Prodigal

Chapter 2

The pulsing lights and throbbing bass weren't really Rogue's scene, but any place the Brotherhood wasn't had started looking good, even this underground club that catered to mutants and criminals. Logically she knew it wasn't the smartest place to hang out; surely the MRD knew about it—or would soon—and would come storming in to shut it down and drag the mutants away. And yet, there she was, alone at the bar, sitting at the far end to avoid the crush of people dancing, drinking, and flirting. Of course, some of it was a ruse: alliances and contracts built and bought intermingled with the alcohol and the blatant overtures of some of New York's seedier citizens.

If yah can call a mutant a citizen, Rogue thought bitterly. The MRD's tactics were getting more and more aggressive, and the Brotherhood's activities seemed only to fan the flames. Which would be the point, she reminded herself darkly.

The more she thought about it, the more Rogue realized how rash her choices had been. She'd forced herself in between a rock and a hard place, and the outlook was more and more bleak. If anything, she supposed she could leave the Brotherhood and strike out on her own if the X-Men wouldn't take her back. She paused at the thought, remembering the last few years of going solo. She knew she was capable of it, but it was a lonely existence.

Face it, sugah, and move on, Rogue scolded herself. After all, she couldn't change the past, much as she wanted to, so it was best to just forget about it and get out, while she still could. Or better yet, figure out a way to get the information she needed.

The loud music didn't make it particularly easy to think up a plan, but there were enough people that she felt anonymous, and that helped ease her fears.

Lately, Rogue had noticed Pietro giving her odd looks when he thought she wasn't looking, as though he knew what she was planning. His behavior made her paranoid. Had she been thinking aloud and he'd heard? Did he have Psylocke spying on her thoughts? Supposedly, Betsy and the Brotherhood had parted ways after the incident with Nitro, but maybe that had been a front. Maybe Quicksilver wanted his team to think she was no longer around so they'd let their guards down.

Ridiculous, Rogue chided herself. He's fast, not smart.

Still, there had to be a reason. Rogue was sure she could figure it out, and if she didn't, she needed to be gone before Pietro could do whatever it was he was planning. She didn't trust him.

So where to go? She thought of Mississippi but quickly dismissed it. It was probably too close for comfort. Besides, it held too many memories, memories Rogue had been running from long before the X-Men took her in.

Outside of Mississippi and the X-Men, Rogue didn't have connections to any place, so she figured it didn't matter where she went, as long as it was far enough away that her past wouldn't catch up with her. She finally settled on California. It was big enough, populated enough, that she wouldn't stick out so much, and she'd heard that San Francisco was particularly tolerant of mutants. And it'd be warm, or at least warmer than New York.

Rogue stared at her drink. She hadn't actually had that much of it—it was more for appearances' sake than for pleasure. Alcohol robbed people of their inhibitions, and Rogue could only imagine how dangerous that could be for someone who couldn't touch.

She looked to the undulating crowd but didn't sigh. She'd given up hope on being normal a long time ago. Nevertheless, she couldn't keep her gaze from sweeping the room as she turned back to her drink.

Her eyes settled on someone she'd never seen before—more and more of a rarity with how much time she'd spent here lately.

He was standing at the bar, talking with the bartender. He was tall, wearing a floor length leather duster the likes of which she'd never seen. The coat didn't completely hide his form, and from what she could see, he was all lean muscle. He had brown hair, tinted slightly red, that was just long enough in the front that he had to shake it out of his eyes every so often. His profile was well-defined, and she found herself studying the line of his jaw.

Suddenly he was looking right at Rogue.

She turned back to her drink, cheeks flushed with embarrassment at having been caught staring. Rogue took a sip of her drink and feigned nonchalance, making herself pretend like she didn't feel like a teenager who'd just had a note intercepted by the wrong person.

She didn't dare glance back his way to see if he was still looking at her, but in her peripheral vision it looked as though he'd gone back to talking to the bartender.

