So, sometime…um…last year, I updated this story, and then my life got in the way. And now I'm back, very contrite, and hping that you all will forgive me for the unconscionable delay. Thanks to Katt, of course, for the beta, and my reviewers, who gently nudged me to get off my ass and update. This is a short one, but the next chapter should follow more rapidly. I hope.
To recap: Rogue, still being held by Essex, was forced to absorb Carol Danvers, who has now taken up residence in her mind. Carol and Rogue decide to integrate more of the personalities in order to escape the lab. Rogue balks at integrating Remy, but eventually agrees to try it. At the mansion, an increasingly desperate Remy receives a phone call from his father, suggesting Belladonna may be willing to help find Rogue. Kitty and Kurt used the power company's records to determine that Dexter Genetics is behind Rogue's abduction – and in doing so, caused Nick Fury to deliver a warning.
And now, on with the show.
Remy's eyes adjusted quickly to the dim interior of the restaurant. Fei Tu's was quiet, despite the numerous people tucked into booths and behind curtained rooms. The murmuring voices flowed around him, but no one thread of conversation could be heard over another, making eavesdropping difficult. He nodded at the boy behind the counter and tilted his head towards a small alcove in the back. The boy raised an eyebrow expectantly and Remy grinned, slapping down several bills on the glossy black countertop at the same time he nudged down his sunglasses, giving the boy a better view of his eyes.
"Right this way, Mr. LeBeau," the boy said, and ushered him back. "Everything is as you requested."
"Merci," he replied, settling into the one empty chair and surveying the laptop set up in front of him. A nearby platter held food and a teapot, a single sturdy cup next to it. Making a minute adjustment to the webcam attached to the top, he added, "No interruptions, hein?"
The boy's expression didn't change, but he was clearly insulted. "Of course."
Remy bent to unzip the bag he had brought with him, then straightened. "There's probably somebody waitin' outside," he said offhandedly. "Black motorcycle, I'm guessin', or a red Jeep. Think you could run out an' give 'em a message?"
"My father would be displeased if I left while we had guests. I could send one of the kitchen staff out," he suggested.
He shook his head. He'd spotted the tail fifteen miles out of Bayville, had shrugged if off as expected. Now it was time to get to work, though, and an audience was the last thing he needed. "You. I'll double what I paid already."
"I'm afraid that's not possible."
Remy smiled. "I'll pay you double, Tommy. Not your father."
"Perhaps I could step out for just a moment," Tommy said tonelessly.
"Thought so. Ask him if he wants an order of mu shu, or just some gyoza."
"Excuse me?"
Remy chuckled. "And give him this." He pulled out a single card from the deck that appeared suddenly in his hand, and gave it, along with another stack of bills, to the boy.
"Mu shu or gyoza," Tommy repeated dubiously.
"You a prince 'mong men," Remy said.
Tommy nodded and left, and Remy pecked at the keyboard, launching the videoconferencing program. When it was finally up running, he was unsurprised to see an empty chair on the other end. He checked his watch – he was exactly on time, but he'd planned for a wait nevertheless. Leaning back so that the chair balanced on two legs, he propped his feet on the table and dug into the bowl of chow fun noodles that were cooling next to the computer.
Ten minutes later, he was scooping the last of the noodles into his mouth when a hulking figure crossed the camera's lens and thumped into the seat.
"LeBeau."
He nodded recognition. "Gris-Gris. Ain't here to chat with you."
"And if I'm all you get?"
"Then we're done. Have a nice day." He reached to switch off the camera, but paused at the other man's muttered curse.
"Pardonne? Didn't quite catch that."
"She'll be here. Your turn to wait, though."
Remy shrugged and took another bite of noodles. Gris-Gris swore again and walked away.
Forty-five minutes later, he was still waiting, absently twirling a pair of chopsticks in one hand and eating a vegetable-stuffed bun with the other. A flash of movement at the edge of the screen caught his eye again. He dropped all four chair legs back to the floor, set down his food, and kept his eyes on the monitor.
