Thank-you Sophia, Tania, Tete and Es for the kind reviews.
Just a bit of French again in this chapter; 'Enquiquiner'= Bother, pest.
'Traitresse'= Treacherous
'Cochon'= Pig
'Mont-de- piété'= Pawnshop
Chapter.6.
Her throat was still dry and she was compelled to blink back the water that was starting at the corners of her eyes. They weren't tears as such, more a symptom of her nervous reaction as her orbs widened in an attempt to see in the consuming gloom. Her hand gripped of its own volition to Remy's and she received a brief squeeze of reassurance back from him but it did little to still her beating heart. Ororo's sense of apprehension weighed heavy on Gambit's mind as he searched his way forwards, their footsteps sounding all the more hollow for the dark. He was perfectly aware that she could handle herself, but it didn't stop him from worrying about her. After all, she was only down here because of him. As they moved on quickly in the suffocating silence, her free hand crept up to her neck; gloved fingers reaching like long tendrils to close over the heart shaped sapphire that still hung about her. She pressed her fingers tightly around Piotr's precious keep-sake as her eyes squeezed shut briefly; it gave her a measure of comfort to feel it in her covered palm, the chain hanging cold and hard against the hot skin of her exposed neck. The moisture that had collected in the corners of her eyes ran warmly down her cheeks in a slow trickle, forcing her to release the necklace so that she could wipe them away swiftly, for although there was no way he could see in this light, she didn't want Remy to think that she was crying...because she most certainly wasn't.
"Yo' okay?" He turned his head in her direction at the sound of her gloves brushing against the skin of her cheeks.
"Yes."
They carried on in silence for a little while longer; the corridor never seeming to come to an end in the blackness. Remy tried to think of something to say to perhaps take her mind off of where she was. If she had something else to concentrate on then maybe she'd forget about the narrowness of the tunnel for a while. "It not like de old days no more."
"What?" She replied as if distracted.
"All dis runnin' around to back-street pawn shops." He waved his free hand in indication of his surroundings but of course, it was too dark for her to see what he did, but she didn't feel the stir in the air that the motion caused. "Dere used t' be t'ree meetin' places for de Guild, official meetin' places. One out by de Bayou an' two near de swamps. No messin' around wit' secret rooms under no goddamn Mont-de-piété." He said the last part almost resentfully. She didn't say anything so he just continued, simply in the hope of keeping her attention. "But de Guilds, both T'ieves an' Assassins, dey don't own Nawlin's like dey used to. De people, dey jus' won't tolerate it."
"But they still fear you." She said suddenly, her tone flat and matter-of- fact.
"Hmm?" He looked over his shoulder briefly, as she was trailing him somewhat, just about making out the sharp white line of her hair. "What yo' mean girl?"
"The shop keeper." Remy made an indistinct noise, so she continued, "He was scared of you---terrified in fact. What reason would he have to be so fearful of a mere thief?"
Remy chewed his lip a little, feeling guilty about the smile that was creeping onto them, trying to halt it. He had no right to be proud about what he was going to say. "We may no' be Assassins chére, but dat don' mean we a soft touch."
"From the behaviour of the New York Guild, I would say not." She cut in sardonically, not at all impressed with the idea of the Thieves being as bad as Assassins.
"People in dis town live by a different way of life 'Ro." He said by way of explanation, almost trying to plead the Thieves case. "Dere are t'ings dat 'ave gone on fo' generations an' some people, like 'im upstairs, still live by dose old rules, even if mos' people are gettin' wise t' dem. So if de T'ieves say dey want somet'in' from yo', yo' give it, no questions."
"And so they live in your shadow, afraid of the consequences if they do not do as you say." She completed his sentiment, with distain, some of the steel returning to her voice.
"I know chére, I know," He professed, regretfully. "It stinks---but dat's jus' de way it is." After a thoughtful moment he added, "Who are we t' argue, hien?"
"Who indeed."
They came to a corner, navigating it carefully only to be confronted with yet more darkness of a much more definite pitch than before. Remy winced inwardly at the sound of Ororo taking in a sharp breath that she'd obviously tried to stifle. But she failed to stop herself in time; the stale air rushing in with a harsh rasp. He stopped, letting her come up to his side as she had been lagging behind him a step or two. Taking his left hand from her grasp, with some difficulty, she had begun to grip it with such virulence, and instead, he wrapped his arm about her waist and took up her hand again with his right one as if guiding her. "I got yo'." He whispered tenderly near her ear, his lips ghosting over them, light as the air that flowed from his softly spoken words. She blinked her eyes again and nodded as he began to move them forwards, at a slower pace than before.
"So, when we goin' t' Tokyo den?" He asked out of the blue to distract her again. It seemed to have worked so well the last time, he thought he'd try his luck again.
"I do not know." She replied unsurely, trying and failing to hide the quiver in her voice.
"Alright---den let me set a date. One weeks time?" He inquired, only to answer the question himself. "Yah. We sample a bit o' de festivities 'ere and den we go t' Tokyo an' yo' can show me wha' dey really got, chéri."
"Okay." The hint of the quiver was still beneath the surface.
"On one condition though, mah petit."
"Oh? What?" She said with a hint of lightness returning.
His brow furrowed somewhat sardonically, "Yo' keep dat 'enquiquiner' outta mah way." He growled, although it was said in good humour a part of him was serious. There were very few people who truly got on Remy LeBeau's nerves but there was a certain person in Japan was most definitely had that special...talent for it.
Ororo laughed, genuinely, relaxing for a brief moment. Remy had never had too much of a liking for her close friend Yukio. To be fair, the woman would try the patient of a saint and it had taken Ororo a while herself to tune into the woman's---peculiar sense of humour and that daredevil-in-the- extreme zest for life that she wore so proudly on her sleeve. She seemed to intimidate most men, even Logan and that took some doing. "Alright, I agree. I will take you to all our old haunts in Tokyo but I will make sure I keep her at arms length from you." The hint of the laugh was still in her words.
"Yo'd better." He grumbled and then laughed briefly at his own grumpiness. He didn't know what it was about that woman but she just had the uncanny knack of being able to rub him up the wrong way. There weren't many people in the world that could do that; she was certainly unique in that respect. But then just thinking about her reminded him of the occasion when he'd stitched her up in London a few of years ago and a wry smile lifted upwards in the darkness. He didn't feel in the least bit remorseful for it, he could even justify it to himself because she'd attempted to pull the same trick on him and it had obviously backfired...badly. "It's a 'date' den?" He asked suddenly, referring to the original promise.
"It is a 'date'." She confirmed, feeling ten times better than she had mere minutes ago as they rounded another corner and the ground began to slope alarmingly underfoot. But at the end of this section of tunnel they were greeted by a light at the far end. Much to Storm's eternal relief.
* * *
It had to have been his seventieth length at least as he touched the cold, tiled rim of the swimming pool before diving back under, rolling around and starting on his seventy-first, pushing off the side with both feet like a coiled spring. The time had rolled on to nearly three o'clock, two fifty three to be more precise but the Professor hadn't noticed as he touched base at the other end of the Olympic sized indoor pool, his hand smacking down on the ridged tiles with a wet slap before going back under for more. His body ached from head to foot and even though Hank had told him that swimming was one of the best ways to get his full mobility back, he certainly wouldn't have agreed with him pushing his body this hard. He was still frail and they had yet to find the answer as to why his legs had begun working again after the trauma with Cassandra Nova. But he wasn't going hell for leather from end to end as merely a physical exercise, moreover a cathartic one. He did it quite often, when things were getting on top of him and he needed to simply work it all off.
Was he right to let them go on their own? The question wrung in his head, doing lap after lap as was his body. Especially with Remy in his current condition, if one could call it such; a loss of power wasn't exactly terminal, but it could feel as such. He regretted now that he hadn't sat him down and talked to man, like any good surrogate father would to a son in need. He'd wanted to but things came up, time drifted on and it felt like the window had disappeared; the opportunity never arose. And over the weeks that had passed since his return he sank into defensive silence and as Xavier had then anticipated the explosion eventually came, just hours earlier. He really couldn't blame Gambit for being angry or feeling let down because in all truth he had let him down---they all had perhaps...
"Don't you think you've had enough?"
As Charles reached the rim again, he stopped, his eyes falling on a pair of sensible brown loafers and the slouched hem of straight, crisply ironed charcoal trousers. He gripped with both hands at the side of the pool as he looked up to see Scott Summers gazing down at him from behind ruby lenses, the shapes of his eyes just discernable through the metallically opaque red in the ever changing light.
"Hello Scott." He said before wiping one hand down his face to usher off the rapidly cooling rivulets that were slow to travel. "What are you still doing up?"
"I could be asking you the same thing sir." He replied benevolently as he crouched down on his haunches in front of the Professor. "But I think we'd both have the same answer to that one."
