Title: The Ante
Chapter 10: Black Maria
Fandom: X-Men: Evolution
Author: Kira Coffin
Summary: When Gambit left Rogue on the shores of Blood Moon Bayou, he slipped a solitary playing card into her hand. More than a conciliatory gesture, it signaled the start of a game that carried the understanding: Never bet more than you are willing to lose.
Rating:Teen/Mature
Pairing: Rogue/Remy
Warnings: Language
—
The Ante
Chapter X: Black Maria
—
Chances.
In an ordinary man's life, he is offered a handful at best: forgiveness, empathy, mercy, unconditional trust, a willing ear, and a guiding hand on the shoulder... And love, on occasion. Depending how the odds favored him.
For an ordinary man, these things suffice.
Remy fingered the instructions card, shucked into his palm from a deck he'd found stashed away in one of his many coat pockets.
He wasn't an ordinary man; never had been, never would be. Remy ran through his chances like he did his cards — fifty-two per fight, per hour, per day, per week — when running, when working, when at rest. Fifty-two chances offered graciously by the Bicycle Card Company whenever needed. A dollar in your pocket could buy you a lifetime of better odds.
Better days, however… those came at a higher price.
Remy LeBeau would know.
Beside him, the phone sat cooling in its cradle, warmed briefly by his ear where he'd kept it tucked between his shoulder and chin for a quick conversation with someone two states away:
Someone with the skill to carry out a bout of histrionics flamboyant enough to distract a roomful of people while a bogus payoff was slipped from the coffee table.
St. John Allerdyce was the next best thing to an Ace up the sleeve as far as Remy was concerned — though Remy himself kept the Jokers under his cuffs.
Fitting, really.
Rogue, out of earshot, was talking to Xavier or Cyclops or one of the more "responsible" adults of the Institute.
Remy knew this because if it had been Wolvie, he'd have wrung the phone from her grasp just to taunt the old man some more. Remy knew this because Rogue's gaze had flicked in his direction only once since the long-distance arguing had tapered off. Remy knew this because, as imperceptible as it would be to anyone else, Rogue had drawn a little closer to herself in the most subtle of ways:
He saw it in the roll of her shoulders, the petulant thrust of a hip where she tipped against the aluminum siding of the phone booth, and the nervous habit of folding her arms across her chest — gripping one elbow with a gloved hand. With her head bowed, only the lower half of her face was visible through her thick shock of hair. She chewed on the inside of her mouth, and for a moment, Remy wanted nothing more than to smooth his thumb against that tense curve of pink.
The instructions card flared to life between his fingers — a dull bit of charge to remind him that the odds were still to his advantage.
They would come; sooner or later, all of them would converge on the French Quarter — the X-Men, the Brotherhood, and the others when they realized he'd defied them and returned home.
For now, the game was played between him and Rogue. Priorities first, as they say.
He doused the charge, reabsorbing the jittering energy that made the hair on the back of his arms stand at attention, and relished in the pleasant aftershock as his body neutralized the small effort. Ditching the instructions card, he rolled the Ace into a tight cylinder and slipped it into the pay phone's change dispenser.
"Ya shouldn't litter," Rogue called, hanging up the phone. So, she was watching him.
How very interesting.
"I wasn't," he returned, not looking up.
"Ya shouldn't lie either," she continued.
Remy smirked, enjoying the grosgrain rasp of Rogue's voice.
She was hard as nails, bit to the quick, and every primal instinct that Remy had ever possessed declared that it was a sound that didn't need to be honeyed to get any sweeter. Dieu, what had he done to her to make her hate him so much?
Running his thumb against the deck of cards in his hand, he flicked at them absently as their hushed conference served to stoke the flame beneath Rogue's ire.
Fifty-two chances for any other time and any other day; but for once in a long time, Remy only had one option available — and this was it.
The hell he wasn't about to make it worth his while.
"What are you smirking at?"
He peered at her from beneath his fringe, shifting his weight against the phone booth to better slide his gaze from her ankles to the top of her head in one leisurely sweep.
"What did they tell you now?"
"What you didn't."
Slow swing of hips, shoulders following the lazy curve of her spine, the drag of boot heels on broken concrete — there was no denying it; a year ago, Rogue had been awkward, hostile, and insecure. She masked it over with a thick coat of eye shadow and a heavy lipstick, sure, but beneath all that, there was this creature.
She raised an eyebrow.
Remy couldn't control it — the same shit-eating grin fixed firmly in place was answer enough most of the time for most ladies, but Rogue wouldn't take that from him. She didn't want that from him.
Then again, Rogue wasn't exactly a lady.
This creature standing before him, Remy thought — lazily dragging his thumb over the edges of the pack — this creature was something new. She was just as hostile as ever and still insecure, but the fluidity of her step betrayed her. She walked differently, and she held herself differently. From the smooth slope of her neck to the slight outturn of her ankle, those slim legs, and the slight musculature of her thighs — the format was the same, but the content had changed. The rules were different, but he didn't need an instructions card to know that.
Sometime over the past year, probably when Remy had been arguing with Jean Luc, or hiding from Jean Luc, or making cameo appearances in places he wasn't supposed to be to piss off Jean Luc, Rogue had slid into a new skin:
She wasn't a predator yet, but her stripes were definitely beginning to show.
Remy wet his lips. More appealing still was the fact she didn't know or just didn't care that she had grown into something beautiful.
Remy figured it was the former. She would have gotten out of the whole Goth thing if that were the case. Then again, not everyone used their assets to their advantage – least of all someone who could put you in a coma if it was more profitable just to take you out of the game altogether.
If she had been inclined, Rogue would have made an exceptional Acolyte, had they been on the same side back then. It took a bit of suspicion, a lot of skill, and a dash of recklessness to do the job well. Rogue had all three qualities in abundance, far as he could tell.
"What didn't I say, chérie?" he asked.
"First of all, ya touched me without telling me so two days ago." She also had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
"Slip of the wrist. Wasn't nothin'," he returned.
"Really? Well apparently it ain't since Beast has been running tests on us both."
Remy cocked an eyebrow. He'd expected as much — hoped for it, even. If there was one thing to be said about the X-Men, their doctor and resident scientist, Henry McCoy, was certainly efficient. The fact that he'd already run the scans proved it.
"And what did th' good doctor tell you?"
She raised her chin defiantly, eyes flaring beneath the smear of makeup that marred her complexion and at the same time, gave her the protection she craved.
Everything and everyone were held at arm's length — not for their safety, but for her own. It was a strategy Remy knew well; he'd coined it. He had Belladonna to thank for that, at least partially. Remy shoved the thought aside and focused on the girl in front of him.
"Ah didn't speak ta him. The Professor told me." Hesitating, she searched his face. "You don't really know what's happened to ya." Rogue phrased it as a statement, rather than a question.
Pity, he thought. Assumptions made asses out of everybody, and asses needed tails pinned on them, because inevitably, you looked stupid when someone nailed you.
"I know enough," he returned, all too aware of how non-committal it sounded. Rogue wasn't about to stick him with anything he couldn't get out of, it didn't matter how great a geneticist Henry McCoy was.
"You're not fully evolved into your secondary mutation." But damn if she wasn't persistent.
"C'est possible." He shrugged, matching her stance by folding his own arms — the deck of cards slid easily out of sight for later. "You wanna know something, Rogue? You've gotta ask. Y' can't draw out the bluff with me."
She shook her head. "We're not playing."
"The first bets are made before a hand even starts, chére. Me? I see what you've got in the pot. You just need t' gimme the time t' decide how much I'm willin' to put in alongside you. Or," he shrugged, flashing her a winning grin, "Just gimme time."
