A sequel to “Modern Art”
 

Remy picked disconsolately at his supper, to the consternation of the rest of
the team.  In spite of
how much he complained about any food that wasn’t loaded with cayenne pepper, it
was rare
that the Cajun wouldn’t eat, and usually out-eat everyone at the table, with the
exception of
Logan.

“So, Hank,” Scott asked, attempting to break the unaccustomed silence, “how was
the art show
you and Gambit went to today?”

McCoy, who hadn’t really touched his food either, dropped his fork with a
clatter.  “Oh.  Ah.  It
was…good.  Very good.”

“Very good?” Logan growled, shoveling another forkful of mashed potatoes into
his mouth.
“What’s up, Hank? Usually you’d be talking our ears off about now.”

“Well, you know…I’m not really that much of a fan of modern art.  It wasn’t much
to crow
about.”

“You’re being evasive, Henry,” Jean said, eyes on her water glass.

“Some of de art was a bit disturbin’,” Gambit said, and he pushed his chair away
from the table
and got up.  “Excusez-moi, je n'ai pas faim.”  He left the dining room.

“Whad’e say?” Logan grunted, cocking an eyebrow.

“He said he’s not hungry,” McCoy said, delicately wiping his mouth on his
napkin.  “I…don’t
know if I have any right to say, but if you intend to take Jean to the show
tomorrow, Scott, I
suppose you should be prepared.  There are several works on display by a native
New Orleans
artist, naked portraits of young street children, mostly boys.  One of them,
probably the most
powerful work in the collection…is of Gambit.”

Jaws and forks dropped simultaneously.  Even Ororo looked stunned.
 

“It gets worse.”  McCoy’s voice had fallen into a near whisper.  “He admitted to
me that he was
working at the time as a…as a prostitute.  The artist paid to…to use him, and
not just as a subject
for a portrait.”  It was amazing just how red his face could look under all that
blue fur.

“Holy cripes,” Logan said.  “How old was he at the time?”

McCoy shook his head.  “I don’t know.  He didn’t look any older than six or
seven, frankly.”

Logan put down his fork, an amazing thing considering there was still food on
his plate.
“What’s this artist’s name? Is he still alive? Where does he live?”

“Why do you want to know, Wolverine?” Ororo asked.

“Because I’m going to kill him if he ain’t dead already.”

“Calm you’self, mon ami,” Remy said from the doorway.  “C'est le passé: Il ne
s'est jamais
produit.”

“Gambit,” McCoy said, blushing red under his fur again, “I didn’t know you were
still in the
vicinity.  My apologies, my friend, if I have spoken out of line.”

Gambit waved it off.  “Like you say, if dey see de show, dey goan fin’ out
anyways.”

Logan growled.  “Will you quit talkin’ that Frog around me?  What the hell did
you say to me?”

“Dat part of my pas’ is behin’ me, Logan.  It hurt sometime, but it jus’ another
bad memory.
Ain’ had to worry ‘bout dat kin’ t’ing for a long time now, an’ I ain’ never
goan to again.  I
appreciate you wantin’ to avenge me,” he said, with a ghost of his usual cocky
grin, “but it ain’
necessary.”

“I think maybe it’s closer than you admit, Gumbo.  That it hurts pretty damn
bad, still.”

“Mebbe so, but it’s my hurt, an’ I’ll live.  I always have.”  He walked out of
the room again.

In a totally unprecedented maneuver, Logan got up as well, leaving behind a
plate still half-full.
He followed close behind the Cajun, calling his name out in that gruff, feral
voice.

“Well, isn’t this a day for surprises,” McCoy said to no one in particular, and
returned to picking
at his peas.