Author Note: Something to remember here – Logan has known Remy for a long time. While I don't see them being the best of friends at any point, Remy is the first face Logan can remember. I figure they've kept in sporadic touch since Three Mile Island, and due to movie-Remy's habit of being rather talkative, I think Logan knows quite a bit of the younger man's history. Alright, talkative and because I see the two of them always drinking when they get together. Hence the lack of death.
This is another fairly long chapter, mostly because I really had fun writing it. So much fun, I couldn't figure out where exactly to stop. Bobby in a panic amuses me.
The theories on southern good manners are, I admit, from my personal observation after living in the south for a number of years.
I do not own these characters, and I promise to return them to their proper places in the same condition I borrowed them in. I got plastic slip covers for them and everything.
Southern men have a reputation for unfailing good manners. Sam Guthrie, a returning student at Xavier's Institute was a shinning, bright example of this reputation. Even Remy Lebeau, when not in a foul mood, managed to live up to the expectation of charming chivalry.
Theories abound as to the cause of these well mannered gentlemen, everything from accusations of a sexist, 'take care of the little woman' mentality, to the south being several decades behind the rest of the country in social development, to slower, kinder way of life have been proposed.
After much observation of southern women, one specific, green eyed southern specimen in particular, the student body at Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters had formulated their own theory.
Southern men are polite because southern women can be really scary.
This in mind, Bobby was in no way shocked to hear his friend's accented voice raised in anger that afternoon. While normally sweet natured and kind, Rogue had a temper he'd long ago learnt to avoid triggering. What did strike him as surprising, was the male drawl raised in equal anger.
"Chere, it's for three days."
"An' ya ain't runnin' off wit'out me, Cajun, so forgit tryin." There's a dangerous warning in Rogue's voice Bobby hasn't heard since all the chaos that summer.
"Non. Ain't runnin' noplace, and y'ain't comin wit'dis one. T'ree days, five includin' th'travel. You got school, no sense missin' days for dis."
Curious, Bobby heads towards the voices, joining a crowd of students and residents eavesdropping just out of sight from the fighting pair. Kitty gives him a baffled shrug before turning her attention back.
"Remy Etienne Lebeau, y'all listen to meh good, so's Ah won't have to repeat meh'self."
Still trying to figure out the details of their argument, Bobby idly notes that both thicken their accents in anger.
"There ain't no way in seven hells Ah'm about ta let ya run off ta deal with her on yer lonesome. Either take meh with y'all, or Ah'll follow along behind. But them's yer only choices."
A door slams, and Gambit utters something in French, Bobby's certain it's a curse. Angry footsteps are heading their way, and most of the group scrambles to avoid being caught. Bobby's not fast enough.
"Toi," Eyes blazing, Gambit points an accusatory finger in his direction. "Vien avec."
Leather duster flowing with his movements, the older man doesn't even check to see Bobby obediently following behind. Partly nervous, but mostly curious, he follows into the relative privacy of the garage.
Approaching a section of wall that appears identical to every other piece of wall in the place, something seems to occur to him.
"Quell age-a tu?"
"Um. Nineteen." He's uncertain what relevance his age could possibly have on the man's actions, but answers dutifully. The number seems to satisfy the angry man, and his fingers tap something on the wall to reveal a hidden compartment. From it, Gambit pulls two beers, tossing one to Bobby.
"Close 'nuff. A few hours north, an' you're legal."
Bobby stares at the beer in his hand, uncertain as to what the next few minutes are going to unravel, but almost sure it'll be trouble. Gambit takes a swig from his bottle before turning his fiery gaze in his direction.
"Tu connais la fille. Dite moi –"
"Hey, hold on." Bobby takes the cap off his bottle, not even concentrating to turn the condensation into frost. The glare he receives for interrupting is almost, but not quite, as bad as a Patented Rogue Death Glare. "For a poker player, you sure have an obvious tell."
The glare intensifies, edging into Waking Logan After A Bar Night territory.
"The more upset you are, the more French you speak." This is met with more angry silence, and Bobby starts wish he'd moved faster in the hall way.
"I only took one year of French. In high school." Still no response, no movement aside from that glare. Bobby sighs.
"I don't understand what you're saying."
"You. Know. The. Girl. Tell. Me. How. To. Win. This. Argument." Each word is precise, clipped, harsh.
"Um. I don't actually know what you're fighting about, but my advice? Give in, give in now. Give her whatever she wants, and a present besides."
"Non. Not possible." But he slumps against the wall in defeat, and his glare has decreased in intensity, more resembling the look Scott gives for messing around during a DR session. "What kind of present?"
