Canon Evo universe, set sometime after Cajun Spice but before anything else significant.
Slightly belated. Just a bit of drabble that crawled into my brain day before yesterday and insisted it be written. Will probably revise later for flow, wording, but won't add anything major. One-off.
At Sixes and Sevens (And Kings and Queens)
by Alara
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Remy reached out to her, eyes smoldering, cocky still despite nearly being skewered by Logan. His hand reached out to brush her gloved one, and he opened his mouth to speak.
BEEP—BEEP—BEEP—BEEP—
The alarm beeped insistently. Rogue twisted around in her bed and gave the appliance a withering glare. Obligingly, the timepiece went silent.
She tugged the covers back over her head and let her eyes drift shut again, allowed her mind to drift back to that moment on the New Orleans bayou edge…
She'd spent the last couple of days drugged, being kidnapped, arguing with an infuriating man, having unexpected heart-to-hearts with him, and beating him at poker.
She'd spent the last several hours being betrayed, fighting, sneaking through a house, absorbing criminals' minds, being shot at, racing a speedboat, being dumped out of the speedboat, fleeing alligators, and being rescued almost too late by her teammates.
And still the most terrifying moment was when Logan had Remy pinned against a tree, claws poised to skewer him.
She was soaked, covered in mud, and had never gotten to finish the dinner at the lovely restaurant Remy had taken her to.
And still the most wonderful moment was that bold brush of his hand against hers, leaving behind a playing card, Remy's favorite, the Queen of Hearts. "You've got people lookin' BEEP—BEEP—BEEP—BEEP—"
"Augh. Stupid clock." She muttered, as she slapped the alarm into silence, and crawled out of bed. She scraped her sloppy hair out of her face, and shuffled over to her dresser, kicked off the sweatpants she'd worn to bed and scrounged through the neatly folded drawers 'til she found her favorite pair of black pants, made of parachute silk, and tough as anything. She paired it with a black shirt topped with a dark red zip-front sweatshirt, her warmest. She'd need it today—it had snowed again during the night.
She glanced around to be sure no one had entered her room unexpectedly (not entirely unlikely in a house where people could travel through dimensions and walk through walls), and took a picture of herself and the other girls as the Bayville Sirens off of the countertop. As every morning, she took a deep breath and held it as she slid the backing of the frame away from the photo.
The Queen of Hearts card slipped smoothly into her grasping hand, tatter-edged from being worked through her nervous fingers, worn in places from her fingertips' absentminded stroking of the formerly glossy surface.
The Queen smiled serenely up at Rogue, her expression at once calming and challenging: Things will be okay, but what will you do to make them better? Earn my crown, she dared her.
Some mornings she soothed, reminding her of Remy's promise: I'll be watching out for you. Sometimes it even seemed like Remy was there, repeating that promise. Today was one of those days, as the back of Rogue's neck prickled like she were being watched. Well, watched over, she supposed, since it wasn't a creepy feeling, just a feeling that she was noted and valued, by someone. She'd never seen anyone, though, so she figured it was just the psychological power of the card playing with her mind.
Today, as Rogue supposed was only appropriate, the Queen counseled restraint, her eyes amused but tranquil. Smile, be kind, get through the day, she seemed to say reassuringly. It's only one day, and you should let others enjoy it. You just might find that you enjoy yourself, too.
"Yeah, right." Rogue informed her. The Queen gave her a skeptical look. "You know what day it is. I never enjoy today." The Queen remained silent, but seemed to smirk a secret to herself. We'll see.
There was a sudden knock at her door. Startled, she thrust the card into its accustomed place in her back pocket and opened the door. "What?"
The door opened into red-hued chaos, courtesy of Kitty Pryde, who had apparently decorated. "Rogue Rogue Rogue! Like, do you remember what day it is?!"
"Yeah," Rogue shot back. "It's Friday."
"No, silly!" Kitty thrust a card into her unwilling hand. "Happy Valentine's Day! I made breakfast as a valentine for everyone!"
"Great…" Rogue trailed off as the other girl tripped down the hall, knocking on doors, bits of ribbon and lace falling in her wake.