She blew out a breath, rolling her eyes heavenwards.
"Not even if you were Trent Reznor, Cajun."
Remy chuckled. Figures she'd listen to that sort of thing. He'd have to remember to find that CD — Theo had it somewhere, no doubt. It was just his breed of broody.
"Look, they ain't coming for me just yet," she said stiffly. "As it is, Ah figure we're gonna have ta put up with each other until we meet with that friend of yours."
Rogue dropped her hands and fixed her gaze at a spot beyond his shoulder. She wasn't ditching him, and they weren't after her. Interesting.
Thoughtful, though more amused than anything, Remy asked, "You're sayin' you're barely tolerating me?"
She fought back a grimace, and Remy, watching, intrigued, saw Rogue's jaw twitch.
"Barely is a huge understatement," she corrected. "You said ya made me this offer ta help yourself. Ah don't know what that means, but Ah'm not gonna push it just yet. New Orleans is what, two days' ride? Won't help me any by turnin' you into a vegetable now. Whatever you meant by that, it doesn't sound much better than any of the other garbage you been spewin' since ya showed up."
"It's th' truth," he replied.
"How can Ah believe that? Ya couldn't even tell me that Ah was a test run ta see if your powers had been boosted. Ya shouldn't have done. It wasn't your place ta make that decision for me."
He took a step forwards just as she took a step back. "I wasn't expecting th' damn branch t' break on me, but I don't regret it either. I call that luck."
"You touched me to see if you could."
"You took my hand when I offered it."
"After you hypnotized me —"
"Technically it's not hypnosis —"
"What Ah'm concerned about are your intentions; that you're not doing anything out of care, not out of concern — hell, you deliberately set up a full scale attack just ta make first contact," she argued. "What's not to regret? You got what you wanted."
Hardly, he thought to himself, giving her a wry look that indicated she didn't have the slightest idea of the sort of powder keg she was sitting on. Hell, she could be flicking lit matches at it, and it'd still be safer than what they were heading into.
"Don't ya come any closer," she warned. "You might be able ta filter off the memories ya want ta let me see, ya might be able ta hold up that force field of yours for a little while, but ya don't know for how long, and Ah'll be damned if Ah'll be the one ta help ya test your limits."
"I'm not afraid of you, Rogue."
She snorted, glaring at him. "You should be."
Slowly, Remy shook his head. "Fear hobbles a man. I'm not the sort t' stagger around in circles just because I'm a lil' nervous of runnin' full tilt at what I want."
"No, you've got a death wish."
"Mebbe I don't have anything to lose," he shot back, all mirth lost with the abrupt shift in their innuendo.
She paused, fixing him with a very particular, expectant look that made his insides twist unpleasantly. For a moment, Remy wished he hadn't said it:
It was far too close to the truth for comfort, and until that point, he'd decided it might've been best to play the whole thing blind. It became almost instinctive to divert her attention, to keep her from scrutinizing him too hard.
Gingerly, he took a step closer so that he fell within the circle of Rogue's personal space. She sucked in a breath but otherwise held her ground.
"You're tempting fate." It was hard to tell if Rogue's whisper was a result of mounting tension, or a bi-product of her latent discomforts with personal proximity.
Dieu, how much did she hate this? Remy couldn't imagine. Everything within' reach, but all off limits — self-imposed restrictions that kept the thermometer hot enough to crack, but always just stopping short.
"And you're just plain tempting," he whispered back, offering her a small smile, a pleasant diversion.
"If Ah didn't know better, Ah'd say you were putting on this act just ta get under my skin," she breathed, scrutinizing him.
"Is it workin'?"
"Ya know it ain't."
"I think your mouth moves quicker than y' mind, chérie. You're rethinking that already," he said softly, tilting his head a little and leaning forwards so that she'd feel the soft caress of his breath against her cheek.
"Ah think you're too self-assured for your own good." She shivered, turning her head to the side, watching him with wary caution through slanted eyes.
"I think y' enjoy it. Gives y' a thrill."
"Ah think ya better take a step back from the stove before ya get burnt."
"I like playing with fire."
"Then go find your old buddy Pyro."
They stared at each other hard, Remy enjoying the way her glare intensified. He was practically towering over her, their torsos nearly brushing. He didn't dare drag his gaze away to admire the quick rise and fall of her chest — the scooped neck of her uniform offering a tantalizing display of creamy flesh, flushed a rosy pink around her collarbone and spreading to her neck prettily.
"Y' got some brass, Rogue," he acknowledged after a moment.
She stepped back, thrown off guard and dropping relief in sheets.
Point, Remy thought.
As cliché as it was, perhaps honesty was the best policy. Pity she only believed him one time out of ten.
He'd have to work on that.
"I appreciate that."
She blinked. "What?"
"I said, I appreciate that," he repeated.
"Ah heard what ya said. It's the way you said it that's unnerving," she said, disconcerted. "And it ain't for your benefit," she added. "Ah'm still me whether you're here or you get gone."
He shrugged. "I can respect someone with strong convictions."
"But ya sure as hell ain't respecting the convictions themselves — personal space, for one," she groused, sidling backwards across the parking lot.
Remy followed at an unhurried waltz, taking the time to brush the hoods of the parked cars that littered the concrete, stepping up, onto and over the ones that blocked his weaving path. All the while, Remy kept his gaze fixed squarely on hers.
"Might surprise you," he said, descending from the bumper of a defunct-looking pickup. "There's a lot y' dunno about me. We carry on like this," he gestured between them, keeping his smirk in check as he stepped up to her, teasing, "and I probably won't live as far as Tennessee. You'll end up dropping my bones in a bag on Jean Luc's doorstep."
"Is that what this is about? Ah knew it!" She poked him in the chest, partly to get him to back down. "What's your daddy done this time?"
Remy frowned at her gloved fist as she jabbed at him, but otherwise, didn't respond to the none-too-subtle prompting.
"How's that fair?" He looked at her hand pointedly. "You can touch me but I can't touch you?"
Rogue tore her arm away.
"What's wrong with Jean Luc?" she demanded.
"Everything," he replied dryly. "But that don't have anything t' do with you."
Much, he thought. At least, not if he could help it. Jean Luc had a nasty tendency of turning family business into everyone's business.
She narrowed her eyes and hissed, "Prove it."
"Mon dieu." He rolled his eyes, and Rogue slapped at his arm. "Ow! Merde!" he shrugged away from her with an exaggerated stagger. "It's like this, Rogue," he said, holding his hands defensively before him, "Jean Luc kicked me out."
"Like Ah believe that," she scoffed.
"I'm serious!" he insisted. "You're just gonna have t' see where I'm living t' believe it."
"In the gutter?" she returned sardonically. "Ah could imagine that. Ah think, it'd suit you. Gonna have ta change your name now to sewer rat instead of —"
"Rogue!" he said loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. "Just stop for a second. You can smack me around more later. Y' wanna know? I'm trying t' tell you." He dipped his head, crooking a finger beneath her chin and lifting her gaze to meet his. She slapped at his hand. Remy put it back beneath her chin. She slapped at him again.
"Look and see if I'm lying instead of beating me down all the time," he said firmly, restraining his roving fingers from what felt natural. "You took your medicine — three dollops of genuine Gambit courtesy of a lil' thing called memory. That's a fair chunk of the authentic article if I don't say so myself, and there ain't no reason you can't look me in th' eye and tell for yourself if I'm being straight with you."
