Disclaimer: Standard don't own nothing but my own imagination, etc, etc.
A X-Men FanFiction
Written by RogueMoon
It was wrong.
Held against the operating table, ankles and wrists in metal clamps. Power inhibitor secure around his neck. Head clamped and shaved for the surgery. Monitor wires stuck to his skin, over the lungs and heart.
No where to move.
No way to fight.
Cerebral feedback needed.
The snap of a sterile plastic glove as it was pulled over pale fingers. Eyes that were nothing more than a field of red looked down at him.
The hands, the gloved hands, ghosted over his skin. Checking once more to make sure everything was in ready. Leaving his skin burning it their wake.
He gulped down a breath to calm himself, red on black eyes shutting.
The lack of sight only made the touch burn more.
He shuddered, pulse pounding, every nerve too sensitive. The rubber covered fingers paused. Monitor beeping in time with his heart. Going faster.
Deep breath. Get control back.
The beeping slowed. The hand moved. The beeping increased.
A chuckle, "No need to be so nervous, LeBeau. Just as you are the best in your field, I am the best in mine."
"Not nervous." Not entirely a lie. He wasn't nervous about the surgery. He was nervous about the touch. He was nervous about how it made him burn.
The hand left him.
He opened his eyes. The doctor's face was inches from him. Filled his vision. Skin unnaturally white, hair as black as oil and just as slick, diamond of blood in the center of his forehead, artful soulpatch at the chin. His breath hitched. The beeping increased ten fold.
The doctor smiled, a shark given human form, "You are nervous." Confident, self assured, left no room for questioning.
The gloved hand came into view, rested lightly on his cheek, pulling on the skin under the eye, opening it further. Fields of blood examining him.
Breathing was so much harder. His mouth opening to gasp for air as he started to drown in the red.
More beeping. More machines making noise. All he could see was the red.
He smirked. Tried to say something witty. Defuse the situation. Was there a situation? He thought he said something dirty. Double entandre.
Another chuckle and the hand moved to cup his chin, thumb sliding lightly over his lower lip. Intense pools of crimson watching as his tongue flicked out, wetting the upper lip, grazing the rubber encased digit.
His eyes fluttered shut as the thumb pressed itself inside his mouth. Lips pulling on it, tongue licking it, feathery kisses and gentle sucking. He could barely taste the rubber now. It tasted like him.
"Interesting." Amusement as the finger left his mouth, trailed wetly down his chin to the top of the collar. A trail of fire.
He had no control. He couldn't move. Couldn't fight.
"I have never encountered such an... intense reaction to my work before, LeBeau. I do hope you'll forgive me my indulgence in studying it before we begin the surgery."
"What? For de sake of science?" He grinned and licked his lips. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?
Another chuckle, "If you wish to see it that way. I'm going to ask you a few questions, do try to be honest." The hand moved from the collar past his chest and came to rest on his stomach. "How does that make you feel?"
The doctor was playing along. It could be fun. "Horny."
"Ya said ta be honest."
That rumbling chuckle and then warm air against his ear. The nip of teeth on skin, wetness of a tongue, "And this?"
"Good answer, LeBeau." Barely a whisper in his ear.
The gloved hand slid lower, pulling the thin sheet off his lower half, exposing him to the cool air that circulated through the facility. It was like ice to his overheated body.
A second hand, rubber encased and agile as only a surgeon's could be, trailed up the outside of one thigh. The first returning to his mouth and plunging inward, demanding. He obeyed the silent command, sucking, licking, wetting them.
They left him. His eyes opened. All he could see was the ceiling.
His legs were already spread, ankles cuffed to the outside of the table. The wet fingers slid lightly up the inside of his thighs to press against-
He sat up in bed, sweating heavily, hard on aching between his legs. His breath hissed out of him as he pressed his hands to his face. Tried to remember what he was dreaming about. What had left him like this.
The dreams were getting more vivid lately. More intensely sexual. But he still couldn't remember them upon waking. Only the feel of gloved hands upon him. Rubber gloved for some reason. But gloved.
