They made Warren drive with him to Louisiana. He had a business meeting, his forced companion, his father's funeral. Remy mentioned briefly, sullen, at the beginning of the ride he had thought his father to be immortal. He propped old boots on the dashboard of a car worth more than sulking Remy could possibly fathom. Warren said nothing, nothing to his remark or his posture, nothing to try to console the younger man. He didn't even like him, what was he supposed to say anyways. He wasn't sorry, his passenger deserved the worst things that happened to him, he didn't even want to share the car with him. Kid hitched rides up here, why couldn't he hitch a ride back.

"Y'don' have'a be doin' dis, Wings." In four hours, it was the second time he spoke, and the last until Warren pulled into a hotel parking lot and announced he couldn't continue driving. "D'accord," and he followed Warren silently, obediently, slept sound in a pile on the floor with the ever-present brown trenchcoat for a blanket. Didn't dare ask for a room, or even a bed, left Warren to his business calls, none of the outgoing womanizer he played, Remy didn't disappear to the bar, didn't touch a standard liquor stocked refrigerator. Warren didn't complain, took no notice of Remy sitting alone in the corner. Didn't want to notice Remy, out of the corner of his eye. Cold, sad, young, utterly alone, strangely beautiful. Warren put off the glances he caught out of the corner of his eye until he was sure Remy was fully asleep. Only then was it alright to stare at the soft glow of auburn hair that trickled into his face, angled features, slender hands he raised under his head for lack of a pillow. Warren still didn't have enough sympathy in him for the frequent villain to lend him one.

He woke to the sound of the shower pounding, not hard enough to cover sobbing. And Warren ignored it. Pointedly. He turned over in bed and pulled the blankets above him and pretended what he was hearing was far away- it was easier than accepting that his traveling companion had feelings. He said nothing when Remy's eyes were wet and tired the next day, knees pulled up to his chest, dirty boots on the car seat, staring out the window, scanning the horizon.

"We won't be in Louisiana until sometime tomorrow."

"Huh." He fell asleep, head on his knees, curled into himself in the passenger seat. Unruly hair covered his face completely, still, under two fingers was a coin, something to defend himself if need be. They had thought it funny the first time he came to the mansion, when Logan informed them, healing and bleeding, never to wake the man called himself "Gambit." The man in the passenger seat was not the self-assured flirt, the capable, smug thief who first presented himself to them. Warren moved a piece of his hair to the side. His face was almost gaunt, haunted, exhausted. His shoulders heaved. Warren sighed, pulled the car over on the side of the open dirt road. The sun was going down, they were out in the middle of Virginia-nowhere, he could have made it at least close to hillbilly territory, but he couldn't keep going. Remy stirred, shook his head, looked around. He palmed the coin in his hand, Warren couldn't keep up with where it had gone.

"Virginia?"

"Somewhere around there."

He nodded, pulled himself out of the car. Warren sat in the backseat, when he turned around, Remy was gone. He didn't wonder where the boy had gone. Wherever he wanted to run off to was his own problem. Warren wasn't there to babysit him, just to get from Westchester to New Orleans with no one dead. As long as the thief made it to New Orleans, he didn't care how he got there. The sun went down behind the trees, allowing for Warren to catch, out of the corner of his eye, those distinctively purple explosions. Sighing, he took to the sky and followed the lights, the sounds, until he had to dodge debris to land. The Cajun had created a clearing around himself, the ground at his feet pulsating with raw energy dangerous. Trees were splinters making mountains at the edges of a circle crafted by the form burrowed at its center. He yelled, cards exploded from around him, widened the clearing. Warren hardly touched the ground, hovered over the charge, sideswiping the indiscriminate projectile hurled not at him, not at anything, but past him, into the forest. He didn't dare to touch Remy. Bursts of his charge crackled off the brown duster, the dirt on his boots. His shoulders heaved with the force of it all, he shook with each desperate breath. Warren stayed just behind him, unaware if Remy knew his presence. Such displays, unbridled power, emotion, were unlike him- the reserved, cool, self-amused thief prince they were nervous of, who's side he was on changed with every threat. This wasn't the Remy he hated, this was a child, a sad, scared child with power he didn't understand, perhaps didn't even want, never asked for.

"Go 'way, baiseur, good sir." His voice was hoarse, barely comprehensible above his accent and French vulgarities.

"M'supposed to get you to Louisiana. So you can either get in the car or I can carry you. Pick." Warren still didn't touch the ground, didn't want to put himself in the way of Remy's not-inconsiderable power. Remy still didn't look at him, didn't move from his position in the dirt, curled into himself, shaking and crackling with raw energy. Warren heaved a sigh, yanked him into the air by the collar of his coat, back to the car. He didn't wonder about the explosions, the force of power he had never seen the other man display, outbursts or reactions. To him, Remy was a hindrance, like taking a small child, or sullen teenager. He could feel a slight wince of kinetic charge running up his hand- when had Remy been able to charge people- as he threw the younger man in the backseat of the car and slammed the door, threw the car in gear and sped back down the highway. He locked the doors as soon as his passenger sat up, glared in the rearview mirror at him, don't even think about trying that bullshit again. Remy watched him in the same mirror, shuffled a pack of cards, the energy flying between the cards, but never at Warren. None of this sullen, sad anger had been directed at him. He didn't wonder why. They made their way into the American south with no words, stiff, awkward silence making it difficult to breathe, Warren's head hurt and he wanted to be rid of the thing in the backseat of his car.