#marvel gambit

​The "team"—and by team, you obviously meant yourself and Logan. Scott and Remy had been far too occupied trying to one-up each other on what should have been a routine extraction. But nothing was ever simple when the four of you were grouped together; the air always felt like it was one spark away from a kinetic explosion.

​The mission, however shifty the intel had been, was finally over. Your skin was still humming, a low-grade static buzz vibrating in your bones from the energy you’d siphoned off the facility’s perimeter grid. You needed a dampener or a nap, and you needed it ten minutes ago. Considering the late hour and the distance to the Blackbird’s extraction point, a seedy local hotel was the only logical choice.

​You had started dating Remy LeBeau only a few months ago, much to Scott’s mounting dismay. He absolutely loathed the idea of his younger brother dating a thief—of all the people in the world, why the Ragin' Cajun? Scott had made it clear he’d be more supportive if you’d picked Kurt, or even Bobby. To him, Remy was a line he’d hated that you crossed.

​Of course, Scott usually lost those arguments. You had a devastating counter-point: he was currently dating Logan Howlett, despite the fact that the feral, cigar-chomping mutt of a man had been passed around the team like a blunt at a house party.

​The walk to the hotel was miserable. The local townsfolk offered occasional odd looks and muffled slurs as they realized they were in the presence of mutants. But the real headache was the bickering behind you.

​“Nom de Dieu, come on now, Summers,” Remy huffed, his thick Cajun accent dripping with exasperation. “Stop actin’ like we ain’t grown men capable of makin’ our own choices. ’Sides, my charms are wasted on a cramped room wit' you and de Petit Griffe.”

​For the past ten minutes, which felt like a century of your life you’d never get back, they had been debating the sleeping arrangements. Scott was adamant about a "safety" formation: him, you, and Logan in one room, while Remy stayed in a separate room—preferably in a different zip code. Remy, however, was pushing for a compromise: you and him in one room, even if it had two separate beds.

​“It’s about team cohesion and security, LeBeau!” Scott snapped, his hand hovering near his visor as if he were tempted to blast the 'No Vacancy' sign out of spite.

​Neither you nor Logan said a word. You were practically leaning on one another, your shoulder against his leather jacket as you both focused on counting stray cats in the alleyway to keep from screaming. Logan finally let out a low, gravelly huff and shook his head, his voice a low rumble for your ears only.

​“Sure hope you don’t plan on marryin’ the Cajun, kid,” Logan joked, a rare, crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m pretty sure Scott would actually burn a hole straight through ’im before the priest could finish the vows. Look at 'em—he's about to pop a gasket.”

A sharp, genuine laugh barked out of you at Logan’s comment, the sound echoing off the damp brick walls of the alley. For a second, the image of Scott officiating a wedding with his eyes glowing red was almost too funny to handle, but the headache behind your eyes—thrumming in time with the stolen electricity in your veins—quickly killed the humor.

​“Don't give him any ideas, Logan,” you muttered, shaking your head as you stepped forward.

​You moved with a sudden, tired authority, planting yourself directly between the two bickering men. The air between them was hot with friction, but you didn't care. You pressed a flat palm firmly against the center of Scott’s chest.

​Scott froze. He looked down at your hand, then back up at your face, his jaw tightening. He knew exactly what that touch meant. With your energy absorption, you were a walking blackout; one move, one intentional slip of your control, and you’d drain the bio-kinetic fire right out of his cells and the charm right out of Remy’s, leaving them both face-down and powerless on the sidewalk while you and Logan went upstairs to sleep.

​It wasn't just a gesture; it was a warning.

​“That is enough. Both of you,” you said, your voice low and dangerously steady. You felt the hum of your power reacting to the proximity of Scott’s internal solar battery. “Scott, listen to me very carefully. I am not sharing a room with you and your boyfriend. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other after a mission. I know for a fact that the second the door latches, you’d be tearing each other’s clothes off and fucking on the coffee table before the lights were even on.”

​Logan let out a dry, hacking cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, while Scott’s face turned a shade of crimson that rivaled his visor.

​“I have enough energy buzzing under my skin to power a city block, and I am tired,” you continued, ignoring your brother’s spluttered attempt at a protest. “Remy and I are getting a room. It will have two beds. We are going to use them for sleep. I promise you, the world isn't going to end because I’m ten feet away from you behind a drywall partition.”

