Work Text:
There is one truth that Remy LeBeau has always known: no one is coming to save him.
When he's in a tight spot, he has to get himself out. When he's hungry, he has to feed himself. When he's hurt, he cleans his own wounds. When he's in a fight, no one is watching his back. Even when he was adopted by the thieves guild and gained a family who cared about him, he never let himself get too complacent, too reliant. It was only a matter of time. And when he was exiled, the only comfort he had was terrible consolation of being right.
There is no fairy god mother, no Daddy Warbucks, no Deus ex Machina. It's just him.
This has stuck with him even after his first six months of playing hero with the X-Men. He's part of the team, but for how long? How long before they learn about his past and kick him out? How long before they look through Gambit and see Remy LeBeau and realize he's not good enough?
He likes them, most of them anyways. But it won't be enough. When it really comes down to it, he'll be on his own. He always is.
The AIM goons who left him in the basement tied him up with zip ties, so they either don't know his reputation or they're morons. The zip ties will be easy enough to deal with, but his leg is broken, and his ribs don't feel too swell either. It hurts to breathe. There are at least three guards at the door. It won't be an easy escape. He's been waiting for the right opportunity to present itself, and he's been down here for hours. But luckily, Gambit is a patient man.
He hears an explosion, not too far off, and the goons at the door scramble away to see the commotion. That'll do.
He makes quick work of the zip ties and stands up gingerly, heading shakily over to the door, trying to put as little weight on his injuries as possible. He hears a few more loud booms and a lot of ruckus as he touches the lock and backs up as quickly as he can manage. The lock explodes and the force swings the door open, banging it against the adjoining wall like a loose screen in a hurricane.
He peeks around the door first, making sure the coast is clear. He had been knocked out when they brought him down here—injected with some serum that puts you right to sleep—so he wasn't sure about this place's layout. The room he's in is at the end of a long hallway, which has a left turn on the other end.
He gingerly takes one small step out the door, and then the wall explodes.
A familiar head of curly, two-toned hair emerges from a Rogue-shaped hole in the wall, and she steps over the rubble like she's casually avoiding a dirty puddle. She instantly spots him, standing still in the doorway and gaping like a fish.
"Rogue?" She lifts up off the ground and flies over to him, her cheeks red and face pinched. Uh oh.
"REMY F. LEBEAU!"
"Wh…" Remy uncharacteristically stumbles over his words. "That's… not my middle initial."
Rogue lands on her feet in front of him. "Well now it is! The F stands for fuckin' dumbass moron! What are you doing?! This was a recon mission only!"
"I—" he shifts forward, about to argue his case, but his ribs twinge, and he winces in pain.
"You're hurt!"
Before he realizes what's happening, Rogue scoops him up like a princess, and they're off, right back through the hole in the wall.
"Cannot believe your dumbass," Rogue scolds as they fly through a storage room, gripping him tight to her cheest. "I swear ta god, you ain't never goin' on a solo mission again if this is the kind of shit you pull, you hear?! Just goin inside to play the hero when you were only supposed to gather information and report back!"
They reach a large warehouse, where the rest of the X-Men are fighting the AIM goons. Rogue flies them past without even a cursory glance, taking them up to the other suspiciously Rogue-shaped hole in the ceiling. The Blackbird is waiting for them on the roof, the hatch open so Rogue can fly them right in.
"And if you think this is gonna get you outta doin' chores just because you're injured, then you're shit outta luck! As soon as you're better you're gonna clean all the bathrooms! And mop all the flores! And clean all the windows! I have a list!"
Rogue places him down gently on one of the seats that's folded all the way out like a bed, so he can lie down comfortably.
"I'm—ow—I'm startin' to think you like me or somethin', chère."
Rogue rolls her eyes and barks into her communication device. "Hank! Stop fightin' and get your furry ass up here! This moron is hurt!"
Remy can hear Hank's tinny voice answer back. "Not to worry, Rogue, I will have your Cajun Casanova fixed up in no time!"
Rogue huffs and Remy snickers weakly. "Your Cajun Casanova, huh?"
"Shut up," Rogue snaps, and she starts fussing over him. She takes off her leather jacket and props it under his leg so it's elevated. "I don't wanna hear nothin' from you, swamp rat, unless it's an apology for ruinin' my damn Friday!"
"I'll make it up to you, promise," Remy replies. "How about it: you and me, champagne, candlelight. Magic time, chère."
"The only magic that's gonna happen is how clean the toilets are gonna be," Rogue says flatly, smoothing down his hair with a gentle touch. "Swear to god, talkin' me up after the stunt you just pulled. I oughta tan your hide, you're lucky I'm so nice."
"Oh, this is you bein' nice?" Remy shoots back. "You can do anythin' you want with my hide, mon amour, you jus' gotta ask."
"You're gonna clean out Beast's shower drain, too," Rogue says. "And Kurt's. And Logan's. Hank!" Rogue calls, just as Beast finally arrives to the Blackbird. "Remy here's gonna clean up your bathroom so good it's gonna look brand new."
Rogue stands aside to let Hank perform first aid, but she makes sure to keep up a constant stream of telling him how dumb he is and what all he's going to clean when he's better. But Rogue is a shit liar. Her face is too open, and she always wears her heart on her sleeve. Remy can see the relief in her eyes. He doesn't say anything, though, just listens to her yelling, amused, and wonders if this is what it feels like to have someone.