, bella. If you wish, the insole has the mark of the cobbler. The shoes are handmade, as I said. You will be impressed by their versatility." Ororo frowned slightly. "I love them... but I will need a matching wrap to set off the shoes." "I do have a gold chiffon in almost the exact shade, but you don't want to overpower the dress. May I instead recommend a handbag, with the same colour scheme as the shoes and fashioned of the same leather?" She smiled. "You may." "Then I do. Please try on the shoes. We will see how they fit, and my daughter will in the meantime bring the bag." The second pair were the correct size, and Ignacio fiddled with the straps until they fit comfortably. As if on cue, the young lady appeared again with the matching bag, and promptly disappeared. Ororo regarded herself in the mirror, pivoting on the balls of her feet to see the shoes from all angles. The handbag did set them off nicely. "I must model the dress for my friend, to get his opinion." she said. "He is, after all, paying for it." "He will love it." Ignacio replied. They left the fitting room, and the short hallway, to enter again the main gallery. Remy, it appeared, had not yet emerged from the office of the proprieter, so she cast her eyes around the room again, taken anew with the splendor of the place. Ignacio's daughter had returned to her place at the piano, where she was playing a sprightly Chopin. "May I recommend something for more casual wear, bella?" "No. No, I am afraid not. If I spend too much of my friend's money today, he will not want to bring me back here." she said. "You will be welcome with or without him." Ignacio said stoutly. "I would rather see you return, however, so I will press you no more. Please call me if you see anything else that you must have." "I will." "Before you leave the store, you must allow me to suggest a salon for you. If you like, I can arrange an appointment." Ignacio wandered then toward the back, to talk to the designer who was still working busily on some new creation. She lounged around the store, admiring the gowns and the music for a time. It was not long before she heard Remy and the proprietor approaching from the hallway. She heard them say their goodbyes before she became visible, and thus only Gambit entered the gallery. Remy's eyes sought her out, and he stopped when he saw her. His gaze seemed to become diffuse for a few moments, but focused at last on her face, and he cracked a lopsided grin. "That is one hell of a dress, girl. I t'ink I just aged ten years." "You like it?" she asked, twirling girlishly. "I'd be a damn fool not to." he replied. "Are you quite all right?" she asked. "Perfect." he said. "I already got the payment arranged, so you can jus' change and we can be gone. I got jus' the restaurant in mind, if you're hungry." "I am. I will just be a moment." She threaded her way through the gallery, back to the fitting room, where she found that the dress was easy to remove. She glanced around for the clothing she entered the store in, and found that it was in a bag marked with the device of the boutique. She quickly dressed, folded the dress carefully into the bag, and put the shoes back into their box. That done, she emerged, with the handbag still slung over her shoulder. Remy, it seemed, was seated at the piano with the girl. They were performing a cheery duet, which was not distinguished by the technical excellence the girl had been able to apply by herself. It wasn't exactly discordant, though. Ignacio came out to listen, and a proud smile settled onto his face by the end of the tune. Ororo walked over to Remy, and laid her hand on his shoulder. Obediently, he rose. "Thank you for all of your help, Ignacio." she said. "The salon?" "Next time." Remy cut in. "Too much to do tonight. Let's go, p'tite." "Goodbye, Ignacio." "Ciao, bella." he replied. ***** "Remy." Ororo said as she opened a saddlebag. "Yeah?" "Why were you so rude to Ignacio?" she asked. He sighed. "Sorry, Stormy. I jus' had a bit of an argument with the proprietor, an' it made me short. I'll send his little girl some flowers. He'll know what I mean." "Remy, that is not why you were rude. I heard you in the hallway with her, and you were not arguing." "We made up b'fore I came out, but I was still mad. That's all." She pulled on the chaps, wincing at the rough feel of them on her skin. "Do not lie to me, Remy." she said sadly. He heaved a sigh, and put on a sheepish smile. "I never could lie to you." Her mouth quirked. "Liar." Remy shook his head. "She told me somet'ing that made me very angry wit' him, that's all." "What did she tell you?" "It was in confidence, 'Roro. I can't tell you." "Very well. If that is all that is bothering you." she said. "Yeah. Let's go to dinner. I know the perfect place." She smiled a bit as she pulled on her boots. "Of course you do." she grunted. "Where shall I get dressed?" "That's a good question. If we're goin' to spend the night in Milan, then we need a room, no?" "Yes. Two rooms, in fact." He tilted his head and flashed her his bad-boy grin. "Can' blame me for tryin', girl." "A half-hearted attempt at best, Remy. I have heard better innuendo from the Professor." "Oh! Straight to the heart! You are a cruel woman, 'Roro." Remy gunned the motorcycle's engine, and it shot across the middle of the street, through traffic and the parking lot opposite, and joined a more northerly flow of traffic on the other side. It was only a few minutes before they arrived at an apartment building. "I thought that we were going to a hotel?" Storm asked. Remy shook his head. "No, p'tite. I have a friend that I must always visit whenever I am in Milan." "And she will put us up." "I'll have you know it's a he." Remy said loftily. She smiled slowly. "Old partner in crime or pretty daughter?" "Oh, you t'ink you know me so well." he said with a grin on his face. "Both, is it?" They got off of the motorcycle and went to knock on the door, elevated in brownstone style from the street. Other such doors completed the face of the building. Remy rapped twice, softly. The door opened on decaying brass hinges to reveal the face of a youth, perhaps thirteen years old. He had dirty blond hair and the merest suggestion of a mustache. His Sex Pistols T-shirt was in a poor state of wear, smeared with engine oil and smelling of gasoline. "Oh, it's you, is it?" the boy said in a Newcastle accent. His brow bristled. "You hiding from the police again?" "Non, Michael. I just came for a visit." Remy replied cheerfully. "Is your father at home?" "Out back." Michael replied, turning his back and walking inside. "He'll be happy you're visiting." "Aren't you gonn' say hello to my friend?" Remy asked after him. "Why? She special?" Michael said over his shoulder. "Sorry, p'tite." Remy said. "He don' like me much." "I would never have guessed." Ororo replied. "Lead on." They passed through the apartment, which was shabbily appointed but otherwise welcoming. Dirty auto parts lay on spreads of old newspaper, sometimes leaking fluids onto them. The furniture that the