"Three selective memories," she corrected tersely. "Without the whole package, it's damned hard ta make a sound judgment call."
"Better than just a Thieves' word, non?" he countered.
She relented grudgingly, squaring her shoulders. "Should Ah try ta take your pulse at the same time? 'Cause I reckon that'd defeat the purpose of not knockin' ya flat."
"If that's what it'll take, be my guest," he said, reaching for his cowl and digging his fingers in to present her with his bare neck.
"Ah am not touching ya."
"You just did," he retorted, letting the springy fabric snap back into place.
"Cause ya keep pushing me!" she snapped, balling her fists at her sides.
"And I'm gonna keep pushin' until y' realize that there's more than one way that I can get through t' you!"
She snorted. The leather of her gloves stretched across her knuckles, whitening from wear. She brushed at her hair irritably, knuckling it roughly behind an ear. "Ta you, swamp rat? Ah'm like Fort Knox."
"I can break into the Pentagon with m' hands tied and m' eyes blindfolded. Y' wanna test that theory? Fort Knox? Shoulda picked a better analogy. I relish the challenge."
"Like that's gonna win my trust —"
"I don't need t' win that. I'm trying to earn it but you're giving me th' roundabout." He jutted his chin, eyes narrowed. "Ever heard of Escher?"
She paused, frowning suspiciously at the abrupt shift in conversation.
"The artist?" he continued. "Homme's a personal favorite. You're like one of his staircases — upside down, backwards and inside out. Forever an upwards climb, no matter which direction you try to tackle it from —"
If the girl didn't want to be touched, so be it. There were other more effective ways of getting around that particular defense mechanism, and if the first was earnestness, the second was a good analogy.
"Now listen t' me." Remy widened his eyes comically, cleared his throat, and spoke very slowly: "I am not interested in Jean Luc's business."
Mimicking his enunciation, Rogue parroted back, "Ah think you're full of shit."
"You know otherwise, Rogue," he chastised lightly. "Do y' know why?"
Eyes narrowed, and making no attempt to hide the fact that she was chewing on the inside of her cheek to maintain her surly silence, Remy could only wait for Rogue to make a concession that would move them forwards.
"Been down the same roads," she muttered blandly, finally, turning away.
Pausing, the tight coil of tension loosening across his shoulders as Rogue's venomous look dissolved into bitter indulgence, Remy chuckled. He had never been more pleased to know that she hadn't forgotten their temporary truce from a year before.
He grinned. "Y' did me a solid that time."
"Ah helped you free your good-for-nothing adoptive father."
Nodding, he considered her phrasing. Yep, that sounded about right.
"Despite your better judgment," he added as an afterthought. Despite his better judgment too, but she needn't know that.
"That's what we do, Gambit. We help people we care about."
Remy's eyebrows shot up. "Care about —"
"NO, Cajun!" she snapped, her cheeks flushing deep rose as she struggled to backtrack. "That's not what Ah meant."
"It's a general 'care' for everything, oui?" he sniggered.
"Shut up," she bit back. "Ah'm only here because if what ya said was true, then Ah've got a real chance…"
"For control." He nodded. "For freedom. The real sort."
There it was: a neat little stack of chips on the metaphoric table between them. You couldn't put a price on those things; to Rogue, they were more valuable than the highest stakes, and that made for a cautious player.
"You gonna give me some line about opening doors next?" she muttered.
He shook his head, satisfied that at least she'd measured what this little jaunt down South was worth to her. Apparently, suffering his company was acceptable trade for the payoff. He knew it would be, though Remy didn't tell her so.
"Chére, you already stepped through." He offered her his arm, which she didn't decline as much as she slapped away.
"C'mon, let's get some breakfast. I'm starving," he said, resigned to drop his hands into his pockets.
"Wait." Rogue motioned for him to linger; she was still a little flushed from her admission. Apparently hate was far too strong a word to describe her sentiments towards him. What was it then? Disdain? Discomfort?
Rogue swiped at her forehead with the heel of her hand. "Just give me a reason — a real one. If you're doing this for yourself, then what is it? You think that Ah'll think less of you if you tell me what it is? Shit, Cajun, it can't be that bad if you're still crackin' jokes."
He pursed his lips, considering just how much he could tell her. The answer, simply, was very little.
"Guess not," she muttered, turning on her heel. "Forget it," she said over her shoulder, striding across the beaten parking lot. "Ah couldn't begin ta understand how your head works anyway. And Ah know who Escher is — if either one of us can be compared ta one of his paintings, it's you."
"Don't I get a say in this?" he called after her, breaking into a light jog. Catching her by the elbow, he turned her around to face him, fully prepared to launch into another round of verbal sparring laden with suggestion.
Rogue looked at him tiredly, a hint of unease apparent at the fact that he still held her lightly by the arm.
"Gambit," she laughed mirthlessly, rolling her head back on her shoulders to ease the coiled muscles. "Please." She glanced pointedly at her arm; at his fingers pressed into the soft spot at the elbow joint. She didn't tear away from him or try to wrest herself from his grasp, but this tired resignation felt like a last straw; he'd gone too far, pushed too hard, reached out one too many times.
He released her delicately, lifting his fingers and not bothering to linger.
Was it ironic that now he could touch her physically, she didn't want him to?
Perhaps it was just a matter of going deeper than that.
"I get it," he said after a moment, dimly aware that her request had landed heavily in his gut. She genuinely didn't want him anywhere near her — the question was, why? It settled there, leaving a growing silence between them that made him uncomfortable. He was never at a loss for words, and if anything, Remy LeBeau always had an answer.
"No," she said quietly, shaking her head. She smiled at him a little, sadly. "You really don't."
Rogue turned, stalking towards the truck stop they'd decided to break at before heading South. They'd driven for two hours on empty stomachs, exchanging snappish comments and flirtatious banter – well, he had provided the latter, at least.
Remy watched her retreating back, his confidence deflating a little. That hadn't gone as planned.
"You're wrong!" he called after her. It sounded feeble even to his own ears, and inwardly, Remy winced. There was no room for him to get caught up in anything that could present itself as a liability in the days to come.
He'd learned his lesson once already, hadn't he? Twice if he counted Belladonna. Three if he let Genny come to mind...
That Rogue had reserved the number one spot for herself, well… it wasn't like she was counting. Dieu, it didn't seem as if she cared at all.
This hand was going sour fast, and that meant one thing and one thing only.
"I watched you for a long time, Rogue. I know you better than y' know yourself!"
Pulling the Aces.
She froze between a battered Toyota and a ridiculous little red thing that looked like it could barely fit two people comfortably. As Remy approached it, he noted with some disdain that the minuscule vehicle was named a "smart" car.
"What th' hell kind of idiot would buy one of these things?" he muttered to himself.
"The kinda idiot that doesn't need ta overcompensate for the things they're lacking," Rogue shot back.
Remy smirked. That was better.
"Didn't ya have anything better ta do with your time, swamp rat?" she asked, exasperated. "'Cause that's a line I've definitely heard before."
He remembered. He'd thought her unhappy. Before Remy could continue that path down through the deeper forests of bleaker tribute, Rogue spoke,
"Fool me once, shame on you," she said, the vitriol lacking.
Feigning indifference, he shrugged. "Mebbe I just liked what I saw."
Scoffing, Rogue brushed her hair out of her face, regarding him archly. "How many girls fall for that garbage?"
Remy waved it off, ushering her towards the diner door so he could hold open it for her before she could object.
"Wouldn't know," he admitted, the confession sincere. "I've only really spent time outside your window."