Rogue relaxed after a minute or two and glanced at her watch. She should probably leave soon, or Pietro would be suspicious when she got back to the Brotherhood's hideout. Without moving her head, she flicked her eyes in the direction of the man in the trench coat. He was still there. Rogue cursed under her breath—she really didn't want to walk past him, but she had no choice, unless she wanted to wait for the man to leave. Rogue checked her watch again. Considering how late it already was, she didn't want Pietro to have any reason to question her. Still, if she waited just a few more minutes, maybe the man would leave, or at least move away from the bar. Arguing as she was with herself, she didn't notice the man's approach until he was already there.

"Like what y' see, chérie?"

"Excuse meh?" Rogue stuttered, thrown off by his sudden presence at her side when she'd been sure he was still at the other end of the bar.

The man smirked arrogantly. Up close, Rogue could see a day's worth of stubble smattered across the lower half of his face, but what really caught her attention was his eyes: black sclera, red irises, and black pupils. The red irises glowed faintly.

Definitely a mutant.

"If y' wanna touch, chère, I don' mind," the man added with a disarming smile, and Rogue realized that she'd been staring again.

She frowned, annoyed at the insinuation in his tone and angry at her own apparent lack of self-control.

Remy took off his sunglasses the moment he walked into the club. They would look odd considering the dim lighting, and he didn't need them here anyway. Mutants were expected.

He made his way to the bar, winking and smiling at the appraising looks he received. One especially forward blonde blew him a kiss, and Remy blew it right back.

"Jake," Remy hailed the bartender as he approached.

"Remy," the bartender returned. "Usual?"

"Not t'night. M' workin'," Remy answered.

Jake raised a brow in reply. Remy laughed.

"D'accord. But jus' one," he stipulated.

"That's what I thought you said," Jake replied as he poured Remy a glass of bourbon.

Remy took the glass Jake set in front of him, sipping at it occasionally as he looked around the room. Most everyone he could see was part of the regular crowd. Remy had come here often enough to know them by sight if not by identity. The blonde who'd blown him a kiss tried catching his eye again, but Remy really was working.

"Didn't expect to see you back so soon," Jake commented. Remy shrugged.

He hadn't planned on coming back to New York so soon either, but his plans had changed a lot in the past few months.

"New York's good f' business," Remy offered. Jake nodded.

"I'll bet," Jake replied. Then he leaned towards Remy conspiratorially. "Word on the street is that you've taken a contract with the Brotherhood." In response, Remy shrugged again, smiling enigmatically at the same time.

It had been such a perfect set-up: he'd found out the girl was with the Brotherhood, so he'd let drop a few hints with the right people. Quicksilver had taken the bait, and now he was going to be paid double for the same job, because it just so happened that the Brotherhood was headed towards Seattle. The coincidence was not lost on Remy.

"If I didn' know better, I'd think y' were fishing," Remy remarked, glancing to his side. He'd felt a pair of eyes on him, and from the corner of his eye he saw a woman sitting alone at the other end of the bar. He looked back to Jake, who rolled his eyes.

"If you are working for them, then you should know they don't keep anything secret. Their boss, that Quicksilver guy, is cocky as anything. Likes those big, splashy headlines."

"Aw, Jakey, y' worried about me?" Remy mocked, his head cocked to the side and a hand at his chest.

"You know what I mean, man," Jake replied, not offended in the least.

And Remy did. He didn't have to say that the Brotherhood wasn't his usual client—they were loud, unprofessional, and liked to draw attention to themselves. If Remy had still been with the Guild, he never would have touched them. Of course, if he had been with the Guild, he would have no need to go to Seattle, either. He figured he might as well make as much money as he could. Beyond that, there were contacts he hoped to make in Seattle that could possibly help him with his problem.

Beggars can' be choosers.

Jake didn't add anything else, so Remy decided it was time to discover who'd been staring at him. He turned his head and caught the eyes of the brunette at the other end of the bar. She shied away immediately, obviously embarrassed.

Remy scrutinized her as she nervously tucked white and brown bangs behind one ear. She was slim, and her outfit covered her neck to toe, hands included. Remy quirked an eyebrow at the distinctive X on the sleeve of her jacket. Now where had he seen that before?

Wolverine.

So she was an X-Man, was she? Interest piqued, Remy turned back to Jake.

"Th' femme at th' end of th bar," Remy inclined his head in the brunette's direction, "she come here often?"