The woman who seated herself in front of the opposite camera was jaw-droppingly gorgeous, so polished and sleekly confident that Remy jerked at the sight of her.
"Remy," she purred, shaking a mass of golden curls back from her face. "I'm so sorry you had to wait. I hope it wasn't too long."
The hell you're sorry, he thought. She wanted him nervous and eager, neither of which had suited him since he was about thirteen. "Hadn't noticed," he said, smiling inwardly when her eyes narrowed.
"You're lookin' nice, Belle." That, at least, was the truth. She looked exactly and nothing like he remembered – cerulean blue eyes in a heart-shaped face, a full mouth he was more than familiar with – but there was something hard and practiced about her beauty now. When they were kids, she had been recklessly beautiful, shining out full-force without any effort at all. Her eyes had flashed with mischief and stubbornness and her mouth had moved with promise or delight, or, more often than not, petulance. Now, all of that vibrancy had transformed into a brittle, breathtaking mask. He wondered how much was due to him, and how much was a result of her family. "All grown up, hmn?"
Her lips, a deep rose, curved in an artful smile. "All grown up," she confirmed. "Are you?"
He saw the trap, sidestepped it as neatly as he could. "I'm older," he said easily.
She took a sip of the sweet tea at her elbow. "Yes. One would think three and a half years is enough time for a boy to grow up, don't you agree?"
He made a noncommittal noise, took another sip of tea. "Hear you've been spending time wit' Jean-Luc."
She shrugged elegantly. "Your father and I are both the leaders of our Guilds. It makes sense that we stay in contact."
"I'm sorry about y' pere." Marius Boudreaux was a killer and a scoundrel, and somehow made Jean-Luc seem like father of the year in comparison. But he was Belladonna's father, and his death had thrust her into a role that she shouldn't have had to assume so early.
"The flowers were lovely," she said automatically. "Thank you."
"And you're runnin' things now," he said, trying to sound approving. "It suits you, Belle."
"It's what I was raised for," she said, meeting his eyes. "It would suit you, too."
He didn't bother to protest – they had both grown up mindful of their duties. The difference was that Belle not just accepted it, but welcomed it, while he had done everything he could to escape. "Also heard you might know somethin' bout a friend of mine."
She tilted her head to the side, her words sweetly poisonous. "Is that what you're calling them now? Your friends?" She pretended to consider this for a moment. "Well, I suppose you're not paying them for their services. Especially not this one, hmn? I'm not rightly sure what you see in a girl who can't touch."
Under the table, he charged the high-sided porcelain spoon and then cooled it in the leftover soup, trying to quell his anger. "Her name is Rogue."
Belle waved her hand impatiently. "I know her name, Remy. I probably I know more about her than you do."
"Doubt that," he muttered, annoyed at the implication. "Y'know who has her?"
"To be honest," Belle said, studying her gleaming nails, "I don't care. It hasn't been worth my while to find out. I am running a business here, you know."
He nodded. "An'you want me to make it worth y' while."
Her eyes glittered with triumph. An expression he'd seen before, and one that never failed to make him just the slightest bit uneasy.
"How much?" he demanded.
"Oh," she said with studied casualness. "Won't come cheap, I promise."
He wouldn't have expected anything less, he thought grimly. He had set up this meeting knowing Belle would play it exactly this way -- she could have revenge and control all at once. Still, he feigned ignorance. "Xavier will pay what you ask. Homme's richer than Croesus."
She scoffed. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"The price, Belle."
She mimicked his tone perfectly. "You, Remy."
"Shit." He looked away. Anticipating her demand didn't make it any easier to swallow. "Y'really think I'm that soft?"
"I think you're hell-bent on saving this girl, for reasons I cannot begin to understand."
That, he didn't doubt. "Not at the cost of my own skin."