​You shot a look over your shoulder at Remy. He was leaning against a rusted lamp post, a smug, cat-like grin spreading across his face. He looked far too pleased with the mental image you’d painted of Scott and Logan.

​“And you,” you snapped, pointing a finger at Remy. “Stop looking so proud of yourself. He’s acting like I can’t defend myself against one overly-sexed Cajun, which we both know is a lie. If he tries anything, I’ll just turn him into a very handsome battery and leave him in the hallway.”

​Remy’s grin faltered just a fraction, his red-on-black eyes shimmering with amusement. “Dieu, pickin’ on a poor thief when he’s just lookin’ for a place to lay his head? You hurt me, cher, truly.” Despite his words, he held up his gloved hands in a gesture of peace. “Two beds, Summers. Scout’s honor. Not dat I was ever a Scout, mind you.”

​Scott looked like he wanted to argue—to cite X-Men protocol, or safety, or some obscure rule about fraternization—but as your fingers curled slightly against his chest, he saw the exhaustion in your eyes. He looked at Remy, who blew him a mocking kiss, and then back to you.

​Finally, Scott let out a long, defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Fine,” he bit out, though his tone was more weary than angry. “Two beds. And if I hear so much as a loud conversation through those walls, I’m kicking the door down.”

​“Go find a coffee table to break, Scott,” you muttered, turning toward the hotel lobby.

The lobby of the 'Starlight Motor Inn' smelled like stale cigarettes, industrial-grade bleach, and broken dreams. A flickering neon sign hummed a jagged tune in the window, casting a sickly green glow over the linoleum floor. It looked less like a place for a restful night and more like the opening shot of a slasher flick.

​You and Logan took the lead, leaving the two bickering mutants on the sidewalk to simmer. The clerk behind the counter didn’t even look up from his tabloid until Logan slammed a heavy hand down on the bell.

​"Need two rooms," Logan grumbled, his voice like gravel in a blender. "Separate beds in each."

​The clerk squinted at Logan’s claws—thankfully retracted—and then at your glowing, buzzing skin. He slowly turned to a prehistoric computer and tapped a few keys. "Got two rooms left, bud. But they’re singles. One queen bed each. Take 'em or leave 'em."

​Logan glanced back at you, a cynical shrug lifting his heavy shoulders. It was a dump, but it was a dump with a roof. He didn't wait for your input before digging into the inner lining of his weathered brown jacket, pulling out a wad of crumpled bills that looked like they’d been through a war zone.

​"We'll take 'em," Logan hummed, sliding the cash across the counter. He grabbed the two jangling keys, tossing one to you.

​As the two of you stepped back out into the cool night air, the argument on the sidewalk hadn't lost any steam. Scott was mid-sentence, gesturing wildly toward the hotel.

​"Change of plans, boys," Logan interrupted, his voice cutting through the tension. He jangled the keys mockingly. "They’re low on space. Only got rooms with one bed left. We're takin' one, the kid and LeBeau are takin' the other."

​The silence that followed was heavy enough to sink a ship. Then, the explosion happened.

​"Absolutely not!" Scott’s voice hit a pitch usually reserved for Sentinel sightings. He stepped toward you, his visor glowing a faint, dangerous ruby. "One bed? You think I’m letting my brother share a single bed with him? No. New plan. I’ll share the room with my baby brother, and Remy, you can go bunk with Logan."

​The laugh that tore out of Remy’s throat was sharp and delighted. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his long trench coat swaying.

​"Mon Dieu, Summers, you truly are a riot," Remy drawled, the thick honey of his Cajun accent dripping with mockery. "You really t'ink de ol’ wolf wants to cuddle up wit' Gambit all night? I got sharp t'ings in my pockets, and he’s got 'em in his knuckles. We’d kill each ot'er before dawn just tryin' to decide who gets de pillows."

​"I don't care about the logistics!" Scott snapped. "You aren't sleeping in the same bed as my brother. End of story."

​"Oh, so you'd rather sleep in a tiny bed wit' your brother while Logan sits in de corner and broods?" Remy stepped closer, a smug, challenging glint in his red eyes. "Seems a bit crowded for a man of your... stature, non? ’Sides, he already told you how it’s gonna be. Don’t go chokin’ on your own tie just ’cause you can’t control everythin’."

​"It’s a matter of principle!" Scott roared.

​"It’s a matter of you bein’ a nervous hen, Cyke," Remy countered, his grin widening. "Maybe if you spent less time worryin' ’bout who’s in my bed and more time worryin' ’bout how you gonna explain to Logan why you’re choosin' your brother over him tonight, we’d all be sleepin' already."