papers protected was pine, chipped at the corners. Alongside the automobile viscera sat unwashed cups, bristling with bouquets of utensils. "This reminds me of Jubilee's room." Ororo smiled. "Wit'out the posters." Remy said. They passed through this mess and followed Michael out through the back door. The grass, stained brown by the effluvia of engine parts and excitable dogs, framed cracked concrete pads that formed a path to a large garage. Inside, the gentle whir of power tools could be heard. Beside the building was a rustbucket of a bodyjobber that looked like it had been put together out of spare parts. "John!" Remy called out as he entered the garage. It was a haphazard mess of tools and toolchests, engines and compressors and benches. Michael slumped on a bench beside an elevated Citroen, attaching a ratchet head to the wand on a compressor. He passed it under the car when he was finished, and accepted in turn a pan full of some dirty fluid. "John!" Remy repeated. Loud squealing sounds came from underneath the car. "'E can't hear you." Michael remarked loudly. "I wanted the half, not the seven-sixteenths, you stupid bugger!" the man underneath the car shouted. "Give me the half!" "You broke it." Michael shouted back. "You want the nine or the seven? That's all you're gonna get." "The seven's no bloody good, and I'll strip the head if I use the nine. When did I break the half?" "On the Fiat." Michael said. "John!" Remy shouted. "I don't remember that. I think you broke the the half, you little bastard." Michael shrugged. "Don't you shrug your shoulders at me, Michael. Go out and buy another half." "You can't buy just a half. It's the whole set or nothing." the boy said. "Balls! You go down to the store and tell 'em we need a half. They'll break a set if they have to." "John!" Remy shouted again. "What? Is that Remy Lebeau?" the man under the car called. He wheeled himself out from under the Citroen on his fingertips. The first thing that was obvious about him was the dirty jeans that were pinned up at the knees, where his legs had been amputated. He was wearing no shirt, which showed off a washboard stomach and titan's arms. Oil streaked his blond hair and unshaven face black. "It's me." Remy smiled. "Why, Remy, I wasn't expecting you! Err... here, just let me cleaned up a bit. Michael, go get the wine." "What about the ratchet?" the boy asked. "Get the wine first, then the ratchet." John said. "Leg on it, boy." Michael shrugged and pushed past Ororo on his way out of the garage. The mechanic raised his eyebrows. "And who's this?" "John, meet my good friend Ororo." Remy said. "We work together." John smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Ororo. Forgive me for not gettin' up." "Of course." "You worked with this rascal for long?" he asked, pushing himself along the floor towards a bench. "A few years." she said. "What was that?" "A few years." Ororo said more loudly. "He ain't got you in jail yet, or worse?" Her lips twitched. "Perhaps once or twice." John came to a halt against the bench, and slowly levered himself up onto it. From that perch, he reached for a prosthetic leg that had lain hidden underneath the bench, and strapped it on. "Not surprised." he smiled. "He's a dreadful one, is Msr. Lebeau." Remy put up his hands. "All I get this trip is abuse." "Well-earned, I'll wager." John said. "Don't think I've forgiven you Michelle." "It was an honest mistake." Remy protested. "We don' need to bring that up, do we?" "Every time I see you, at least once." the mechanic replied, pulling out another prosthesis. "Keeps you honest." Outside, the basso growl of an old truck engine started up. Ororo peeked through the door and around the corner of the garage. "John," she said, "should Michael be driving a truck at his age?" "Prob'ly not." he replied. "But he's a smart kid, and the law hereabouts don't seem to give him much trouble, so there it is. He built that lorry up from a body and a pile of parts that we bought at the yard, pretty much for the cost of towing it out. "On the other hand, I told him to get the frigging wine. Wave him down, would you?" She nodded, and made a few sweeping gestures with her arms, but the truck taxied into the alley nevertheless, and was soon gone. "He did not pay me any mind." "Damn lippy kid." John groused, pulling himself up on a cane. "No respect for anybody except his fool friends." "I have taught many older children." Ororo said. "Friends are more important to them at that age." "Oh, a teacher, is it?" "Sometimes." John smiled crookedly. "Let me guess. You were a street rat, right? Casablanca? Maybe Tripoli?" "Cairo." "That where Remy found you?" the mechanic said. "He is not so old as that." Ororo said. "Older'n he looks, and that's the truth." "Hey, now, let's not give out all my secrets at once." Remy interrupted. "She's suspicious enough wit' all the Grecian formula I buy." John roared with laughter. "Punk. Let's go get that wine." ***** "That's the kind of dress that makes me regret my accident somethin' fierce." John remarked as Ororo came down the stairs. He was seated at the kitchen table, wiping utensils with a dishrag and laying them out on a piece of newspaper. "Thank you." she said with a smile. "I am quite taken with it." She sat down carefully at the kitchen table. "And with Remy, I'd bet." "No." she said. "We are just friends. Close friends, but that is all." John raised an eyebrow. "And he's not working on you." "No more than he would any woman." Storm said. "Fair enough." he said. "When he's in town, he usually has a girl on his arm, and it ain't because they're just friends." "I am not offended." "I wonder where that damn kid is. It's been a couple of hours." "It seems to me that he is likely to stay away for a while. He seemed quite upset." "He just doesn't like Remy." John said. "He doesn't get how much we owe him." "Oh?" He smiled sardonically. "You had to know it was somethin' like that. He relocated me an' Michael here from England, after I had a bit of a bad job with the law." "I do not mean to pry." Storm said. "Oh, it's nothing. Don't bother me none. I used to crack safes." "Then, it was an accident with explosives..." "Yeah. I was on my way back from picking up a bunch of dynamite. I had a place where I could get a bunch of the stuff cheap. Mining quality stuff. Anyway, I was a bit careless in my car with a fag, and the ash set off the dynamite. Buggered my hearing and took my legs." "How terrible." she said. "I know. Worst of it was that it tipped off the police. Up to that point, I'd had a couple of public drunkeness charges, you know, and some speeding tickets. But with the explosion... well, you can imagine. It doesn't take a forensic genius to figure out that a safe's been blown with dynamite." "How could you use dynamite on a safe? Would that not destroy the contents?" "Dynamite can be a precision instrument, love." John said, tapping his nose with a finger. "You know where to put it, and how much, and you can pretty much do what you want with it. So long as you don't care about