Belle studied him. "Fine, then. It was nice to see you, Remy." She stood to leave, and even though he knew it was a bluff – even though every instinct he had was screaming that he call her on it and let her walk out, he couldn't muster up the nerve.
"Belle." It came out more pleading than he intended.
She paused at the edge of the screen, not looking back at the camera, a slight tilt of the head the only indication she was listening.
"There's gotta be a deal we can make, right? A compromise."
She turned back, scornful. "Best I can tell, you're not really in a position to make deals."
"She's jus' a kid," he said, remembering that the last time he and Belle had seen each other, they were kids, too. "I'm just trying to bring her home."
"Well, then," she said bitterly, "Maybe you're gainin' a bit of appreciation for my position."
His shoulders sagged. "Tell me how you'd find her."
She waited for a moment, eyes glacial.
"Tell me how you'd find her, please." The woman was going to make this as painful as she could, and he wasn't even certain he blamed her.
"The same as we find anybody. You hire us."
"Don't want you to kill her," he said warningly, straightening in the chair.
She rolled her eyes. "You are dumber than mud when a woman gets involved," she said impatiently. "Do you think most of the people we're hired to deal with want to be found? Of course not."
"And you find them anyway."
She shrugged delicately. "It's a living."
"F'you," he said darkly. "Won't work. She ain't hiding, she's been taken. Ain't a trace of her on the planet."
Belle sighed. "And I told you she doesn't matter. Victor Creed's the one who took her, he's the one layin' a trail. Lord, Remy. You'd think I'd never explained any of this to you before."
"We've looked for Creed. Jus' keep missing him." He tried to ignore how easily he was referring to the rest of the X-Men and himself as 'we'.
"Well, we won't. The man's bad for business. Poaches on our territory at times, and I won't have that."
"So you'll help?" he pressed.
"If you come home."
"I can't…"
She threw up her hands in frustration, the only sign so far that he'd gotten under that brittle façade. "Be sensible, Remy! For just once in your damn life, think with your head instead of your dick. It ain't that you can't come home, or you can't be with me, or you can't live with yourself. You just won't, because you don't want to." Her voice cracked for a moment, but when she spoke again, it was sharp and clear and brutal. "The only thing you can't do is keep running away. Jean-Luc isn't going to put up with this for much longer. If you're not careful, he'll decide you're not worth it and hand the whole ball of wax over to Henri."
"Henri's better suited to it anyway."
"Yes, but considerin' that I'm supposed to marry whichever one of you two idiots is next in line, and Henri's already married…" she trailed off and tapped a finger on the tabletop, seemingly thoughtful. "Of course, if he were a widower…"
He felt a chill steal over him. "You so much as look at Mercy funny, and the next man you see will be your own pere, roastin' right 'longside you in Hell."
She blinked innocently. "I can't control the prophecy. You're the one set on beatin' fate."
"Can't beat somethin' that don' exist."
She straightened in her chair. "I'm tired of this. That's my offer. We'll get you the location of Creed and the girl. You'll have a week to get her back. But after that, you come home."
"That's it? Jus' come home?"
Belle looked almost insulted. "Of course not. We'll get married eventually, but you need to win me back first. You humiliated me in front of my family and friends. Business associates. If I took you back right away, I'd lose too much face. "
"And this is how you want it? Me comin' home because you forced my hand?"
"No," she said softly. "You took what I wanted and smashed it to bits. This is me makin' do."
He sat without speaking for a long moment, suddenly tired. He considered just shutting the computer and walking away, turning his back on the Guild, his family, Rogue -- but the idea of it only made him more exhausted. Walking away wasn't going to make him free – he'd been trying for more than three years to break the ties to his past, and he'd yet to succeed. Maybe, he considered, Mercy had a point. If he came home, he could maneuver Belle into some kind of truce and convince Jean-Luc to hand over the reins to someone else. And if he agreed to Belle's offer, he could help Rogue in the process. He'd lost Gennie and Etienne, each time powerless to keep them safe. The chance that he could save Rogue – that he could do something genuinely good, for once – nearly made him dizzy.