"Depends on what you've done." Alright. This is officially weird. It was one thing to tell Ms. Munroe this relationship was a good thing. It's something entirely different to have the much older, presumably more experienced man coming to him for relationship advice.
With his best friend.
His ex-girlfriend.
Nope. Not awkward at all.
"Ain't done nuthin." Gambit sighs, sliding against the wall to sit on the floor, long legs sprawled before him. He lights a cigarette with a quick charge and gestures Bobby towards the folding chairs stacked against a cabinet. "Just gonna take a short trip. Go home, file some papers, come back. Three days. She actin' like dis one's running out on her."
Bobby pulls one of the chairs close, finding an ashtray in the cabinet and setting it on the ground next to the Cajun. Wisely, he chooses not to point out that Rogue had several reasons to believe he would just up and disappear.
"Why not bring her along? Or file the papers via mail?"
"It's a family matter." Gambit appears suddenly very interested in the label of his beer bottle.
"So? I bet she'd love to meet your family." A memory grabs his attention, and Bobby frowns. "Unless they hate mutants or don't know you're a mutant. Then it's probably not a good idea."
The other man snorts. Bobby muses that, with his eyes, it's doubtful his family aren't aware of his genetic status. Too, a family of thieves aren't likely to call the cops on them, unlike his own trouble starting brother.
"Not like dis." Gambit's head hits the wall behind him, eyes sliding closed. "When dis one's allowed to go home, want do it right. Take her to Mardis Gras. Show her the N'awlins I know. Places tourists don't go. Places tourists do go."
Allowed to go home?
"So file the papers by mail." Bobby takes a careful sip of his beer, still not understanding where the problem lies. "What kind of papers are they anyway?"
Gambit mumbles something intelligible in response, staring now at the ground between his outstretched legs.
"What was that?"
"Annulment papers."
Bobby spits out his beer. Eyes wide, he sputters for a moment before he's able to speak.
"Annulment? As in annulment of a marriage? You're married?"
"Non. Oui." Sighing, the other arches an eyebrow. "S'complicated."
"Oh my god, you're a dead man. She's going to kill you. I'm drinking with a dead man. Or Logan will. Logan. . ." Bobby's eyes widen again, staring at the beer in his hand as though it were poison. "This is Logan's beer isn't it? I'm dead too. He's going to kill me for drinking his beer, and then kill you if Rogue doesn't. We're dead. Dead men walking. Sitting. Drinking. Maybe if I kill you first, he'll spare me. I should kill you anyway. How in the hell are you married?"
Throughout his entire terrified rambling, Gambit watches with amusement. When Bobby finally stops, he covers his eyes with his hand and silence descends between the two men while he tries to process this new information. The sound of a cap being removed from a bottle jerks his attention back. He hadn't even heard Logan enter the room.
"You'd better be talkin' about that blonde, bub." Logan's eyes move from Gambit to the beer in Bobby's hand before settling back on the dejected man on the floor.
"Who else?"
"It's been – what, twelve years?"
"Plus." Blowing smoke from his cigarette, Gambit huffs. "She finally agreein' t'the annulment. Seventy-two hour safe passage t'th'city. Gotta arrive in person to meet the priest an' file the papers, an' Rogue thinks dis one's runnin' off."
"She's convinced you're gonna run anyway." Logan sips his beer, head cocked at the other man. "Never did get the how and why of your bein' hitched."
Bobby watches both of them in shock. Logan knew. Gambit was dating Rogue, Gambit was married, and Logan knew. Logan knew and Gambit wasn't suffering from adamantium poisoning via six nasty claws.
Gambit shrugs, a lazy gesture in the face of, Bobby believes, near certain, bloody death.
"S'political. La famille." A drag from his cigarette while Logan opens a folding chair. "Was eighteen, exiled not an hour after th' I do's."
Bobby takes a deep breath. The situation doesn't sound nearly as bad in that light. Though some words, like 'political' and 'exiled' don't make any sense with Gambit being an American, he's willing to put it aside. If Logan, homicidal-in-the-defense-of-Rogue-Logan can accept this . . . this being married thing with a shrug, Bobby can too. Maybe. He can pretend.
It helps that the Wolverine hasn't said anything about the beer.
Gambit's next words tug his focus back to the conversation in front of him.
"De boy says to get her a present." Gambit pauses, tapping his foot on the concrete floor. "Dunno what to get her though."
"Luggage." Logan settles back in his chair, grinning – Grinning! – at Gambit. "She's going with you. Give up on changing her mind and buy her a suitcase for the trip."