what's around the safe." "So, Remy got you and Michael out of England." "Right. Pulled us out, right in front of the police, and moved us around a couple of times. If it weren't for Remy, my boy would be in a foster home. I'm very grateful to him." "Michael did not want to move?" "You guessed it." John said. "His mother's pretty much strung out, so she's not much good. Still, he didn't like being moved away from her, even if he never went to visit, you know? Courts already kept 'em apart, but you know how boys are." "Yes. He blames Remy, then." John sighed. "He saw his mother coming on to Remy once. He doesn't get that she's got a smile for every man, you know? It's not like we were ever married, and that for good reason." Ororo pursed her lips. "Did Remy..." "No. Of course not. He likes the classier ones. More of a challenge, I think." He shook his head ruefully. "No, she's not the type that Remy would give a second look." "How did you meet him?" "On a job." John said ruefully. "I'd bit off more than I could chew, trying to hit a credit union. I imagined that the vault on a credit union would be easier to get into than one on a real bank. Shows what I knew." "How old were you?" "Oh... 'bout twenty-five or so. Anyway, I was setting the charges when Remy walked in with one of the tellers. He saw me there before she did, and just got this look on his face, you know? Like he was a cat that had just swallowed a bird." "I know the one." she said. "For whatever reason, he took pity on me, and managed to convince her that I was the carpet cleaner. Bloody ridiculous story, right? But she bought it and I got the hell out of there." "You had not yet attempted to boost the safe." "No." John said with a sly smile. "But she did see the dynamite. Go figure that one." "You tellin' a bunch of bad stories 'bout me?" Remy asked, as he came downstairs. He was decked out in a lightweight suit, umber in colour, with a black silk shirt and a pair of shiny black leather shoes. His tie was an informal affair: a bolo tie in burnished tan leather with a sterling silver clasp. There was a simple garnet setting. His hair was in immaculate disarray, as always, and he was clean-shaven. "Lookin' good!" John said. "Forever underdressed." Ororo remarked. He flashed a winning smile. "Looks good, no? Maybe not quite the show- stopper you're gonn' be, but I'd hate to upstage a lady." She shook her head with a smile. "You'd make Marcus Sheckenberg cough up a lung." John said admiringly. "That reminds me. No cigarettes tonight, please?" Ororo pleaded. Remy spread his hands. "They're not even in my pocket." "Thank you." "Well, John, I t'ink we're off. Don' wait up." "I know better than that." the mechanic said with a wide grin. "We will try to be quiet when we come in tonight." Ororo said as she stood up. "Don't worry about that. Enjoy yourselves." Storm turned toward the front, but Remy touched her elbow and guided her out the back door. "We got the Fiat tonight." he said. "Well, I suppose that it will be easier on the dress than the motorcycle, but I may need assistance to get in and out of it." "That's what I'm here for." Remy said, as they walked around the back of the garage and crossed the alley. He fished a key out of his pocket and opened the door to the garage opposite, which contained a shiny black Fiat and a beautifully restored red Camaro. As good as his word, Gambit held the door for Ororo and helped her sit in the low-slung vehicle. He crossed around the back of the car and got in. "Remy." He raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?" he said, turning the key in the ignition. The engine noise was high-pitched, but smooth. "Who was on display today? Was it me, or John?" "Who's prettier?" Remy rejoined without looking at her. He pulled into the alley and carefully followed the track so as not to spit gravel at the undercarriage. "I cannot imagine what John could do for you, and he was not much impressed with me in any case, so I assume that it was me whom you meant to make an impression on." "John liked you fine." "You know what I meant." Ororo said. The Fiat moved gently into the street, and Gambit stepped on the gas. He was silent for a few moments before saying, "You been upset pretty much since we left the mansion, girl. Why don' you tell me what it is?" She paused. "I thought that this was supposed to be a fun evening." "So did I, which is why I ask." Remy said. "You're bein' a bit of a wet blanket, p'tite." Storm sighed. "Now, I don' mind a few good-natured pokes, girl, but you been doin' nothing but try to get under my skin all day, an' I don' t'ink it's me you're mad at." "No." Storm said. "No, I am not being fair. I apologise, Remy. I am not upset at you. I am a little sensitive today, and I hoped that this trip would cheer me up." "I didn' know better, I'd swear you were havin' problems." Remy remarked. "Of a sort." she said. "I am not sure that I want to talk about it." "Might make you feel better." "Or, it might make me dwell on it." He shrugged. "All right. Maybe later on, when I get a few drinks into you." "Are you planning on getting me drunk?" she asked. "I do find that my charm improves wit' alcohol." he grinned. She nodded quietly. "All right. I will improve my mood. Where are we eating?" "A little place that I know." Remy said. "Quiet, out of the way. But that after we dance." "When we go dancing, will we also be going to a small, out-of-the-way club?" Storm asked. "Non, chere. The most exclusive in Milan." She smiled slightly. "It would be a shame to wear this dress if no one were to see it." The Fiat moved aggressively through traffic, though with care. It turned onto a more substantial road, where it was locked at last by traffic into some semblance of conservative movement. He pulled the car left, into the entrance of an underground lot, and slowed to a halt after they glided down the ramp. A beefy blond man dressed in a contemporary mockery of a valet's uniform walked over to the driver's side. "Remy Lebeau." Gambit said as he got out of the car. The man nodded and accepted the keys. Remy walked over to the passenger's side and helped Storm out of the car. The valet, much too large to ever fit into the Fiat, pushed it along carefully toward a stall. A second man stood ready in the stall to receive it. "We're approved, 'Roro." Remy said with an impish smile. "Let's dazzle 'em just a little." "Lead the way." Storm replied. He took her hand, and they walked side-by-side toward a heavy metal door inside the garage. Before it stood another large, well-fed type. He regarded them impassively. "Remy Lebeau." Gambit said again. The big man glanced at a list on a clipboard that hung on the wall. After a few moments, he grunted in satisfaction and knocked on the door. It opened and disgorged a growling German industrial rhythm. "After you." Remy said in Ororo's ear. She stepped forward into the music and the lights. Everywhere she looked, whether it was on the stages, or in the cages, or at the bar, beautiful people congregated. Some danced, some drank, some appeared