This is a companion piece to "I Remember That Night," but told from Gambit's slightly less inebriated point of view. It's pure fluff, but I regret (and own) nothing.
It was Dia de los Muertos, but I don't think he realized that. He didn't seem the religious type, especially not Catholic. Not enough guilt. Rage – yes, guilt – don't think so. To him, it was probably just the day after Halloween. Come to think of it, I'm not sure if he even realized it had been Halloween the day before. If it wasn't celebrated in bars, secret government labs, or seedy alleyways, I'm guessing he didn't know it exited. Just this Cajun's hunch.
But it was Dia de los Muertos, nonetheless. Day of the dead. Could the Wolverine have chosen a better night to ask to see me after fifteen damn years? Seems like a case of the dead coming back to life to me. Or maybe that's the bourbon. Always was a sucker for a few things: A good, smooth glass of bourbon, an overly complicated security system that was made for foiling, a chump at the poker table, and a femme with an angelic face and wicked smile. Drowning in the first one right about now, and I had my fill of the middle two. Now as for the last one. . . let me tell you 'bout de sweetest girl I ever saw, and the wicked smile that stole my heart.
Starts out that night, the night of the day of de dead. That don't sound right, but Noche de los Muertos don't sound right either. The Wolverine had called me up, never asked where he got my number, but then again I never asked where he heard about me the first time we ran into each other. I just beat the crap out of him . . . sorta. At least this Cajun held his own. And holding your own against someone with super-healing and giant metal claws ain't an easy feat, let me tell you. Ain't seen the homme since Three Mile Island, but I respected the man. Thought he was out of his tiny little mind wanting to go to a mutant lab instead of getting as far away from it as possible, but the man always seemed to have more determination then sense. Didn't expect him to be the nostalgic type. Especially about something like Three Mile Island. But he said something about getting amnesia and getting better, and wanting to thank Remy properly.
Remy may not be the most polite man you ever meet, but ignoring gratitude, especially one paid in liquor, was far too rude even for me. So, I jumped on my bike, hightailed it to some city in Virginia . . . or something. I should know this. I know I should know this. My chere will kill me if I don't know this, judging by the look she's giving me. Maryland! That's it! We were on the outskirts of Baltimore. See? Knew this ol' Cajun would get it. The Kentucky bourbon messing with me, jealous that another state got in the mix. Got the Louisiana boy in trouble with the Mississippi belle.
So I was riding to the bar in Maryland, thinking about the ghosts of my past. Sounds like it should be Christmas Eve, non? All the souls that surround me, all the ones I've lost, all the ones that walked away from me. Most of the people I cared about in life, they fall into that latter category. So I was glad that there was at least one soul who actually wanted to see this thief, if only for a drink. Someone who knew who I am . . . what I am, and still would break bread with me.
Get there a bit before midnight, right before the souls of the dead should be high-tailing it out of wherever they're haunting and return to the underworld. Wondered if the Wolverine would do the same, just fade into the mist as midnight struck. Now, Remy don't mean to be mean, but the bar, well it was a shit-hole. Dive bar would be the technical term. Just as my job could technically be called 'asset relocation services.' Didn't matter – been in worse.
Stroll in, and there the man is, same as he ever was. No, I mean that literally. Same. As. He. Ever. Was.
Now Remy takes care of himself, I look damn good for my age. Could probably pass for still being in my twenties on a good day. But the Wolverine had not aged a day. For a second I thought it had to be a clone. I mean, he had been in that lab a while, supposedly busting heads in, but maybe the scientists got to him, did weird things to him that made him stop aging, or just made a small army of clone Wolverines. Scary thought, non? That train of thought stops dead (pun intended) as I notice the girl he's sitting with, holding her hand.
Merde. The young woman had a face out of a Botticelli painting, and giving a smile to my ol' friend that . . . all I know at that moment is that I wanted her to look at me like that. Like I meant something to her, that I made her happy. 'Cause a face like that shouldn't ever be anything but happy. I felt a twinge of jealously that couldn't be helped and announced myself with grace and tact.