"Indeed." Charles said a little grimly, his eyes casting down to the still choppy water about his chest as his breathing continued in a heaving motion from exertion.
"Let me help you." Scott offered out a hand to the Professor but he shook his head, waving a hand to decline and then pushed off the side, but only with enough momentum to glide him over to the steel steps in the left hand corner. Taking hold of the middle rung he heaved his body weight up before moving his hands onto the two poles at the side of the steps and getting a foothold onto the ladders. Scott walked over to the wooden bench that ran the length of the north wall, picking up a large blue towel and taking it over to Charles who was by now completely out of the water. He'd had his cane waiting for him by the ladders so he didn't have to hobble anywhere on the perilously wet floor of the pool room.
"Thank-you." He said as he took the towel, wrapping it tightly, if somewhat awkwardly about his waist; juggling the task with keeping a hold on his cane. Once he'd done that he made his way over to the bench, sitting down slightly stiffly, uttering a sigh of relief once he'd done so.
"You should be taking it easy Charles," Scott joined him, taking up the vacant space at his side, a worried look on his face as he watched the Professor labouring with his respiration still. "You're pushing yourself to hard." He warned.
Xavier had his eyes closed as his head rested on the cold damp tiles behind him; tilted so that his chin was half toward the stars, his mouth agape. "I'm fine Scott. Don't make a fuss over me." He waved a dismissive but weary hand in the general direction of where he thought Scott was. "But I am troubled---I shouldn't have let them go."
"Let them go?" Scott said with an incredulous laugh. "You didn't let them go anywhere, it was their choice. They're both adults and more than capable of looking after themselves."
"No Scott, you don't understand." He brought his head back down and turned to the side to fix Scott with his pale blue eyes. "I've lost my Windrider once---I don't want to lose her again." He shook his head a little, his face taking on a not often seen fretful look, "If I can help it, I don't want to lose either of them again. Remy needs time to adjust and I can't see him doing that anywhere else but here, at the mansion---with the X- Men." His head rolled over to the side after his confession to face the row of large windows on his right. The glimmer from the sickle shaped moon shone brightly in spite of its size and the early morning sky was already fading into an elegant blanket of royal blue. All was silent outside, not even the merest breeze to stir anything that grew and lived. There didn't even appear to be a single animal around the estate or beyond its boundaries off into the rolling hills of rural Westchester. "When I spoke to them," he began, his eyes still on the faint but growing light flowing in through the several vast sheets of glass, "I made excuses as to why I didn't want them to go...well, they were half truths I suppose." He fell silent again, as if contemplating what had gone on in the office before they'd left. Then turning back to look at Scott; pushing up on the bench so that his back lay flush against the cold tiles of the wall, he said, with a little irritation burning through, "Remy has worked so hard to divest himself of those people...I do not want to see him tempted back into that world now that he feels his life as an X-Man is over."
"Mistakenly feels." Scott corrected as he absently nodded his head, agreeing with his mentor. He knew better than anyone; once an X-Man always an X-Man. "And for the record, I don't think he ever would---go back to them I mean. Even if that is what they want from him." He shifted position; his soles scuffing on the raised grips of the floor as he rested his weight evenly on both hands; laid flat on the condensation damp bench. "But I have to admit, I do feel a little bad about them going it alone...but the school comes first. It may have been quiet lately but we know just about anything could flare up at a moments notice."
Xavier nodded in agreement and then interest suddenly piqued in his eyes as if something had sparked in his memory. "That reminds me, Warren phoned at about eleven."
"Oh yeah? How are he and young Paige doing?"
"Yes, they're fine." He informed him amiably. "He only phoned to say they'd be back within' the week probably and that they'd pick Jubilee up from her friends place in Chicago on their way through."
"Good. The more of the team we have here the better." The leader part of his brain had been constantly worrying that they'd been rather to thin on the ground these days with all their teaching commitments and such. "And any word from Logan?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Figures." He said dryly but there was no malice in the sentiment. He looked out over the pool that was now deathly still; a solid block of ocean blue with thick black lines running through it. "If you keep regular checks on them via Cerebra," he said, going back to the matter at hand, that was concerning both men, "We can be ready at the first sign of trouble---we'll be there for them."
"Yes." He agreed; his tone mild and affirming as he laid his hand on Scott's shoulder. He gave a rare warm smile, his light eyes not seeming quite as cold as they sometimes could. "Now---we should rest." Scott helped him up until he'd steadied himself on his cane. "You've got a class first thing." He stated quite matter-of-factly as they walked somewhat awkwardly towards the door.
Scott looked momentarily confused as he tried to remember his roster for the following day. There was no gym or Danger Room sessions scheduled for tomorrow, to his mind anyway. "What lessons?"
Charles couldn't stop a smirk as he said, "French---nine am sharp."
"What?!" He exclaimed, he'd never spoken a word of the language in his life.
"I'm sorry," It took his all to keep straight faced. "Did I not tell you? You have Ororo's French class until she gets back."
"You've got to be kidding?" A rather perturbed Scott exclaimed, "But I can't---."
"Do not worry," Charles said, lifting his right hand to quiet his erstwhile X-leader. "Ororo always keeps detailed lesson plans, all you have to do is hand them out. I'm sure the students will cope." He cleared his throat, his mirth quite obvious, "Even if you don't!"
"Great." He grumbled flatly as they left the pool room to its nightly silence. But just as he thought it couldn't get any worse Xavier dropped his last bombshell.
"I'll leave it to you to tell Jean she has level one Arabic at two pm." Scott groaned and then they both laughed as they left the pool house completely and made there way along the connecting thoroughfare that lead back into the mansion.
* * *
The New Orleans Thieves clearly still liked to convene in style; Ororo had to give them that much; even if it was deep underneath a cluttered and dirty little pawnshop. The place was set out as one would imagine a throne room to look, except it was very much sans a throne, she thought as she let her eyes roam over the drapes and wall hangings that were emblazoned with the Guilds crest and dyed in their colours. She was only so very much fascinated in her surroundings because it took her mind off the fact that no matter how large the room was she was still fairly deep below surface level. But she had a handle on it; she was utterly determined to remain calm, immersing herself in her Goddess stoicism, especially since there were several sets of what could only be described as hostile eyes focused directly on her and Remy. The gulf of the yellow-stoned room lay between them and those eyes but that made their impact no less searing; though Storm hadn't failed to heed that Remy was returning it in kind. To one man in particular, it seemed...
As all ten occupants stood in almost impenetrable silence, Ororo tried to pull on her memory to see if she recognised any of the Thieves; all dressed out in full guild uniform, befitting their obviously high ranking positions within their clan. She failed to place a single one; Jean-Luc LeBeau only being conspicuous by his absence thus far. Somebody coughed and the rough sound only compounded the hush that had settled. But there was no echo; the walls absorbed it like a sponge.
Her eyes eventually fell upon Remy once more, standing rigidly at her side; all of his easy manner that he'd displayed to calm her on they way down here having disappeared as soon as they'd crossed the threshold into the room. He was almost like a different person, hard as stone in the face of the men that had rejected him but now called upon his help for whatever reason; a reason that they had failed to divulge as of yet. It didn't strike Ororo as the type of behaviour of persons who direly needed the help of a supposed enemy. She thought they might have been a little more...becoming. But given the way they'd approached him, maybe that was just wishful thinking.
Remy continued, what seemed to Storm, his battle of wills with the sandy haired man, whom was stood roughly central in the group of men. He was stocky, broad shouldered and his chest was buffeted even beneath the magenta coloured body plate that lay over it. That light hair was drawn into a plaited 'rat's tail' at the back, as was the hair of most of the men present, and still quite thick despite its receding line at either temple. Slowly the man moved; folding his arms with their steel plate elbow length gloves, over his chest as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The expression of his face changed; from being as subtle a glower as Remy's, to one of...conceit? He opened his mouth to speak, being quite deliberate in the action, as if to get absolute attention from everybody present before actually uttering any words.
"What yo' been doin' wit' yo'self garçon?" The question might have been totally innocuous in itself, like an estranged friend inquiring after his old buddy, but it was nothing more than a taunt...and Remy rose to the bait.
At first Gambit laughed as he turned his head to the side, wanting suddenly to look anywhere but at that man. He recognised the intention but couldn't stop himself as his face suddenly dropped into a mask of seriousness again, the laugh stopped abruptly on his lips and he faced him again, "Fuck you, Thierry."
The man named Thierry shook his head slowly from side to side and issued a series of patronising *tuts*. "Now Remy, yo' forget yaw manners?" He drawled lazily, still shaking his head at the perceived impertinence. "'As all dat time in New York City turned yo' into a foul-mouthed li'll punk wit' no respect fo' 'is 'bedduhs'?"
