Disclaimer: Marvel own these characters. If we owned them, you'd probably be reading this story in a comic strip rather than on this crazy site. One day we'll infiltrate Marvel! One day! Muahahahahahaha! XD
A/N: Apologies for the huge lateness of the update. The two of us got busy and this fic was way down on our priority lists...You know how it us with us temperamental creative types - sometimes a fic dies a temporary death and then rises from the ashes again... :p And yes, we have decided to reveal ourselves... Sugah & Spice are actually those scintillating sisters of Romy fanfiction - angyxoxo and Ludi :general applause and lots of bowing:general tomato throwing and lots of booing: If this fic dies another temporary death, and you want to complain about it, this now gives you the added bonus of being able to personally insult us by name. Flames will be ignored. Generous lashings of praise will, as always, be welcomed. ;)
Enjoy the latest installment!
-Ludi (the artiste formerly known as 'Spice')
Just wanted to add in that... actually, I don't know what to add in. Ludi seems to have said all that is needed to be said. Damn her! She always beats me to the punch :P And I know it's not Wednesday, but here's a special treat for you all. To all our lovely fans out there (if we have any left after this long hiatus) kisses and hugs to all! You're all so lovely! Now, return those kisses and hugs! We want to feel loved as well ;p
Read, Enjoy,and Review!
-angyxoxo (the artiste formerly known as 'Sugah')
Mix 'n' Match
(7) Tactical Errors
I'm actually quaking in my Jimmy Choo boots by the time I arrive in the conference room.
I'd spent fifteen minutes in my cube trying to psyche myself up – or, in other words, to work out some amazing bluff that'd get me out of yet another sticky situation. It was no good. I could think of nothing. Rogue never runs, so best thing to do was lay low and hope everyone would forget about me.
However, being late didn't help at all. As soon as I walked in I ended up interrupting someone's speech and earning myself some nettled looks. So, mumbling apologies, I slid into my seat and tried to make myself look as inconspicuous as possible. Unfortunately, today was the day I'd decided to wear a low-cut V-neck (what on earth possessed me to do that?), so I ended up feeling more self-conscious than usual. Especially with the way that perv Remy LeBeau was always eyeing me up like I was a piece of meat on a market slab.
Ororo Munroe was sitting at the head of the table along with Mr. God's-Gift-to-Women. The two of them already seemed quite cozy together. Why did that not surprise me?
"Did Ah miss anythin'?" I whisper to Peter Rasputin, who I happen to be sitting next to.
"Not if you take interest in anything boring old Robert Kelly has to say," he whispers back. "I'm sure that for him talking is some sort of intellectual jerking off."
We share a private giggle between the two of us, straightening our faces before anyone looks our way.
The new perfume was called Lavande. A quick look in my handy pocket dictionary had told me this meant lavender. Duh. Even a five year-old could've worked that one out. At least that gave me something to work on. I spent most of the meeting trying to think of a way to wheedle myself out of this mess. There seemed to be some debate about the color purple going on in the background. Ororo Munroe, that gorgeous goddess whose butt everyone was licking, was looking about as bored as I was. She flatly refused to wear purple (I wondered whether that had anything to do with the fact that purple had always been Betsy's trademark color?), and she didn't even have a clue what the name of the perfume meant. At least she had something to occupy herself with in the meantime, namely her and Remy flirting like there's no tomorrow.
At last the conference looks like it's about to be over and I think I've managed to escape – this time. But then I see Remy's giving me a look and says: "I don't s'ppose you have anyt'ing to add to dis meetin', Ms. Raven? You have quite a collection of papers there…"
I stare down at the briefing sheets, which I've happened to scribble all over. Uh oh. No way of getting out of this one, gal. You're in deep shit now. How're you supposed to get away with only a couple of flowery doodles you drew in ballpoint just half an hour ago…?
Waitaminnit… flowery doodles…
Without another thought I get to my feet and brandish my five-year-old scribbles in the air.
"This, ladies and gents," I launch into my speech headfirst, "is mah proposal for our new line of perfume." I look at the drawings, trying to make out what they could possibly signify, and continue: "This is… a waterfall… of flowers… of lavenders, of course… cascading over…uh, our model, Ms. Munroe!" I pause. Everyone looks at me blankly. I clear my throat. "Ah know what you're thinkin'. You're thinkin' this drawin' does not look like lavenders. And there is a good reason for that. Ah…uh… Ah can't draw." People are looking confused now. Shit! Pick your ass up off the floor now gal! "But!" I interject rapidly, "there is someone in this room who can! Ah introduce to you – Mr. Peter Rasputin!"