"Great. So we'll start the most wonderful day of the year with a case o' food poisoning. That's appropriate." Rogue grumbled to herself as she clumped down the stairs.
Kitty caught up with her. "Like, what'd you say? Aren't you going to open your valentine? I got one for, like, everybody."
Rogue remembered the Queen's advice for the day: Be kind… let others enjoy it… Well, the Queen's advice was usually on target. She found to her surprise that she didn't have to force a smile for Kitty. Then again, being mean to Kitty when she was like this would be like kicking a spaniel puppy: cruel and heartless.
She opened the envelope. The card had a red-heart-spotted cow grinning on the front. Well. At least it's not some smarmy Hallmark card, Rogue thought, and nearly dropped the thing when it mooed at her as she opened it. "Have a Moooovelous Valentine's Day!" the inside read, and Kitty had added a note: "To the friend who deserves romance the most. Here's hoping you find your Prince Charming (or Prince Dracula, or whatever) this year!"
She smiled in spite of herself. "Hey, thanks, Kitty! Let's go get breakfast."
"Uhm." Kitty bit her lip. "Yeah. About breakfast. I, like, think the toast is OK… And the OJ… but… the eggs look kinda weird. Could you puh-lease check them?"
Be kind, she reminded herself. Rogue closed her eyes briefly, scraping patience together. "Sure, Kitty."
"Like, thankyousooomuch, Rogue!"
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Breakfast had ended up being surprisingly edible. The toast and OJ were OK, and only a little of the eggs had burned. The rest were rescued by some cheese and peppers, and Rogue graciously insisted all the credit go to Kitty. The others had looked suitably impressed.
Logan looked like he was wondering when the ceiling was going to cave in, because the karmic balance had to be maintained somehow. But even he softened (slightly) when presented with his valentine, restraining himself to a mild, "You all are gonna be late for school! Get yer butts movin' out the door, now!" instead of his usual rant on teenage sleep addiction.
On the way to school, Kitty started in on Rogue about the dance that night. The argument continued out of the car and up the sidewalk towards the front steps of school. It put a severe tax on Rogue's self-imposed restraint on her temper.
"But Rogue, you proooomised," the brunette half-whined, trailing in the other girl's wake. The older girl whirled and pointed an accusing finger.
"Ya totally set this up! I would never have agreed to go to the next dance if I'd'a known it would end up bein' the Valentine's Day dance!"
"How did I set this up?" the brunette sounded honestly bewildered. "Like, I totally couldn't help that we couldn't go to last month's dance because some freakazoid manic decided to break into the mansion to 'free' all of us 'captive mutant kids.' And I totally couldn't help that he managed to put the mansion's security systems into lockdown within, like, three seconds!"
Rogue paused, and considered that. "I guess that wasn't your fault," she allowed. "But it's not fair to call me on the promise to go to 'the next dance' on Valentine's Day!"
"But it is the next dance!"
"It is not a 'dance'—it's Valentine's Day. Y'know, the big, gushy, romantic holiday involving lots o' chocolate an' cards. Between couples. Who're expected ta hug each other. And kiss at some point. I'm not part of a couple, and I can't hug or kiss anyone, anyway!"
"Well," Kitty pointed out, "I'm not part of a couple, and I want to go. And nothing says you haveto hug or kiss anyone just because it's Valentine's Day. I mean, like, even if I go to the dance, it doesn't even mean anyone will dance with me, let alone, like, kiss me or whatever. Anyway, you promised."
Rogue sighed, gritting her teeth. The valley-girl wasn't going to let it go. And there was her promise to the Queen. "Fine." She ground out grudgingly. "But I am leaving after two hours, y' hear?"
"Four."
"Two and a half."
"Three. Pleeease?"
Pause. Then, grudgingly, "Three, but I'm leaving the instant it's been 180 minutes."
Kitty considered the offer. The dance started at seven, and ran 'til eleven-thirty. Rogue would be there for more than half of the event, which was more than Kitty had ever managed to get out of her before. "Okay." She agreed. "But I'm so doing something with your hair!"
