Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters. I own a toaster and a loaf of bread.

Feedback: Gotta love those reviews. I notice lots of writers are replying to their reviewers at the end of updated chapters. I won't be able to do that since I'm posting this story as complete, so if you have any questions or comments you want me to answer, just write 'reply' at the end of your review, and I'll e-mail you back. If you leave an email addy, that is. And don't worry, I won't send spam. ;)

Notes: The writing bug bit me pretty damn bad after I watched Sins of the Son and Cajun Spice. Got the hugest itch to get a story done, and this was the result. Hope you like.

RIPE

- ONE -

A fever she could take, but the sore throat was keeping her up and miserable so about an hour into her insomnia, Rogue marshaled the energy to peek under her bed. Her box of mail rested there. And the dusty pile inside that had stopped growing months ago had seen a sudden rise earlier in the afternoon, when Kitty walked into the room to bring Rogue her mail.

Among the bulk of junk were three manila packages she recognized. Her own fine hand sprawled across their faces. At first, all she could do was blink at the oddity of it.

Maybe that was because she wasn't the correspondence type, like Kitty; in all her life she'd only ever had one person to send mail to, and she'd only started sending micro cassettes to Irene after moving to New York, just shy of two years ago. But Irene had been prompt about answering back, and while Rogue lacked her roommate's gusto for the post office, she did like to preserve the things that mattered.

Window-shopping during her first winter there, she'd found a box littered with small drawings of couches and tables and decided it was a fitting place for Irene's packages. Never mind that Kitty and Jean had exchanged tiny smiles of surprise when they saw it. Rogue wasn't one for cute but familiarity had its merits, and the box for some reason stirred heavy Mississippi longing.

She'd taken it home, thrown out the shoebox she'd been using, and discreetly slipped her new buy under the bed. When Rogue had moved out of the room she shared with Kitty and into her own, the box was the last thing she took out. And in her new room, where everything was arranged in a different way from her old, the box kept its same spot.

Until that afternoon, at least three months had passed since it was opened. The packages inside had been nearing the halfway mark when they stopped coming. Strange enough, the non-event was easy to accept. Knowing Irene was no easy thing, but the years with her and the memories from Mystique brought Rogue close enough to the truth of the woman who'd raised her for the better part of her life. Knowing Irene was like contemplating the Mona Lisa. The only truth they shared was sorrow.

Irene had finally quit sharing.

She slid the box out, opening it softly. In the dark, the moon cast its full rays across the room, reaching to her bed, where in its light she could blink with fevered eyes at the package resting at the top of the pile in the box. On the front, stamped over her own writing, were the words in faded ink, 'Return To Sender.'

After an hour's worth of blinking her lids dragged and the yawns stretched wider, adding to the wooziness in her head. Even the pain in her throat wasn't enough to keep her from closing her eyes.

She slept fitfully.

When she woke in the morning, her fever still ran high, her throat still ached, her nose still clogged, her eyes still burned. And the box was still where she'd left it. The same words still stared up at her.

She pulled her eyes away from it, stared blearily at everything else—eventually rested her tired gaze on Benny the Russ monkey that Kitty had given her as a room-parting gift. It perched on the bookshelf next to her dresser, its small face staring placidly back.

"What do you think, huh?" she croaked to the monkey. "Should I risk a trip home sometime?"

In his beady inanimate eyes, she found no answer.

"I'm delirious," she muttered, and threw off her covers. Getting to her unsteady feet, she stumbled her way to the bathroom and wondered at the silence surrounding her. Considering how slow she was moving, that it was a Friday morning with twenty minutes to go before school, that Amara, Kitty, and sometimes even Jean tore around the halls looking for missing brushes and make-up—there really should've been some pounding on the door already. But lack of that or much of any other sound left her wondering what kind of event had spurred the others to actually be on time for once. Maybe they were downstairs having breakfast—heck, maybe they were already in school.

If they were, the event must've been something like a miracle, like Kelly scheduling a morning pro-mutant rally with a resurrected Magneto as guest speaker.

"Hey, Rogue," she heard as she stepped out of the bathroom.

Amara. So no miracle then, but Rogue forgot her train of thought as she looked at what the girl was carrying. A breakfast tray with a bowl of steaming soup and a small Tropicana carton. The sight of food suddenly reminded her that while appetite was a poor thing at the moment, her stomach was still rumbling.

"Hey," she said. "That for me?"