​Logan just leaned against the doorframe, lighting a cigar he definitely wasn't supposed to have. "I ain't sharin' a bed with the thief, Bub. I snore. He talks in his sleep. Someone’s gettin' stabbed.”

​Scott opened his mouth to deliver what was surely going to be a lecture on moral fortitude and "proper conduct," but you didn't give him the chance.

​"Scott. Shut. Up."

​The command was quiet, but it carried the weight of the several thousand volts currently making your teeth ache. You stepped toward Remy, grabbing the sleeve of his duster and yanking him toward the lobby door.

​"We’re going to the room," you stated, not looking back. "Logan, don't let him break the door down. Scott, if I see a red glow coming from under the doorframe, I will drain you dry and leave you as a glorified paperweight. Goodnight."

​"But!" Scott started, taking a step forward.

​Logan’s heavy, fur-lined arm barred his path. The mutant was already puffing on his cigar, the smoke curling into the humid night air. "Let it go, Slim," Logan grunted, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "Kid's about to pop. Unless you want the whole block leveled, I’d suggest you go find our room and start prayin' the mattress doesn't have bedbugs."

​You didn't stay to hear the rest. You practically dragged Remy through the lobby, past the clerk who was now wisely hiding behind a copy of The Daily Bugle. The elevator looked like a death trap, so you opted for the stairs, your boots thudding rhythmically against the threadbare carpet.

​Remy followed willingly, his long strides easily matching yours. He was chuckling under his breath, a low, vibration that you could feel even through his sleeve.

​"You got a fire in you tonight, non? I t'ink I like it when you get all bossy wit' de Fearless Leader," Remy teased as you reached the second-floor landing. "He’s probably down dere tryin' to figure out de logistics of a stakeout in de hallway.”

​"He’s an idiot," you muttered, fumbling with the key card until the little light finally blinked green.

​You pushed the door open and stopped dead. The room was even smaller than the lobby suggested. It was dominated by a single, sagging queen-sized bed covered in a floral polyester bedspread that had likely seen the Nixon administration. A single, flickering lamp sat on a chipped bedside table, and the wallpaper was peeling away in long, yellowed strips.

​Remy stepped in behind you, kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot. The heavy thud of the bolt sliding home seemed to echo in the cramped space. He tossed his head back, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he took in the "luxury" accommodations.

​"Well," he drawled, his accent thick and velvety now that the audience was gone. "It ain't de Ritz, mon coeur. And like de wolf said... it surely ain't got two beds."

​He turned to you, his expression softening from smugness into something more genuine. He reached out, his gloved fingers hovering just inches from your jaw, careful not to make direct skin contact while you were still "hot" with energy.

​"You look like you're 'bout to vibrate right out of your skin," he murmured. "Forget Summers. Forget de mission. Just breathe, beau. Dis room is ours tonight. Just you 'n me... and whatever's livin' in dat carpet."

​You let out a long, shuddering breath, the static in the air making the hair on your arms stand up. The silence of the room was a godsend after the hours of bickering. You looked at the bed, then at Remy, then back at the bed.

​"If I hear a single 'I told you so' from Scott tomorrow morning because you couldn't keep your hands to yourself," you warned, though there was no real heat in it, "I'm letting him blast you into the next county."

​Remy let out a soft, musical laugh, stepping fully into your space. "Now, now... why would I give de man de satisfaction? Your brother’s got enough high blood pressure as it is." He tilted his head, a playful spark in his red-on-black eyes. "Your secret’s safe wit' de thief, chere. 'Sides... I t'ink I can manage to stay on my side. Mostly. Unless you get cold, o' course.”

A small, weary smile finally broke through your expression as you looked at him. You gave a dismissive wave of your hand, wordlessly signaling for him to give you a moment of peace before you actually vibrated through the floorboards.

​You retreated into the dingy bathroom, the door creaking on rusted hinges. The light was a harsh, flickering fluorescent that hummed almost as loudly as you did. Catching your reflection in the cracked mirror, you could see the faint, rhythmic pulse of blue-white light behind your eyes—a sure sign you were red-lining. You moved quickly, peeling off the heavy, sweat-stained layers of your X-Men suit. As the fabric hit the floor, you felt a marginal sense of relief, though the air in the room felt like it was thickening around your bare skin.