"Tick-tock, Remy."
He looked up and met Belle's cool blue gaze. "Deal," he said. Even as he said it, the weight bore down on him full-force, his body suddenly leaden.
Her mouth tightened for a moment, in disappointment or surprise, he couldn't tell which – and she nodded once. "Deal. We'll be in touch." With that, she disconnected the call, and Remy was left staring at a black screen.
Slowly, carefully, he shut the laptop and levered himself up. As he slid open the door, Tommy materialized, a faint line between his eyebrows the only indicator of worry.
"Beer?" Remy said wearily. "I could use a beer."
"Certainly. About your earlier request," Tommy added, just as Remy looked up and caught sight of Ororo Monroe sitting at a table near the window.
"Aw, hell," he said. "And Maker's Mark. A double."
Tommy nodded and vanished as Remy made his way over to the table.
"Logan decided he wasn't hungry after all," she said serenely. "I opted to wait here for you."
"Swell," Remy said. Tommy reappeared with his drinks. "Just swell." He drank deeply, and Ororo studied him.
"You look…careworn," she said after a moment. "Did you not enjoy your meal?"
He flicked a glance toward her, finished the bourbon. She shivered slightly and adjusted the violet cashmere wrap around her shoulders, then poured herself a cup of tea.
"You don't like the cold?" he asked, drawing a line in the steam on the window pane.
"Not particularly, no." A smile played along the corners of her mouth.
"So why not fix it? Ain't that what you do?"
"Because it isn't broken," she replied. "Cold weather is an inconvenience, not a catastrophe. Using my powers unnecessarily is both disruptive and taxing. I prefer to use them only when I must."
"Seems a waste," he grumbled. "You could have summer year-round."
"I did, in Africa. I might not enjoy winter, but I do find it instructive."
"Instructive," he said flatly. "How's that?"
"Winter reveals structure," she said. "It shows us the essence of things, their true nature. I find that worth some discomfort, don't you?"
He looked at her suspiciously, but she just smiled and sipped her tea.
"It's a time of preparation, too," she said after a moment. "The earth is readying itself for spring. Life is beginning again, even though we may not see it. And things are preparing themselves to become what they are meant to."
"D'you believe in fate?" he asked suddenly. "In destiny?"
She spoke carefully. "I believe that there is an order to the universe. A pattern, for lack of a better word. And to live in harmony with that pattern is a good thing, something one should strive for." She paused and met his gaze squarely. "That does not mean that our lives are predestined. The path we choose for ourselves, the decisions we make…those choices belong to us alone. No matter what we are born to, it is our actions that bring us there, not the hand of fate."
He drained his beer. "Guessin' that's a no, then?"
She warmed her hands on the teacup. "The important thing is what you believe. Do you feel you are more than your birthright?"
"You seem real familiar with what that birthright is," he said pointedly.
"Is it so impossible for you to believe that the patterns of our lives have overlapped before?"
"Not impossible. Gotta wonder if you're sharin' with the rest o'de class, though."
"If I felt it would help to find Rogue, I would. But for now, your past is yours to guard or share as you see fit."
He whooshed out a breath of relief. "Merci. You kind of an unusual woman, Miz Munroe."
"I pride myself on it. If I may offer you a bit of advice, though?"
"Mais sho."
"Rogue, by her nature, is a difficult woman to keep secrets from. She has learned that even painful truths are easier to grapple with then deception. If your intentions toward her are even slightly honorable," she smiled knowingly, "you would do well to keep that in mind when she returns."
He tried to smile. "Good t'know."
"Don't think of him as your boyfriend," Carol said.
"He's not my boyfriend," she said for the thousandth time.
"You know, for somebody who dislikes lies, you're really attached to that one," she said, and then frowned. "Let's just do this. We're running out of time."
Rogue nodded, and sat in her usual chair, gripping the armrests despite herself. "Ready?"