Rose pinked her cheeks. Her jaw worked, her gaze searching to find the lie in his words. He held her gaze, too aware all of a sudden of the immediate hush that cottoned his ears, making the pounding of his heart seem loud in his chest. Gambit swallowed, trying for a smile and failing.
She looked at his mouth, and it felt like she'd drawn a match across his skin.
"Like I said, gimme time," he murmured. It came out more confident than he felt following that small, strained admission.
"Fat chance," she muttered, striding into the diner ahead of him. She didn't sound wholly convinced either.
He let out a breath.
Rogue paused, taking in her surroundings. The parking lot had been full, but apparently she hadn't expected the teeming crowd inside as well. Already, she was pulling closer to herself and ensuring that she had a clear path around people. Remy strolled forwards to a little sign that read, "Please wait to be seated."
A girl no more than seventeen stepped around the counter. Her step faltered a little, pale blue eyes roving over his figure. Remy lifted a casual eyebrow. Rogue appeared in his peripheral vision.
She pursed her lips, appraising the girl's expression with a coolness that bordered on hypothermia.
"Ain't there enough food in this place? She looks like she's ready ta take a bite outta ya," Rogue muttered dryly.
"Table for two, s'il-vous-plait," Gambit smiled lazily at the waitress, leaning in a little to read her badge. "Jennifer?"
At his side, Rogue rolled her eyes.
"S-sure," the girl stammered, collecting two menus and smiling at him, all bashful expectancy and sunshine. "Right this way, sir." A faint blush crested her cheeks. She peeked over her shoulder to see if he followed.
The starched fabric of her blue and white waitress uniform bunched at the waist as she walked. Cute. Probably clingy, he assessed, with an affinity for small, yappy dogs. He knew the type:
That sort kept their doll collections well into their mid-twenties because it reminded them that at one point, the only man in their lives, apart from their daddies, were named Ken. Incidentally, Ken was usually easier to keep around — plastic grin, bendable legs and all. Ken didn't argue. Ken didn't complain. Ken was always a willing ear who didn't comment on a ballooning waistline or the trivialities of birth control.
"Merci, Jennifer," he murmured, letting the waitress' name slide of his tongue like syrup.
"Oh, please," Rogue snorted, brushing past him. "Ah'm gonna use the bathroom. Get me a coffee so Ah can wash the taste of vomit outta my mouth."
Gambit grinned at Rogue's back, at the smooth crescent of creamy skin at her neckline that taunted him where her auburn hair brushed to the side as she walked. Rogue, he'd be willing to wager, never had a Ken doll in her life.
And if she did? He smirked; she was probably the type to have stuck the poor plastic bastard in a microwave and set it to "nuke."
"And stop starin' at my butt!" she snapped over her shoulder.
Cutting past the other servers, the jutting tables and the few folk who were either leaving or being seated, she stuck her arms firmly to her sides just in case someone brushed a little too close. It was like a dance, Remy thought:
Despite the heavy boots she wore, Rogue evaded and parried around people with the nimbleness of a ballerina; her hips swaying as she dodged the threat of exposed skin.
Remy tried not to shake his head at her behavior.
Outside had been a slip, and not such a p'tit slip either: Reaching for her that one last time had nearly been an honest-to-goodness screw-up.
She didn't like being touched; not physically, for fear of her power, and not emotionally, because she'd been used up and thrown out too many times.
He needed to turn the hand in his favor with a deft draw, or a mighty streak of luck. In poker, the odds were fifty-fifty at best: Fifty percent handed graciously to chance and the other fifty to skill. In life, you worked the angles and fucked the success ratio.
It's what Remy had been trained to do, after all.
Scanning the diner, he ran a quick mental diagnostic of the place: Two visible fire exits, rows of windows emblazoned with various advertisements for new five-minute culinary conveniences to sample, and probably a backdoor through the kitchen. Safe enough when you accounted for the number of people squeezed into the space.
Secondary analysis, intrinsic to his training as a member of New Orleans' Thieves Guild, located sixteen purses, a quarter of those open or half-opened, two with broken zippers, twelve wallets within ridiculously easy reach lined up at hand-level to his left and… jackpot! He allowed himself to be jostled, bumping his hip into the table of nearby teens that clearly appeared to have spent a late night out.
"Pardon," he said politely, offering the teenagers a little bow. "It's a lil' crowded."
One of the girls tittered. None saw the small slip of his fingers as he extracted what he was looking for from her minuscule purse.
The breakfast rush appeared to be in full swing — the smells of bacon, frying eggs and flapjacks on the griddle suffusing the cramped eatery's atmosphere. He shucked off his coat and slid into a booth, draping an arm across the backrest. Thanking Jennifer with a polite dismissal, his attention lingered on the periphery of the establishment, waiting for the restroom door to open.
"Attends, p'tit," he called the waitress back, flipping open the plasticized menu and selecting two plates, barely looking at the choices illustrated in favor of the distracted, yet still charming grin he flashed at her. "Make th' eggs spicy, if you could."
Movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to Rogue's return, though he feigned disinterest as she slid into the seat in front of him.
She'd scrubbed the smeared makeup off her face, leaving her skin a little rosy in the cheeks and a lot creamier everywhere else. Remy leaned closer, entirely unable to prevent the half-smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"What are ya lookin' at, swamp rat?" she snapped, her shoulders hunching.
"Y' eyes," he informed her. "They're green."
Her mouth —two plump peach slices if he'd ever seen them — pulled into a tight frown.
"…Without all that black shit on 'em, anyhow," he added, unable to resist the jab.
Rogue glowered.
Remy held a hand up before him, silently requesting a little patience. In the same motion, he pulled the recently acquired stick of kohl from beneath the table. He twirled the eyeliner, slipped from the spilled contents of another girl's purse, between his fingers. She eyed it warily.
"I'm just saying it's a good look on you." He shrugged, sliding a little lower in the seat and continuing to watch her intently. "But since you're not comfortable without it…" He offered her the stolen cosmetic.
"Do ya usually carry around women's makeup?"
Remy remained silent, taking in the slight dimpling in her cheeks, the soft curve of her lower lip as she chewed on the inside of her mouth, fighting back a smirk.
"Non. This is merely a demonstration of m' good will." He beamed, beatific.
"You can drop the act, Gambit. Ah told you already, Ah'm not interested."
Nonetheless, after a moment's hesitation, she plucked the eyeliner from his fingers. Rogue turned the reflective surface of the napkin dispenser to face her, glancing at him with outright distrust.
"Stop starin'. Ah'm not interested."
Remy stifled a chuckle.
Schooling his expression, he waved her on, though he didn't look away as she applied a thick layer of black around her eyes with the deft and precision of a skilled lock-pick.
He couldn't help but notice how the tension in her shoulders loosened. It wasn't much, but it was something.
It was just a damned shame that the kohl made the natural color of her irises dim.
"Of course y' not interested," he said, preoccupying himself with the adjustment of his already fitted gloves. "That's why you're not sitting at this table with me, not appreciating the gesture, and not thinkin' about the numerous, clandestine possibilities of th' journey ahead."
Seeing her half-horrified astonishment, he wet his lower lip. Remy metered out his words as if he were tasting the reaction they provoked:
"And you're definitely not thinkin' about anything so scandalous that it'd make y' blush so hard."
"Ah'm here," she ground out, aiming at firm, and barely managing flustered, "because —" She faltered. "Because —"
"Because you're tired of dancin' around people so y' don't touch 'em," he supplied. "And because I'm th' best lookin' thing in these parts, and you can't keep y' eyes off me," he added.