Remy continued to give him the same black look, but said nothing more, determined not to give him the satisfaction a second time around.
"I t'ink dis boy fo'got 'ow to address de Guild Higher Council. What yo' t'ink hommes?" He tilted his head briefly towards the other men who were slightly behind him; the gesture enough to indicate their silent backing. "Den what yo' say we teach de traitresse cochon, befo'e 'is Poppa get back?"
"You teach him a lesson and you will swiftly find yourselves at the wrong end of another one." All eyes fell onto Ororo and all half laughs and cock- sure mutterings ceased. She may not have recognised any of them but they certainly hadn't mistaken a six foot tall African woman with white hair and blue eyes as anyone other than the X-Men's legendary Weather Mistress, Storm. A tussle with her was certainly not what they were looking for.
"I don' need yo' t' fight mah battles fo' me chére." Remy suddenly warned her darkly and then turned to face the Guild Council. "Dese jokers wan' a piece o' me, den dere welcome to it---dey jus' shouldn' expect an easy ride." As he said this Remy reached into his coat, unhooking his Bo staff from his belt; it was the ordinary one though, not Hank's lethal contraption. Flicking it forwards it extended with a sharp snap and scrape of metal sliding at speed against metal. Instantly, the eight men stood to attention, their easy stances disappearing and quickly replaced with ones that were ready for action.
Thierry Mauvais was the only one to venture forwards, similarly reaching for his own weapon of choice; a long rapier sharp blade. It was apart of his full uniform, held in a beautiful gold encrusted scabbard at his left hip and primarily for show, but when the occasion fit he could handle it and had not hesitated to use it to lethal affect before today. "I don' care 'bout why Jean-Luc wants yo' 'ere Remy," He ground out as he approached Gambit, sword firmly in hand. "'Coz no one else sure as hell does."
"Yo' tell me why he does." Remy held his staff out threateningly to the man that had once been as close to him as an uncle. A man who'd bathed him as a child, played ball with him and comforted him when the other clan children shunned the Diablo Enfant as a freak and a monster, amongst other things over the years. But he somehow managed to block all this from his mind as he held the sleek pole steady; ready to strike him down if needs be, as he repeated in almost a slow, deliberate growl, "Yo' tell me why...he...does. Or I swear t' God Thierry, I'll be de las' t'ing yo' see."
Ororo swallowed hard; she knew the threat was empty, but a part of her...somewhere deep inside a part of her flinched at those words. This whole torrid little scene left a distinctly nasty taste in her mouth.
"Back off Remy---dis ain't what yaw here fo'." Everybody in the room turned to the voice at the door; Jean-Luc's rumbling timbre. Everyone accept the two men stood with weapons that was. After holding Thierry's gaze for an age, reluctantly Gambit tore his eyes away, inclining his head slowly over to the doorway at his right hand side. "Back off garçon ...now." Jean-Luc warned.
Remy's arm fell down to his side, the end of his staff clattering against the stone floor but he still maintained a firm grip on it closer at his end. Three years....it had been close to three years since he'd last seen his father. All the old, familiar thoughts and feelings came back. Ones he'd been convinced had been buried long ago, the most prominent being that anger of a young man cast out on his own, with only his youthful fury to bury the deeper feelings of loss and hurt. That was the same young man who had led the Marauders into those tunnels on that fateful night long ago, only to realise too late that he'd been betrayed, yet again...In a flash of complete clarity, Remy felt the overwhelming urge to just get himself and his Stormy the hell out of there---resentful at the thought that he was probably about to be used once more. But in the end he couldn't and what irked him the most is that he knew that...had known that from the very first moment that this had all started. He could never, never walk away...
"Make dis quick," He took a couple of steps in the opposite direction from the door before turning to his father, "...Jean."
"Don' worry, I will." He replied equally as cold as he came into the room, his ever watchful goons Pierre and Jean-Jacque still with him. In fact they'd only just arrived back from Natchez, tearing along as fast as they could all the way. LeBeau had only managed to quickly tell Thierry to assemble the other members of the High Council, but hadn't had chance to tell them why. Other than to expect an unwelcome visitor.
"Dey attacked mah friends." Remy suddenly blurted out as Jean-Luc came to stand more-or-less between his son and his Chief Advisor.
"Quoi?"
"Dere good people homme an' dem New York dicks yo' sent t' get me---dey attacked dem." Remy ground out angrily, his Cajun lilt so thick the words would have been indecipherable to an outsider. "Why couldn' yo' o' jus' asked me?!"
"I didn' send dem." He intoned calmly.
"What if I'd still been in de school, hien?" He shot out, not hearing him, or not choosing to at any rate. "What would o' happened den, wit all dose enfants aroun'? Yo' not give a fuck 'bout dat?"
"I didn' send dem." Jean-Luc repeated with the same consideration.
Remy regarded him sceptically for a moment, giving him chance to regain his composure, tame this see-saw mood of his that had been up and down at least a dozen times within the last eight hours alone. "Den Remy's sure dere mus' 'ave been easier ways to get 'is attention, yo' know what I'm sayin'?"
"It wasn' mah fault, dere was nothin' I could 'ave done t' stop dem Remy." He said earnestly, looking his boy right in the eyes as he spoke. "Believe me, if I'd 'ave known, I'd o' done somet'in'."
Remy tilted his face down shook his head dismissively and then reached up and rubbed his fingers a couple of times along the fore part; pushing them down on the skin with some pressure. Then he snapped his Bo staff back into its neat containment and clipped it back onto his belt. "Look...it don' madduh---what's done is done." He mumbled quietly, never once looking back up at Jean-Luc as he turned away, fishing around in his pocket and quickly finding his cigarettes and striking one up. He glanced over at Ororo; a silent look passing effortlessly between them, a communication so attuned as to be almost subliminal. Turning back around, he tipped his head up and let out a long and cloudy exhale up into the air like a smoking chimney. "Den spit it out---why you wan' me?"
"It ain't us, several o' de uddah Guilds got together---Velasquez Lopez seemed t' be at de 'ead of it all." Jean-Luc explained sketchily as he turned, just the top half of his body towards little Jean-Jacque and held his hand out. The wooden tube was produced seemingly from nowhere and passed to his waiting leader swiftly. And then it passed through his hands, being given to Remy just as quickly.
"What's dis?" Remy asked around his cigarette, turning the heavy wooden object over in his hands once or twice.
"Open it."
Remy cocked an eyebrow and then shrugged, pulling off the cap at the top and taking out the parchment. A musty whiff came out with it as bits of its dry and brittle edges scraped on the side of the tube, letting out a cloud of pig skin dust. Tucking the tube in the pit of his arm he used both hands to unfurl it; dark eyes roaming over it swiftly before rolling it back again and dropping it back into the tube.
"Why me?" He asked quickly as he plucked out his cigarette and tucked it down between two fingers.
Jean-Luc was surprised that Remy didn't even bother to question the matter like he had when Lopez had revealed to him the nature of the quest. But then he supposed the boy had seen so much strangeness in his fairly short life that the idea of anything did little to perturb his jaded mind. And now there was only one answer he could give to the question he had asked. One that, in a way, was the absolute truth. "I don' know Remy."
"Dey mus' 'ave given yo' some indication?" He shook his head, briefly pursing his lips, "I mean, it's not every day de Guild wan' an excommunicated t'ief to go out lookin' fo' a mythical object, hien?"
Jean-Luc regarded his son for a moment before turning to Thierry who was still near by, less pleased by the second at what was transpiring here. They'd had to rely on Gambit once before and although it saved their hide, he, and most other members of the clan were still bruised by that...disgusted that the fate of their Guild had been entirely in this traitors hands. They'd be damned if that had to happen again... "Thierry, yo' take de others into de nex' room." He requested, leaning in and speaking in an extremely low whisper.
"What's dis abou' Jean?" Thierry responded, equally quietly. Throwing a vicious glance over at the cause of his consternation, he added, a little more severely, "Yo' tell us first."
Jean-Luc shifted so that he was face-on to the tall, sandy haired man. "What did I jus' say t' yo' Thierry?"
"Damn it Jean-Luc, I'm yaw Chief Advisor," he seethed, "I won' be treated like dis---."
"An' I'm yaw leader." He spat back, everyone taken aback by the sudden raise in his dusky tone, "When I ask fo' somethin' t' be done, I expect it t' happen." Shifting back down an octave or two he stepped up closer to his loyal and trusted advisor, extending his finger out and pushing it to the centre of his chest, "I wan' a word wit' mah boy---in private. So yo' jus' do as I tol' yo', an' I'll explain everythin' later...okay?"
There was no response, simply an icy stare boring down on him.
"O...kay?" The finger pressed to the smooth magenta metal more insistently. The whole place seemed quiet as a grave, waiting tensely with baited breath.