"Yup. Sam heated up last night's chicken noodle soup. Hope you don't mind leftovers."

"Long as it ain't leftovers of Kitty's cooking."

"As if we'd keep any of that around."

Amara entered the room with Rogue following slowly behind. She hoped Amara would just set the tray on the bedside table and let her take care of the rest. But the younger girl was more of a Nightingale type than Rogue would've figured. She was patient while waiting for Rogue to slip back into bed, and careful about settling the tray over her. "Thanks, 'Mara."

The nickname slipped out without thought. Rogue wasn't sure whether it was really all her doing or a result of the lingering memories absorbed from Kitty or someone else close to Amara. But the girl's face brightened at hearing it so she let the thought go. For once. In some ways, she could be as broody and anal as Scott on his worst days.

"Sure thing, Rogue. You feeling any better?"

Nowhere near but admitting that might make Amara linger, and while Rogue appreciated her efforts, she didn't want a nursemaid hovering around. "Little bit, I guess."

"Ray's still pretty out of it. Kurt's keeping an eye on him."

"Not Hank?"

"No, the Professor took him, Kitty, and Jean to Morocco an hour ago."

"Morocco?" The word 'vacation' was a rusty concept in the Institute, so the trip probably had more to do with Apocalypse than anything resembling a good time—yet she couldn't help a moment of sharp frustration. Bed-ridden once again and missing out on another mission. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually contributed to the team. Bobby was doing more with the X-Men lately.

"Okay," Amara said, inhaling deeply before continuing. "I was in the kitchen getting my school lunch and this tray together when 'Berto came in saying he heard from Sam that Jamie told him he heard Kitty telling Bobby that the Professor's got a curator friend there who might've found a lead on the Apocalypse prophecy."

"Oh." Bobby was getting mission briefs from Kitty. So maybe he was being groomed to take a place among the X-Men. With Evan's absence, with Rogue's own series of out-of-commissions, it really was just a matter of time before the Professor had to beef up the increasingly lean team. Only question was whether Bobby would be replacing Evan—or her?

It hurt to think about, but she couldn't blame the Professor for having doubts about her. Hell, he probably always had. It was just—well, now she'd proven that he was right to doubt.

"And Scott, Logan, and Ororo just left for California to help with those fires," Amara continued.

Took Rogue a few seconds to process this. When she did, she mustered a frown. All the senior members were gone then, except—

"So Kurt's in charge" Amara said cheerfully.

He entered the building and found a dungeon inside, complete with skulls and corpses that rattled with the music of headbangers playing in the distance. Nearby, a cemetery setting housed a group of Marilyn Manson rejects chewing on paninis and comparing body piercings and tattoos. Across the room meanwhile was the typical throng of students, all crowded around a stout boy guzzling beer. Near them a trio of older patrons lounged in what looked like gypsy costumes, as they watched a drunken girl juggle empty beer bottles and shot glasses to the cheers of the small crowd that circled her.

The sight of it all put Remy in mind of Mardi Gras. It was like a sliver of that wild party spirit had warped and wended its way into a heavy metal club in Paris. It made him homesick, and with that thought he felt his mouth twitch from its customary smirk as he passed two women grinning cattily.

"Bonsoir," one said to him, but he was already sliding his way past some dancers.

He found himself in a small alcove in the company of a seated couple, long-faced and dressed in black, oblivious to all as they stared wanly into each other's pale faces. Beside them was an open door, and standing in front of it was the man Remy was looking for.

"Gambit!" the man called over the din. "In here!"

The room Remy followed him into was small and cluttered. From the desk and chairs inside, he guessed it was the office, although the overload of macabre memorabilia and Anthrax and Metallica posters made for a shaky assumption.

"Have a seat."

"Merci." The seats were plush and the kind of color meant to compliment Dracula's castle. "Interesting place to settle things, Weston."

"Isn't it?" The grin on the older man's face was like the burnished gleam of a new penny. Remy dismissed it; even if this latest client was a semi-lunatic, it wasn't anything approaching Magneto's level of crazy. "I know the owner," Weston said. "She gives me a bloody good discount on drinks and, as you see, the occasional use of her office. Though we can't stay long."

"Let's get this over with then, shall we?" Remy placed a small velvet pouch on the desk between them and watched the other man contemplate it eagerly.