An aggrieved sigh; she was already going to the damn thing; might as well look decent. "Fine."
"And your makeup."
Hm. The valley-girl was certainly being bold today. It really wasn't worth making Kitty upset, though, especially as she'd already agreed to let her do her hair. "Fine," she replied, with a heavier sigh.
An excited squeal met this capitulation. Rogue hoped she wouldn't regret this…
She trailed desultorily after Kitty, who raced into the school to tell Jean she'd convinced Rogue to go to the dance! And let her do the hair and makeup!
She pulled the card out of her pocket and shook her head at it. "I sure hope you know what you're getting me in to," she told the Queen, who looked smug, but didn't answer.
She realized she was going to be late for homeroom then, jammed the card back into her pocket, and ran to beat the bell.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Well, she thought later that evening, Kitty sure does know how to pretty up a girl. Not that it'll make a difference. Her hair had been twisted with dark red ribbons into funky curl/buns around her head, making her choppy, multicolored hairstyle into a spiky coronet that somehow was punkish but feminine at the same time.
Drawing her hair up and back from her face made her eyes look enormous, as did whatever Kitty had done to her makeup. It still had quite a bit of Goth to it, but somehow was more fun, rather than menacing.
"Wow, Kitty," she found herself saying. "I'm impressed."
"Tch. It's nothing," the other girl said, but looked pleased. "So, you're wearing your dark-red tea-length dress, right?"
"Yeah, with a sheer top under it to keep mah arms safe. And I guess I'll wear my black gloves."
Kitty nodded. "Sounds good. Oh, I'm, like, so glad you're coming, Rogue!"
Rogue eyed her suspiciously. "Why?"
The girl scoffed. "'Cos, like, it's impossible to get you to go out with anyone, y' know. Even us."
Rogue shrugged jerkily. "Well, it's not like anyone wants to go out with me, y'know. I mean, really go out."
Kitty sighed. "Rogue, you're so hard on yourself. You look gorgeous. And I am convinced that someone will want to dance with you tonight. Seriously."
She certainly sounded certain, and despite herself, Rogue felt herself gain a bit of… hope?
Maybe that's what came of spending too much time with Kitty.
But… it was nice, for a change, to look forward to an evening out.
"Yeah," she said aloud. "Maybe someone will. Thanks, Kitty. You're a good friend."
She went to her room to get her evening bag, and tucked her cell phone and billfold inside. After only a moment's hesitation, she slid the Queen of Hearts in, as well. She's been right so far today, she thought. Might as well keep her around.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Rogue was enjoying herself at the dance, much to her own surprise, talking with some people whom she didn't usually get to see outside of school. Grant was trying to convince her to be in another play—they were doing Arsenic and Old Lace, and she'd be perfect in it, he said, over her protests that it was difficult to be on a small stage with a lot of people without bumping into someone.
He insisted they'd find a way around it. Just then, his girlfriend Sarai appeared and dragged him off to the opening bars of a slow dance. "Just think about it!" he called to her, before focusing his attention on the other girl.
The noise level dropped as couples revolved slowly on the dance floor, whispering to each other.
Rogue drifted over to the snack table and got a soda, and went to help a few other people keep the walls standing up—but she made sure not to stand too close to them, of course. In the dark, someone might accidentally walk into her.
Unfortunately she wasn't far enough away that she missed the vicious comments from around the corner:
"What is that weird Rogue girl doing here, anyway?" The guy's voice sounded disgusted, whoever he was. The voice wasn't familiar. It continued, "I mean, even without being a mutant freak, she'd still be a freak, you know?"
"I know," the girl with him said nastily. "Why's she even here? Like, who'd want to dance with the dead-looking girl? She looks like a live version of Corpse Bride."
"I guess we could find out who's necrophiliac," the guy suggested, and they both laughed meanly.
Of course her happiness could only be temporary. Her good mood vanished. She tried not to feel hurt—after all, she didn't even know the kids who'd been talking, but despite her resolution, she felt her face crumple. Swiftly, she turned and ducked past a few other people to get to the outside door. They weren't supposed to leave the dance, but Rogue figured she wouldn't be missed.