"C'mon," He growled eventually, aiming the order at the other men convened although he was still glaring at LeBeau Snr. Then with a sweeping gesture of his cupped hand he ushered them all out of the room. But before he followed them as they trouped out, showing their distain for the situation even in that simple action, he remained close to his leader, almost whispering, "Dis bedduh be good Jean-Luc...mon Dieu, dis bedduh be damn good." He sucked in a harsh breath as if he were going to add something to the 'threat', cocking his head and bringing his hand up in gesticulation, but instead he pinched his mouth shut beneath his sandy coloured moustache, simply turned on his heal and went after the others.
As the clustered sound of their footfall echoed off down the tunnel Jean- Luc turned to the only other occupant that had ignored his request, and had remained in the room with Remy and him. "Yo' too chére."
Ororo looked not at the father but at the son, waiting the request from him for her to leave. If he wished it so then she would, if not she would stay, regardless of what Jean-Luc did or did not want. It made no difference to her. Remy gave her a tight smile, his eyes blinking slowly as he nodded to her, "It okay Stormy---do as 'e says." He turned back to Jean-Luc, "I t'ink dere are one o' two t'ings me an...Poppa 'ere, need t' talk 'bout."
"If you are sure?"
"Oui---don' worry, dis shit won' take long." Remy assured her.
With one last stern look at both men Ororo made her way out with the others, instinctively releasing that Remy needed this. Perhaps it was about time that he cleared to air, said some things to Jean-Luc that needed saying...had needed saying for too long now. Going out into the gloom of the corridor the reality of where she was suddenly flooded back. She pulled in a sharp breath of stale, tepid air as she came to a rest a hundred yards or so from the room and leant against the wall to her left. Trying to regulate her breathing, she pursed her eyes tight as her head bowed forwards from the wall; her hands laid flat against it behind her as if to steady herself and letting go would only cause her to crash to the ground. But through the crushingly oppressive feel of the underground space and the constant fevered mutterings of the others who had left the room somewhere off to her right, she fought to hold on. Focusing and concentrating her mind to a point of absolute clarity, just like the Professor had taught her over the years, she was confident she could get through this. Besides, they wouldn't be down here for much longer, she could only hope...
*
Taking a long, full drag, Remy paced back and forth a couple of times, creating a bit more distance between Jean-Luc and him in the process. He was desperately trying to cool his agitation because he wasn't all that sure where it was coming from or who it was really directed towards. Was it the Guild, his 'father'...or himself? So many conflicting emotions in so short a space of time---he was sure it wasn't good for him. Then the sound of Jean-Luc's voice made him stop dead again.
"It been a long time, non?"
Remy shrugged off-handily, "We've 'ad longer, mon pére." He tried not to sound spiteful but found it quite beyond him at this point.
"Look, I don' like dis---." He paused, as if thinking of a suitable way to describe what was happening appropriately, "---dis situation," he finally said, "any mo' dan yo' do but dese t'ings 'appen an' we 'ave to deal wit' it."
"Yo' mean like we dealt wit' dem in de past?" Jean-Luc fixed him with a questioning look, prompting Remy to repeat, unhurriedly, "...de past."
"What yo' tryin' t' get at Remy?" He asked quietly as he shifted, scuffing the heel of his boot on the floor. He began to walk to the side like he was slowly but surely starting the circle the other man.
In accordance Remy shifted also, but remained where he stood, turning just his head to track Jean-Luc's lazy pace, drifting leftwards. "Yo' know, I've 'ad years t' ponder dis question homme an' I been wonderin'---." He took another covetous inhale, "if I'd evah arrive at an answer. But den...den I finally realised---I been askin' de wrong person."
Jean-Luc came to a stop. "What de hell are yo' goin' on 'bout garçon? Askin' de wrong person what?" He asked, quite irritated by now; he'd had enough riddles for one night. It was almost four in the morning and he hadn't slept for over twenty-four hours, adding to that not one but two trans-state car rides, he felt about ready to drop.
Now, after all this time had passed, that he'd brought it up, Remy simply launched into it, but with no hostility, moreover a measured iciness, one that went right to the bone. "De question dat's been...eatin'...gnawin' away at me fo' years." he hesitated, dragging on his cigarette again perhaps out of nervous gesture but he did it with such a languid ease that it appeared not. "Did yo' take me into de Guild an' yaw home 'coz yo' wan'ed t' save me---or jus' 'coz o' dat damn photograph?" The cigarette dropped to the ground and he ground it under foot slowly; the thing could have been made of crushed glass for all the noise it made in the suddenly thick silence. "Which is it?"
"Dat's not fair Remy," Jean-Luc began staunchly, "Yo' know yo' couldn't 'ave been closer t' me if yo' were mah flesh an' blood."
Remy stared at him with that same ice fuelling the ruby glint in eyes that usually burned so hot...but not today. Today they were the coldest Jean-Luc had ever seen them. "I mean, could yo' 'onestly say dat yo' would o' cared less 'bout me if yo'd nevah seen it... 'onestly?"
Jean-Luc's jaw tightened inadvertently and his back teeth clicked as they clenched together with the action. It hurt him to hear this from Remy but maybe it hurt so much because deep down he knew that there was an element of truth in those words. The question was one he'd not cared to delve into too deeply ever since he'd been shown the picture of 'Le Blanco Diablo', a picture that hailed from three quarters of a century before Remy had even been born. Perhaps now really was the time for the truth..."When de Guild firs' got wind dat dere had been an enfant born wit' eyes dat were lit wit' de fires o' hell...de devils v'ry eyes, we knew....we knew..." He trailed off slowly.
"Yo' knew wha'?"
Jean-Luc shook his head, a look of utter sincerity in his mocha eyes, etched into every time line that marched its track down his well worn face, "I still loved yo' like yo' were mah own Remy...regardless." His heavy brow creased slightly, again a questioning look overcoming him, "Yo' do know dat, don' yo'?" And there, in those simple but loaded words Remy LeBeau felt he had his answer...
He had his eyes on the smooth wooden tube now, slowly twisting it over in his hands. Taking hold of one end firmly in his right one, he started to tap it absently in the palm of his left as he peered up at Jean-Luc from beneath his fringe, "Well, I wuz a means t' an end, non?" He held the tube up and briefly studied it with a wry smile, before taking his gaze back to the man he called 'Poppa', "I guess some t'ings...dey nevah change."
"Remy, don' leave it like dis." He called but didn't plead as Gambit started towards the door.
Without turning around, striding determinedly toward the gaping black hole, he said, "Remy'll get what yo' wan' homme."
"But?" The tone implied the word was coming.
He stopped and after a moment looked over his shoulder in Jean-Luc's general direction but never directly at him, "But...once dis is over, dat's it." He shook his head, almost dejected but not quite, "Remy's done...it over, yo' hear me...no more."
"I hear yo' son." Jean-Luc fairly whispered to himself as he stared at the void that Remy had disappeared through.
* * *
Remy walked quickly towards Ororo, slotting the light, old tube into an inside top pocket of his duster as he went. His concern piqued slightly as he approached the weather witch; still with her head bowed, 'propping' up against the wall but now she had one hand by her face; her thumb and index finger pinched at the bridge of her nose. "C'mon Stormy, let's get outta 'ere."
"For Goddess sake Remy," She chided, the words muffled by being spoken down into her chest. For a second she really did sound angry and as Remy approached her he gently placed his hand on her back, just below her neck. But at the moment he was about to try and say something comforting, believing that the confined space had finally gotten to her, Ororo pulled her head up and his fears were laid to rest. In fact, there was even a hint of an amused smile there, as she continued, softer this time, "How many times? Do not call me that!"
Remy uttered a relieved laugh, "Mon Dieu petit, yo' 'ad Remy worried there fo' a minu'e." He shook his head at her, "I t'ought yo' were gonna wig out on me dere."
"Not on your life." She replied confidently, though inwardly she was thanking the Professor teaching her those exercises. This was the first time she'd tried them in a real situation and although not a miracle cure, they had certainly helped. Anything was better than the way she used to react to being enclosed. "So, what is happening now?"
Remy let the hand that rested on her back trail around so that his arm enveloped her as he began to walk, taking her with him. He let out a rather over-dramatic, slightly flamboyant sigh and then grinned down at her, the gesture only just visible as they moved away from the light of the room and back into the darkness. "We gotta go see someone firs'---but 'ow yo' fancy a trip fo' two t' Brazil chére?"
"Brazil?" She exclaimed. "All that sun, sea and...Sangria---why ever not?"
Remy squeezed her to him and laughed, "Ah, dat's mah Stormy!" This time words would not suffice so instead, she hit him lightly in the chest for using that appalling nick-name, much to his further merriment. But as they walked off into the pitch black again there was no way Ororo could see the look that consumed his face, betraying the outward bravado completely.