"You understand—I just have to—"

"By all means, monsieur," he said, and cast a bored glance around the room as Weston checked the pouch. When he finished, he closed it and leaned back with that familiar air of contentment common to most of Remy's clients at the end of a deal.

"It's been four years since I last held those lovelies, believe that?" Weston said. "Bloody fool to let 'em go. I won't make that mistake again."

"Best of luck. Plenty of fellows around who want that back in their hands."

"I rather expected you to be one of them. No insult meant."

"None taken. Just so happens I'm not speculating in the diamond market, least for the moment."

"So what's next for a chap like you, then? Heading stateside again?"

Something in his voice brought Remy to attention. "Hard to say."

"You might want to try that route. Here." On the table, the pouch was replaced by a small package. Inside it was the money owed Remy that he didn't really need. But he'd been bored out of his mind his first few days in Paris and this was one of those rare assignments that made his work a Robin Hood affair. It was a nice change, a return of sorts to normal. And the kind of break he needed after Egypt and—what the hell—the entire last year.

Remy slipped the package into his pocket and stood. "Merci, monsieur. It's been a pleasure."

"Gambit, wait."

"Oui?"

"You really should try a trip back home. I hear your father's in trouble."

His father was trouble. "What else is new, homme?"

"Word around the Paris Guild's—"

"I pay no mind to such things, Weston. I suggest you to do the same."

"Well, I'm a nosy sort of fellow. Like to live vicariously, you know? And what's more exciting than rumors of a kidnapping involving a Guildmaster, eh?"

Remy turned back to the door. "I ain't a part of that anymore," he said. "Add that to your rumor mill."

"Bloody hell, look at you. Likely not past twenty yet and already sporting a massive chip on the ol' shoulder."

"Not your business."

"Cheerio, then. And don't say I didn't warn you."

Remy slammed the door shut. He stalked through the packed club, where body heat smothered his face, made him clench his hands and wish desperately for something to blow up or at least slam his fist into.

Once outside, he lit a cigarette. Standing just beyond the light of a streetlamp, he blew hazy rings into the chilly air and waited for reason to come. But smoking only brought to mind the father who'd encouraged the habit, and that only further shaded his already murky thoughts.

He'd taken up smoking at fourteen because he found that, with his particular powers, the second best thing to have in his coat pocket after a deck of cards was a pack of cigarettes. His father had approved of this logic to the point where he'd stacked numerous card decks and entire cartons of Marlboros in Remy's closet. The stash never ran out, despite his cousins' pilfering.

"Got a light?" The voice was light and smooth and nothing he wanted to be bothered with at the moment, but Remy smiled at the blonde and gave her a lighter and kept smiling until she gave it back.

"Thanks," she said, returning his smile.

"De rien, madamoiselle."

"Oh. Perdon. J'ai pense que vous-etes l'Américain. Parlez-vous anglais?"

"Yes," he said, then turned his back on her to walk in the direction of the hotel he was crashing at. Packing would be nothing more than putting his toothbrush in his duffel. He'd be in a plane within an hour or two, and across the Atlantic in another eight.

It was her first time in the first class section and she nursed a thin hope that she'd get the chance to eat the kind of salmon dinner Bernadette had once bragged about. But that was years ago, and she'd recently read somewhere in the Sunday paper (and that reminded her, she needed to cancel the subscription now that Art was gone) that the airlines were skimping on money by offering only refreshments instead of meals, and of course her first time in first class would have to be when the standards of service had lowered and salmon dinners were being phased out of the air flight experience.

She offered a small smile to the young man on her right as he shifted in his seat. He was an interesting looking boy—the 'artsy' type, as she'd heard so often said. But he was quiet and she could plainly see he knew about manners the way most others his age didn't seem to understand. Put her in mind of her own son Bill, who was so much like his father nowadays that when they talked on the phone—a daily thing, mind you, because Bill was a considerate boy who certainly deserved a nicer sort of girl than the one he'd chosen now. But Art had always warned her about keeping that to herself and despite her objections to that, she knew he'd been right on that score. Bill was a brilliant boy, but stubborn in his way. So much like his father, and that was why when she chatted with her son on the phone, it was easy to get confused sometimes and call him Art.

"Excuse me," she said, as the flight attendant walked by. "Do you think I could have a blanket? It's very cold here."

"Of course," the young lady said, motioning to the air vents above Pam's head. "Would you like me to adjust this for you?"

"Oh, no, thank you. I actually don't mind the air on my face. It's just my legs I'd like warm."