"After all, it's not like anyone even wants me here," she said to herself as the door clicked shut behind her. She pressed her back to its ice-cold surface and let one or two hot tears flow down her face. She gulped a couple of breaths and stared blindly out across the crisp moonlit snow, took a step forward into all that blankness.
"I bet if I walked out there right now," she whispered to herself, "no one would even miss me."
Sadly, she pulled out the Queen of Hearts card and traced her familiar features. As always, it lightened her mood a bit, as the memory crossed her mind again:
"Remember, yo' got people watchin' over y', Cherie. An' I'm one of 'em."
Funny. That wasn't quite how she remembered the words, exactly. And somehow the tone, the accent, was richer, thinking them to herself alone out here in the snow. She could practically hear his voice in her ears, instead of in her memory.
A drift of smoke wafted by her, pungent with tobacco and cologne and bourbon.
Startled, she whirled, the card disappearing into her bag, to see Remy LeBeau's long body leaning up against the school wall, a cigarette echoing the red fire in his eyes.
"Remy?" She exclaimed, shocked at his sudden appearance. She hadn't seen him since that night on the bayou.
"Rogue," he nodded at her in greeting, politely stubbing the cigarette out beneath his boot.
She stared back, unable to speak, so he continued. "Y' look unhappy, Cherie. You been doin' OK lately, an' dat Shadowcat even got you to come to d' dance." He took one long step and was beside her, one gloved hand reaching out to trace the track of a tear down her cheek. "An' now y' out here cryin' on your lonesome. What's goin' on?"
She shook her head. "Nothing," she mumbled. "Just being stupid." She shivered.
His dark eyes peered down at her appraisingly. "Y' gon' freeze out here, Cherie," he chided her, and in one swift movement swept his ever-present duster from his shoulders to wrap warmly around hers. He let his fingers maintain their contact with the coat, resting gently against her shoulders. In a second's time, Rogue found herself half-encircled in Remy LeBeau's arms, enveloped in his coat, his unique scent; Remy-ness literally wrapped around her.
Despite herself she shrugged the coat closer. She should insist he take it back and go inside—he'd kidnapped her once, after all—but it was cold.
And she didn't particularly want to go inside, anyway.
He tipped his head forward, his hair brushing her face, and she realized how very close he was standing. But he was warm, and she didn't want to move away.
"Now, ma petite, what is it making you so sad?"
His tone was understanding and sympathetic, and she found herself spilling the whole humiliating overheard conversation to him. Belatedly, she remembered that he had a secondary, emotion-related power, but it was so cathartic to tell him how damn much it hurt, and how damn angry it made her, and how freakin' ridiculous it was for her to even be upset at the opinion of a couple of strangers.
"Feels bad 'cause y' 'fraid it might be true," he said to this comment. "Human nature. Y' afraid if one person's sayin' it, everyone else is t'inking it. It's not true, y' know."
"What? That everyone's saying it?"
"That, too," he chuckled. "But I was talkin' 'bout dat girl t'inking y' look dead. Y' don't. Y're strong and vibrant an' can kick near anyone's ass from here to de Mississippi. Never heard of a corpse could do dat. Y' just happen to not tan too well. B'sides," he added, "de girl who was talkin' prolly spends so much time in de tannin' bed she looks like a Cheeto."
She snorted in sudden laughter, because he was right: Some of the girls (particularly the bottled-blondes) did get rather orange-hued after a while, all the while claiming they were naturally that 'pretty,' and what did you mean, by the way your roots are showing?!
"And in ten years, her skin'll look like old leather," he continued gleefully. "An' yo' still be pale an' perfect-lookin', an' look forty years younger'n dem."
This time she laughed aloud, tipping her head back to look up at him. "You just made me want to come back for the ten-year reunion."
He smiled back, then tightened his loose grip on her shoulders. "Now, chere, I've got a problem."
She groaned. "What, y' father needs to be rescued again? At least you're asking me this time…"
"Non. My problem is dat you're here, on Valentine's Day, at a dance, an' you haven't danced with anyone yet."