-TBC-
As always, I love to hear your feed back, good or bad, it gets me writing!
Just a bit of French again in this chapter; 'Enquiquiner'= Bother, pest.
'Traitresse'= Treacherous
'Cochon'= Pig
'Mont-de- piété'= Pawnshop
Chapter.6.
Her throat was still dry and she was compelled to blink back the water that was starting at the corners of her eyes. They weren't tears as such, more a symptom of her nervous reaction as her orbs widened in an attempt to see in the consuming gloom. Her hand gripped of its own volition to Remy's and she received a brief squeeze of reassurance back from him but it did little to still her beating heart. Ororo's sense of apprehension weighed heavy on Gambit's mind as he searched his way forwards, their footsteps sounding all the more hollow for the dark. He was perfectly aware that she could handle herself, but it didn't stop him from worrying about her. After all, she was only down here because of him. As they moved on quickly in the suffocating silence, her free hand crept up to her neck; gloved fingers reaching like long tendrils to close over the heart shaped sapphire that still hung about her. She pressed her fingers tightly around Piotr's precious keep-sake as her eyes squeezed shut briefly; it gave her a measure of comfort to feel it in her covered palm, the chain hanging cold and hard against the hot skin of her exposed neck. The moisture that had collected in the corners of her eyes ran warmly down her cheeks in a slow trickle, forcing her to release the necklace so that she could wipe them away swiftly, for although there was no way he could see in this light, she didn't want Remy to think that she was crying...because she most certainly wasn't.
"Yo' okay?" He turned his head in her direction at the sound of her gloves brushing against the skin of her cheeks.
"Yes."
They carried on in silence for a little while longer; the corridor never seeming to come to an end in the blackness. Remy tried to think of something to say to perhaps take her mind off of where she was. If she had something else to concentrate on then maybe she'd forget about the narrowness of the tunnel for a while. "It not like de old days no more."
"What?" She replied as if distracted.
"All dis runnin' around to back-street pawn shops." He waved his free hand in indication of his surroundings but of course, it was too dark for her to see what he did, but she didn't feel the stir in the air that the motion caused. "Dere used t' be t'ree meetin' places for de Guild, official meetin' places. One out by de Bayou an' two near de swamps. No messin' around wit' secret rooms under no goddamn Mont-de-piété." He said the last part almost resentfully. She didn't say anything so he just continued, simply in the hope of keeping her attention. "But de Guilds, both T'ieves an' Assassins, dey don't own Nawlin's like dey used to. De people, dey jus' won't tolerate it."
"But they still fear you." She said suddenly, her tone flat and matter-of- fact.
"Hmm?" He looked over his shoulder briefly, as she was trailing him somewhat, just about making out the sharp white line of her hair. "What yo' mean girl?"
"The shop keeper." Remy made an indistinct noise, so she continued, "He was scared of you---terrified in fact. What reason would he have to be so fearful of a mere thief?"
Remy chewed his lip a little, feeling guilty about the smile that was creeping onto them, trying to halt it. He had no right to be proud about what he was going to say. "We may no' be Assassins chére, but dat don' mean we a soft touch."
"From the behaviour of the New York Guild, I would say not." She cut in sardonically, not at all impressed with the idea of the Thieves being as bad as Assassins.
"People in dis town live by a different way of life 'Ro." He said by way of explanation, almost trying to plead the Thieves case. "Dere are t'ings dat 'ave gone on fo' generations an' some people, like 'im upstairs, still live by dose old rules, even if mos' people are gettin' wise t' dem. So if de T'ieves say dey want somet'in' from yo', yo' give it, no questions."
"And so they live in your shadow, afraid of the consequences if they do not do as you say." She completed his sentiment, with distain, some of the steel returning to her voice.
"I know chére, I know," He professed, regretfully. "It stinks---but dat's jus' de way it is." After a thoughtful moment he added, "Who are we t' argue, hien?"
"Who indeed."
They came to a corner, navigating it carefully only to be confronted with yet more darkness of a much more definite pitch than before. Remy winced inwardly at the sound of Ororo taking in a sharp breath that she'd obviously tried to stifle. But she failed to stop herself in time; the stale air rushing in with a harsh rasp. He stopped, letting her come up to his side as she had been lagging behind him a step or two. Taking his left hand from her grasp, with some difficulty, she had begun to grip it with such virulence, and instead, he wrapped his arm about her waist and took up her hand again with his right one as if guiding her. "I got yo'." He whispered tenderly near her ear, his lips ghosting over them, light as the air that flowed from his softly spoken words. She blinked her eyes again and nodded as he began to move them forwards, at a slower pace than before.
"So, when we goin' t' Tokyo den?" He asked out of the blue to distract her again. It seemed to have worked so well the last time, he thought he'd try his luck again.
"I do not know." She replied unsurely, trying and failing to hide the quiver in her voice.
"Alright---den let me set a date. One weeks time?" He inquired, only to answer the question himself. "Yah. We sample a bit o' de festivities 'ere and den we go t' Tokyo an' yo' can show me wha' dey really got, chéri."
"Okay." The hint of the quiver was still beneath the surface.
"On one condition though, mah petit."
"Oh? What?" She said with a hint of lightness returning.
His brow furrowed somewhat sardonically, "Yo' keep dat 'enquiquiner' outta mah way." He growled, although it was said in good humour a part of him was serious. There were very few people who truly got on Remy LeBeau's nerves but there was a certain person in Japan was most definitely had that special...talent for it.
Ororo laughed, genuinely, relaxing for a brief moment. Remy had never had too much of a liking for her close friend Yukio. To be fair, the woman would try the patient of a saint and it had taken Ororo a while herself to tune into the woman's---peculiar sense of humour and that daredevil-in-the- extreme zest for life that she wore so proudly on her sleeve. She seemed to intimidate most men, even Logan and that took some doing. "Alright, I agree. I will take you to all our old haunts in Tokyo but I will make sure I keep her at arms length from you." The hint of the laugh was still in her words.
"Yo'd better." He grumbled and then laughed briefly at his own grumpiness. He didn't know what it was about that woman but she just had the uncanny knack of being able to rub him up the wrong way. There weren't many people in the world that could do that; she was certainly unique in that respect. But then just thinking about her reminded him of the occasion when he'd stitched her up in London a few of years ago and a wry smile lifted upwards in the darkness. He didn't feel in the least bit remorseful for it, he could even justify it to himself because she'd attempted to pull the same trick on him and it had obviously backfired...badly. "It's a 'date' den?" He asked suddenly, referring to the original promise.
"It is a 'date'." She confirmed, feeling ten times better than she had mere minutes ago as they rounded another corner and the ground began to slope alarmingly underfoot. But at the end of this section of tunnel they were greeted by a light at the far end. Much to Storm's eternal relief.
* * *
It had to have been his seventieth length at least as he touched the cold, tiled rim of the swimming pool before diving back under, rolling around and starting on his seventy-first, pushing off the side with both feet like a coiled spring. The time had rolled on to nearly three o'clock, two fifty three to be more precise but the Professor hadn't noticed as he touched base at the other end of the Olympic sized indoor pool, his hand smacking down on the ridged tiles with a wet slap before going back under for more. His body ached from head to foot and even though Hank had told him that swimming was one of the best ways to get his full mobility back, he certainly wouldn't have agreed with him pushing his body this hard. He was still frail and they had yet to find the answer as to why his legs had begun working again after the trauma with Cassandra Nova. But he wasn't going hell for leather from end to end as merely a physical exercise, moreover a cathartic one. He did it quite often, when things were getting on top of him and he needed to simply work it all off.
Was he right to let them go on their own? The question wrung in his head, doing lap after lap as was his body. Especially with Remy in his current condition, if one could call it such; a loss of power wasn't exactly terminal, but it could feel as such. He regretted now that he hadn't sat him down and talked to man, like any good surrogate father would to a son in need. He'd wanted to but things came up, time drifted on and it felt like the window had disappeared; the opportunity never arose. And over the weeks that had passed since his return he sank into defensive silence and as Xavier had then anticipated the explosion eventually came, just hours earlier. He really couldn't blame Gambit for being angry or feeling let down because in all truth he had let him down---they all had perhaps...
"Don't you think you've had enough?"
As Charles reached the rim again, he stopped, his eyes falling on a pair of sensible brown loafers and the slouched hem of straight, crisply ironed charcoal trousers. He gripped with both hands at the side of the pool as he looked up to see Scott Summers gazing down at him from behind ruby lenses, the shapes of his eyes just discernable through the metallically opaque red in the ever changing light.
"Hello Scott." He said before wiping one hand down his face to usher off the rapidly cooling rivulets that were slow to travel. "What are you still doing up?"
"I could be asking you the same thing sir." He replied benevolently as he crouched down on his haunches in front of the Professor. "But I think we'd both have the same answer to that one."