"Ah'm surprised your head still fits comfortably on your shoulders," she groused. "Where's the menu?"
Unhurried in his appraisal, he replied, "Took care of it."
Her eyebrows shot up; surprised or offended, he wasn't entirely certain.
"You ordered for me?"
In response, Jennifer shimmied back to their table and deposited two plates before them. "Can I get you anything else?" she asked breathily.
Remy didn't turn to her, choosing instead to enjoy Rogue's expression as she stared at the plate. The look on her face fell someplace between surprise and malcontent.
He offered Jennifer an absent half-smile. "It's perfect, merci."
"Ya gotta be kiddin' me," Rogue muttered, shaking her head.
Remy chuckled and pulled his own breakfast closer. He threw a wink at Jennifer, who managed to look a little disappointed that his attention had settled on his companion. It was enough to prompt her to totter off.
"You know this is downright creepy, right?" Rogue remarked, picking up a fork and gingerly poking at the food on her plate.
"I'm just proving a point."
"You knew Ah like grits and sausage," she deadpanned, her fork dangling.
"Don't forget the eggs. I told Jenny t' make 'em spicy, just in case y' needed a bit of extra excitement this morning."
Experimentally, he took a bite of his own scrambled concoction and winced. Fumbling for the steaming cup of black coffee in front of him, Remy slurped at it, trying to flush the taste from his palette.
"Mebbe we shoulda stuck to the local cuisine." He grimaced. "They put paprika in this instead of cayenne."
Rogue snorted, tasting her own food and chewing thoughtfully. Delicately, she picked up her napkin, and promptly spit out the mouthful.
"For once, Ah think Ah might have ta agree with ya," Rogue said, and as if realizing that she wasn't antagonizing him, she flushed a little and dipped her head, covering up another muttered, incoherent complaint with a mouthful.
"It was a nice thought, non?" he murmured, noting the slight bit of exposed wrist as Rogue lifted her hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
Slivers, he thought, the girl was all slivers of skin — those dangerous tracings of lily white that held within it something far crueler than any man could ever imagine. Desire and denial were friendly bedfellows that made those predisposed to reckless abandon quiver.
As it stood, Remy appreciated her for what she was: a blossom of deadly caliber; strength and fragility encapsulated; a thorned rose, arsenic and fishnets.
Rogue cleared her throat, looking pointedly at the table and pushing the food around with her fork, contemplating. When she didn't snap at him outright, Remy concluded that he wasn't wholly wrong.
She just didn't know how very strong she was; what a hard case to crack.
Remy always loved a challenge. Fort Knox, indeed.
"What else do ya know about me?"
She said it so quietly that he almost missed it beneath the scraping of forks and knives, the clatter of plates from the kitchen in the back, and the noisy conversations taking place all around them.
Rogue was the calm centre of the diner at that moment, and to Remy, it was as if the rest of the world had the volume turned down.
I know y' scared, he thought. Remy cleared his throat.
"I know your mére and pére were Owen and Priscilla," he began, tracing the rim of his coffee cup with light fingers. "I know y' don't remember them, and I know you don't remember y' Tante Carrie neither."
He studied her, but the smooth plains of her face remained impassive, her gaze fixed on a spot on the tabletop between them.
"I know you were adopted when she couldn't take care of y' no more. You were four," he continued, loud enough that only she could hear his whispered confidences, and gentle enough to dull the pinch of memory.
"Your foster mother, Raven Darkholme, alias Mystique," he spat the name, "sent y' t' live with Irene Adler, alias Destiny. She never told you she was a precog — but that's how they knew that you were gifted. That's why Mystique chose you," he hesitated only a moment longer than necessary, kinship casting the admission in a familiar glow. "It was prophesied."
Rogue hunched her shoulders, shrinking into the seat as if he'd said something she didn't care for.
"This ain't a gift, Cajun," she interrupted. He ignored the self-deprecating twinge of the statement.
Even if Rogue avoided talking about her foster parents outright, the look on her face when he'd said Mystique's name was telling. Raven was a difficult woman to appreciate for her methods, given the ease at which she ranked her priorities:
Rogue and her brother Kurt were only significant inasmuch as they were useful to her.
It wasn't any surprise to Remy that Raven had gotten along so well with Magneto. Those two were like Bonnie and Clyde; always trying to find an advantage that was better put to use towards furthering their ambitions... Until, of course, there was that little "incident" involving Rogue, a Mystique-shaped lawn ornament, and a steep cliff.
Remy figured it'd be better for his health to avoid that topic, as long as there was a scalding cup of coffee on hand that could find its way to his face — or worse, his lap.
Mystique, despite her failings as a parent, did have one redeeming quality: she kept great records; the evidence of which could be fit onto a key-sized memory stick, tucked into a shirt pocket, and still weigh in at a sizable hundred sixty gigabytes. There were things in Rogue's file that Remy still hadn't read, even after having it in his possession for over a year.
Carefully, he continued:
"Destiny took care of you until y' powers manifested, despite being blind. She did her best to condition you for your future; t' protect you."
Rogue flinched. "You mean she was protecting everyone around me."
Pushing the atrocity that was his breakfast to the side, he leaned across the table.
"Non, that's what you started doin' when you realized what folks wanted to use your powers for," he countered. "They left you out of the equation: separating who you are from what you could do to suit their own ends. Y' think I'm a stranger to this, Rogue? Just look at m' relationship with Jean Luc."
With Rogue's hair obscuring her face, it was difficult to see her exact reaction, but he could hazard a guess how she was taking it. It was incredible that her shoulders didn't knot up the way she pulled in on herself all the time.
Go easy on her, LeBeau, he reminded himself.
"But chère," he said, "protecting everyone from you by keepin' yourself apart ain't the smartest thing either. You only end up hurtin' yourself."
"She used me," she hissed. "My so-called 'mother' tried ta follow Destiny's prophecy to the letter."
"I was there," Remy said, the admission hollow. "I know."
"Ya weren't there for all of it," she muttered. "Apocalypse brought her back."
Remy froze, his coffee cup raised halfway to his mouth. Carefully, he controlled the tremor that threatened to slop the black brew over his wrist. He set the cup down and propped his weight on his elbows, the tabletop suddenly captivating.
Forcing his expression into one of utmost passivity, he considered the bitter reminder of his prolonged absence from Bayville.
"I knew that." He didn't like it, but he certainly knew it.
"Didn't even send a sympathy card." Rogue's mouth took a dark turn. She folded her arms across her chest, triumphant in one-upping him.
He frowned.
"Don't ya start," she warned. "Ah don't need ta hear any of that cockamamie nonsense about how you feel guilty for staying in Louisiana when the rest of us were out saving the world."
Remy dropped his gaze, dropped his hands, and stared fixedly at his palms. His fingers itched to find a pack of cards.
"Cajun?"
Shaking his head, he began fiddling with the condiment rack to avoid her scrutiny.
"Y' speak true,Rogue."
The chrome plate surface of the saltshaker was nearly as good as a small hand mirror, he discovered: a thoughtful expression softened her features. It vanished the instant he looked back at her.
"Ah didn't mean that," she said.
She afforded him an awkward, unsettled shrug; meant to shield her from his searching look and avoid the pockets of dropped conversation. Neither of them wanted to catch up with everything that had happened over the past year, and if Rogue wanted to let it slide, that suited him just fine.
He cleared his throat.
"No, you did," he said finally. "I deserve it."
In truth, he deserved much worse, but they'd come to that eventually.