Peter looks about in astonishment and I hiss at him to stand up beside me. He gets to his feet, whispers in my ear: "What are you doing?"
"Play along," I hiss back through a fake smile. "Now, ladies and gents," I begin again, "this man is a very fine artist, and Ah have envisioned him as the tour-de-force of this new project. We are going to make use of this man's rare talents, and do something no one in the perfume industry has ever done before! We are going to use real, breathing art to promote our new product. Colorful, elegant, beautiful paintings of…uh, flowers, that hark back to the works of, uh…"
"Fantin-Latour," Peter whispers in my ear. Who the hell is he?
"Fantin-Latour," I repeat quickly. I lift my pathetic picture again, hoping I'm not making an utter cretin of myself. "This, people, is my vision. It is…simple. And it doesn't look much on the outside. But," I add, warming to the subject, "it is effective. And it is… natural. Women today don't want synthetic, overpowering perfumes that old grannies wear. We want fresh, natural, organic fragrances that make us…" Quick, think of something! "…make us feel one with nature!" God, please let them buy this crap! "And so, Ah propose the simple flower… in all its beauty, in all its glory…raining down upon a beautiful, natural, down-to-earth woman – the face of L&L, Ms. Ororo Munroe." I end up bestowing the stuck-up model with a sickly smile, then promptly fall back into my seat, cheeks blazing.
Please don't let them laugh at me!
There's a short silence. Then some hmm-ing and hah-ing and doubtful looks cast across the table. I knew it – they think I'm nuts! But at least I bluffed my way through and provided some sort of opinion, hare-brained as it was. Right?
"Ms. Raven," that old fart Robert Kelly says, "I really don't think that this is…"
Luckily, before he can launch into one of rants about how things used to be done in the old days, Ororo speaks up and over his whiny voice. "Ms… sorry, I've forgotten what your name is… I actually think this is a good idea." I sit up. She does? Like I could care less… but Ororo Munroe actually thinks my half-baked scheme is good? "Granted, it needs some fleshing out, but it has some promise."
"But -" Robert begins in consternation.
"Mr. Kelly, I absolutely refuse to wade through pools of gold or involve myself in death-defying stunts on top of the Eiffel Tower," the model insists flatly. "I know you have as big a budget as Calvin Klein or Elizabeth Arden, but I was born and bred an African, and we highly cherish the power of Nature. Why not go back to basics instead of throwing money round? What do we associate perfume with? Flowers. Flowers are Nature's fragrance and I think L&L should reflect that."
"My point exactly," I throw in, giving Robert a self-righteous glare. Ororo Munroe may be stuck up, but her supermodel pretensions about being 'one with the earth' have their useful side.
"And I happen to think the idea of showing this graphically – through Mr. Rasputin's art – would give the campaign the organic feel we're looking for." She turns to Peter. "Perhaps I could see your portfolio, Mr. Rasputin…?"
Peter's as stunned as I am about all this, but he catches on pretty quickly, bless him.
"Of course," he smiles.
"Well, I do believe we've settled on an idea," Ororo says, speaking for everyone else, who, so far, have looked nothing if not slightly bewildered.
Remy slouches back in his chair, steeples his fingers. "You sure 'bout dis, Ms. Munroe?" he asks. "Don't you want somet'ing more…sophisticated?"
"Mr. LeBeau I was brought up with people who have simple tastes." She smiles prettily, adds; "We don't have much of a problem with nudity either. There's something to be said for the unrefined, you know."
"I'm a great fan of all t'ings unrefined, chere," Remy grins, winking. She bats her eyelids back. I scowl in my seat. All this schmaltz is just about more than I can take.
The meeting breaks up, and I scurry out thankfully, grabbing my papers before anyone can actually see how pathetic they really were. So I got away with one of the biggest bluffs of the 21st century. Now what? I have no idea of what I'm supposed to do to get this stupid project underway. I hurry back to my cube and brood. I haven't the faintest idea what exactly my vision was supposed to be, let alone what anyone else thinks it is.
