Stories by RogueStar
Gambit finds his way back to the Mansion ... and asks for a retrial.
Rogue and Gambit both suffer through reminders that neither of them can escape
their pasts. (Unfinished.)
"Blowing in the Wind"
In honor of the Gambit Guild's "Gambit Day," RogueStar writes a story of reconciliation and hope for Rogue and Gambit.
"The Briar Patch"
A dark, thorny look at how Rogue might internally view her powers. Takes place
after Rogue's emergence from the Siege Perilous.
A series of holiday-themed stories about personal despair and choices
for the future, featuring Siryn, Rogue, Gambit and Marrow.
A series of three stories written as a gift for the mailing lists Southern Comfort and Gambit Guild.
- featuring Gambit and Bebete (the green mist lady)
"Gold" - featuring Cyclops and Phoenix
"Myrrh" - featuring Rogue, Gambit and Nightcrawler
"Demain des l'aube"
Rogue mourns the death of her mother and plans to pass Raven's teachings on to her own unborn child.
"The Eighth Color of the Rainbow"
After his "death" at the end of the Magneto War, Joseph makes one last trip to Salem Center to say a very special goodbye.
In a pocket universe where Rogue stayed in the service of her foster mother Mystique, Rogue becomes known as the woman who killed Magneto. (Unfinished.)
"For My Daughter"
A woman in Mississippi writes a long-overdue letter to her daughter.
Rogue and Gambit think back to when they once decided to break up for good -- and laugh at their younger selves' naivete. Written in response to the recent X-book writing/editorial decision to break them up.
Just before Rogue and Remy are set to leave for their honeymoon, Rogue finally reveals the real reasons she's so uneasy about being with him. A response to Rogue and Gambit's rumored break-up in Gambit #16.
"The Horse of Another
Magnus, the Mage, demands a tithe from a small town every month. This time,
he wants the townspeople to deliver Rogue as his tribute, or else find for him
the mythical horse of a different color. (Unfinished. In revision.)
"The Sword and the Rose"
Sabrina and Remy LeBeau settle into their new roles as husband and wife as they
train and prepare to defend themselves in a world that has become even more
Rogue asks Gambit to accept the real her. A response to "All's
Fair..." by R.V. Bemis.
Rogue and Gambit make their piece and decide to get back together. In response
to Gambit #16.
In a different world, Mystique had early ties to the Thieves Guild and sent
Rogue to New Orleans to study the arts of thievery.
Gambit offers Jean a small comfort as she grieves over Cyclops' apparent death.
Inspired by UXM #386.
As Rogue lay dying, probably of the Legacy Virus, Gambit fulfills her final wish: one last dance.
"The Magician and the Butterfly"
Sabine Robbins leaves her settled life with Cody as a farmer's wife and runs away with a circus magician. Told from mulitple perspectives.
"A Matter of
When Soldier Alpha escapes the project and joins the rebels, it is up to a Black
Striper to bring her to justice. Unfinished.
Rogue stares at her reflection in the mirror and evaluates what she is -- and
isn't. X-Men: Evolution universe.
Queen and the Hunter"
Barely more than a child when she married Magnus, Rogue quietly defers to her
husband, then feels the urge to rebel. Age of Apocalypse.
to the Rooftop"
As they settle into their new roles as leaders of the X-Men, Rogue and Gambit
try to settle into another role as well: platonic friends.
(with Keri Wilson)
After their wedding, Rogue and Gambit record a farewell message of sorts
for Sehkmet Conoway. Sillyfic.
Sim Salem Project
An ongoing series of stories in which Rogue and Gambit are living a happy
suburban life with their precocious son, Luc.
"The Cherry Cookie Incident"
"The Sphinx's Question"
"Gotta Learn Them All"
"Saturday Morning in Salem Center"
"The Cabbage Patch"
Centering on the relationship between Rogue and Remy and on the growing human
intolerance of mutants, this story begins (in terms of "normal" continuity)
just before Bishop joins the team and ends just after LegionQuest.