Jake grabbed a rag and started wiping down glasses.

"Couple of times a week here lately. Polite, but not friendly." Noting the look on Remy's face, he added, "I seriously doubt she'd be interested."

Remy smirked. A woman's disinterest never lasted long where he was concerned.

"But I guess you'll see soon enough—she's part of the Brotherhood."

"Really now," Remy murmured. So she was the mark, his ticket to Seattle, and an X-Man. He wondered why that part had been left out from his current employer's description.

All of his information about the X-Men had come from Zane when she contracted him to steal the power suppressant collar. Subsequent observation as he had prepped for the job rounded out what Zane had given him: the X-Men were basically forceful mutant peace-keepers, idealistic, secretive, and very powerful with impressive resources. In other words, they made the Brotherhood look like a group of amateur teenagers with attitude issues. Remy was certain that there hadn't been any information about the brunette in the X-Men files, and he was determined to find out why. If she'd defected, Remy was curious about the circumstances. He couldn't imagine Wolverine letting one of his own slip away only to end up with the X-Men's rivals, no matter how incompetent those rivals were. Maybe there was more to the Brotherhood than met the eye.

Swallowing the last of his bourbon, Remy focused his attention on the brunette.

Might as well get started.

"Welcome back," Jake muttered, shaking his head as he reached for Remy's empty glass.

Remy didn't hear him, or at least didn't acknowledge the comment, intent as he was on making his way over to the brunette.

She didn't notice him coming. Stepping up close and into her personal space, Remy spoke.

"Like what y' see, chérie?"

Remy swelled in triumph when she practically jumped with surprise. She tumbled awkwardly off the stool and away from the bar.

"Excuse meh?" Her voice was little more than a squeak, but Remy didn't care. Things kept getting better and better—her voice held hints of the South.

"If y' wan' touch, chère, just to make sure s'real, I don' mind," Remy couldn't help but add, flashing his most charming smile. He put out his arm for her to take, a courtly gesture he could pull off only because of his upbringing steeped in tradition. He waited to see how he would react, remembering his employer's warning to not touch.

The woman's cheeks pinked and her green eyes flashed before she frowned slightly. Then she smiled maliciously.

"Ah'm sure you would mind," she retorted sarcastically.

"Mais non," Remy assured her.

She snorted, emerald eyes sparkling with annoyance. Remy leaned in closer and caught scent of her hair: magnolias.

"What say I buy y' a drink, hein?" She hadn't taken his arm so Remy cupped her elbow as if to lead her back to her stool.

As he expected, she froze momentarily, like a deer caught in headlights. Remy could feel the muscles in her arm tense and he let go her elbow.

"Ah ain't interested," she insisted, pushing away from him. Remy noted that her cheeks were still flushed, but that the corners of her mouth had dropped into a frown. He stepped back a bit, curious at how skittish she had suddenly become. He kept up his teasing tone, so as to not drop pretenses.

"C'mon, chérie. Would be a lot of fun, non?"

"Are ya deaf? Ah said no, ya slimy swamp rat!"

Smiling lazily, Remy held up his hands, palms forward. Ok, don't touch th' mark.

"D'accord," Remy conceded, "Je peux espérer demain, si tu veux." He didn't entirely move out of her way, however—he wanted to see how far she'd let him push. The brunette eyed him expectantly, yet still Remy barred her way. Finally she pushed past him with a huff, obscenities on her breath. She didn't look back.

See you in th' mornin', chère.

"Long time no see, Chuck."

"Hello, Logan."

"So, what world-disaster-averting mission ya got for us now?"

"Nothing like that."

"Well?"

"It's personal, this time."

"Personal?"

"Logan, it's about Rogue."

"…"

"Logan?"

"I'm listenin'."

Translations [Special thanks to Louisiana State University's French Department's website for help with expressions cadiens]

chérie term of endearment derived from cher (precious, dear, expensive)

chère term of endearment derived from cher (precious, dear, expensive)

Mais non. Of course not.

d'accord ok

femme woman

hein huh

non no

D'accord. Je peux espérer demain, si tu veux. Ok. I can wait for tomorrow, if you want. (espérer is specifically Cajun French)