Blowing out a breath, Remy sought around for an indicator that he could smoke. There were no ashtrays, but no signs either. He wondered if he could chance it with a quick puff. Jennifer might let him get away with it, or, at least, she would have, if he'd lavished her with all the attention that Rogue was receiving.
Finding her behind the counter, gazing blankly past the shoulders of the scruffy travelers taking their breakfast, Remy decided against it: The waitress offered him a glassy, empty smile that plainly told him that her ongoing daydream was ten times more interesting than paying attention to the coffee she was pouring. Moreover, he just didn't want the girl interrupting.
"You were sixteen when y' ran away," he continued his previous train of thought, steadying himself as he began to speak again.
"Destiny knew you'd get gone before your powers manifested, of course, and t' keep you safe from yourself she maintained that you had 'a rare skin condition' so you'd keep covered."
Rogue grimaced.
"These things don't always work out, y' know — Jean Luc used to tell me that had a sensitivity t' light. Made me wear glasses for a year after he adopted me." He grimaced and added, "Stupidest thing I ever done. Tante Mattie had t' pull out the bits of smashed glass from m' forehead after a scrap with the Rippers 'fore Pere let me stop wearin' em. Damned things."
She peeked up at him through her fringe, a small smile appearing for a second.
"What happened?" Rogue asked, the pitch of her voice dropping, taking the edge off with the smoky, Southern cadence he remembered fondly.
Remy laughed, forcing as much disdain into it as he could muster, and narrowed his eyes. "Jean Luc learned m' eyes were better t' intimidate the competition when he took me t' his 'business meetings.'"
He gestured lazily. "I learned that Jean Luc was less intimidatin', red-eyed kid or no, if his pants accidentally exploded while he was wearin' 'em. Only happened once, mind… but Saturday mornin' cartoons were always that much better for it. No early morning jobs on the weekend after that."
She smiled at that, though the expression was fleeting — there and gone with the blink of an eye.
Rogue's file had been lengthy, documenting everything from meal preferences to socialization — which wasn't much prior to involvement with the Brotherhood and then the X-Men. The one thing that remained constant were certain behavioral patterns Mystique had noted in the file from her childhood:
Even now, Rogue was unusual in her mannerisms: Insecure? Sure, but not a pushover. Fiercely independent? Without question. How much more collateral did she need before accepting his offer to help without skepticism? She was still resisting, despite his best efforts to persuade her to trust him. Rebelliousness? Saints, the fact that she was sitting in front of him two states away from home confirmed all of that and then some.
The meticulous detail on the accumulated information was unsurprising. When Magneto had been around, the interest in Rogue's abilities had been furthered by Mystique's involvement in their cadre. That information wasn't something he was ready to offer — it had been difficult enough selecting the memories he'd allow her to see when she'd absorbed him yesterday night. Even then, perhaps Remy had revealed too much.
Rogue had yet to comment on anything other than the stone. But perhaps it was best left untouched for now. Sharing these little anecdotes about their respective, dysfunctional upbringings was fodder enough for bonding.
Hell, she'd smiled!
The file, however, had been incomplete, and frankly, flicking through digitized paperwork wasn't Remy's style to begin with.
It was the hands-on approach that provided some spark of interest, and before whisking her away to Louisiana for the first time, his reconnaissance had been thorough.
He continued his recitation:
"Your name —" he paused, surveying her reaction through the fringe of hair that fell into his eyes.
An unchecked, satisfied smile spread across his face as Rogue's head snapped up. Savoring the feeling that he'd surprised her, and enjoying the way she offered her emotions to him so easily through the dissolving curtain of hospitable reception, Remy was finding it difficult not to crow out loud triumphantly. He'd trumped her.
"Y' real name, th' one on your birth certificate?" he taunted.
Rogue shook her head slowly, her eyes slit to narrow bands of green pressed between heavy black.
"No one knows that —" she hissed. "It's Rogue. Just Rogue, ya hear?"
Leaning in a little closer, his chest pressed into the edge of the table, knowing full well that those ties to her past made her particularly uncomfortable, Remy relaxed by increments. Not that he needed something to lord over her, but the element of surprise was like keeping a card up the sleeve. It was completely, and utterly invaluable when you needed it, and at that moment, Remy wanted nothing more than a little faith siding with his luck. If something unsettled her enough, then maybe he'd find a way to slip through her guarded demeanor.
Finally, agonizingly, he whispered, "Is 'henceforth undisclosed.'"
"Ugh!" Rogue threw her hands into the air, and Remy chuckled as she wadded up her napkin and lobbed it at him.
"It's cool."
Remy dallied with the idea of letting it slip, and decided against it. He needed time to win her over; work his way past Rogue's defenses. Knocking them all out forcefully took no skill, no style, no finesse, and was no fun.
"I won't tell nobody." He was good at being patient.
She folded her arms across her chest and scowled at him. "You know this ain't fair? You know all this about me, but you ain't offering anythin' in return about yourself."
He sidestepped the accusation, giving her a wolfish grin. "I'm a gift y' gotta unwrap, ma belle." Then leaning on the word, he emphasized, "Slowly."
She sniffed, albeit with a touch more derision than before. "What else ya got on me, swamp rat?"
Shrugging it off, knowing he'd bested her once already, he took a sip of his coffee.
"Y' want me t' give you the psychological profile I pulled too?" he asked.
"Do Ah have a choice?" she asked.
"Always."
"Then Ah don't want ta know," she returned, picking up her fork and stabbing at her cooling breakfast sausage. "If ya got all this information from Magneto, ya'll probably had some crackpot running analyses on all of us, right?"
Giving her a noncommittal tip of his head, he neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, choosing instead to pull a pack of cards from a pocket. Absently, he began shuffling hand-to-hand over the tabletop while Rogue struggled with the inherent creep-factor of having a handful of her enemies knowing the intimate details of her life.
"What did it say?" She held up the speared link, looking at it distrustfully. "Ostracizes herself from the great part of the plebeian hoard? Tendency towards the morbid? Severe bi-polar tendencies, approach with caution?"
She bit into the sausage with vicious relish, and Remy found himself repressing the urge to cross his legs beneath the table.
Recovering quickly, he shot back, "Disarmingly beautiful and doesn't see it for herself?" He cocked his head, leaning back into the seat without sacrificing his composure. Rogue rolled her eyes.
"That's hardly part of a psychological assessment, LeBeau," she said out of the corner of her mouth, chewing.
"That's just th' part I found out while doing recon."
Rogue's fork dropped with a clatter.
"Y' think I was gonna let some stuffed shirt have all the fun? Pah!"
After taking a large gulp of coffee, she accused sullenly, "Ya destroyed my favorite tree, ya know?"
Collecting her fork from the plate, she prodded at the grits. They were beginning to take on a grey tinge. Rogue kept her eyes on him.
"Y' keep crushing m' hopes of a romantic interlude," he retorted, offering her a sly smile. "The balcony thing gets a lil' old after a year."
The fork hit the plate again, and Remy snatched it out from under her grasp, setting it on the table in front of her. He returned to his cards, his fingers finding the right rhythm again without as much as a glance.
"Balcony?" she demanded.
Nodding slowly, admiring the quick flush that crested over her cheeks as she grasped the entirety of the admission, Remy decided that she was definitely something else when she got flustered.
"You keep gaping like that, and you're gonna get a fly stuck in y' mouth," he teased. "Couldn't just waltz through th' front door t' leave you that card, could I? Had t' be a bit more creative."
"What did that mean, anyway? 'Ah'll always bet on you,'" she snarled. "You can't hustle me, swamp rat. Ah'm wise to ya."