"Mind if I join you?" a voice calls from behind me. I swivel round to see Peter.
"Sure," I sigh. "Please do."
He walks up, seats himself on the edge of my desk.
"That was a pretty impressive speech you made back there," he says.
"Yeah, Ah think a big wooden nose spoutin' outta mah face wouldn't be unjustified right now," I grumble.
"Hey, you sold it," he smiles. "Must mean you're good at something."
" 'Distinction in lying' does not look good on a resume, Petey." I groan and bury my head in my hands. "What am Ah gonna do now!"
"Well, as far as I know, I seem to have been drafted into your crazy scheme without my knowing it. So I guess I'm on board from here on in. Maybe we could work on this together?"
I peer up at him through my fingers. "Really?" I sniff.
"Really." He smiles.
I drop my hands.
"Ah really, really owe you one," I tell him.
"I'll keep that in mind." He produces a small sketchpad, adds: "By the way – one question. How did you know I could paint?"
"Ah guess word gets round."
"What? Like you and Mr. LeBeau?"
I stare at him. "What?"
"You mean… nothing's going on between you two?" He looks surprised.
"Yah really think Ah'm gonna hook up with a …a man-whore like that?" I voice, outraged. "What even made you think that?"
He shrugs, looking sheepish. "Rumors, I guess. Some of the folks round here…well, let's just say they think you got your position here because of a certain type of talent that doesn't involve the use of brainpower."
Oh, so is that what some people think about me? I should've known…
"Ah'll have you know Ah got this job due to mah excellent resume and references," I huff, adding an extra inch to my wooden nose in the process. "And as for Remy LeBeau…well, Ah wouldn't ever be seen dead with a moron like that, not in a million years!"
-oOo-
It was Friday evening, and Emma Frost had an important date to keep. It almost pained her that the only man she seemed to be seeing regularly these days was a cantankerous millionaire with a stick up his ass.
"I have a date with Mr. Warren Worthington tonight," she told Bobby before leaving. "Lock up after you've cleaned the pond, will you?"
Bobby was laboring over his task catching dead leaves in a net, dressed in his usual Hawaiian shirt and shorts.
"Warren Worthington as in the Warren Worthington?" he echoed, his breath catching as clouds on the air. There was an element of disappointment to his face. "You're going out with him?"
"Going out?" Emma looked mildly surprised. "Whatever makes you think I'd chose to associate with Warren Worthington III of my own volition, Bobby? Frankly, I'd rather spend time with a low-paid cashier from the local Super-Low-Val-U Mart than such a frightful excuse for a snotty public schoolboy." She paused, musing to herself. "I'm sure they wear diapers well into their formative years. It lends to them certain inadequacies they can't quite overcome in adulthood." She stopped when she saw Bobby's confused expression. "Rich men, I mean," she hastened to add.
"Er…okay," Bobby replied, not quite knowing what to make of this outburst.
"Anyway," Emma continued, walking towards her car. "Make sure you lock the shed securely before you leave. I simply can't have anyone stealing my Dyson Turbo 4000 Deluxe lawnmower again."
Bobby watched as Emma slid into her red Porsche and speeded off, getting the distinct feeling that he was falling for one of the scariest women he'd ever met.
"Wonder if she'd spend time with an ex-Burger King employee," he muttered to himself. "We do earn 5 cents more than Super-Low-Val-U Mart cashiers after all."
-xXx-
Jean was practically sitting in a mountain of material, rag-ends, and bits of cloth. That very afternoon Scott had left for California and she'd been determined to carry on with wedding preparations without him. It really was amazing how difficult it was to sort out tablecloths and dinnerware accessories for the reception. She'd meant to sort it out two weeks ago, but hadn't gotten round to it. Now, faced with the gargantuan task, she'd felt somehow helpless and alone. Here she was, planning for her wedding, and her husband-to-be wasn't even near. This was supposed to be fun, exciting – so why was she feeling so depressed?
Jean poured herself a glass of whiskey. She hated the stuff – she kept it for Scott when he came round – but she felt like something hard to take the edge off her misery. After a few mouthfuls she was well on her way to getting drunk. She'd never held her drink well, but tonight she didn't particularly care.
"Damn you, Scott," she mumbled to her glass. "So Mr. Charles Xavier is more important to you than your wife-to-be? Should've listened to mom and never gotten involved with someone who's married to his job."