*cough* The girl shot daggers at me. Apparently I just ruined a moment there. I figured that's the end of me and the angel, so I focused on the Wolverine. He gave me a wide smile, nothing like the one that he and his angel were just sharing, but warm nonetheless. I sat, and he yelled at the haggard bartender to bring me a beer. We exchanged pleasantries, while I waited for my beer, making sure that he's not a Wolver-clone, and tried to check out the brunette. She was less then sober, that was clear, but she was also not hanging off the Wolverine like a drunk girl would with her date. Or even potential one night stand. Not that she looked like one night stand material. I swear. Don't make that face, I never said –
Nevermind, I ain't getting out of that one, so on with the story. Make it up to my chere later. I got my beer, which seemed like the most hygienic thing in the joint since it was a still sealed bottle, and pulled off my sunglasses to start to chat with Mr. Ageless across the table. Then I heard a small gasp coming out of the girl. Merde. Forgot that she might not be a mutant, or be used to being around many mutants. And since Remy's eyes have gone back to being permanently red and black, or perma red-eye as my brother Henri calls it, it still startles people. But then I realize it isn't the normal "Fuck it's a demon! Kill it with fire!" gasp, but a slightly delighted gasp. Remy's back in the game.
The Wolverine and I talked, the girl getting more and more sober, Remy getting more and more wasted, and Logan pounding back beer after beer and seeming completely unaffected. Trou de t'chu. It's not playing fair and he knew it. Not that I play fair myself, but it's no fun when more than one person cheats at a table, you know? Throws off the Feng Shui of the whole thing.
We finished chatting, and I could no longer use the excuse of talking to the Wolverine as a reason for looking over at the girl. So I just looked, unabashedly. Long chestnut hair with a distinctive white swath of white, pale skin, mahogany eyes, and a petite but shapely figure. Then I really looked at her. It was warm in the bar, but she was completely covered. Wolverine was holding her close, but she seemed unaccustomed to such contact. Her eyes were soulful – a mix of sadness from hearing some of the more tragic details she overheard that night along with her own experiences which still clearly haunted her. I had to look away.
My eyes roamed over the table. For the first time I noticed the sad little vase on the edge of the booth near the wall. A single stem placed in the almost evaporated water. Marigolds.
"So how do you know Wolverine, chere?"
She gave a weak yet genuine smile. "Met him when I was half starving on the road in the Yukon," she said with a sweet Mississippi drawl that had been tempered with time. Just as my accent had faded with age. She continued her story, and I occasionally had to look to Wolverine to get his nod of verification. The poor girl, thrown out of her home at fifteen, had been used and abused time and again. She had even died. Literally died, and came back. No wonder she was alright with Wolverine holding her so close, they would have died for one another, they had died for one another.
There were bits of her story that even he seemed surprised at: the inner turmoil of all the personalities in her head, how her own body had become the enemy, the times when she had considered ending it all. Can't say that Remy's had all those experiences, but some of them seemed damn familiar. She finished up explaining how she ended up frequenting that less than immaculate watering-hole because it made her feel slightly less, as she put it "bat-shitty" about her own life.
She looked me dead in the eye, I think she was expecting me to say something patronizing. Now Remy's said a lot of dishonest things to a lot of women in a lot of bars. It is my forte. But that angel, she was too smart to fall for it, and more importantly, I didn't want to lie to her. I didn't want to give her some shit about how life will work out fine, or that it all made her stronger, or that it was a part of God's Plan. Because life doesn't always work out, her ordeals have given her as many weaknesses as strengths, and fuck all if I know what God wants with us anyways. Somewhere my tante is cursing me out for using God's name in vain for that last one. But it's true.
I held her gaze and tried to give her a smile, but I think it ended up looking like one of them Mona Lisa smiles. Wanted to be supportive, but it all just sounded too familiar. She returned the sad, knowing smile, and I want to melt. Think something in me did, because I was nothing but putty in her hands from that moment.
Knew it right then and there that she was the kindest, most beautiful, most honest femme I'd ever meet. And to top it all off, she understood things about me that few could, because she had suffered as badly. It seemed that Dia de los Muertos had been all about bad memories, ghosts of the past, but I found someone on that day that I wanted to move forward with. Her mutation – we'd deal with that. Together.
No longer drunk, but clearly tired, Rogue promised Wolverine that she'd let him take her home. Had I not figured out that they were family in every way that counted, I'd have broken out the bo-staff and fought him then and there. As it was, I was glad she'd get home safe. I'd find her again soon enough. I knew where the angel liked to drink, after all. She quietly said goodnight to me, and I handed her the marigold that I had snatched from the table. She blushed ever so slightly and looked curiously at it.
"Glad that you came back to life," I said to no-one in particular.