Must have been about Rogue then. She was the only one who would wear gloves in his dreams, right? Rubber or not.
The word floated into his mind and cursed himself for suddenly envisioning her in one of those naughty nurse outfits, complete with rubber doctor gloves, telling him to bend over and get ready for his shot.
He needed relief. It was Three AM according to his clock. A shower and his own hand would do. Too late to go out and find a one night stand and still get back to the institute in time for the early morning DR session.
Not for the first time, he wished Rogue would let him show her all the ways around her mutation. Get the deed over and done with so he could move on. Stop thinking about her so damn much.
The water was ice cold when it hit him. A gasp born of shock escaping before he could clamp his mouth shut. His hand found its way to his loins, jerking at himself wildly as visions of a buxom nurse giving him a check up danced through his mind. Oddly faceless. But gloved hands, so strong, so sure, pulled at him. Bringing him to the point of release.
The water washed away the evidence of his perversion. He grinned at the thought, laughed bitterly to himself.
He would probably never get the chance to show Rogue what she was missing. She had pushed him away so much no matter how hard he tried. And now? After what happened in Antarctica? She had Joseph. Her precious Magnus. Man didn't even know who he was, how could he love her? How could she love him?
He turned off the shower and left the bathroom, letting himself drip dry as he moved to the kitchen. The boat house was his now. Separate from them. Separate from her and her amnesiatic toy.
They didn't trust him.
He gave up everything he had been, turned over a heroic leaf for their sake, did his best to atone. His actions, his decisions, were nothing in comparison to ghosts of some of the others. Others who were given trust, given second and third and fifth chances without question.
He had to fight for his second chance with them. He had to fight to regain the trust he thought they once had in him. He had to fight to get the boathouse. A room.
And all he could dream about at night was fucking Rogue. Playing 'doctor' with her.
He was pathetic.
He should leave.
He didn't want to. It would mean admitting that he was alone again. He hated being alone. Cast out. At least while he lived on the grounds he could pretend he hadn't been exiled in Antarctica Pretend that keeping an eye on him to make sure he didn't betray them with other atrocity wasn't the only reason he was allowed to stay.
He had never betrayed them. Never. He hadn't even known them when the massacre happened.
But not volunteering every detail of one's life, every shame and secret and sinful action, every regret he ever had apparently counted as betraying them.
He was the best thief in the world. That used to make him proud.
Then he met them. He met them and they told him he could be more, could be a hero, could be a good person, could atone. And he believed them. Gave them his trust.
He needed a drink. Bourbon slid down his throat. Half a bottle. He should stop. Had an early morning DR session. Couldn't be drunk on the job, it wasn't something a person you could trust would do.
But they didn't trust him.
He downed the rest of the bottle.
"This is the sixth time this month, Gambit," Scott said in that stern, concerned father voice that he must have learned from Xavier. Seeing as how Scott had never actually raised any of the children he had running around in the world. They were all raised up in other time lines or dimensions. "If this behavior continues I'm going to have to take you off the active roster. For the safety of everyone."
Remy snorted, rolling his eyes like a petulant child, "Whatever, Scooter."
Cyclops' hands became fists for a moment as he held his anger in check, calming himself before continuing in a more pleasant voice designed to make others feel comfortable, safe. "Something is obviously the matter, Gambit. I would be happy to help you with whatever it is."
The Cajun stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, heading to the door, "Its nothing."
"My name is Remy!" he shouted back, eyes flaring with power barely controlled. "Remy Entinne LeBeau. Maybe you should start there."
He slammed the door behind him and stalked out of the mansion. He needed a smoke.
The roof of the boathouse wasn't as great a spot to sit and think as the roof of the mansion. It didn't feel calming. It didn't feel like home.
Nothing felt like home except the dreams. The rubber gloves on his body. Playing doctor.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and laughed at himself. It would figure that sex felt like home to him. Kinky sex no less.
How could he have let that woman steal his heart so completely?