to be too drunk or high to realize what was going on. These last tended to booths. A thread of smoke curled around her head, but she recognized it as the vapour of dry ice. "Is this place legal?" she asked. "I doubt they got permits for everyt'ing that goes on in here, no." Remy said. "So what? Same t'ings go on in New York and N'awlins." "True." she said, relaxing a little. "Jus' let it wash over you. We came here to dance, not to make sure a bunch of misbehavin' kids get home to bed." "Still..." "You can't be responsible for everybody, Stormy. Let it go and enjoy yourself." "Do not call me that." she said reflexively. He took her hand and pulled her out to the dance floor, amongst the gyrating bodies of the young women and older men. She crouched close to the floor as Remy began the first movements of the dance, staring up at him as he made room among dead- and dewey-eyed people around them. Ororo rose from her crouch into the circle of his arms, and they moved in concert. He drew her hands above her head as they spun and stepped. His own open palms cascaded down the curves of her body in a feathery motion. She sighed expansively, showing off for the crowd. Her arms arched down to shoulder height, and she took Remy's extended palm, offering her hand to his. He took it, and she spun toward him, her arm folding. Her shoulder came softly to rest against his chest, and the palm of her free hand met his. The dance didn't really fit the music, but they were moving perfectly together, as if they'd practiced a hundred times, never missing a step. Greatly daring, Storm clutched his wrists and leaned to one side, bringing her feet together and sliding. Her body bent gracefully at the shoulders and the hips, drawn into a bow's shape. She gazed up at her partner in that scintilla of time. The lights played on the planes of his face, the muscles of his forearms showing clearly, limned in green and red and blue. His eyes were full of her. Remy pulled her up again, shuffling to one side in perfect time. Her arms were above her head. So were his. They stood for a moment like that. His breath smelled of citrus peel and tamarind. His eyes were soft and affectionate and welcoming. She tilted her head back, just a little... He blinked, and time seemed to unravel a bit. Ororo felt too hot, and a little dizzy. He let go of her hands and took hold of her waist. "You all right?" he asked. "I feel strange." she said. He looked upset. "I t'ink maybe they put somet'ing in the smoke. I feel a little odd myself." "Could... could we go?" Ororo said weakly. "Yeah. Yeah. Let's get some fresh air." ***** They took the Fiat out of the underground, and crossed the street to park in front of a salon. Storm pushed open the door of the Fiat to let in some fresh air once the engine cut off. "Feeling better?" Gambit asked. "A little." she replied. "You want to walk around a bit?" "No." she said. "I feel better already. I do. My mind is clear now." "I didn' know they'd fill the air wit' that stuff." he said lamely. Storm nodded, silently. "How's your stomach?" "Fine." she said. "My appetite is still good. It is not a case of nausea." "Good." "How do you feel?" Ororo said. "A bit off, but not bad." he smiled gamely. "Still hungry. Maybe, after we eat, you'll feel better. We'll go someplace wit' more class." "Fine." She closed the door again. "You sure you're okay?" Gambit pressed. "Fine." she repeated. "Please take me to the restaurant." "All right." he replied, and started the engine again. They sat in uneasy silence until the Fiat pulled up before a restaurant, where another shabbily dressed valet awaited to take the keys. Remy duly surrendered them, and crossed in front of the car to help Ororo out of the passenger seat. He grunted a little with the effort as he took her weight. "I t'ink I need to spend more time in the gym." he said with the hint of a sly smile. She raised an eyebrow. "Who is being defensive now?" "Let's not start that again." Remy replied. "You are gonna love the food here, I promise you." They passed through the double doors, oaken and ancient, into a dimly lit, smoky area that was dominated by long, rectangular tables. Several booths along the walls allowed for greater privacy, if fewer guests. "Remy Etienne Lebeau, come vivo e respiro." a short, frumpy man with a cigarette in his mouth proclaimed. "Che cosa state facendo in Italia, molto il meno mio ristorante? Entrato, entrare! Vi ho la tabella perfetta per. Voi gradiscono un certo vino?" "Si, grazie, Giuseppe. Il vino di casa, se voi per favore. Pane intero del grano e un menu per la signora. Avro il usuale." The man bustled off, and Ororo followed Remy uneasily to a booth. "I hope that he is not the cook." she said, stifling a cough. "Giuseppe? Non. He used to be, but now his wife does most of it." "Remy..." "Yeah?" "Why here?" Ororo asked. He frowned. "Somet'ing wrong wit' it?" "You know that I am not fond of cigarette smoke, and from the smell of this place, I suspect that I will find it impossible to get a meal that does not contain meat." Remy started guiltily. "Sorry, p'tite. I guess I'm so used to the routine when I come here that I'm takin' you to all the usual places." Ororo worked her jaw. "Are you deliberately trying to make me angry?" Remy sighed. "Would you like to leave?" "I would not have you insult your friend." she said. "We will stay." Gambit nodded his acquiescence, and peered around the room at the other patrons. "I am beginning to think that I am not the only person who is preoccupied, Remy." "Just wondering where my head is." "Why are you playing games with me?" Storm demanded angrily. "Much as I hate to say this, I t'ink the meal would improve wit' less talking." Gambit said deliberately. "This is ridiculous." Ororo said, standing up. "Indulge in your self- destructive behaviour if you must, but do not ply me with it. I will be back at the mansion." "What? Wait a minute, girl..." Remy said, half-rising, but she swept past him towards the door. Giuseppe came up to the table, bearing bread, a menu, and a bottle of red wine. "Siete avuti problemi della donna, Remy?" "Si, Giuseppe. Forse un problema piccolo della donna." "Perche quello accade sempre quando venite al ristorante?" "Che e una buoa domanda maledetta." ***** Logan pushed his motorcycle slowly up the driveway, muttering imprecations at his memory of a gas station attendant. He _knew_ that there was something wrong when he came out of the bathroom and got back on his chopper, but he had been too damn preoccupied to pay attention. The little weasel hadn't topped up the oil. There'd been a slow leak that he'd been planning to fix when he got back to the mansion. Now he had a seized engine to screw around with. Perfect feature of another perfect frigging day. His gaze was drawn, magnetically, to the greenhouse in the attic. His feet knew the way down the driveway on Graymalkin Lane without needing the help of his eyes. He squinted, as if by so doing he could pierce the veil of oiled paper that she had lining the walls. No such luck. He'd been scanning