Nope, she really refused to be beaten by this. The last thing she wanted was to be sad and miserable and crying over a glass of alcohol. She refused to suffer alone. So Scott was in California. She didn't need him around to have some fun! She wasn't going to sit at home and brood! She was going to go out on the town and pretend she was single all over again! She wasn't married yet. She was free to do whatever she chose!
A couple of whiskeys later, Jean pulled on her coat, grabbed her purse and keys and called for a taxi. She hadn't a clue where she was going, except it was definitely going to involve bright lights and the city. She got off on a side road where a large group of people had gathered outside what seemed to be a thriving club. From inside the building, she could hear a cacophony of music and laughter.
Paying the cab driver, she wove her way through the crowd of people and up to the entrance. People were walking in freely.
"Free drinks between 9 and 10 pm!" the bouncer was calling. "Come and get 'em people! It's Logan's birthday and the Hideaway's having an hour of drinks on the house in honor of everyone's favorite guy! Free drinks b'tween 9 and 10 pm guys, you can't miss it!"
Jean hovered outside the entrance a moment. Clubbing wasn't usually her scene… at least, it hadn't been since she'd met Scott. He preferred classical music to dance or techno or even disco. Jean herself wasn't big on nightclubs, but this place seemed friendly… almost inviting, in a way. Welcoming. And more importantly, anything free couldn't be bad.
Making up her mind, Jean strode inside without looking back.
-oOo-
Emma made her way to the hotel lobby where she'd planned to meet Warren. She hadn't been relishing the prospect of seeing that pompous schmuck again, but seeing the disappointment on Bobby's face when she'd mentioned the date had been enough to put her into a good mood again. Emma had an unfortunate and innate sadistic streak, and enjoyed making men suffer. She'd sniggered a little at the fact that the poor boy actually had a crush on her – there was nothing she loved more than having her ego massaged, be it by New York's richest bachelor or it's lowliest college student. Nevertheless, she just couldn't help thinking that Bobby Drake was rather cute… and his obvious adoration of her definitely made him much more appealing.
Emma strode into the lobby feeling ready to take on anything Warren Worthington had to throw at her. So she was very much surprised – and disappointed – to find that he was nowhere in sight.
"That cretinous fool must be late," she growled between her teeth, tapping her feet and staring down at her expensive Rolex watch. "I'll teach him to mess with my time!"
She was just about to consider leaving herself when she felt someone tap her on the shoulder.
"Excuse me – Ms. Emma Frost?"
Emma swung round in surprise to see a dark-haired woman standing behind her – every inch as busty and precocious as Emma herself.
"And who might you be?" she asked, looking down her nose at the woman in disgust – which was pretty hard considering the fact that she was already a couple of inches taller than Emma.
"Jennifer Walters," the woman introduced herself, holding out her hand. The two shared a withering handshake, looking at each other with mutual dislike. Jennifer Walters. Emma had heard of her – she was one of New York's most successful and ruthless lawyers, with the added bonus of having a body every man in the city slavered after.
"It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance," Jennifer said, as if the exact opposite were true.
"Likewise," Emma practically sneered. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Actually, I've come here to discuss some business with you," Jennifer replied airily. Emma glared at her with suspicion.
"With me? I'm sure there's nothing we have to say to one another, Ms. Walters."
"On the contrary," the other woman smiled coldly, "I've come here on behalf of my client, Mr. Warren Worthington. He had, ah, more important things than seeing you on his priority list, I'm afraid, and is currently out of the country." Seeing the shock on Emma's face, her smile grew even wider. "Shall we sit?" she asked, gesturing to a nearby table.
Despite herself, Emma felt her cheeks reddening. She sat down slowly, schemes of revenge already forming rabidly in her brain.
Warren Worthington had humiliated her for the last time!
-xXx-
I can't believe it. This has to be the first day I've ever worked overtime; and even more amazing, I've actually enjoyed it.
As I walk down the corridor to Mr. LeBeau's office, I proudly leaf through the photocopies of my proposal for the new ad campaign. It gives me a weird kind of satisfaction to know that at least somebody appreciates and admires something I've done. Even Peter Rasputin seems excited about the new project. Now there's one sweet little Siberian plough-boy. It would figure that as soon as I meet a decent guy it turns out someone else has claimed him. I could've ignored that. But my sense of honor prevails. I even did every good gal's duty and introduced him to Kitty. Momma did instill some down-home values into this rogue after all.