"Is that so? I think y' like it," he goaded. "You just can't bring yourself t' admit it — it'd destroy y' image, river rat."
"Ah don't have an image, bayou breath. This is me; ya take it or ya leave it."
He tsked her.
"Know you better, Rogue," Remy returned mildly. "You dress like that for one reason and one reason only. 'Look, but don't touch,' oui? You're not protecting anybody but yourself. I'm sure th' local Hot Topic just loves you for it too."
She scowled, forcibly yanking her gloves higher on her wrists, straining the seams where the joints fell between her fingers.
"Next thing ya'll are gonna tell me is that ya know what color underwear Ah'm wearing right now too, aren't ya?"
"Black," he said, not missing a beat, twisting his wrist around to cut the cards at a different angle. The paper bent, buckling against his thumbs, and they slid together easily.
"But if I'm wrong, I hope y' plan on correcting me proper."
He lidded his gaze, appraising her with just enough suggestion to make her shift in her seat. He had yet to forget the fact that he'd rifled through her dainties to find the Queen of Hearts he'd affixed to her mirror upon returning to Bayville.
Rogue blushed straight to the tips of her ears, her fingers twitching on the tabletop.
It appeared she hadn't forgotten either.
"Y' want details, too?"
He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable moment where she reached across the table to smack him. He'd deserve it, certainly, but at this point, if it were coming from Rogue? It'd be too good an opportunity to pass up.
And when that window of opportunity presented itself…
"Ah think Ah need some air," she said flatly, shoving her plate away and readying to slide from the booth.
Merde. Wrong window.
"I tell y' what," he began, summoning whatever indifferent grace he possessed at that moment. "Let's make a deal, you and me."
Regarding him with outright suspicion, Rogue stilled, hands poised against the table edge.
"Ah don't like bargains, Cajun," she said, a note of warning clipping her tone.
Damnit, LeBeau, think fast, he berated himself. He needed to keep her sitting there; needed to keep her listening for just a little while longer.
"Then let's make a bet," he hedged, immensely impressed that his voice hadn't taken on the thready quality that would have dashed his nonchalance into little bits against the linoleum.
"Ah'm already giving ya enough of a chance as is," she rebuked him.
"And for that I'm honored. It's more than I deserve." He pulled from the deck one card, a red suit, and presented it to her pressed between two fingers. "But I'm a gambling man, Rogue, and I'll take as many of them chances as you can offer."
She sighed, waving him on with a bored look at the King of Hearts. It wasn't the mollifying way in which she flung herself backwards against the seat cushions, but the sharp awareness in her gaze that revealed her interest.
"Y' gave me the Queen of Hearts at the hotel," he began, prepared to launch into a list of his punishable offenses against her. "You charged it. Don't think th' reference blew past me, girl; we square now?"
Rogue replied, her mouth quirking upwards with the ghost of a smirk, "You nearly blew off my hand the first time we met. And Ah thought you were bein' gallant, tryin' ta step in and warn me before things got hairy."
"Ah," Remy grinned into his chest, his eyes downcast, contemplating the fight from over a year before. "I remember."
He nodded to himself, recalling the five minutes he'd spent hunkered behind a crate waiting for her, his legs cramping, back sore, the splinter stuck in his thumb and the prospect that finally, he'd make one hell of an introduction.
Even before he'd met Rogue, he'd been putting himself through the ringer just to be close to her.
"Couldn't possibly forget that look on your face when I handed you that card down at the docks," he said, almost wistful. "But why did y' give me the Queen today?"
Her attention drifting unseeing to the window, she seemed to smile. "Thought it'd be ironic," she admitted. Jutting her chin at the familiar card in his hand, she added, "You gave me a charged King the first time we fought."
Reigning in his surprise that she actually remembered the exact card, he kept his tone light, nearly playful, "And it blew up in y' face, didn't it?"
She swatted at a tuft of white hair, feigning indifference. The girl didn't have a poker face at all, he chuckled to himself.
"You should be glad that it did," she said. "Honestly, Cajun — the King of Hearts? Ah know you've got an ego the size of Texas, but really…"
"Caught your interest?" Remy arched an eyebrow, rolling the card between his fingers. "What did you think I was telling you with le Roi Charles?"
Rogue glanced between the King and his face, and back again, as if looking for a viable comparison.
"Thought that was a clever analogy? Trying t' tell you something about myself?" he pressed, holding the scrap of paper alongside his cheek. "Me?" he said, frowning, "I think I look better than this guy."
A wry smile curved Rogue's mouth. "You're not the King of Hearts. Never have been. Not ta me."
"What am I, then?"
He grinned, slipping a second and third card from the deck with ease, a black and a red suit — a heart and a spade. He set both elbows on the table and waited for her response.
"Because I certainly know what you are, and what you pretend to be."
Leaning closer, eyes glittering beneath the neon track lighting of the too-crowded diner, Rogue hummed, "You think too highly of yourself, swamp rat. The King is the second highest card in the deck, and being that it's a heart suit you find so appealing, Ah'd say you think ya got some sway over the fluttering pitter-patter of a lady's heart. The problem," she informed him, "is that Ah ain't that lady." She flicked her wrist in distate at the Queen of Hearts. "And you're something else entirely. But Ah appreciate the gesture." She nodded to the Queen of Spades. "That's a bit closer to the truth. No pretendin' involved."
"That so?" he asked, amused.
"You're damn right it is," she returned.
"Black Maria."
"Black Maria," she agreed.
Remy grinned. It figured that Rogue would see herself as the Black Queen; the Queen of Spades.
"Y' play?" He meant poker, but Rogue seemed to suspect a silent suggestion of something else.
She shrugged, trying to feign disinterest. "Poker? Used to. Sam Guthrie cleaned me out one too many times, and Ah lost interest."
Remy couldn't help but notice how her gaze flit back to the cards he held before her, hesitant, curious, and still cautious.
"Then y' know that when you pull the Queen of Spades, the game stops on her," he said slowly, trying not to laugh outright at how absurdly easy Rogue was making things. "If you're playin'," he lingered on the words, "Black Maria."
She stiffened, affording him a cagey appraisal. "Everyone antes again."
Remy slid his fingers together, the cards brushing against one another in a quick shuffle. Rogue watched him carefully as he deposited three cards face down on the table before them.
"You can't play poker with three cards," she informed him.
"Non, 'course not. This is three card monte."
Jutting his chin, indicating that she should pay attention to where the cards fell, he flipped them once more for her to see their faces.
"Two hearts and one spade. Two faces for you and one for me. One makes a pair, the other's a bit of a…" he paused, flashing a grin, "...rogue."
He pointed, spreading his hands over the cards like a carney talker. "You pull th' red Queen, we carry on like this as long as we have to: I tease you, you blush, y' threaten me with something."
"Nothing changes because the card's a lie," she corrected archly.
Remy declined to rise to the bait, fixing her with a confident smile as he turned them back, faces to the table, and shuffled again.
"Ah told you," she insisted. "That ain't me."
"As th' lady says."
"And if Ah pull the Black Queen?" she asked, sliding forwards, pushing her plate with an elbow.
"You stop calling me 'Gambit' and you start calling me 'Remy'. Moaning or breathy whispers optional," he answered. "Then we ante again. Raise the stakes, so t' speak."
She scoffed. "How's that fair? This is your cracked version of Russian roulette, Cajun — worse odds with only one wild card."
Grinning, his fingers skimming the tops of the cards as he began to swap them across each other: Left, right, above, below, left, right, above, below.