When Mercy LeBeau comes to deliver some news to Gambit, she falls in lust with Iceman and chaos ensues. (Unfinished.)
After coming back home to the X-Mansion, many of the X-Men, including Rogue and Colossus, try to make peace with the ghosts in their lives. (Unfinished.)
(With Faith Barnett)
Just after the Trial of UXM 350, the various X-Men try to get on with their
in the Woods"
Banished to the woods after her disastrous encounter with Cody, Rogue is suspicious
when she meets a beautiful woman who wants to take care of her.
"A Window to Her Soul"
Colossus awakens and finds inspiration in Rogue's sleeping form.
elsewhere in Alykat's World:
"The Morning Paper"
Hank and Bobby miss seeing their favorite comic strip in the Sunday paper. A
tribute to Peanuts creator Charles Schulz.
(at (un)frozen and Stars & Garters)
Web sites: textualchemy, RogueStar's Galaxy, Caldecott,
in the House
Disclaimer: All characters are
Marvel and I am not even being paid for this piece in jelly-babies.
Strudel, possibly, but not jelly-babies. :D Not fine literature
this time, but it’s not meant to examine the intergender politics
of reconciliation, so much as be fun. Thanks to Keri
for her incisive commentary and helping me over sundry writers’
blocks. So, comments to firstname.lastname@example.org
as usual and enjoy the piece. I certainly did enjoy writing
Return to the Rooftop
As Rogue stepped onto the rooftop, a small, treacherous piece
of her wished that she had bothered to change into the slinky,
little, black dress that was the sartorial equivalent of a
stuck-out tongue. The rest of her was stubbornly glad that
she had remained in the green and white that was her uniform,
that she had not even taken the time to brush her hair after
the Danger Room session from which she had just come. She
was leader of the X-Men’s Gold Team after all and this was
simply a strategy meeting with her Blue counterpart. A counterpart
who much to her surprise and discomfort was also her former
She felt a slight, sick disappointment when she saw him.
Like her, he seemed to have simply come from whatever activity
with which he had been busy. In a loose, Saints sweatshirt
and black jeans that appeared to have been painted onto him,
he was hardly dressed for an evening of romance. Not that
she objected to the latter piece of clothing on him, she smirked,
then checked herself. She had no right or reason to expect
their rendez-vous on the rooftop to lead anywhere more interesting
than a discussion of the sociopolitical climate, she reminded
herself. Their relationship had been over for some months
and, if the Iceman-carried rumor was to be believed, he was
currently dating the archaeological engineer that she had
met a while ago in the Folding City, Sekhmet Anubar Conoway.
Rogue paused, refusing to think about his new relationship
or their somewhat acrimonious break-up, steeling herself instead
for the two hours of forced politeness that lay ahead of her.
Their talks in the War Room were decidedly uncomfortable for
both of them, she suspected. She went into each strategy session
with the intent of reconciling with him for the good of the
team, but ended up talking at him across an expanse of steel
as if he were a complete stranger. Rather than someone in
whose arms she had been sleeping one or two months ago, she
thought with a half-smile at the memory. If there were any
night to patch things up between them, to be friends again
at the very least, then it would be this one.
Tone neutral, but not unfriendly, "Remy?"
He glanced back at her, a decidedly mischievous grin on his
face, "Rogue. Wondered how long ya were gon’ stan’ dere an’
admire de view."
Thief-trained as he was, she should have known that her slightest
breath, her lightest footstep, would have alerted him to her
presence. Nonetheless, she had foolishly hoped that her private
moment of voyeurism would have gone unnoticed, although the
blatant innuendo in his greeting caused her to flush. Was
it because he was genuinely interested in restarting their
relationship, or merely part of a brilliant, witty facade
designed to hide his discomfiture at being forced to work
with his ex? She had seen the latter enough to know it was
probably motivated out of insecurity, rather than any more
Deliberately obtusely, to cover her confusion, "Yeah. Night
sky is gorgeous this time of year."