She rolled her eyes. "Have ya ever stopped watching me?"
"Watching over you," he reminded her. "So… y' wanna dance?"
"With you? Out here in the snow?" She asked, startled but oddly pleased by the question.
He glanced around appraisingly. "Looks as good a place as any. Besides, de door locked behind y' when y' came out."
"As though ya couldn't pick it in three seconds." He didn't answer, but looked at her expectantly: he wasn't going to budge. She sighed. "Fine, I'll dance with you. But don't expect me to be good. I don't get much practice."
"It's all in de leading," he assured her, and swept her into a rhythmic waltz, perfectly in time with the much-muffled music seeping through the door.
To her surprise, she felt comfortable dancing with him. She felt none of the anxiety she'd felt the few times someone had asked her to dance in the past. The movements were smooth, natural, like working through katas in training with Logan.
But with much better scenery, she thought, smiling up at him, enjoying so many things—the feel of his hand at her waist, his other hand lightly holding hers, the weight of the duster across her shoulders, and the swing of her skirt as they turned. Even the moonlight seemed to shimmer as it skipped across the frozen snow, and here, in this moment, she found she was happy.
Happy. With Remy. Happy, dancing with Remy. Who'd've thought it?
Eventually it did get too cold to stay outside any longer, and Rogue found that her prediction was wrong. He didn't pick the lock in three seconds. It took him about two, with time left over to grin at her rolled eyes.
"Showoff."
"Gotta keep de lady impressed, no?"
Speaking of impressing… Rogue realized they'd made a bit of a stir, as they'd let in a burst of icy air just as the deejay was announcing the last dance. Remy glanced at her inquiringly, but she shook her head, and he settled for leading her into a slow dance step or two as he led her toward the (authorized) exit. Startled glances followed their way, from those who noticed their resident Goth and her even stranger escort.
Rogue poked her head into Kitty's personal space long enough to say, "Remy's taking me home. See ya later!"
"Hmm?" Kitty looked around from gazing dreamily into one of the school's "artist" crowd's eyes, and did a double take. "Remy?! Remy LeBeau?! What's he doing—"
"Ssh. He's...lookin' after me," Rogue replied self-consciously. "I'll see y'all later."
"Don't let Mr. Logan, like, kill him! He's cute. It'd be a shame."
"I won't," Rogue called back over her shoulder, not bothering to look back. Remy took the chance to wink at Kitty, who waved dazedly.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Remy was driving a flashy sports car that evening, with an all-leather interior, top-of-the-line sound system and an apparently after-market overpowered engine, from the growl that the vehicle emitted when he keyed the ignition.
Fortunately he took the long way round to the mansion, lessening the chance anyone would hear the car. Then he came to a screeching halt just outside the gates.
Rogue winced—there was no way Logan missed hearing that. She hoped he was on the other side of the mansion; then maybe it'd take at least a minute or two for him to get to the gates. Hurriedly, she turned to Remy. "Remy, it's been great—you've made this a fabulous Valentine's Day—but Logan'll be here any minute to Julienne you, so—"
He cut off her babbling with a single finger laid across her lips. "Ssh, Cherie. 'S okay." His hand trailed down her face to barely touch her jaw; she was grateful he still had his gloves on. "Just one last thing…" he whispered, and she had to lean forward to hear, he was speaking so softly. "I've been tryin' t' get you alone fo' a while, now…"
"Why—"
Her brain nearly melted as she felt his lips brush, feather-light, against hers. She blinked, and realized a dull electric glow emanated from his skin, and he grinned broadly, like a kid who'd won a prize. "It worked! I was t'inking, 'f I could create just barely enough o' a charge on my skin, I might be able to touch you… an' I'm glad it worked." She was speechless; he had been thinking about how to touch her? She was still dazed enough that when he kissed her again, she responded without thinking, her hand coming up to hold his in place against her cheek.
After a few seconds, the familiar pulling sensation kicked in, and Remy jerked back, laughing ruefully as wooziness washed over him. "Well, it worked fo' a few seconds."
