Notes: Sorry it's not longer, EchoDancer. Had to end here, or you guys'd be waiting another three weeks or so for chapters. Don't like to do that to people. Return of bastard Warren? Or am I giving myself too much credit.
He sat beside Remy, watched the younger mutant examine the blankets.
"Wanna' know a secre'?"
"What?"
"Mutie eye fuck wif' me some'imes. Don' do so good 'round bright. S'why got 'de heavy curtain."
"A secret for a secret?"
"Mm-hmm."
"I like your eyes." Warren ruffled his hair, and left Remy bundled in the new blanket, watching him as he left. It was too intimate for how he wanted to feel for the boy. And he had referred to his black on red eyes as his "mutie eyes". It raised a question he thought he might already know about how Remy felt for himself.
Sleeping in his own bed somehow felt lonely by that point. He had left Ororo sitting with Remy on the couch, the two a pair more like siblings than friends, and she had been away since before Remy left to see his father off. He wondered how much Remy told her, him laying his head on her leg and mumbling quietly in a sodden mishmash of language she seemed to understand. At least someone understood him. Someone had to. But Warren didn't relish the idea of his body curled around a pillow wishing he had someone to hold onto. He laid on his stomach to let his wings spread out, and finally thought he might be lonely because of this thing he had been dragged into with Remy, taunted with the idea of that sick devotion he showed his lovers, and turned it down. Or rather, turned it down as often as he did things that might make Remy think his misplaced feelings were reciprocated.
He played the avoidance game again. Stayed away from Remy, their social groups didn't overlap either way. There was nothing that made him stay anywhere near the boy, save for his worry. But Remy was playing at well, and he was playing the game expertly. He did his duties at the medic ward, letting Hank run tests and experiments to find where his powers were going to, joked and whined about the process in his beautiful Cajun tinted mess of English and French. Two months ago that voice was the most irritating thing he could think of. Playing at avoidance now, hearing him around the corner, he reveled in the sound.
Remy handed him a letter. He couldn't spell, and his handwriting asked for more effort than Warren would normally give the thief, but the letter was heartfelt, and in it's own way beautiful.
Ange, (of course he could spell in French)
I'm sorry for what this old thief is been giving a man he doesn't deserve anyways, but he wants to offer one more time to take you out and treat you nice like he doesn't think anyone ever has. You can ignore me if you like, but I had to say one more time to give me a chance.
Because I think I might love you.
Remy.
Warren kept the note. He didn't go looking for Remy, didn't return any affections, but he kept the note. It was his real sign that Remy was cracking, that the loud, arrogant, charming thief had half the mansion wanting, he was breaking, over his power, or maybe over Warren, or losing his father. Maybe it was that everything happened at once. Or that Warren turned him down.
He wasn't hard to find. His laugh carried through the house, to everyone it sounded like they finally got their thief back stronger than ever. The only way Warren knew better was the hollow looks, empty smile he got passing in the hallway. He was sitting at a poker table with Logan and some new kid called Hellion, cards flying between his fingers and a sweet little laugh, empty bottles of liquor scattered on the floor. Warren stood in the doorway and marveled at the sureness with which Remy handled the cards, something he didn't have to think about. They flicked through his hands and he dealt, and Warren saw him flip cards in and out, he already knew who was winning this hand, this was Remy's world.
Logan snorted. "Gumbo's got a visitor."
Remy turned around and Warren saw his eyes light.
"I lose, be back boys." Remy turned his cards and sauntered to the other man, "Bonjour, c'n dis' one help you?"
"Can we talk?
"Oui."
"Alone?"
Remy nodded, walked down the hallway with Warren, tugged his duster closer around a still thin chest.
"You wrote me a letter."
"Couldn' speak'a' you."
"You could have."
"Non."
"You have one chance. Prove you're worth my time."
"Fri'ay nigh? Dinner?"
"Sure. Find me when you're ready."
"Promise, Remy no' le' you down."
Warren scoffed. At least Remy had that little kicked puppy penchant for treating his love interests like gold, if nothing else he'd let himself be worshipped for a few hours, and have nothing to do with the boy again. Maybe test that rumor about his talents in bed before he let him down.