"Indeed." Charles said a little grimly, his eyes casting down to the still choppy water about his chest as his breathing continued in a heaving motion from exertion.
"Let me help you." Scott offered out a hand to the Professor but he shook his head, waving a hand to decline and then pushed off the side, but only with enough momentum to glide him over to the steel steps in the left hand corner. Taking hold of the middle rung he heaved his body weight up before moving his hands onto the two poles at the side of the steps and getting a foothold onto the ladders. Scott walked over to the wooden bench that ran the length of the north wall, picking up a large blue towel and taking it over to Charles who was by now completely out of the water. He'd had his cane waiting for him by the ladders so he didn't have to hobble anywhere on the perilously wet floor of the pool room.
"Thank-you." He said as he took the towel, wrapping it tightly, if somewhat awkwardly about his waist; juggling the task with keeping a hold on his cane. Once he'd done that he made his way over to the bench, sitting down slightly stiffly, uttering a sigh of relief once he'd done so.
"You should be taking it easy Charles," Scott joined him, taking up the vacant space at his side, a worried look on his face as he watched the Professor labouring with his respiration still. "You're pushing yourself to hard." He warned.
Xavier had his eyes closed as his head rested on the cold damp tiles behind him; tilted so that his chin was half toward the stars, his mouth agape. "I'm fine Scott. Don't make a fuss over me." He waved a dismissive but weary hand in the general direction of where he thought Scott was. "But I am troubled---I shouldn't have let them go."
"Let them go?" Scott said with an incredulous laugh. "You didn't let them go anywhere, it was their choice. They're both adults and more than capable of looking after themselves."
"No Scott, you don't understand." He brought his head back down and turned to the side to fix Scott with his pale blue eyes. "I've lost my Windrider once---I don't want to lose her again." He shook his head a little, his face taking on a not often seen fretful look, "If I can help it, I don't want to lose either of them again. Remy needs time to adjust and I can't see him doing that anywhere else but here, at the mansion---with the X- Men." His head rolled over to the side after his confession to face the row of large windows on his right. The glimmer from the sickle shaped moon shone brightly in spite of its size and the early morning sky was already fading into an elegant blanket of royal blue. All was silent outside, not even the merest breeze to stir anything that grew and lived. There didn't even appear to be a single animal around the estate or beyond its boundaries off into the rolling hills of rural Westchester. "When I spoke to them," he began, his eyes still on the faint but growing light flowing in through the several vast sheets of glass, "I made excuses as to why I didn't want them to go...well, they were half truths I suppose." He fell silent again, as if contemplating what had gone on in the office before they'd left. Then turning back to look at Scott; pushing up on the bench so that his back lay flush against the cold tiles of the wall, he said, with a little irritation burning through, "Remy has worked so hard to divest himself of those people...I do not want to see him tempted back into that world now that he feels his life as an X-Man is over."
"Mistakenly feels." Scott corrected as he absently nodded his head, agreeing with his mentor. He knew better than anyone; once an X-Man always an X-Man. "And for the record, I don't think he ever would---go back to them I mean. Even if that is what they want from him." He shifted position; his soles scuffing on the raised grips of the floor as he rested his weight evenly on both hands; laid flat on the condensation damp bench. "But I have to admit, I do feel a little bad about them going it alone...but the school comes first. It may have been quiet lately but we know just about anything could flare up at a moments notice."
Xavier nodded in agreement and then interest suddenly piqued in his eyes as if something had sparked in his memory. "That reminds me, Warren phoned at about eleven."
"Oh yeah? How are he and young Paige doing?"
"Yes, they're fine." He informed him amiably. "He only phoned to say they'd be back within' the week probably and that they'd pick Jubilee up from her friends place in Chicago on their way through."
"Good. The more of the team we have here the better." The leader part of his brain had been constantly worrying that they'd been rather to thin on the ground these days with all their teaching commitments and such. "And any word from Logan?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
"Figures." He said dryly but there was no malice in the sentiment. He looked out over the pool that was now deathly still; a solid block of ocean blue with thick black lines running through it. "If you keep regular checks on them via Cerebra," he said, going back to the matter at hand, that was concerning both men, "We can be ready at the first sign of trouble---we'll be there for them."
"Yes." He agreed; his tone mild and affirming as he laid his hand on Scott's shoulder. He gave a rare warm smile, his light eyes not seeming quite as cold as they sometimes could. "Now---we should rest." Scott helped him up until he'd steadied himself on his cane. "You've got a class first thing." He stated quite matter-of-factly as they walked somewhat awkwardly towards the door.
Scott looked momentarily confused as he tried to remember his roster for the following day. There was no gym or Danger Room sessions scheduled for tomorrow, to his mind anyway. "What lessons?"
Charles couldn't stop a smirk as he said, "French---nine am sharp."
"What?!" He exclaimed, he'd never spoken a word of the language in his life.
"I'm sorry," It took his all to keep straight faced. "Did I not tell you? You have Ororo's French class until she gets back."
"You've got to be kidding?" A rather perturbed Scott exclaimed, "But I can't---."
"Do not worry," Charles said, lifting his right hand to quiet his erstwhile X-leader. "Ororo always keeps detailed lesson plans, all you have to do is hand them out. I'm sure the students will cope." He cleared his throat, his mirth quite obvious, "Even if you don't!"
"Great." He grumbled flatly as they left the pool room to its nightly silence. But just as he thought it couldn't get any worse Xavier dropped his last bombshell.
"I'll leave it to you to tell Jean she has level one Arabic at two pm." Scott groaned and then they both laughed as they left the pool house completely and made there way along the connecting thoroughfare that lead back into the mansion.
* * *
The New Orleans Thieves clearly still liked to convene in style; Ororo had to give them that much; even if it was deep underneath a cluttered and dirty little pawnshop. The place was set out as one would imagine a throne room to look, except it was very much sans a throne, she thought as she let her eyes roam over the drapes and wall hangings that were emblazoned with the Guilds crest and dyed in their colours. She was only so very much fascinated in her surroundings because it took her mind off the fact that no matter how large the room was she was still fairly deep below surface level. But she had a handle on it; she was utterly determined to remain calm, immersing herself in her Goddess stoicism, especially since there were several sets of what could only be described as hostile eyes focused directly on her and Remy. The gulf of the yellow-stoned room lay between them and those eyes but that made their impact no less searing; though Storm hadn't failed to heed that Remy was returning it in kind. To one man in particular, it seemed...
As all ten occupants stood in almost impenetrable silence, Ororo tried to pull on her memory to see if she recognised any of the Thieves; all dressed out in full guild uniform, befitting their obviously high ranking positions within their clan. She failed to place a single one; Jean-Luc LeBeau only being conspicuous by his absence thus far. Somebody coughed and the rough sound only compounded the hush that had settled. But there was no echo; the walls absorbed it like a sponge.
Her eyes eventually fell upon Remy once more, standing rigidly at her side; all of his easy manner that he'd displayed to calm her on they way down here having disappeared as soon as they'd crossed the threshold into the room. He was almost like a different person, hard as stone in the face of the men that had rejected him but now called upon his help for whatever reason; a reason that they had failed to divulge as of yet. It didn't strike Ororo as the type of behaviour of persons who direly needed the help of a supposed enemy. She thought they might have been a little more...becoming. But given the way they'd approached him, maybe that was just wishful thinking.
Remy continued, what seemed to Storm, his battle of wills with the sandy haired man, whom was stood roughly central in the group of men. He was stocky, broad shouldered and his chest was buffeted even beneath the magenta coloured body plate that lay over it. That light hair was drawn into a plaited 'rat's tail' at the back, as was the hair of most of the men present, and still quite thick despite its receding line at either temple. Slowly the man moved; folding his arms with their steel plate elbow length gloves, over his chest as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The expression of his face changed; from being as subtle a glower as Remy's, to one of...conceit? He opened his mouth to speak, being quite deliberate in the action, as if to get absolute attention from everybody present before actually uttering any words.
"What yo' been doin' wit' yo'self garçon?" The question might have been totally innocuous in itself, like an estranged friend inquiring after his old buddy, but it was nothing more than a taunt...and Remy rose to the bait.
At first Gambit laughed as he turned his head to the side, wanting suddenly to look anywhere but at that man. He recognised the intention but couldn't stop himself as his face suddenly dropped into a mask of seriousness again, the laugh stopped abruptly on his lips and he faced him again, "Fuck you, Thierry."
The man named Thierry shook his head slowly from side to side and issued a series of patronising *tuts*. "Now Remy, yo' forget yaw manners?" He drawled lazily, still shaking his head at the perceived impertinence. "'As all dat time in New York City turned yo' into a foul-mouthed li'll punk wit' no respect fo' 'is 'bedduhs'?"