"It was enough," she assured him, smiling. "Thanks, Remy."
"Bah." He waved his hand. "Now we know it can be done, we'll just have to keep practicing." His grin nearly split his face.
She laughed too, and climbed out of the car. "Maybe we will. If you're good. Now, get, before I knock ya out, or Logan kills you."
"Au revoir, ma Cherie," he called out the window. "Bonne nuit."
"Good night," she whispered, smiling, before turning and walking up the long drive to where a fuming Logan waited.
"Who was that, Stripes?" he demanded, as soon as she was within earshot. "And where are Kitty and the rest of the gang?"
"Oh, chill, Logan," she said, only half paying attention to what she was saying as she walked past him, thoughts full of the interesting possibilities Remy had just opened up. "It was Remy. He drove me home, and the others are still at the dance. He brought me home 'cause I was tired, so I'm going to bed."
"Oh." There was a pause, while Logan tried to place the name; Rogue made good time to the top of the staircase. "Do you mean Gambit?!"
"His name," she replied shortly, "is Remy. Remy LeBeau. Good night."
"Stripes—" she cut him off by the expedient of closing her door, shrugging. I'll deal with him in the morning.
She flicked on the light, and froze in astonishment. A bouquet's worth of lilies, her favorite, were scattered across her bed. Something bright amongst the riot of color attracted her attention, and in wonder she drifted over and picked it up. It was a note on heavy cream-colored paper. The wording inside was simple:
"Rogue: Here's the match to the card you've got—they need to be together. So keep 'em safe for me. I'll see you soon. Happy Valentine's Day—the first of many happy Valentines. –RL"
Tucked inside was a King of Hearts, nearly as worn as her Queen: obviously, he'd thought long and hard about giving her the card, and she wouldn't be surprised to find that he used it for inspiration, as well.
Smiling, she tucked the pair of cards inside the back of the photo frame, swept the lilies into a vase, and got ready for bed.
Somehow, she thought she just might have a new favorite memory to relive tonight.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Kitty Pryde yawned as she sleepily shuffled around the mansion, getting ready to go to bed. When she'd arrived back from the dance, she found that Rogue was already asleep; she'd have to question her on Remy and the dance and everything in the morning.
When she arrived at her door, there was a card taped to it. "Aww, someone else got people Valentine's!" She cooed, and plucked the card from the door as she walked through it.
The note was short: Thanks for your help, petite. Couldn't have been done without you. (You're a genius at hacking security systems, too.) Here are the tickets, as promised. But don't take that artist guy—he won't appreciate Jane Monheit. I think that basketball player likes jazz music, though. Try him.
I'll be seeing a lot of you all soon, I hope—please try to prepare the Wolverine.
—Remy LeBeau
P.S. Happy Valentine's Day!
Kitty smiled, as she tucked the card into the scrapbook she'd been working on. She'd add it tomorrow. The tickets she pinned to her bulletin board for further consideration of an escort.
Happy Valentine's Day… Yeah, I think it was one. For everyone.
That thought in mind, she turned out the lights, and went to sleep.
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
Downstairs, Logan reviewed the security tapes, but never got a good enough look at the car Remy used to drop Rogue off. No plates, no owner on record, enough mods that the make and model are indiscriminate, but not so much that it's unique… "Damn." He had to allow. "The kid's pretty good."
He turned, and nearly tripped over a six-pack of beer that had mysteriously appeared—inside the security room door. Which was still locked. And the beer was his favorite Belgian import. A note was taped to the top: No hard feelings—? Consider this a peace offering for a truce. I'll see you all soon. –Remy LeBeau, better known to you as 'Gambit.'
Despite himself, he chuckled aloud, and toasted the absent Gambit with one of the bottles. "Okay, so the kid's damn good. I like a challenge, though."
He set off on his nightly ramble through the mansion, more to be sure everyone was inside rather than to keep anyone out. It was nearly impossible to infiltrate the mansion once the security systems had been set. Nearly impossible.
He'd have to ask Gambit about that, next time he saw him…
-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-
So? What'd you think? Let me know! —Alara