He raised an eyebrow, "Dat it is, cherie. Grab a plate an’
some chicken, den we c’n admire it together."
"Fried chicken?" she asked teasingly as she settled down
next to him and took the plate offered to her, "Ah didn’t
think you could cook anythin’ that used less dan half th’
contents o’ th’ spice-rack."
"Ya know me," he shrugged, "Can’t resist buyin’ into de Southern
Biting into the wonderfully tender and golden drumstick,
"Well, Ah’m glad you did. This is by far th’ best chicken
Ah’ve evah had."
"From a girl from Backwater, Mississippi, dat be high praise
"It’s Caldecott," she laughed, "An’ don’t let yo’ head swell
up too much yet, LeBeau. Reenie did all the cookin’ chez Darkholme.
Ah grew up on sauerkraut an’ strudel."
He made a disgusted face, producing two flutes and bottle
of champagne from some recess of the basket. She did not need
to see the label to know that it was expensive -- the man
had always had impeccable taste in clothes and wine. She would
have added women, but some lingering animosity towards Sek
made her omit it.
"Den ya’ll need dis t’blot out de memories o’ German . .
. cuisine, although even dat looks edible when compared wit’
Russian food," he popped the cork of the bottle with suitable
panache, charging it before he did, so that it exploded in
a shower of sparks against the night-sky. Inclining his head
in the parody of a bow, he poured equal quantities of the
fizzy liquid into each flute.
"Oooh, fireworks an’ champagne. If y’tryin’ t’get me inebriated,
M’sieu LeBeau, Ah have ta warn you that it won’t work," she
drawled, "Thanks t’mah Kree genes, Ah can drink a gallon o’
th’ stuff an’ still walk a straight line."
With a mock-sigh, "Dem tetotallin’ Kree, non? Ya can’t blame
a boy f’r tryin ’, though."
"Could if’n Ah tried really hard," she grinned at him, as
she sipped delicately, "But Ah’ll see what other goodies you
have in yo’ basket instead."
Stretching across him, she picked up the picnic basket and
rifled through the clean white linen that lined it. To her
surprise, instead of the unpronouncable, frothy dessert that
tended to be his forte, there was a platter of apfelstrudel.
The pastry golden-brown and lightly-sugared, the filling plump
and juicy, it put Irene’s somewhat soggy efforts to shame.
Evidently, she thought, Destiny had not been capable of foreseeing
flops in cookery.
"Kurt told you it was mah favorite dessert, didn’t he?" she
fixed Remy with a decidedly approving look.
"Dat an’ de fact dat ya ordered it at every date we went
on," he shrugged nonchalantly, feigning interest in his champagne,
but there was a suspiciously amused glint in his eyes, "Even
at de Cajun restaurants."
"Ah thought that Chef Pierre was gonna toss me out on mah
butt when the waitress told him what Ah wanted," she chuckled,
then mimicked the outraged tones of the person in question,
"Mademoiselle, I be most sorry but we don’ serve ... strudel
here. Made it sound like Ah’d suggested killin’ his first-born."
He joined his laughter to hers, one of the infrequent, genuine
shouts of it that he allowed to escape on occasion, "Ya know
I still can’t go back dere wit’out bein’ told what a philistine
Suddenly, the memory lost any humorous quality it might have
had. He had returned to that particular restaurant then, presumably
with some woman on his arm. You really thought that he would
have gone alone, she mocked herself, that he would have stayed
at home pining over you? The idea was ridiculous. Of course,
Remy would never have lacked for dates, nor would have turned
down the offer of any halfway beautiful woman while single.
Still, the knowledge that she could be -- had been -- so easily
"Hmm. Suppose Sekhmet wouldn’t have embarrassed you like
that," she commented distractedly, old habit of speaking her
mind coming to the fore.
"Ya didn’ embarrass me," he told her honestly, his red-on-black
eyes more unreadable than usual, "An’ Sek an’ I are history,
which is probably ironic considerin’ what she does f’r a livin’."