I walk up to Mr. LeBeau's office to find the door slightly ajar. I'm just about to knock respectfully when I catch a glimpse of Remy and his 'guest' inside the room. It's Ororo Munroe. Hmm. I should've known.
Commonsense is telling me to keep a distance, but instead I hover just outside the room and peer at them through the crack in the door. What I can say? I've never particularly been known for my commonsense anyway.
They're standing by the desk, talking. As usual, that slippery sleazebag is working his mojo for all he's worth. And from the way Ororo's smiling and giggling, it's working! Unbelievable!
"I'm so sorry about my French, Remy," the beautiful model apologizes. "I feel so embarrassed, not even knowing what the name of the new perfume meant! I should've asked you sooner."
"Oh, don't worry your beautiful self about it, Ms. Munroe," he replies in that low, soft voice of his. "Truth is, most of de time we just call our perfumes by French names b'cause it sounds good."
"Please, call me Ororo," she insists coyly, touching his hand lightly with her own. Hmph! Doesn't take long for that stuck-up little tramp to cave in now, does it!
"Ororo," he corrects himself with a charming smile. They laugh. Ugh!
"You know," Ororo begins, after a moment, "since I'm now the face of a French company, maybe I should start learning a little of the language…" She pauses, and I'm certain she's batting her eyelids at him. "Maybe you could be the one to teach me, Remy."
No no no NO!
"C'est une excellent idea," he agrees seductively, inching closer to her. "Maybe I could teach you some French right now, bien? You just watch my lips."
I lean in closer to watch her reaction, only to find she's falling for the bait. The next moment he's using those oh-so-skilful lips of his on hers! I hold back an enraged gasp. Oh please! I could see that one coming a mile away! Not to mention, I'm the one who needs help with my French, not her!
Right, this is it! I've had just about enough of Mr. LeBeau's gratuitous little show! Clearing my throat very loudly, I stalk into the room without even attempting to knock. The two spring apart like lightning, and it satisfies me to know that they've been caught red-handed by none other than yours truly. Ororo doesn't know where to put her face, but Remy, on the other hand, looks like he's just dropped a nickel and found a dime. What does it take to wipe the smile off that infuriating man's face!
"Mr. LeBeau," I state coldly, "I've finished that proposal for you. Perhaps you'd like to see it?" I hold up my precious project, showing proof that I wasn't just outside to casually spy on his little tryst. Hah! Let him worm his way out of this one!
"Ah – Anna," he greets me with characteristic ease, while Ororo busily occupies herself with gathering up her belongings into her purse. "Of course." He turns to his latest conquest, smiles his winning smile and says: "Ororo, do you mind…?"
"Not at all," she replies quickly, cheeks flushed and a simpering smile locked onto her cherry-red lips. "You're obviously busy. I won't get in the way."
"Ma chere, you're never in the way," he assures her suavely, "But perhaps you could call me…?" He hands her his card. Oh God, someone pass me the barf bucket, please!
"Of course," she beams at him. Geez, what an idiot! Every gal knows that if it's not the guy who's calling you, he ain't really interested. She leaves quickly, passing me a first-prize scowl before banging the door shut behind her. Hah! Betsy would be highly amused to know I've now made an enemy out of a world-famous supermodel.
"Well," I state icily, once we're alone, "looks like you've scored, Mr. LeBeau."
"Looks like you have too," he remarks, still smiling smugly as he goes to pour himself a drink. "Congratulations on your first big assignment bein' approved, chere."
I glower at him, march up to the desk and slap my files down for him to look at.
"Ah s'ppose you're feelin' very pleased with yourself, knowin' that hirin' me into your creative team has paid off," I comment acidly. "Although maybe not in the way you thought it would."
He appraises me, those dark eyes of his sparkling with amusement.
"On the contrary, ma chere, you've exceeded my expectations in almost every possible way. And I have a feelin' you're goin' t' carry on doin' so." He pauses to let the sentence sink in. So he's still expecting me to give into his charms, is he? I've gotta give it to him – the jerk's stubborn as a mule.