It was the same as the Guild. He had trusted them too. When they took him in, gave him a family. He gave them his heart. Gave another woman his heart and hand in marriage. They broke it too. Exiled him.
How could something so torn and shattered still feel so much happiness (affection, desire, lust) for that which destroyed it?
What had happened to the Prince of Thieves? Jean-Luc LeBeau's favorite son? The pride of the Guild? Le Diable Blanc? The best of the best? The man who used to take any commission, even the one's the Guild wouldn't touch? The brilliant, reckless, amoral master thief?
When had he died and his body been taken over by this broken, too sentimental creature?
The name rang in his head. An epiphany. The job that broke him. The massacre.
Gloved hands over his body.
He shuddered in disgust as he reacted to the thought. Naughty Nurse Rogue appearing in his mind at the most inopportune time. Nausea as the vision wavered, became the man he loathed. Gloved hands. Operating tables. Restraints. Blood red pools that stretched into eternity.
His erection strained against his jeans. He nearly threw up.
Jean was the next to approach him. His mind, normally so well guarded, was calling out. Screaming at itself. Chaotic thoughts she could make no sense of. Pain, confusion, disgust and a trace of lust beneath it all. "Gambit?"
He was doing the dishes after dinner, delaying the time when he would have to return to the boat house. He smiled at her, like nothing was wrong. The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Oui, m'dame Summers? Dere somet'ing I c'n do for ya?" So pleasant, so polite. He was trying so hard.
"Just wanted to make sure you were alright," she began cautiously. His mind slammed shut and his smiled widened. It still didn't reach his eyes. Pain in those eyes.
"What make you t'ink anyt'ing is wrong, petite?"
"You've been coming to the morning sessions drunk..."
He waved her off and turned back to the sink, "Dat's over wit'. Fearless leader had a talk wit' me and I won' be doin' dat again."
"But why did you do it in the first place." She shouldn't have asked. She had to. He hurt so much.
He shrugged like it didn't matter, "Jus' made a bad decision a few times is all. Everyone have a bad day every now an' den."
"If you want to talk about it..."
"Yeah, yeah. Scotty say dat too. I know where ta find ya."
She moved up behind him, rested a hand on his arm, squeezed gently. He looked at her, caution in his eyes, so well hidden by his raunchy grin she almost didn't see it.
"You keep touchin' me dat way, people, dey goin' talk."
She smiled. An honest one, "I'm also here if you just want to spend time with someone. Not be alone. I'm only a thought away."
She turned from him, hand sliding down, left the kitchen to the sound of dishes once more being moved under soapy water.
She smiled at his voice, relief for his sake. Anytime.
He was standing in the foyer of the client's house. Dr. Nathaniel Essex. He had failed to return the journal.
They stood alone. He had a nagging feeling that his father should have been there. But it was dismissed quickly as Essex spoke.
"I see. Then it seems our dealings are at an end for now, Mr. LeBeau. You'll still receive compensation for your troubles, of course. You, my boy, you did a fine job." Hand held out to shake his.
Remy was a bit confused as he took it, the grip strong and confident, overpowering his own, weaker one, "Merci, m'sieur. You ain't angry dat I didn't deliver?"
That rumbling chuckle, so self assured and pleased, "Hardly, child. My old diaries may be full of invaluable information... but there are other ways that research can be recovered."
He was being led to the door now. He couldn't take his eyes off the taller, older man. Such fine aristocratic features. Strong jaw covered with a goatee the color of night. Not a single gray hair on his head. Eyebrows arching elegantly.
His hand was on Remy's shoulder, eyes gazing down. Warmth in them. Like a father would look at a son who had made him proud, "I am far less interested in the past than I am the future. And all signs point to your future being a bright one, Remy."
They were at the door now. The thief standing there nervously, unable to look away from that face. The hand still resting on his shoulder.
Essex leaned down, his face paled and a blood red diamond bloomed on his forehead. His eyes became pools of crimson light. The hand moved from his shoulder to his chin, encased in rubber.
Remy smiled and leaned forward, capturing the black lips before him in a kiss that would make any other person weak in the knees. Nervous no more.