"No problem." The young lady glanced at the passenger beside Pam. He'd turned away from the window to watch the exchange. "Would you like one too, sir?"

He shook his head and smiled politely, and the impression Pam had first formed of him was solidified when he turned back to the window to resume his study of the clouds. Hadn't even tried to get fresh with the flight attendant, and that was more than could be said about the pair of young men two rows in front, who were muttering and laughing as they eyed the young lady passing them. No doubt they'd be asking for all kinds of nonsense during the course of the trip, just to pester the poor girl. No regard at all for the comfort and safety of the other passengers. It was a dangerous thing these days, the arrogance and disrespect of youths. The Dorset girl, for example. Raised with the luxury that her parents had lacked and worked so hard to surround their only child with—and what did she do but throw it in their faces, getting into drugs, having abortions, shacking up with a man twice her age. And married, no less. No wonder her father had had a heart attack.

But he'd survived that, hadn't he? Surprised them all and Lord forgive her, but she couldn't understand why Bill hadn't received that same blessing. He'd always done right by his parents. It seemed wrong for a good father to be taken from such a fine son. Meanwhile there were ungrateful children given another chance to put their poor parents through more suffering.

"Here you go." Pam stared some moments at the light blue fabric held in front of her without understanding what she was seeing. "I brought you a pillow, too."

That shook her out of the reverie and she smiled at the girl. "I hadn't thought of that. Thank you very much."

The girl offered another pillow to Pam's neighbor. He took it this time, with the same polite smile from before, and when the young lady walked away, Pam said to him, "Now that's what I call excellent service."

He nodded calmly, resting his pillow on his lap.

"Have you flown first-class before?"

"Yes."

"Really? Well, this is all new to me. I must confess, I think this is the best part of my trip so far. Although, I was already looking forward to getting back even when all I had was a regular coach ticket." When he looked at her, she continued, "Oh, now, don't get me wrong. England's a lovely country and it was nice to meet family I didn't even know I had. I'd like to come back in a few years. But I've just been missing New York so dreadfully. Maybe next time I'll bring my son along—won't feel so alone that way. A vacation's not quite the same when you're on your own, is it?"

"I suppose not."

His brogue wasn't English, but the accent was similar. She wondered about his trip to the States. "You're going on vacation yourself, then?" she said.

"I'm visiting my father."

"How lovely. He must be looking forward to seeing you."

"It's a surprise."

"Oh. Well, those are always nice, aren't they?" she said, to which he smiled politely again. Such an unassuming person—but those were the best to talk to, and so she continued, "You know, I was supposed to be on an earlier flight. I gave my seat up to another man. His wife was having a baby, but his business trip ran late—missed his plane without meaning to." She chuckled a little. "They bumped me up to first class for helping. Lovely way to end the trip."

He looked at her again.

"He was a rather nice man. One of those hurrying types—you know, the eternal businessman—but awfully kind anyway. Else I wouldn't have given my seat to him. He told me they're having a boy. Their first. That's always fitting, isn't it?"

She always thought that would be the best thing for a couple—boys were so much stronger, and the father would have an easier time settling into the new family with miniature versions of themselves to look after. She and Art had thought of trying for a daughter later on but somehow that had kept getting put off, occupied as she'd been with Bill, and busy as Art had been with the growth of his bakery. But it was easy to devote everything to Bill. He deserved it.

"I told Art—my husband, you know—I told him that our son Bill was our first and only likely because once we had our perfect little boy, it might've been selfish to ask for more. He was an adorable child, you see. And so very attached to his father."

An expression fell on his face then that she didn't really understand—probably he was moved by something she'd said. A sensitive boy underneath the reserve. Wasn't that just like an artist?

"I tell you," she went on, hoping for more such reactions, "there was no finer man to raise a child than Art. He's passed on, but I know he's still up there caring for us in his own way. I know it. A father's duty doesn't end with his death, I always tell ev—"

"Pamela."

That surprised her. Had she told him her name then? She couldn't remember, but she must've let it slip. She glanced at him to find he was scowling deeply. That was a rather disturbing reaction. "Are you all right?" she said.

"I will be. Once you shut up."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"You're not going to speak another word on this trip. Starting now."

She had no time to be shocked. Her head began throbbing with a pain she'd never felt in her entire life. It rushed from her nose to her temples, seized her mind. Settled there with the sharp heavy weight of a jagged rock. Then—

Blackness.