CHAPTER FOUR
Hell’s Kitchen, late Monday afternoon…
“You did what??”
Logan tossed the contents of the small grocery bag into the fridge, then carefully made room for the stack of six-packs waiting at his feet. Behind him, Remy stood with his hands on his hips like an admonishing mother. “I offered ta help the lady, that’s all. What’s wrong with you, Gumbo?”
“De last Remy heard, chere was bad news. Now, you offerin’ t’cure what ails her?”
“Watch it, Cajun.” Logan stood, bringing two cans with him as he came into the small living room. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see her. The woman’s definitely in some pain, seems like every wakin’ minute she ain’t suckin’ somebody dry. And she’s been like this for years, accordin’ ta her.”
“So…you b’lieve her, homme?” Gambit perched himself on the arm of the old couch, watching Logan carefully.
“I wouldn’t necessarily say I’m ready to be takin’ on any charity cases, if that’s whatcha mean. But I was thinkin’ maybe Chuck or McCoy could have a look at her.” Logan popped one of the cans, bringing it to his lips as he said this.
Gambit shook his head. “Gambit don’ b’lieve dis…an’ how dis ‘appen t’her?”
“Don’t know.” Logan shrugged, as if it hadn’t occurred to him to ask. “Our conversation wasn’t a therapy session…at least, not a conventional one.”
Remy shrugged it off, leaning so that he slid over the arm of the couch and laid back. He watched Logan down the first then pop the second beer can, before he spoke next. “Logan.”
“Hmm?” Only the Wolverine’s eyes addressed him as he gulped the domestic.
“’Called Rogue earlier, b’fore you came back...uh, she say Someone’s been leanin’ pretty heavy on ‘er t’know where you run off to.”
The can froze in mid air, as Logan’s gaze pierced Remy for several seconds. He brought the can down into his lap, running a finger along the outer edge of the aluminum. “And?”
“The chere knows the deal. But she seem t’tink Jeannie gettin’ desperate t’know where you are…wants t’reconcile, no?”
Logan quickly finished the can, then leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He fixed Gambit with his piercing grey eyes and serious expression. “I’m glad Rogue understands this ain’t none o’ her business. I don’t want her caught up in any o’ this shit. But she needs to watch Jean. If there’s one thing I learned about the lady, it’s that she rarely just gives up when she wants somethin’ bad enough.”
“She wouldn’t hurt Rogue…” Remy looked surprised at the implication.
“Maybe not the way you’re thinkin’, Bub. But Jean told me some shit even Chuck don’t know ‘bout the way she’s used her powers. Just let Rogue know, okay?”
Remy glanced away as if he were contemplating going back to Westchester right then. “Oui, ami…”
A couple hours later, across town at the Xile…
Ororo paced the hall outside Forge’s office, on one of the lower floors of the building near the Security Office. She’d been waiting for him for over two hours now, and still couldn’t reach him by his cell. Her mood was becoming increasingly agitated, as the minutes passed.
‘All I ask of him is to be on time…he knows I need him to be on time for this…’ she thought angrily, feeling the blood pumping faster as her pressure rose. She’d been feeling ill all morning, and the longer she went without the Shot, the worse she felt.
‘Goddess, is it not bad enough I have to be a slave to this condition, the ‘medication’…now must I also be one to his Schedule??’ She paused from pacing, wiping her brow, which had begun to perspire. The hall was beginning to tilt slightly, and so she decided getting worked up and moving about wasn’t the best thing to do. Leaning against the wall, she tilted her head back, breathing slowly and deliberately.
“Just calm down…it’ll be alright.” She soothed herself, trying desperately to ignore the feeling of nausea coming.
For the past year and a half, Ororo had been religiously following a medication regiment implemented by Forge that had drastically helped control the Feeding urges she had. The cocktail he invented mimicked the properties and consistency of blood plasma, in essence fooling the vampiric “virus” within her to believe it was receiving legitimate nourishment. So far it was met with some success, but it was crucial the monthly shot be administered on time, lest these undesirable side effects occur.
Forge was a master at creating almost anything she needed of him, so it had been a no-brainer to ask him to concoct something for this ‘problem’. The cocktail was powerful, it worked…and was highly addictive. Ororo knew all this, but most importantly it kept her from attacking innocent people on the street, people she knew; her friends. So she dealt with the mood swings and occasional withdrawal symptoms, which were few and far between as long as she got the shit on time. Unbidden, she thought of Wolverine…Logan, he called himself. Absently, she wondered if his ‘offer’ of help still stood.
“Sorry I’m late…” Forge’s deep voice came from behind her as he stepped off the elevator from the upper floors, effectively keeping her thoughts from further exploring the possibility (for the moment, anyway).
Ororo turned toward him, her hands firmly planted on her knees as she leaned over, unsure how close she was to vomiting. “Just give it to me.” The look he gave her made her stomach flip again. “You do have it, don’t you??”
“Ororo, honey, I’m sorry…” He began, but she turned from him suddenly, hurrying down the hall to the restroom at the end. Forge stayed rooted in place as she disappeared, and the apologetic look on his face melted to one of haughty satisfaction. He slid one hand in his slacks pocket, rolling the vial between his fingers as he waited for her return.
Inside the women’s restroom, Ororo stood shakily from her knees, breathing heavily and gulping several times. She paused, contemplating whether or not she was finished, then exited the stall, going to the basin to wash her hands and splash her face. She stared at her visage in the mirror, all sorts of curses going through her mind.