"Past ready," Carol confirmed.
Calling up a shade wasn't taxing, exactly, but it forced Rogue to concentrate, and so she centered herself, trying to remember Remy – the sharp line of his cheekbone, brown hair flopping into his eyes. His eyes, he thought, remembering that shifting deep red, dark iris gleaming, a look that sought out secrets but divulged none –
-- and then he was there before her, as solid as when they had stood in the garden. She curled her fingers into fists and pushed back in her chair to keep from crawling into his lap.
"Well," he drawled, sprawling out in the chair and glancing around the library. "Ain' this cozy?"
"Remy," she breathed, leaning toward him despite herself.
His gaze snapped to hers. "We ain't that cozy," he said flatly, and she flinched at the remove in his voice. "Gambit'll do."
His eyes slid to Carol. "You're new," he said, his eyes raking over her with frank appreciation. "How come you ain't out there wit' de rest of us, Legs? What makes you so special?"
"For starters, I'm dead," she said evenly. Rogue turned to her, startled at the admission. They both knew somehow that, outside of Rogue's mind, Carol no longer existed. And yet neither of them had said it before, wary of the effect on their fragile truce.
Remy took it all in, nodded once. "'Spose that makes a difference." He looked at Rogue more closely. "Didn't think you had it in you, chere."
"It wasn't my choice," she said through gritted teeth.
"Never is," he replied mockingly. "Ain' that de problem?"
She ducked her head for a moment as he continued. "Why you need me, then? You've already got company." His expression shifted to a leer. "'Less you wanted me to watch."
Carol merely rolled her eyes, but Rogue shook her head uncomprehendingly. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, hating the tears that were creeping into her voice. This wasn't the Remy she was used to. She had thought he would tease her, certainly, but there was nothing of the tender, genuine man she relied on. She felt like she was scrabbling for purchase again, just as she had when she'd fallen off the building fighting Dane. "Why are you bein' like this?"
"Like what?" he shot back. "Jus' bein' me."
"This isn't you," she said. "You're not mean. You're not cruel."
He leaned forward – not enough to touch, but enough that her nerves thrummed. "I ain't him," he said, his voice low and cold. "I ain't your Remy. I'm Gambit, an' I have been since you decided to pull a little B&E at the Acolytes' place."
She blinked, thought back to the previous spring. "Apocalypse," she murmured. Involuntarily, her fingers lifted to her lips.
He nodded as she remembered. "Not sayin' you a bad kisser, chere, but your finish needs a little work."
She flushed. "And everything after that…you don't know…"
He smirked, sitting back. "Know we're on better terms these days."
"So you'll help?" Carol asked.
"Didn't say that, Legs. I gotta tell you – don' much like the idea of the river rat just strollin' through my mind."
"But… I need your help," Rogue said desperately.
"You need a goddamn miracle, chere. I got all sorts o' things up m'sleeve, but that ain't one o'them."
"Remy, please."
"Gambit," he reminded her, clearly nettled. "And de answer's no. Haven't they taught you any sort of manners at that school? Y'shouldn't take things that don' belong t'you."
She stared at him for a moment. He really wasn't the Remy she knew, she realized, and as Carol cleared her throat meaningfully, she forced herself to look at him as she would a stranger. "Fine," she said eventually. "Don't help. Ah'll still do it."
He grinned. "You do have spunk, chere. I admire that in a fille."
She stood, moved toward him, and his grin disappeared. "He'll know," he said uneasily. "Minute you see each other, he'll know you did this. And he ain't gonna be none too pleased 'bout it."
"Probably not," she agreed. "But Ah'm not real pleased at the thought of dyin' here, either, so…Ah'll take my chances. You of all people should appreciate that," she said. And then, almost without thinking about, she reached out a hand to curve along his face and leaned down to press her lips against his, the very thing she'd dreamed of, but never in a nightmare like this.
Next time: What Rogue sees – and how she reacts.