"These are my rules. Y' pull the card that best represents me, and I'll tell you what I meant by th' message I put on y' mirror last night."
She shook her head. "No deal. Ah want measure for measure what ya just told me about myself. The truth. All of it."
Remy cocked an eyebrow, holding her gaze though his hands maintained the steady rhythm of the shuffle.
"Ah want your file, LeBeau." Peering at him with a determined half-smirk from beneath her fringe, Rogue's challenge sizzled eagerly across his skin. Ah, he thought, an exchange of information – transference of leverage. Chips in the maudite pot. Sure.
"Them's fighting words, Roguey." He paused, fingers hovering over the cards, and whispered, "But I don't lose neither."
"And if Ah pull the Queen of Spades," she continued with almost secretive airs, "we're doing this again, aren't we?"
"You pull Black Maria, and it's my decision what the stakes are. You pull th' black Queen, I make the call." Returning to the task of swiping the cards back and forth, he nodded, jutting his chin in silent contest. "Just say when."
Remy turned the speed of his shuffling up a notch, the cards sliding back and forth against the table in random, but controlled, order.
Rogue lidded her eyes.
"You sure do like keepin' a gal on her toes."
"Just makin' things interestin'."
"Or tryin' ta keep me interested?" She tilted her head.
"Don't have t' try, girl. You still sittin' there."
"Stop."
Rogue pointed to a card furthest to the left, and Remy, smirking, flipped over the Queen of Spades.
"Good choice." He nodded with mock solemnity.
"Fine," she hissed through grit teeth. "What do you want?"
He cocked an eyebrow, fingering the edge of the card. It scraped lightly over the puckered linoleum table top, the noise lost beneath the volume of the diner.
"Y' sure?"
"Ah'm good for it, Cajun. Ah don't shirk on my promises. Just tell me what it is," she bit out.
"You're going on a date with me when we get to the Big Easy," he replied.
"What?!"
"Don't bet nothing y' can't afford to lose." He grinned, starting the shuffle again.
"Ah don't do dates!" Rogue barked. "Least of all with the likes of you."
He chuckled, grinning at her outright. "You lost, Rogue, but you've got another chance coming up. How bad do y' wanna know 'bout what goes on inside m' head? Hmm?"
Waggling his eyebrows, Remy shuffled blind again.
"You ain't touching me, swamp rat. I told ya —" she started, the heat rushing to her face, making her cheeks flush in a flattering shade of strawberries and cream.
"That's fine," he said, mindful that cutting off her protests was likely more hazardous to his health than letting Rogue run through the regular roster of warnings regarding skin to skin contact. He'd have choice words with Henry McCoy for persuading her that Remy's most recent evolution wasn't up to snuff, if he ever met up with the man face to face, which was entirely possibly given Rogue's reluctant desire to accompany him home.
"I can get to you without layin' a finger on ya," he informed her.
"You are such a —" she seethed, nearly growling. She straightened. "No holding hands, no linking arms, no nothing!" she snapped, biting off each word.
"Is knowin' that much about me so important to you?" he asked, genuine interest keeping the shuffle steady.
"Yes," she ground out. "Its the only way Ah'll know for sure what you've got up your sleeve, Cajun; just short of sucking it through your skin, anyhow."
"You pull that Queen again and I'm gonna get you t' wear a dress too," he quipped, pleased with his good fortune.
She smacked at his hands, jabbing at the card to the far right this time. "Stop!"
Remy chuckled, and flipped over another Queen of Spades.
"You dirty, no good, two timing —" she snarled.
"Quoi? Figure you're a size six, oui?" he returned lightly, dropping his gaze before he could take in an eyeful to measure her.
"Did ya get that from my 'file' too?" Rogue spat derisively.
"Non, from y' closet."
Rogue slapped her hands over his, wrapping her fingers around his wrists and dragged him forwards into the table. The cutlery rattled, the creamer bounced in its holder, and the sugar dispenser wobbled precariously in the direction of the window.
Remy smiled, nodding a hello at an elderly couple that peered distrustfully at them from a few tables away.
"You cheated," Rogue hissed, her grip tightening.
Inclining his head to the cards between them, he continued to appreciate the stubborn set to Rogue's jaw.
"See for yourself," he murmured, meeting her halfway across the table obligingly.
She let go of his wrists, nearly throwing them away from her, and flipped the three cards over, whacking them against the table in her irritation.
Two hearts and one spade remained spread between them.
"Go again?" he asked lightly, swallowing a laugh at her infuriated expression.
"You're dead." She flipped the cards over again.
Remy began the shuffle for the third time, chuckling.
"I knew y' wouldn't be able t' pass up the opportunity to try and best me."
"Stop," Rogue murmured, her gaze fixed on the cards between them. After a moment of staring at the stationary trio, she lifted her gaze to meet his. Rogue was smiling.
"Your choice, mam'selle?" He dipped his head, politely stifling further commentary.
Slowly, tentatively, Rogue reached over and grasped his hand. Her fingers were warm beneath the gloves, and despite the fact that he nearly started from the quick movement, neither pulled back. Remy stopped laughing entirely and forced himself not to stare at the slim fingers working their way beneath the leather covering his wrist, or the little stripe of teasing, ivory flesh that peeked out from between Rogue's own sleeve and glove. From beneath the thin protection of his wrist guard, Rogue pulled a card.
She held it up before him, releasing her hold, and tapped her temple.
"Ah told ya, you're not the King in the deck," she declared, triumphant. "And ya did say ta pull the card that best represents you."
Remy snorted, shaking his head at the Joker, and for all purposes, trying not to appear shaken.
She had touched him willingly, knowing where to look and exploiting the sliver of information about himself he hadn't counted on her knowing.
Moreover, it appeared that if it was on her own terms, Rogue would flout her own rules — she was careful about it, sure, but she'd laid her hands on him.
Interesting, he thought.
"Ah knew it," she said, smirking. "I knew you were keepin' something up your sleeve."
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. The spot on his palm where her fingers had gripped him was still warm from the contact, and the myriad explanations for Rogue knowing such a coveted tidbit was both staggering and scary.
"So," she said lightly, folding her hands beneath her chin and dangling the Joker negligently between gloved fingers. She peered at him with amusement that lit her entire face, changing her sullen airs into something seductive.
"Why don't you start by telling me why ya left me that note on my mirror?"
Remy forced a laugh, his mind sliding back into the comfortable place where he could assess and process and form a strategy.
It wasn't the number of chances available that were important here, not the ratio, not the mechanics that would tip the odds in his favor, he reminded himself:
It was the ante.
Post Script:
- Black Maria/Queen of Spades: (Poker) It's a variation in seven-card stud. I was trying to find a proper summary of the rules on the variation and came up with two different things: When the Queen of Spades comes up in a hand, the hand stops and everyone has to bet again. The second variation involves the holder taking half the pot. I'm referring to the former.
- "Gimme time." If you're old enough to remember "Hackers" – Dade Murphy. Same goes for the dress bit and, "Ah don't do dates."
- "…Wit'out all that black shit on 'em, anyhow." The Breakfast Club.
- Trent Reznor: Lead singer of Nine Inch Nails.
- Escher: Google "Relativity: 1953" if you want a visual.
- Ante: (Poker) An ante is a forced bet in which each player places an equal amount of money or chips into the pot before the deal begins.
Translations:
Attends, p'tit: Wait a second, little one
Bonjour: Hello/good morning
Dieu: God
Fille:girl
Homme: man
Mam'selle: (Madamoiselle) Miss
Merde: Shit
Non: No
Oui: Yes
Quoi: what