"Ditto fo’ me and Piotr," she replied levelly, "Wasn’t mah
type, after all."
His earlier quip about Russian cuisine had not gone unnoticed,
although she had not commented on it at the time. There had
been a subtle hint of jealousy in Remy’s voice, despite his
light tone, that a woman who knew him less well would not
have noticed. Not that he had any real cause, she mused wryly,
the first kiss between them had only happened because of Remy’s
letter in which he had echoed her sentiments that it would
never have worked. Their brief relationship had only existed
because she had been too proud to admit that she still cared
about the Cajun, because she had been -- she wrinkled her
nose in distaste at the ugly word -- on rebound.
"An’ here I t’ought I’d have t’take up finger-paintin’ t’get
ya t’look at me," he shook his head in feigned disbelief,
grinning at her, "Never was much good at art too. Mind ya,
havin’ seen some of Piotr’s work, I suppose skill ain’t a
"‘Least Ah didn’t like Tomb Raider so much that Ah decided
ta go out with a real, live one," Rogue commented ironically
with a puckish smile to show that she was only teasing him.
However, the flipness, she admitted, was a facade. Internally,
a deliciously sweet and impossible hope caused her stomach
to feel like it was doing the tango, aided and abetted by
her other major, internal organs. Why would he mention that
he’d recently broken up with his archaeologist-friend, unless
he meant to . . . .
Mock-seriously, "What c’n I say? I found de view as Lara
Croft climbed up ladders inspirational."
Punching him lightly, she replied: "Huh. You’re lucky you
make darn good strudel, else Ah’d be forced ta kill you fo’
"Nice t’know ya still care enough t’be homicidal," she saw
him suppress a decidedly smug and triumphant grin, favoring
the dessert with a smirk. She doubted he was that fond of
pastry, and her visceral dance-troupe essayed a flamenco.
Still, she told herself, she had best not allow her personal
romantic fantasies to prorogue the beginning of what promised
to be a wonderful friendship.
"Ah’ll always be yo’ friend, you know that," she told him
seriously, then chuckled: "After all, who else would feed
me like you do?"
"Certainly not Jean," he said emphatically, evidently remembering
Phoenix’s skill at making even haute cuisine bland, then held
out his hand to her, "Friends, den?"
She took it in her own bare, cool one, feeling a familiar
flame kindle in the pit of her stomach at his touch. She loved
him, she admitted to herself, had not stopped despite months
of telling herself that she did not. She could see the same
understanding growing in his eyes, as she intertwined her
fingers more tightly with his. Like her, he had deluded himself
into believing that their relationship was over, that he cared
for Sekhmet as more than a friend.
"Friends kiss, don’t they?" she murmured, flushing slightly
at her own forwardness. She had never been a blushing wall-flower,
had thrown herself at Longshot with a bloody-mindedness that
would have put Psylocke to shame, but there had been no hope
of it being reciprocated then. She doubted that the alien
had even noticed her efforts most of the time.
"Oui," his loose hand moved of its own volition to cup her
chin and cheek, "Dey do at dat, cherie."
His lips brushed hers, then, wrapping his arms around her
waist, he kissed her soundly. All the worn-out metaphors about
fireworks, volcanoes and soaring through clouds seemed inadequate
to describe it, Rogue mused much later that evening, when
the capacity for logical thought had returned to her. It was
more like falling to earth, then swooping up at the very moment
that death seemed sure. A sensation that left her stomach
somewhere around her knees, where it launched into the finale
of the organ-dance that had been happening all evening. At
the time, however, all she could do was laugh and say: "Ah
suspect that wasn’t a very platonic kiss, Rem."
Wickedly, "Want t’practise until we get it right, Rogue?"
"Ah think we owe it to our friendship, don't you?"
Although they never discovered the art of the friendly kiss
that night, despite practising as much as was humanly possible,
that particular failure did not seem at all important to either
of them. After all, as Remy told her, they were many weeks
ahead of them in which to perfect it.
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