Remy continued to give him the same black look, but said nothing more, determined not to give him the satisfaction a second time around.
"I t'ink dis boy fo'got 'ow to address de Guild Higher Council. What yo' t'ink hommes?" He tilted his head briefly towards the other men who were slightly behind him; the gesture enough to indicate their silent backing. "Den what yo' say we teach de traitresse cochon, befo'e 'is Poppa get back?"
"You teach him a lesson and you will swiftly find yourselves at the wrong end of another one." All eyes fell onto Ororo and all half laughs and cock- sure mutterings ceased. She may not have recognised any of them but they certainly hadn't mistaken a six foot tall African woman with white hair and blue eyes as anyone other than the X-Men's legendary Weather Mistress, Storm. A tussle with her was certainly not what they were looking for.
"I don' need yo' t' fight mah battles fo' me chére." Remy suddenly warned her darkly and then turned to face the Guild Council. "Dese jokers wan' a piece o' me, den dere welcome to it---dey jus' shouldn' expect an easy ride." As he said this Remy reached into his coat, unhooking his Bo staff from his belt; it was the ordinary one though, not Hank's lethal contraption. Flicking it forwards it extended with a sharp snap and scrape of metal sliding at speed against metal. Instantly, the eight men stood to attention, their easy stances disappearing and quickly replaced with ones that were ready for action.
Thierry Mauvais was the only one to venture forwards, similarly reaching for his own weapon of choice; a long rapier sharp blade. It was apart of his full uniform, held in a beautiful gold encrusted scabbard at his left hip and primarily for show, but when the occasion fit he could handle it and had not hesitated to use it to lethal affect before today. "I don' care 'bout why Jean-Luc wants yo' 'ere Remy," He ground out as he approached Gambit, sword firmly in hand. "'Coz no one else sure as hell does."
"Yo' tell me why he does." Remy held his staff out threateningly to the man that had once been as close to him as an uncle. A man who'd bathed him as a child, played ball with him and comforted him when the other clan children shunned the Diablo Enfant as a freak and a monster, amongst other things over the years. But he somehow managed to block all this from his mind as he held the sleek pole steady; ready to strike him down if needs be, as he repeated in almost a slow, deliberate growl, "Yo' tell me why...he...does. Or I swear t' God Thierry, I'll be de las' t'ing yo' see."
Ororo swallowed hard; she knew the threat was empty, but a part of her...somewhere deep inside a part of her flinched at those words. This whole torrid little scene left a distinctly nasty taste in her mouth.
"Back off Remy---dis ain't what yaw here fo'." Everybody in the room turned to the voice at the door; Jean-Luc's rumbling timbre. Everyone accept the two men stood with weapons that was. After holding Thierry's gaze for an age, reluctantly Gambit tore his eyes away, inclining his head slowly over to the doorway at his right hand side. "Back off garçon ...now." Jean-Luc warned.
Remy's arm fell down to his side, the end of his staff clattering against the stone floor but he still maintained a firm grip on it closer at his end. Three years....it had been close to three years since he'd last seen his father. All the old, familiar thoughts and feelings came back. Ones he'd been convinced had been buried long ago, the most prominent being that anger of a young man cast out on his own, with only his youthful fury to bury the deeper feelings of loss and hurt. That was the same young man who had led the Marauders into those tunnels on that fateful night long ago, only to realise too late that he'd been betrayed, yet again...In a flash of complete clarity, Remy felt the overwhelming urge to just get himself and his Stormy the hell out of there---resentful at the thought that he was probably about to be used once more. But in the end he couldn't and what irked him the most is that he knew that...had known that from the very first moment that this had all started. He could never, never walk away...
"Make dis quick," He took a couple of steps in the opposite direction from the door before turning to his father, "...Jean."
"Don' worry, I will." He replied equally as cold as he came into the room, his ever watchful goons Pierre and Jean-Jacque still with him. In fact they'd only just arrived back from Natchez, tearing along as fast as they could all the way. LeBeau had only managed to quickly tell Thierry to assemble the other members of the High Council, but hadn't had chance to tell them why. Other than to expect an unwelcome visitor.
"Dey attacked mah friends." Remy suddenly blurted out as Jean-Luc came to stand more-or-less between his son and his Chief Advisor.
"Quoi?"
"Dere good people homme an' dem New York dicks yo' sent t' get me---dey attacked dem." Remy ground out angrily, his Cajun lilt so thick the words would have been indecipherable to an outsider. "Why couldn' yo' o' jus' asked me?!"
"I didn' send dem." He intoned calmly.
"What if I'd still been in de school, hien?" He shot out, not hearing him, or not choosing to at any rate. "What would o' happened den, wit all dose enfants aroun'? Yo' not give a fuck 'bout dat?"
"I didn' send dem." Jean-Luc repeated with the same consideration.
Remy regarded him sceptically for a moment, giving him chance to regain his composure, tame this see-saw mood of his that had been up and down at least a dozen times within the last eight hours alone. "Den Remy's sure dere mus' 'ave been easier ways to get 'is attention, yo' know what I'm sayin'?"
"It wasn' mah fault, dere was nothin' I could 'ave done t' stop dem Remy." He said earnestly, looking his boy right in the eyes as he spoke. "Believe me, if I'd 'ave known, I'd o' done somet'in'."
Remy tilted his face down shook his head dismissively and then reached up and rubbed his fingers a couple of times along the fore part; pushing them down on the skin with some pressure. Then he snapped his Bo staff back into its neat containment and clipped it back onto his belt. "Look...it don' madduh---what's done is done." He mumbled quietly, never once looking back up at Jean-Luc as he turned away, fishing around in his pocket and quickly finding his cigarettes and striking one up. He glanced over at Ororo; a silent look passing effortlessly between them, a communication so attuned as to be almost subliminal. Turning back around, he tipped his head up and let out a long and cloudy exhale up into the air like a smoking chimney. "Den spit it out---why you wan' me?"
"It ain't us, several o' de uddah Guilds got together---Velasquez Lopez seemed t' be at de 'ead of it all." Jean-Luc explained sketchily as he turned, just the top half of his body towards little Jean-Jacque and held his hand out. The wooden tube was produced seemingly from nowhere and passed to his waiting leader swiftly. And then it passed through his hands, being given to Remy just as quickly.
"What's dis?" Remy asked around his cigarette, turning the heavy wooden object over in his hands once or twice.
"Open it."
Remy cocked an eyebrow and then shrugged, pulling off the cap at the top and taking out the parchment. A musty whiff came out with it as bits of its dry and brittle edges scraped on the side of the tube, letting out a cloud of pig skin dust. Tucking the tube in the pit of his arm he used both hands to unfurl it; dark eyes roaming over it swiftly before rolling it back again and dropping it back into the tube.
"Why me?" He asked quickly as he plucked out his cigarette and tucked it down between two fingers.
Jean-Luc was surprised that Remy didn't even bother to question the matter like he had when Lopez had revealed to him the nature of the quest. But then he supposed the boy had seen so much strangeness in his fairly short life that the idea of anything did little to perturb his jaded mind. And now there was only one answer he could give to the question he had asked. One that, in a way, was the absolute truth. "I don' know Remy."
"Dey mus' 'ave given yo' some indication?" He shook his head, briefly pursing his lips, "I mean, it's not every day de Guild wan' an excommunicated t'ief to go out lookin' fo' a mythical object, hien?"
Jean-Luc regarded his son for a moment before turning to Thierry who was still near by, less pleased by the second at what was transpiring here. They'd had to rely on Gambit once before and although it saved their hide, he, and most other members of the clan were still bruised by that...disgusted that the fate of their Guild had been entirely in this traitors hands. They'd be damned if that had to happen again... "Thierry, yo' take de others into de nex' room." He requested, leaning in and speaking in an extremely low whisper.
"What's dis abou' Jean?" Thierry responded, equally quietly. Throwing a vicious glance over at the cause of his consternation, he added, a little more severely, "Yo' tell us first."
Jean-Luc shifted so that he was face-on to the tall, sandy haired man. "What did I jus' say t' yo' Thierry?"
"Damn it Jean-Luc, I'm yaw Chief Advisor," he seethed, "I won' be treated like dis---."
"An' I'm yaw leader." He spat back, everyone taken aback by the sudden raise in his dusky tone, "When I ask fo' somethin' t' be done, I expect it t' happen." Shifting back down an octave or two he stepped up closer to his loyal and trusted advisor, extending his finger out and pushing it to the centre of his chest, "I wan' a word wit' mah boy---in private. So yo' jus' do as I tol' yo', an' I'll explain everythin' later...okay?"
There was no response, simply an icy stare boring down on him.
"O...kay?" The finger pressed to the smooth magenta metal more insistently. The whole place seemed quiet as a grave, waiting tensely with baited breath.