the skies every few minutes ever since he came within five miles of the place, and he did it again. Still nothing. He came around the deep curve in the driveway and pushed past the cabin. He'd left a window open in the back, and the wind was right. A tentative sniff told him that she'd been in there, but was not now haunting the place. He hit the kickstand and jogged in to pick up his cell phone. Irritably, he tapped a few buttons and held it between ear and shoulder while he walked. "Hello?" a grainy baritone said after six rings. "Harry Tabeshaw. How you doin'?" "Logan. I'm all right. Just working on a new Hercules I bought in the last surplus auction." "That couldn't've been cheap." Logan said, as he resumed pushing his bike toward the garage. "You'd be surprised." "Is it gonna be done anytime soon?" "It'll fly now, if that's what you're asking. I'm buffing her up a little. Why? You want a ride?" "Yeah." "Where?" "Japan." Harry paused. "Little late in the year for that, isn't it?" "Yeah. Same drill, though." "You're in luck. I'm at my sister's." "How's Louise doin'?" Logan rumbled. "Perfect, thanks. Pregnant again." "Surprise. How long 'til you can be out here?" Harry considered this for a moment. "Three hours." Logan grimaced. "All right. Meet you at the usual place." He dug the phone out from its cradle and hung up. A few short feet later, he came to the garage door. Having lost the remote again, he paused and listened carefully. From inside, he could hear the working of a ratchet on a stubborn bolt. He tapped the door a few times with the toe of his boot. An answering grunt informed him of the identity of the mechanic. He stepped back slightly as the garage door began to cycle up. "Afternoon, rookie." he said. "Logan." Bishop replied with more equanimity than Logan would have expected. He walked back over to his own motorcycle and picked up the ratchet again. "Havin' problems?" "The mix, I believe." the big man replied. "I changed the air filter and cleaned the lines. It is still underperforming." "You runnin' it hot enough? Might be carbon build-up." "I didn't think of that." Bishop said. "I hope that is the case." He discarded the ratchet and reached for a flashlight. "I notice that you are pushing your own motorcycle." "Fuck." Logan said angrily. "Left the oil change to a pimply-faced kid. Engine seized about six miles outside o' Salem Center." Bishop raised an eyebrow eloquently. "I was thinkin' o' somethin' else." the Canadian groused. "Indeed." Bishop said with a straight face. He bent his neck to look up the tailpipe with the flashlight. "See it?" "Yes. You were right." Bishop said. "How do I fix it?" "I've got a pretty new bottle o' liquid mechanic for bikes under the tool chest there. Follow the instructions on 'er, an' I'll be back down in a few minutes t' help you out." Bishop grunted his thanks. "Why keep it under the tool chest?" "So Lebeau or Forge won't steal it, mostly." Logan said over his shoulder. He pulled open the heavy door to the mansion proper and walked down the hallway. It had already managed to become dingy, though the mansion had been scoured clean only months before. A thread of jojoba scent drew his attention like it always did. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in the shampoo smell with the old engine oil. He looked down and bent to pick up a single red hair that had somehow found its way into the garage hallway. Red was wandering the house again. That was a weird habit she'd picked up when Scott had been missing. Now Slim was back, and she was still a bit on the weird side. He shrugged to himself, uncomfortably. He'd been careful not to poke his nose in with Jean when she was grieving Scott. No sense messing with her head and making her feel worse. As it happened, that had been the right move. Scott was back and OK. Funny how life would reward your stupidest habits. The red in her hair wasn't quite the same, but it still took him back to his trip up to Ottawa, just that morning. ***** The small home was as ugly as it had always been, with vinyl siding overlooking a neglected garden. It was only cloudy outside, but the rain still dripped from the aluminum shingle that made up the roof. She found the sound of rain on the roof comforting. Strange, that a girl born and bred in a city as dry as Calgary would be soothed by rain. The sound drove him nuts, personally, but it was a small price to pay. He stepped carefully on cracking concrete islands, little more than pancakes of hardened dust on the lawn. Three other houses within view had the same kind of walk. Logan had never liked Ottawa much; for night life, Montreal had it licked. For beauty, Victoria. For climate, even if you liked it wet, Vancouver. If you were looking for a fight, Calgary or Halifax were much better. For culture, it was Toronto. Even if you liked having your ass frozen off, you could do it quicker in Winnipeg. Heather seemed to like it, though. He tried to call her every weekend when he could, and when they happened to miss each other it wasn't because she was out west visiting the folks. A strange feeling settled into his stomach as he mounted the steps to her door. The spring-loaded hinges on the screen door protested as he pulled it open to knock, disdaining the doorbell. His hand hovered in the knocking position for a few seconds, enough for the thick, wooden door to be jerked open. "Hey, Logan." a deep voice said sourly from somewhere around the height of his ribs. "Come t' help me move out, eh?" "How you doin', Eugene?" Logan said, stupidly. "Great." said the little man, rolling his eyes. "Sorry. I think I might o' inhaled too many bugs on the road." Eugene shrugged his massive shoulders. "I'm having a bit of a pisser t'day, myself. Come in." He wasn't an attractive man, particularly. Less than four feet tall and bald as an egg, Eugene Judd wore facial hair to cover some nasty scars. It couldn't disguise a cauliflower ear, though. What hair he had was black, and it bristled above large, expressive eyes and beneath a great red knob of a nose. Puck always claimed that beer had turned his nose that colour. Heather insisted that it was rosacea. "Logan!" Heather said briskly as he walked through the door. She gave him a warm, if brief hug that told him everything he needed to know about her mood. "How'd you hear that we needed another pair of strong arms?" "From Puck." Wolverine replied, discarding his hat. "What're you moving?" "My stuff. Out." the little man grunted. "I was about t' pull the truck around back, but with you here it'll be easier t' do it through the front." "All right." Logan said, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's push all this little shit out o' the way. What's the big ticket item?" "Waterbed. I haven't drained it yet." Heather rolled her eyes and walked into the kitchen. Logan couldn't quite resist the urge to watch her unconscious, long-limbed grace and the bounce of her long red hair. "Should only weigh three hunn'erd or so, eh?" Puck said, dragging him back. "I'll get the duct tape, and we can