The hand moved, rubber sliding to cradle the back of his neck, lace through shaggy brown locks.
Remy was taller now. Nearly the same height as Essex. Body older, filled out. More experienced as he pressed himself against the doctor, shivering at the feel of the gloved hands tracing over his body.
He woke up panting, hand already on his dick, rubbing and pulling. He couldn't stop himself. He couldn't stop thinking of the other man. The monster. Rubber gloves and operating tables. He remembered his dream and he felt like throwing up. He was still hard, still needed to finish.
He was disgusted at himself as he came, whispering the devil's name like a lover. He couldn't stop himself.
He had to stop this. It wasn't him. He wasn't like this. He didn't like men like that.
Except the doctor.
The thought needled at his mind and he groaned as his body began to stir again. He needed a distraction. Needed to get out. Needed to get laid.
He checked the clock. A little after one in the morning. He could probably make it back in time for the DR session. But he didn't think he would if he left.
He called gently at first. Trying to be polite. Hoping she was awake. Wasn't busy. She didn't answer for several long minutes as he cleaned himself up. He called again, more forcefully. A bit more desperately than he intended.
She sounded groggy as her mind touched his. ...Remy? What time is it?
Little after one. I shouldn't have woken you.
It's okay, she sounded more awake. Where are you? You want me to come there?
Please. Even to him it sounded like begging. Like a prayer to God for salvation. His hugged himself and collapsed to his knees, trying to hold it in.
I'll be right there. So soothing. Loving. Comforting.
He didn't know how long it took her. Didn't much care. Didn't notice the way the silk nightgown clung to her or the softness of the cotton robe that hung loosely over her frame. Didn't notice anything except the way her arms held him, cradled him, rocked him as he finally let himself cry.
His thoughts were chaos and he didn't hold them back. They flooded the air around them, dam burst by loneliness and heartache and confusion. She didn't try to sort them. Didn't look at them. Blocked her mind and extended the protection to the other telepaths nearby, ensuring they didn't wake from the unexpected tide. Giving him the privacy he needed as poured his heart and soul out in tears.
Her fingers ran gently through his hair and she started singing a lullaby. Soft and out of tune, but well intentioned.
He felt like he had a mother. His mother had abandoned him. Exiled him to a hospital, to be a ward of the state because she didn't want him.
Nobody wanted him. Nobody except him.
He shuttered, hands clenching in the fabric of her robe, head buried in her chest. A compromising position had it been under any other circumstance.
She kept singing, kept brushing his hair. The tears stopped long before the sobs, long before he exhausted himself to the point of unconsciousness. Still she sang, still she brushed his hair. She wrapped shields around his mind like a blanket. Protecting him from the others as they began to wake.
A chorus of birdsong announced the dawn.
Scott's mind brushed against her in puzzlement. She wasn't in bed when he got up.
Jean smiled to herself and sent back reassurance. Told him that she and Remy wouldn't be making it to the morning session, the meetings. Breakfast. Probably nothing all day. Make something up to tell the others. He didn't want to talk about it yet. Send some food over.
Worry for his teammate followed, but agreement and no further questioning was sent at the same time.
Jean sighed and lay her head on the top of Remy's, gently rocking him and holding him in a much needed safety net.
The hands brushed through his hair. He was safe. He was loved. Strong arms held him. Gentle arms.
He opened his eyes and looked up, wanting to see fields of red smiling down at him. Heart aching when Jean's blue sapphires were there instead and feeling disgusted for it.
His eyes squeezed shut again and he held her tighter, pleading to her in a murmer, "Make dem go away."
"Make what go away, Remy?" Her voice was soft. Open. Unaccusing.
"De thoughts," his voice was raw. It hurt to speak. "De sinful ones no man should have."
Her head rested on his. She was still rocking him, still brushing his hair, "I'm not sure which ones those are, Remy. And I'm not sure how I can make them go away. Tell me how to help you."
His body shuddered, a strangled sob. He couldn't tell her. She'd think him a monster.
