A/N: Dedicated to the ChamberlinofMusic and sequel to Fritz. Please enjoy!
So this is how everything started. Rogue got Cured and became a walking Cure with about as much control over it as she had over her skin. There was just this one small glitch in the whole thing that worked in her favor.
It was touch-based.
"So only one power activates at a time?" she asked Hank, wanting to be absolutely certain.
"Indubitably," was his unhelpful reply. "However, I must emphasize that the selection process for which mutation will activate is quite randomized. Until we have done more analysis, it would still be prudent to only engage in physical contact under controlled circumstances."
Rogue looked at Logan. Logan looked at the Professor.
The Professor cleared his throat and asked, "Could you please clarify that."
Hank generally spoke at some level above normal English, so merely sighed before trying again. "We do not know yet what is going to happen when you touch somebody, either absorption or suppression, so—"
"Don't touch?" Rogue drawled.
Rogue sighed. "Well, nothing else is new, so I best be getting. Homework, you know." She was now in her first year of college, a combination of study at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters and correspondence courses. She hoisted her backpack and moved out of the medical bay.
Only to run smack dab into the most annoying Cajun on the face of the earth.
"Blast it, swamp rat!" He'd knocked her flat onto her bum and she glared at him, unwilling to accept his proffered hand. "I swear, you're stalking me," she muttered. He'd been showing up everywhere.
"Aww, chère." Gambit smirked down at her. "You wound me! I could think you didn't like me."
"I don't." Rogue picked herself up off the floor and brushed herself off.
He helped himself to her backpack before she caught him and grabbed her around the waist. "I'll walk you back to your room."
"Give that back!" She lunged for the backpack. And missed.
She winced, expecting impact with the hard floor, but she was drawn up short by a warm hand on her wrist. She growled at him.
He kept grinning that infuriating grin.
Remy just loved this girl's fire. Even if it was usually aimed at him with the thought of incinerating him alive with the nonmanifesting borrowed powers of the late Scott Summers. Actually, especially if it was aimed at him.
But he wasn't at all masochistic. She wouldn't actually hurt him.
At least, he didn't think so.
Rogue yanked her wrist out of his grip. "Thank you," she said stiffly in that thick Southern accent he liked so well, "but I don't need your help."
He chuckled. "Of course, ma chérie."
She glared at his sarcasm.
"Now, where's your room?" He was still holding her backpack hostage, and he swung it easily from one hand.
Rogue scowled at him and lunged for it again, a more restrained motion this time.
He sidestepped and started walking it up the stairs. "This way?"
"You good-for-nothing, troublesome, pesky,"—she stomped up the stairs after him—"skirt-chasing, pain-in-the-butt swamp rat!"
He waited for her at the top of the steps. "You done?"
She reached the top of the staircase, arms crossed over her chest, white streaks framing angry emerald eyes. She smiled. "Nope."
She jumped him.
He hadn't expected her sudden weight thrown at him at high velocity, with a sharp knee aimed straight for his stomach, and a bony elbow planted in his ribs, and an arm twisting into his while the other hand reached for the strap. They went rolling and then she pinned him squarely, using one of Logan's infamous holds.
"Not bad, chère," he said, grinning, once he could catch his breath.
She sniffed at him. "I'd quit while I was behind, Cajun."
Then she snagged her backpack, scrambled off him, and sashayed down the hall.
Remy laughed, watching the sway in her step—and hips. Not bad at all.