take 'er out in one go." "Sounds good." Logan said. "Heather, you got any beer?" "No." she and Puck said in unison. "I'm not doin' this without beer. I'll be back in a minute. The usual?" he asked of Eugene. "Yep." "Want anything, Heather?" "No thanks, Logan." she called out. Logan snatched his stetson from the recliner upon which it sat, and stepped outside again. He patted his shirt pocket and picked out a cigar from a packet that he'd bought on the way up. Irritably, he fished a disposable lighter out of his pocket and spat the distaff of the cigar into the gutter. He swung a leg over his bike and lit the cigar, inhaling deeply and trying to calm his rattled nerves. The nearest liquor store was about a mile away, he calculated. The bike's engine caught, and he revved it. An angry sound, the growl of a motorcycle. He felt like taking her out to howl. A few extra miles wouldn't make much difference. He wondered idly where Mac was, and how the man felt about his wife's living arrangements. Heather, he supposed, just couldn't take being with him anymore. Puck took a chance, threw his dice. Logan had thought that they'd already broken up, but apparently Heather and Eugene decided to take one more run at it. Puck's luck turned out crummy. The pips that came up on the dice had as much to do with the table as how you threw them. It probably wasn't his fault, or hers. Not really. And now, Heather was available. He swore venomously as most of the cigar he'd been smoking fell into the street behind his speeding bike. He spat out the stub and scraps of tobacco. What a frigging day. ***** Logan absent-mindedly tucked the hair into his shirt pocket as he pushed open the door to the foyer. A panoply of scents filled his nostrils: Betsy's queer scent, fragrant sweat more appealing to his tastes than the perfume it mingled with; the latest in a long line of excitable colognes (as worn by Drake); the very barest hint of the natural oil that lubricated Angel's feathers; solder wafting up from the basement. He never failed to pause a second here. If anything ever had, this room bore the scent of home. After the long stint of pushing his hog, he needed a beer. He crossed the foyer, his cowboy boots making a loud series of taps across the hardwood floor. The noise changed timbre when he crossed over the threshhold of the kitchen, the sound dulled by linoleum. The door was open to allow a breeze into the house; the weather was unseasonably warm. Somebody outside was listening to country music on the radio. He didn't have to guess at her identity. At least, he mused within the dying notes of a Connie Francis song, her tastes had improved. None of that punk crap. Logan reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a beer; unfortunately, it had obviously been Scott's turn to buy, and he had inevitably purchased one six pack of Coors. Only Scott, Drake, and Bishop liked the stuff, which is why it always sat and mouldered in the fridge until somebody got desperate. Logan was privately of the opinion that Bishop drank it because Scott liked it. The opening chords of an old Dolly Parton song floated into the kitchen from outside, and Logan tried to smile around a mouthful of beer. 'Old flames can't hold a candle up to you. No one can light up the night like you do.' Wolverine grimaced, and a little beer dribbled onto his shirt. 'Flickering embers of love... I have known one or two.' He tried to gulp the beer fast enough that he could yell at her to shut it off, but choked when he heard her begin singing along. Her voice was a little sad, he thought. "Rogue, how can you listen to this stuff?" Drake's voice said. "When does she lose her dog and her eighteen wheeler?" "You just better stuff cotton in your ears, Bobby, 'cause I ain't changin' it." she replied. "You just march right back around that corner and go back to whatever it was you were doin'." "Hey." Drake said in a softer voice. "What's wrong?" "Bobby, please leave me alone." "C'mon, Rogue. You're obviously miserable." he said. A lawn chair creaked. "You can't be warm enough in that." "Ah'm really not in the mood for talkin' about it." "I mean, I can pretty much make out the razorburn on your... er..." Logan whistled softly. "Get lost." she said, slowly and distinctly. "Suit yourself." he said in an easy tone, and the chair creaked again. "By way of apology, let me chill your drink. Since you're obviously too hot for the out-of-doors." A hissing sound followed, and Dolly's voice stopped abruptly. "Oops." "Bobby Drake, that is it!" she shrilled. A powerful *thwack* followed, as of a slap backed by a lot of muscle. The characteristic sigh as Drake shifted forms followed. "Ouch." he said. "OUCH?!" "Oh, shit." Drake said in a small voice. Logan risked hanging his head around the corner, and saw that Drake had taken to the sky on a sled of ice. Rogue was steaming mad and in hot pursuit. She smashed through his ice sled, which would have tumbled him to the ground if he hadn't just jumped off and started a new one. "Missed me!" he tossed over his shoulder. She didn't answer; just picked up speed. As she was just about to strike him, he killed the slide and fell, leaving her to pass overhead and smash into a five-foot thick ice wall that he had left hanging for the purpose. Not enough to hurt her, of course, but more than enough to seriously piss her off. The chase didn't last long after that. Rogue was one of the most agile fliers among the X-Men. Wolverine shook his head. Why the hell was he sitting in the kitchen, eavesdropping? This was none of his business. He decided to walk out past them, to let them know he'd been in the kitchen, and then head back down toward the garage across the lawn. "Feel better?" he heard Drake say, as Wolverine picked up his beer and headed for the door. "Not really." Rogue said morosely. "Thanks, though. Ah can always count on you, Bobby." "Meaning... you can't count on Gambit." Drake replied. "What's he done this time?" She sighed as he pushed open the door. "We were s'pposed to go out today, to pick out a dress for our anniver'sry this Friday." "And... he ditched you." "He left with Storm." she said dangerously. "Ah think they went t' Europe." Logan set his jaw and stepped outside. "Afternoon, Rogue. Drake." "Wolverine." Rogue said in a flat voice. Drake was right about the outfit. He didn't bother to acknowledge her tone of voice, but kept right on walking across the lawn. After a bit, they started talking again. Nobody could ever gauge his hearing properly. "Maybe he just forgot." Iceman said. "Remy?" Rogue said in genuine surprise. "Never in a million years. No, he did this on purpose. Why would he do that, Bobby?" Much to Logan's relief, Bobby Drake's reply was lost to distance. He knocked on the garage door again, and Bishop pulled it open a moment later. "Why're you working on your bike with the door closed?" Logan asked. "A new system of Forge's." Bishop replied. "The air conditioning filters hydrocarbon emissions from the air in stages. The result is directed toward holding tanks, I believe." "And