"Are they about what happened with the Morlocks?" No accusation.
"Yes." No. Partially. She would probably have bruises later, so tightly he clung.
"What happened, Remy? Tell me what happened. Show me if you want."
He lifted his head, cheeks splotchy and red from the tears before, eyes too dry to shed any now. He opened his mind and showed her.
Sinister with his rubber gloves. He shuddered and moved on before he lost himself in lustful visions that never happened.
The sewers. The dead body with its skull caved in. Creed laughing. Claws in his gut. Sarah. Running. He didn't know. He tried to atone. Tried so hard. Exiled. Always exiled. His heart breaking yet again. How could he still feel?
Jean's voice cut through the memories, the emotions. Centering him, giving him something to focus on. An island of shelter in a sea of chaos. He felt her pulling him into sleep. He didn't resist.
Scott brought breakfast after the morning session. Annoyance prickled at Jean's mind when he found her on the floor, Remy's face against her chest. Her in her nightgown and a robe that left little to the imagination. Concern followed, the annoyance forgotten as he set the tray down, then knelt down next to the pair, getting a good look at the Cajun in her arms.
That was why she loved him, she thought idly. He could be jealous, but he had a heart of gold.
"How is he?" Scott asked, voice quiet so he wouldn't wake the man.
She sighed, pain in her voice, "He'll be fine. Eventually. He's emotionally vulnerable, Scott. In a way I never thought possible for him. He's been left alone, exiled and betrayed so much that his heart just can't take it anymore. Being left in Antarctica and coming back to find Rogue with Joseph... And then the way we've been treating him. Forcing him to live in the boathouse because Rogue refuses to let him live in the mansion."
"They said he betrayed us," Cyclops offered. Not in defense of their actions, but as an opening. A question asking for more. "That he was a part of the massacre."
"Oh, Scott," another sigh, frustration. "How could he betray us when he hadn't even met us? Even if he had been a part of it..."
"He wasn't? They said he didn't deny being there during the trial."
"He was there, Scott. He was there and all he could save was a little girl named Sarah. Marrow."
Cyclops was quiet for a long time, settling down to sit more comfortably before speaking again, "How'd he know about it?"
"He led them there. But Scott," she continued before he could make a snap judgment, "He didn't know about what they planned. He thought it was a scouting detail. To avoid the Morlocks on the way to something else. When he found out, he tried to stop them. The Marauders... Sabertooth nearly gutted him."
"Why didn't he tell them that? Everyone there said he accepted guilt for it."
"He blames himself."
Remy shifted in her arms, groaning. Head moving, pressing further into her chest, bruising her. His body was shaking.
Jean started rocking him again, murmuring to Scott, "He's dreaming."
"I don't know. The visions and emotions are confusing. It feels like half of him hates what ever is it, and the other half craves it. I was only able to see his memories of the massacre because he let me. But now, that static that clings to his mind is back. He has no control over it, and even with his mental shields down, I can't make much sense of anything that leaks out."
Gambit moaned, followed by a sob and he pushed her away, falling to his back and rolling over. Tucking into a fetal position, hands clutching his head. The shakes were more violent now.
Both Jean and Scott reached out for him, tried to comfort him.
He awoke, gasping a name.
Tension in the mansion was at an all time high. Jean had started getting on the case of anyone who talked bad about Gambit in front of her since the day she spent with him in the boathouse. It had been a week. He was doing better. He said he was. Thanked her for being there. Acted better.
But now she was making waves, upsetting the status quo. Warren bore the brunt of her ire. Scott quietly backing her up, using the need for trust amongst teammates to his advantage in advocating treating Gambit like a person again.
Remy watched it all. They didn't think he saw what they did behind his back. How they tried to force everyone to trust him again. Tried to make the family whole again. How much pity they held for him when the others resisted. He pretended he didn't see it. Didn't know what they were doing.
It hurt too much to see their pity. He didn't want their pity.
Hurt too much to see how much the others hated him. Put up with him to make sure he didn't cause another massacre.