"C'mon," He growled eventually, aiming the order at the other men convened although he was still glaring at LeBeau Snr. Then with a sweeping gesture of his cupped hand he ushered them all out of the room. But before he followed them as they trouped out, showing their distain for the situation even in that simple action, he remained close to his leader, almost whispering, "Dis bedduh be good Jean-Luc...mon Dieu, dis bedduh be damn good." He sucked in a harsh breath as if he were going to add something to the 'threat', cocking his head and bringing his hand up in gesticulation, but instead he pinched his mouth shut beneath his sandy coloured moustache, simply turned on his heal and went after the others.
As the clustered sound of their footfall echoed off down the tunnel Jean- Luc turned to the only other occupant that had ignored his request, and had remained in the room with Remy and him. "Yo' too chére."
Ororo looked not at the father but at the son, waiting the request from him for her to leave. If he wished it so then she would, if not she would stay, regardless of what Jean-Luc did or did not want. It made no difference to her. Remy gave her a tight smile, his eyes blinking slowly as he nodded to her, "It okay Stormy---do as 'e says." He turned back to Jean-Luc, "I t'ink dere are one o' two t'ings me an...Poppa 'ere, need t' talk 'bout."
"If you are sure?"
"Oui---don' worry, dis shit won' take long." Remy assured her.
With one last stern look at both men Ororo made her way out with the others, instinctively releasing that Remy needed this. Perhaps it was about time that he cleared to air, said some things to Jean-Luc that needed saying...had needed saying for too long now. Going out into the gloom of the corridor the reality of where she was suddenly flooded back. She pulled in a sharp breath of stale, tepid air as she came to a rest a hundred yards or so from the room and leant against the wall to her left. Trying to regulate her breathing, she pursed her eyes tight as her head bowed forwards from the wall; her hands laid flat against it behind her as if to steady herself and letting go would only cause her to crash to the ground. But through the crushingly oppressive feel of the underground space and the constant fevered mutterings of the others who had left the room somewhere off to her right, she fought to hold on. Focusing and concentrating her mind to a point of absolute clarity, just like the Professor had taught her over the years, she was confident she could get through this. Besides, they wouldn't be down here for much longer, she could only hope...
*
Taking a long, full drag, Remy paced back and forth a couple of times, creating a bit more distance between Jean-Luc and him in the process. He was desperately trying to cool his agitation because he wasn't all that sure where it was coming from or who it was really directed towards. Was it the Guild, his 'father'...or himself? So many conflicting emotions in so short a space of time---he was sure it wasn't good for him. Then the sound of Jean-Luc's voice made him stop dead again.
"It been a long time, non?"
Remy shrugged off-handily, "We've 'ad longer, mon pére." He tried not to sound spiteful but found it quite beyond him at this point.
"Look, I don' like dis---." He paused, as if thinking of a suitable way to describe what was happening appropriately, "---dis situation," he finally said, "any mo' dan yo' do but dese t'ings 'appen an' we 'ave to deal wit' it."
"Yo' mean like we dealt wit' dem in de past?" Jean-Luc fixed him with a questioning look, prompting Remy to repeat, unhurriedly, "...de past."
"What yo' tryin' t' get at Remy?" He asked quietly as he shifted, scuffing the heel of his boot on the floor. He began to walk to the side like he was slowly but surely starting the circle the other man.
In accordance Remy shifted also, but remained where he stood, turning just his head to track Jean-Luc's lazy pace, drifting leftwards. "Yo' know, I've 'ad years t' ponder dis question homme an' I been wonderin'---." He took another covetous inhale, "if I'd evah arrive at an answer. But den...den I finally realised---I been askin' de wrong person."
Jean-Luc came to a stop. "What de hell are yo' goin' on 'bout garçon? Askin' de wrong person what?" He asked, quite irritated by now; he'd had enough riddles for one night. It was almost four in the morning and he hadn't slept for over twenty-four hours, adding to that not one but two trans-state car rides, he felt about ready to drop.
Now, after all this time had passed, that he'd brought it up, Remy simply launched into it, but with no hostility, moreover a measured iciness, one that went right to the bone. "De question dat's been...eatin'...gnawin' away at me fo' years." he hesitated, dragging on his cigarette again perhaps out of nervous gesture but he did it with such a languid ease that it appeared not. "Did yo' take me into de Guild an' yaw home 'coz yo' wan'ed t' save me---or jus' 'coz o' dat damn photograph?" The cigarette dropped to the ground and he ground it under foot slowly; the thing could have been made of crushed glass for all the noise it made in the suddenly thick silence. "Which is it?"
"Dat's not fair Remy," Jean-Luc began staunchly, "Yo' know yo' couldn't 'ave been closer t' me if yo' were mah flesh an' blood."
Remy stared at him with that same ice fuelling the ruby glint in eyes that usually burned so hot...but not today. Today they were the coldest Jean-Luc had ever seen them. "I mean, could yo' 'onestly say dat yo' would o' cared less 'bout me if yo'd nevah seen it... 'onestly?"
Jean-Luc's jaw tightened inadvertently and his back teeth clicked as they clenched together with the action. It hurt him to hear this from Remy but maybe it hurt so much because deep down he knew that there was an element of truth in those words. The question was one he'd not cared to delve into too deeply ever since he'd been shown the picture of 'Le Blanco Diablo', a picture that hailed from three quarters of a century before Remy had even been born. Perhaps now really was the time for the truth..."When de Guild firs' got wind dat dere had been an enfant born wit' eyes dat were lit wit' de fires o' hell...de devils v'ry eyes, we knew....we knew..." He trailed off slowly.
"Yo' knew wha'?"
Jean-Luc shook his head, a look of utter sincerity in his mocha eyes, etched into every time line that marched its track down his well worn face, "I still loved yo' like yo' were mah own Remy...regardless." His heavy brow creased slightly, again a questioning look overcoming him, "Yo' do know dat, don' yo'?" And there, in those simple but loaded words Remy LeBeau felt he had his answer...
He had his eyes on the smooth wooden tube now, slowly twisting it over in his hands. Taking hold of one end firmly in his right one, he started to tap it absently in the palm of his left as he peered up at Jean-Luc from beneath his fringe, "Well, I wuz a means t' an end, non?" He held the tube up and briefly studied it with a wry smile, before taking his gaze back to the man he called 'Poppa', "I guess some t'ings...dey nevah change."
"Remy, don' leave it like dis." He called but didn't plead as Gambit started towards the door.
Without turning around, striding determinedly toward the gaping black hole, he said, "Remy'll get what yo' wan' homme."
"But?" The tone implied the word was coming.
He stopped and after a moment looked over his shoulder in Jean-Luc's general direction but never directly at him, "But...once dis is over, dat's it." He shook his head, almost dejected but not quite, "Remy's done...it over, yo' hear me...no more."
"I hear yo' son." Jean-Luc fairly whispered to himself as he stared at the void that Remy had disappeared through.
* * *
Remy walked quickly towards Ororo, slotting the light, old tube into an inside top pocket of his duster as he went. His concern piqued slightly as he approached the weather witch; still with her head bowed, 'propping' up against the wall but now she had one hand by her face; her thumb and index finger pinched at the bridge of her nose. "C'mon Stormy, let's get outta 'ere."
"For Goddess sake Remy," She chided, the words muffled by being spoken down into her chest. For a second she really did sound angry and as Remy approached her he gently placed his hand on her back, just below her neck. But at the moment he was about to try and say something comforting, believing that the confined space had finally gotten to her, Ororo pulled her head up and his fears were laid to rest. In fact, there was even a hint of an amused smile there, as she continued, softer this time, "How many times? Do not call me that!"
Remy uttered a relieved laugh, "Mon Dieu petit, yo' 'ad Remy worried there fo' a minu'e." He shook his head at her, "I t'ought yo' were gonna wig out on me dere."
"Not on your life." She replied confidently, though inwardly she was thanking the Professor teaching her those exercises. This was the first time she'd tried them in a real situation and although not a miracle cure, they had certainly helped. Anything was better than the way she used to react to being enclosed. "So, what is happening now?"
Remy let the hand that rested on her back trail around so that his arm enveloped her as he began to walk, taking her with him. He let out a rather over-dramatic, slightly flamboyant sigh and then grinned down at her, the gesture only just visible as they moved away from the light of the room and back into the darkness. "We gotta go see someone firs'---but 'ow yo' fancy a trip fo' two t' Brazil chére?"
"Brazil?" She exclaimed. "All that sun, sea and...Sangria---why ever not?"
Remy squeezed her to him and laughed, "Ah, dat's mah Stormy!" This time words would not suffice so instead, she hit him lightly in the chest for using that appalling nick-name, much to his further merriment. But as they walked off into the pitch black again there was no way Ororo could see the look that consumed his face, betraying the outward bravado completely.
-TBC-
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