the system's powerful enough to pull the poisons out o' the air before they get t' toxic levels?" Logan said skeptically. Bishop returned to his work. "I trust his judgment." The little man shrugged. "Good enough. You got the works clean?" "I believe so. What is the next step?" "Idle 'er for about ten minutes. Then we take 'er out soft for about a half hour, and ride 'er hard for an hour after that." "You are coming along, then." the big man said. "You can give me a ride out t' Jersey." Bishop raised an eyebrow inquisitively, but Logan ignored him and knelt to unscrew the gas cap. "Smells good." he said. "We're about ready. Let 'er idle a bit, and then we'll be on our way." He stood up, and walked toward the lawn. "Indeed." Bishop said. He tightened up the gas cap and made sure of the hoses. "Meet you out front." ***** "That the same pigsticker?" "Yeah." "You gotta bring that thing along every time?" "Yeah." "In a mood, eh?" "Yeah." Harry Tabeshaw, pilot and mechanic, knew better than to push the issue. Logan looked like he was in touchy temper. As he always did on this trip, the little man bore a hockey bag and a long, cloth-wrapped tube. The bag contained God knows what; could've been guns, books, candles. On an earlier trip, Harry had seen what was inside the tube. A slender sword, 'katana' was Logan's name for it, had been slid into a flexible cardboard tube and wrapped with silk cloth. Harry coughed and started the plane. He flipped a braid negligently over his shoulder and leaned back into the chair. He'd flown Wolverine into all kinds of messes, all kinds of places. This trip was along a well- worn path. "Longer range on this one?" Logan asked. "What?" "Longer range on the plane?" "Yeah. Why?" "I wanna go t' Osaka this time 'round." Logan said. "Osaka." Harry repeated. "You want me to come in on the QT?" "Nah. Airport's fine." "Good." They sat in silence for a minute as Harry double-checked everything, and taxied down the highway. "This one's different, eh?" the pilot ventured. Logan merely grunted. A few minutes later, he tried again. "You want me to wait for you at the airport?" "Yeah. Please." "Can do." The silence stretched on for a few minutes; minutes ticked away into hours, and Harry came down to refuel under an increasingly angry sky. The plane didn't quite need it, since he'd set out his fueling stations with his Cessna in mind, but he couldn't make it all the way to Anchorage on one tank. Runway lights twinkled into life when he pressed a button on the dash. "Nice." Logan remarked. "It was an idea Louise had. Good thing, too, the way the sky's looking." The old man's face took on a sour expression. * Harry smiled. *<> translated from the Cree ***** Gambit swore, eloquently and at length, in as many languages as he could manage. She was gone. He'd blown it. He was relieved, a little. Strange that he was relieved. And she was very, very angry at him. Which hadn't really been his fault. The Cajun was pacing down an alley as narrow and twisted as his mood. His hands were jammed fiercely into pockets to keep himself from gesticulating. Although his voice was quiet, the words and tone of it were fierce, and he was training himself to be satisfied with that. He jumped a bit when he realized that someone was walking straight up the alley (or as straight as it allowed). He could tell by the noise; the walker was coming up behind him. It was a man, and his tread was purposeful. Probably a mugger. Remy almost smiled. A mugger would suit his mood very well. "Remy Etienne Lebeau?" the man said. "Oui." Gambit replied shortly, not turning around. He pulled his hands out of his pocket, and fingered a spoon that he'd lifted from Giuseppe's restaurant. The man's image flickered in its finger-polished surface. "I have a message for you from a woman with a man's name." Remy fingered the spoon, waving it slightly to indicate that the man should continue. "Your friend is headed to meet her. She suggests that you adjust your plans accordingly." He almost bit his lip. Here was another chance to damn himself, if he dared to take it. "She also says that you owe her." "Actually, mon brave, that makes only one she owes me. But who's counting, neh?" He pulled out his billfold, hesitated, and then tossed the whole thing over his shoulder. The man snatched it with practiced grace and turned on his heel. Gambit went back to pacing. Should he head for the mansion, or chase after Storm? If he was smart, he would head back to America. No. Damage control was better. Gambit composed an apologetic note in his head as he crossed the alley and headed into John's backyard. The plane would be waiting. ***** The apartment was small; ratty, even. A scatter of newspaper, each sheet bearing marks of having been used to wipe a muddy foot, made a small space seem smaller still. Along one wall was a futon, thin and dense. A barley pillow scrunched itself into a corner of the same. On the walls, many sheathed blades and weapons of stealth were hung in meticulous lines. Where metal was bare, it had been carefully blackened with grease. The door was nailed shut. In fact, a long, triangular brace of scrap wood was nailed to the floor to keep the door from ever opening. It was no matter; the two women came in through a window that was covered with a fluttering, threadbare flap of canvas. The first woman was petite, but muscled like a cat. Her eyes, delicately slanted, had a delighted, intoxicated look to them. She was wearing a black samfu, that covered her from head to toe, but she unwrapped the headdress to reveal a short, neat crop of black hair and a smooth, buttery complexion. Her features were sharp, almost elfin, with prominent cheekbones and thin, perky eyebrows. The second was much taller. She was similarly garbed, though her eyes, visible in the moonlight, were blue. She was breathing heavily, as if winded, but did not show any other sign of weariness. As she stepped to one side, making certain that her outline was not visible through the window, she also removed the tight black wrapping around her head. A snowy cascade of hair tumbled to her left shoulder, dragging an overstressed hairpin with it. "We should do this more often, windrider." the short woman said, running her fingers through her hair. "Relax. Don't mind the mess." "I wish that we could do this every night, Yukio." Storm replied. She plucked at the remaining hairpins, releasing her hair. "Where should I put these?" "Anywhere." the Japanese thief said carelessly. "I will put them under the edge of your mattress." "So, Ororo." Yukio said. "Yes?" she replied, sitting down on the futon. "You still haven't told me why you're here. Not that I'm complaining." "I told you." Storm said. "I have just had a very upsetting day with Gambit, and I prefered to visit you for a day or two, while my temper cools." "What'd he do?" Storm sighed. "He invited me out for a day of shopping in Milan. He introduced me to some of his friends. Everything seemed fine, but then he started pushing me away. He was deliberately antagonizing me." Yukio