I make no reply, so he walks up to stand beside me as he rifles through my presentation folder. He could've done it over the desk, but I suspect he likes intimidating me by standing close by. I don't make a move. The more someone pushes me, the less I yield. He wants to play his stupid games, fine, let him!
When he's finished, he closes the folder, looks at me, and smiles.
"I guess I was right when I detected dat creative streak in you, Anna. Dis is good stuff. Really good stuff. I'm impressed."
"Thank you," I mutter. I hate having to be polite to him.
"Heh. No need t' thank me. Dis Cajun appreciates it when his gamble wit' an employee pays off." He grins. "You got some impressive assets, p'tit. You shouldn't be afraid to use 'em."
"And exactly what assets would you be referring to, Mr. LeBeau?" I shoot at him caustically. He chuckles softly.
"Dat's what I like about you, Anna. Half de innuendoes we make come outta your own mouth." He puts his drink down and turns to me, those soft eyes of his suddenly intense. "How long we gonna keep dis up, chere? Only I'm kinda intrigued t' know just how much of a 'rogue' you really are."
There's no way I'm going to turn and fall for those big, pretty eyes of his. So I look away, my mouth set into a hard line.
"Ah can show you exactly how much of a rogue Ah am, sugah," I inform him coldly. "But probably in ways y' ain't gonna like at all."
"Oh?" His voice is a low purr. "Is dat a promise?"
He reaches out a hand and touches my hip, his fingers caressing downward over the curve of my butt. I freeze, a breath catching in my throat. I've been groped by guys before in nightclubs – I've never understood why men can't get how disgustingly unsexy it is to be manhandled from out of nowhere. But this is different. His touch is so soft, so subtle, so inviting… that for one wild moment I have the urge to accept the invitation, jump into his arms and kiss him passionately.
Over my dead body!
Without another thought I whip round and slap him hard in the face. He reels back, half stunned, half awed. Oh! How satisfying is that!
"Ah'll thank you not t' touch mah butt, y' low-life swamp rat!" I rage at him. "You want some tramp t' touch up, Ah'm sure that floozy supermodel of yours will be more than obligin'!"
Oops. I hadn't quite meant for that to slip out as accusingly as it did. He immediately catches the tone in my voice and smiles with sudden enlightenment, his eyes sparkling.
"Anna Raven," he begins slyly, "are you tryin' t' tell me dat you like me a lot?"
I bristle at the suggestion.
"No, I'm tryin' t' tell you that Ah hate you a lot, are yah deaf!"
His grin is complacent.
"You're jealous," he states in that irritatingly self-assured way of his. The nerve! To think I'd even give two sticks whether he has his tongue down a supermodel's throat or not!
"Jealous!" I explode indignantly. "Ah shouldn't give a damn if yah were seein' all the supermodels in the world – they're all quite welcome t' your pathetic self! An' if you even so much as think of layin' another finger on meh, you'll sure as hell be findin' out why mah friends call me Rogue! And let me warn yah, it ain't gonna be a pretty sight!"
I storm out of the room as quickly as I entered it. The day I'm jealous of any woman that Cajun gets his slimy paws on is the day I start spinning in my grave!
-oOo-
Most men would've been deflated after being rejected, insulted and slapped in the face by a woman – but not so Remy LeBeau. Instead he found himself gazing at the titillating sight of Anna Raven's perfectly shaped ass as she sashayed indignantly out of the room, before it was finally blocked from view by the door slamming shut.
Forget Ororo Munroe! The only woman he wanted right now was a certain Mississippi river rat with a bad temper and a white streak in her hair.
"Quelle femme!" he murmured under his breath before downing the rest of his drink in one go. He rubbed his cheek, which still tingled with the shape of her hand, then shook his head humorously. "Dat lady is somethin' else."
Most women he met couldn't resist his charms for more than two minutes – yet here she was, he'd known her an entire week and she was still holding out against him. He had to admit, his fascination with her had stemmed from the minute she'd sassed him in the interview last week. From that moment onward everything about her had been utterly irresistible to him. He hadn't felt this way about a femme before – well, not in recent years anyhow… but that was beside the point.
She was the most incredibly sexy woman he'd ever laid eyes (or hands) on , and Remy LeBeau was now completely determined that, before the month was out, Anna Raven was going to be his.
-xXx-
To be continued...