​You stood there in just your briefs, your muscles twitching with phantom static. As much as every fiber of your being craved the weight of Remy’s arms around you, skin-to-skin contact was currently a death sentence for the mood. Without a proper outlet, you’d likely deep-fry the two of you like a pair of Mississippi catfish the second he touched your shoulder.

​In the main room, Remy was moving with a practiced, feline grace. He’d already discarded his long duster and the armored pieces of his uniform, tossing them carelessly over the room’s single, rickety chair. He stood by the bed in his boxers, his lean, scarred torso bathed in the warm, dim light of the bedside lamp. He hummed a low, Cajun folk tune under his breath, his eyes scanning the room with a thief’s precision until they landed on a clean, spare top sheet tucked into the dresser.

​When you finally emerged from the bathroom, the cool air of the room biting at your heated skin, Remy was waiting. He was standing by the edge of the sagging bed, the white sheet held wide between his hands like a net.

​"Come here, beau," he murmured, his voice a low, velvet rumble.

​You walked toward him, and he moved with seamless timing. Before you could even find your footing, he draped the fabric over your shoulders and whirled it around you, mummifying you in a tight, protective cocoon of cotton. He tucked the ends in firmly, creating a soft but effective barrier between your volatile skin and the rest of the world.

​He pulled you flush against him, his arms wrapping around the bundle you’d become. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Dere now," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and comforting. "Wrapped up tight like a little gift. Now Gambit can cuddle his man wit'out riskin' gettin' drained into a husk, non?"

​He leaned back just enough to flash you a wicked, triumphant grin. "And since you’re all bundled up..."

​Without warning, he hooked one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. You let out a sudden, undignified squeak of surprise as he hoisted you effortlessly into the air.

​"Remy! Put me down!" you laughed, the sound muffled by the sheet.

​"Not a chance, petit chou," he chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours as he carried you the two steps to the bed. "You’ve been carryin' de weight of de team all day. ’Bout time someone carried you."

​He tumbled onto the mattress with you still in his arms, the old springs groaning in protest. He didn't let go, instead rolling until you were tucked securely against his side, his chin resting on top of your head.

Remy didn't let go. Even as the springs of the bed finally stopped squealing, he kept you tucked firmly against his chest, his legs tangling with yours through the layers of the sheet. The room was dark, save for the sliver of moonlight cutting through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains and the faint, rhythmic pulse of blue light still radiating from your skin.

​"You're glowin' like a firefly, cher," Remy whispered, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. He reached up, tracing the outline of your ear through the fabric. "If we stayed in a nicer place, I’d be worried 'bout de electricity bill, but I t'ink dis dump owes us a few kilowatt-hours."

​You let out a soft huff of laughter, finally allowing your muscles to go slack. "Scott is probably standing on the other side of that wall with his ear pressed to the wallpaper."

​"Let 'im listen," Remy chuckled, his grip tightening affectionately. "Let 'im hear dat for once in his life, his little brother is actually relaxin'. He spends so much time lookin' for de explosion dat he forgets you need de quiet, too."

​He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. In the shadows, his red-on-black eyes looked like glowing embers—a mirror to the energy still dancing under your own skin. There was no mockery in his expression now, no smugness for Scott’s benefit. There was just a quiet, fierce devotion.

​"I know it ain't easy," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone through the sheet. "Carryin' all dat power... carryin' Summers’ expectations. But in here? You don't gotta be a battery. You don't gotta be an X-Man. You just gotta be mine."

​You felt a heavy surge of energy leave your body, a literal spark jumping from your shoulder to the metal headboard with a sharp crack. The bedside lamp flickered once and died, the bulb finally giving up the ghost.

​"There goes the light," you whispered into the new darkness.

​"Good," Remy rasped, his voice dropping an octave as he pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin. "Gambit works better in de dark anyway."

​For a long time, the only sound was the distant rumble of a truck on the highway and the muffled, muffled sound of a door slamming in the room next door—Logan and Scott finally settling in. You closed your eyes, letting the rhythmic beat of Remy’s heart become your new anchor. The energy was still there, a low simmer now instead of a boil, but it was manageable.

​As sleep finally began to pull at you, you felt Remy press a lingering kiss to the top of your head, the scent of his cologne—something like expensive leather and playing cards—enveloping you.

​"Rest now, beau," he breathed into the silence. "I got de watch. Ain't nothin' gettin' past me tonight. Not even your brother."