nodded sympathetically. "I do not understand why he would want to hurt me." "Was it an 'all of a sudden' thing, or did it sneak up on you?" "Why?" "Well", Yukio mused, "was he acting weird before that?" "A little." Storm said. "What are you thinking?" "I'm thinking he had something in mind, but lost his chance or his nerve. He would've started acting like an asshole as a way to abort the whole thing." Ororo's eyes narrowed. "How would you know that?" Yukio shrugged exquisitely. "Set a thief to catch a thief. The sudden change of mood's a dead giveaway. That was his escape hatch." Storm sighed. "Remy does not play games with me. That was why I was getting so angry. He was distant. He was not being..." "Real?" "Yes." "Why don't you ask him what he was up to? He might just tell you." Yukio said. "Not yet. I am still angry." "Fair." the little thief allowed. "You want some tea?" "Please." Yukio glided over to the sink, a bare metal affair coated with a creme green enamel paint, and started running water. She reached under it and pulled out a kettle and a small box. "Tea bag all right?" "Of course." Yukio smiled over her shoulder at Storm, and set about plugging in a hot plate. She filled the kettle and put it on the plate. "Why do you stay in this apartment?" Ororo asked. "You could afford better. Is it the anonymity?" "Sort of." the Japanese woman said. "It's also because of the view." Storm leaned over to the window, and twitched back the canvas a little. "A graveyard?" "What can I say?" Yukio said lightly. "It reminds me that I'm ronin." Ororo's breath caught in her throat. "On any other day, I would have believed you." Yukio's delicate brows gathered, and she walked over to the window to see what Storm was looking at. Then, she too was silent. Although it was dark, lights on top of the walls surrounding the tiny graveyard were enough to show movement within. A figure moved there, broad of shoulder. His slow, careful tread and the hang of his arms were almost as familiar to each woman as the lines on the man's face. He knelt before a grave and touched his head to the earth. "Is that her grave?" Storm whispered. "That is the ancestral burial ground of the Yashida clan." Yukio whispered back. "Yashida Mariko is buried there." "Why tonight?" Ororo breathed to herself. The thief responded as if it were a real question. "I don't know. Look. He's brought the honour sword of the Yashidas. He carries the honour of her family with him." Ororo nodded absently. Her fingers tightened on the canvas. "You too?" Yukio said, staring at her. "What?" "You're in love with him." she said. "I do not truly know." Storm replied, in a rough voice. "I think I am." "I'm sorry." Yukio offered. "I know what it's like to love him." Ororo smiled, a little sadly, and offered her hand. Yukio took it, and the two of them stared out of the window. ***** Their reverie was interrupted by a sprightly knock on the windowsill, bare inches above their heads. Yukio pushed off into Storm, bowling the larger woman over and onto the floor. She changed direction abruptly and rolled backward into a crouch, pulling a small throwing knife from the folds of her samfu. As a shadow crossed behind the fluttering canvas, she threw it. The figure grunted as the small knife intersected it, but that didn't keep the intruder out of the apartment. The shadow also rolled as it pushed through the flap and came to its feet. It swayed easily to one side to avoid a shuriken that flashed by. A pink glow began at the shiv that was being twirled in the figure's fingers, casting light over a well-muscled male body and glittering red-black eyes. His eyes flashed, and the shuriken that Yukio held ready to throw also began to glow. "I picked up a trick or two since we last tangled, little t'ief." "I thought it was you, or I wouldn't be playing nice." Yukio replied. "What are you doing here, Gambit?" "Came lookin' for Storm." Lebeau said. "A little birdy tol' me that she'd be here." "You have found me." Ororo said tightly. "The question is, why have you found me?" "Came to apologise. Maybe explain myself." Gambit offered. Storm sighed heavily. "Very well." "Let's take a walk." he said. "Sounds perfect." Yukio remarked. "I could use a stretch." Remy's mouth quirked, but his eyes were hard. "I t'ink I'd feel better if you stayed here, little t'ief." "Why?" Storm asked flatly. "I jus' t'ink she might hear t'ings she don' wanna hear." Remy replied. "Come on." Storm got slowly to her feet. Yukio made as if to follow. "Say, is that blowfish toxin I smell on those knives?" Gambit remarked. Yukio's face went blank, and she walked instead toward the wall and yanked out the shuriken imbedded there. "'Course, I don' have a nose like Wolverine's." Remy continued. "That is enough." Storm said dangerously. "We are leaving." Gambit nodded jerkily, and hopped down through the open window. "I will be back in an hour or less." Storm said to Yukio. The smaller woman nodded silently. Storm turned to the window and leapt out of it, letting the winds carry her to the ground where Gambit was waiting. "What has led you to behave so hatefully?" she demanded. "Why were you cruel to Yukio? She only meant to protect me." Gambit shrugged. "I wouldn' hurt her. I just don' want her hearing my business." "So? What is your business, and why does it involve me?" she asked. He winced. "I'm sorry, p'tite. My mind wasn't on us. I was t'inking of Rogue." Ororo sighed. "You often think of Rogue. You have explained nothing. What were you going to do?" "Pardon?" he said. "You lost your nerve. You were going to try something, but then you decided to push me away instead. That restaurant was specifically chosen for that end." He started guiltily, and slowly settled into an uneasy smile. "It's hard to put anyt'ing past you." Storm raised her eyebrows. He sighed. "All right. Yeah. I guess the fact is, I had some kind of half-idea that involved usin' you. But I cou-- I don' wanna screw up what we got." "What was the idea?" she asked. He shook his head. "No way. My thoughts are my own, p'tite." "Why would you use me?" she asked in an aggrieved tone. He sat silent for only a moment. "Rogue." he said miserably. "What do you mean?" Storm said. "We're no good." Remy said softly, slowly. "I'm draggin' her down, girl. She's lost her spunk. Got no spirit. She's miserable all the time." "Yes?" she prompted. "I need to break it off. Permanent." he said. "At least, for a long time." "You do not need a game to do that." she said. "You do not need me." Gambit shook his head. "I can't make myself do it. I love her, Stormy. I really do. I'm too damn weak to break it off." "You should try to work things out." Ororo said gently. "Self-loathing does not become you, my friend." "I can't break up wit' her, so I need her to break up wit' me." he said, ignoring her. "It's the only way." Storm nodded, sadly, and drew him close to her. He did not resist as she cradled the back of his neck, and rubbed his back soothingly. "I'm sorry." he choked. "I know." she said. ***** * <>* translated from the Japanese.