His thoughts drifted to Essex more often than not. The desire intense. He had stopped feeling nauseous at the idea. He was too tired with everything to be disgusted with himself. It wasn't physical attraction. It was the man within the body that pulled at him. Gloves and operating tables. Wrist clamps and scalpels. Trust. Acceptance.
It took trust to let someone do to him what Sinister had done. He had trusted the doctor. Trust was a drug to him. He had trusted the Guilds. Trusted Belladonna, Rogue, the X-Men. Given trust he should never have given. Kept giving. Had given to Jean a week before.
He was addicted to trusting. Wanted to be given trust in return. Acceptance.
He just wanted acceptance for who he was, faults and all. Jean was trying. But the X-Men wouldn't give it.
They divided themselves. Jean, Scott and him all on one team. The others either on the sidelines or against him. Ororo... beautiful Stormy. She stood on the sidelines, hovering too close to the opposing side for him not to notice. She had stopped trying.
Rogue was against him without question, back turned. Never a second glance. Her precious Joseph hovering protectively over her, watching for Remy to make a move. To betray them all. Waiting for an excuse. Never gave him a chance. Poisoned before even meeting him.
Logan didn't get in the middle of it. He wasn't even on the sideline. He just acted like nothing was going on. Jubilee followed him.
Warren was the loudest opponent. Betsy just behind him, always trying to catch Gambit off guard, to look in his mind and confirm all the bad things she thought about him. Bobby rallying them.
Hank was like 'Ro. Not yet in it, but close enough for the allegiance to be had.
It was his fault. He was the one tearing the X-Men apart. They were all hurting and he was the knife keeping the wound open.
But he hesitated. Hesitated to leave. The School was no longer his home, but he had no where else to go to. Except to him, the monster. The devil. No where else but him and he didn't want to be alone anymore. Couldn't handle it.
He didn't want to hurt Jean and Scott. They were trying so hard. But it would be easier if everyone was opposed to him. The X-Men could be a family again.
His father always did say he was a romantic self-sacrificing fool.
Leaving was easier than he thought it would be. He didn't have much. A duffel bag of clothes and a few possessions he cherished, his duster and his bike. No goodbyes. Not even a note.
Simply out the gate as dawn broke on a beautiful spring morning.
He thought he would have second thoughts. Feel like turning around as he got to the Salem Center city limits. Nothing of the sort.
Instead, he felt free.
Like laughing. Really laughing. Nothing to tie him down. No regrets. No worries. Not even on how he would find Sinister. He already knew where to look. He took the highway west, laughing into the wind, weaving in and out of traffic. Reckless. Wild. Free.
The theater was just as it had been when he found Rogue wandering its remains. He stood in the center of the destruction, cigarette hanging from his lips. Waiting.
He didn't have to wait long.
The tesseract portal shimmered open and Essex stepped through, looking mildly amused. Clearly interested in what Gambit had up his sleeve. One elegant eyebrow arched high in question, "LeBeau. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Remy wanted to kiss that smile off his lips, trace the eyebrows with his tongue, bury his fingers in that hair. He shrugged, his desire hidden under a well practiced mask, "I came to offer you a deal."
The interest spiked with just a hint of wariness in the way Sinister held himself. He had the doctor's full attention though, "What kind of deal?"
The crimson pools narrowed. He could see desire in them, eagerness to have Gambit at his beck and call, tempered with just a bit of caution, "The terms?"
Now Remy smiled. A cruel, selfish smile, "My soul for your body."
Gambit licked his lips, stepped forward, flicking the cigarette away. He pressed his hands against Sinister's chest, fingers splayed. Laid his cards on the table, "Ya get me ta do whatever ya want whenever ya want, no questions asked. I get ya however I want, whenever I want. Conceding at times ya might have somet'ing important enough to keep ya from me. My soul. For your body." He pressed his hips into the other man, making his meaning perfectly, crudely clear.
The doctor signed his name with a bloody kiss.
AN: This has been posted on other sites under my other name "Kanky" or "Kankywompous". Sometimes, RogueMoon is already taken on me.