When she reemerged, she walked carefully, for the hall was still spinning, and came to stop several feet before him. “Forge…where is it.”
His sorrowful expression was back, as he spread his hands wide in apology. “I tried so damn hard, baby, I swear…my contact for some of the key ingredients screwed me. The bastard was supposed to have them delivered a few days ago, and when that didn’t go through, I had a rough time tracking the punk down.”
“I thought you ordered everything a few months in advance.” She brushed the sweat away from her brow, giving him a weary look.
“Yes, usually that is the case. But that’s with Henrí, the reliable guy from upstate. When he got pinched awhile back, I had to go with someone else. This new guy--I forget his name--he seemed reliable, but now this…” He came forward as she leaned against the wall, obviously ill. “I’ve been trying to track him down or get someone else to pull through for me ever since.”
“You couldn’t have called? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought focusing on getting the mix was more important.”
She could hardly argue that point, though she was still more than mildly upset. “And just what am I to do now?? You know how badly I need it.”
He was quiet for a moment, as if in contemplation. Finally, he reached over and gripped her shoulder and spared her one of his trademarked dazzling smiles. “I’ve never let you down before this, have I?”
“No.”
“Then don’t worry, honey. I’ll figure something out. I probably have something to take the edge off of the withdrawal; go lay down for awhile, and I’ll see what I can do.” His eyes followed her as she dragged herself away toward her office with its comfortable couch and wide waste basket. Confident she wouldn’t turn to see him, Forge couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. ‘Well, look’s like We won’t be going out on any late-night rendezvous tonight…’
After she disappeared, he turned and walked back down the hall toward the lift, whistling.
Meanwhile, in Westchester…
Scott walked into the spacious kitchen, tossing the keys to the Bentley on the counter in more than mild disgust. Bobby Drake looked up from his sandwich but then lowered his eyes again, trying desperately to contain a wicked grin. Beside him, Jean pursed her lips, on the verge of saying something, but didn’t want to call attention to an already embarrassing situation.
“Scott, how’d it go?” She looked to their official leader in Charles’ absence.
“(scoffs) The cops aren’t sure they can find It.” He said simply, letting her fill in the blanks as to what he meant.
Bobby’s eyebrows raised as he studied his foot-long sub, then took a bite quietly, pretending not to be listening.
Not fooling Jean, she slid off of the stool at the counter and approached Scott, taking him by the arm into the next room. “Look, I’m sorry, this is all my fault. I really didn’t think he’d do something so juvenile…They really have no clues?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be an issue if the bastard hadn’t found a way to disable the tracking system. God, if I could get my hands around his thick-ass neck..!” Scott’s hands clenched impulsively, an uncharacteristic display of emotion for him.
Jean rubbed his back, pointedly ignoring the figure that came around the corner at that moment. “We’ll find it, Scott. I’m sure the police are doing all they can.”
Guessing the nature of their conversation (it was a very small mansion sometimes with how quickly gossip spread), Rogue kept a steady pace to the kitchen, where she saw Drake and the two exchanged knowing glances. Coming up beside him and reaching for the bowl of fruit in the center of the counter, she said quietly, “How’s the treasure hunt going, Bobby?”
That was all he needed, as chewed cheese and a mouthful of his club sandwich sprayed the counter before him. Coughing as he laughed, Bobby gave Rogue a slightly chastising glare as he visibly admonished her for making him waste the food. “Shit, Rogue…”
“You think that this is funny?” Jean suddenly re-appeared in the doorway, giving both of them a mother’s glare.
Rogue ignored the question, as she pulled out a short switchblade, one of Gambit’s, and proceeded to peel the orange.
“Geez, Jean, no, it’s just…” Bobby busied himself with cleaning up his mess, avoiding the fiery red-head’s gaze as he did so.
*Bobby, leave it. I’ll get that up later.* Jean came a couple more steps inside the room, as Scott came up behind her.
Giving Rogue a ‘head’s up’ look, Drake quickly escaped once the tough little Belle gave him a look obviously stating she could handle herself.
“You like making jokes behind people’s backs?” Jean’s caustic tone even made Scott do a double take, as he quickly surmised the two women had evidently gotten into it at some earlier date.
Rogue’s slight smile of dismissal only made Jean’s blood boil hotter, as she stood close, evidently waiting for a response. ‘Better’n sleepin’ b’hind people’s backs…’ “Oh, was that a real question, Sugah? Ah thought it was rhetorical or some shit.”
“Jean…” Scott grasped her arm as she made to take another step closer to the other woman.
“Go ‘head, Lover Boy, let’er.” Rogue’s rough southern accent was barely audible.
“We’re a team here, People,” he said to both of them, a statement that made Rogue scoff, “We don’t have time for this high school bullshit. I know what’s going on here, and I’m putting a stop to it since you two won’t.”
“Fine, Scotty,” Rogue tossed the peels of the orange at the pile of Drake’s food, “But I’m not the one who’s stirrin’ the pot on Old relationships…I’m just mindin’ muh business…’scuse me, ya’ll.”
Jean gave the woman a look to kill, as she followed her waltz out of the room. She turned to see Scott giving her a look as well.
As Rogue headed back upstairs, she griped the railing of the stairs briefly, feeling slightly light-headed for an instant, before she ‘heard’, *This isn’t over Rogue, “sugah”.*
Sighing, she kept going, shaking her head at the other woman’s threat, whether it was implied or explicit. ‘See, this is how Shit gets started…’
To Be Continued…
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