You only know what I want you to,
I know everything you don't want me to,
Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine.
You think your dreams are the same as mine.
~the Civil Wars, "Poison and Wine"
The ending, continued.
Rogue was her mask, her iron-cast façade. Rogue was dark makeup and scowls, snappy retorts and long black gloves.
It was Anna Marie that Gambit saw now, this trembling pale girl sitting before him. The hard cement was cracked from her fists, and her tear streaked face was settling into a look of hopelessness. Rogue would have been yelling at the guards, Rogue would have been trying to find a way, biting and kicking and screaming the whole way, but she was all used up.
Anna Marie was all that was left, the southern romantic with a penchant for sultry blues music and spicy Creole.
This was all he knew of Anna Marie, but he knew Rogue like the back of his hand. She might have been only one half of the girl he loved, she might have been the mask, but their arguments were worn smooth like old leather, comfortable and familiar. Gambit was used to Rogue.
If Gambit couldn't handle Anna, maybe Remy could. It was Remy and Rogue that clashed, Remy and Rogue that fought and hurt, but Gambit and Rogue were the ones that ended up almost kissing, almost breaking the rule they knew they couldn't.
Remy and Anna Marie could get along just fine, then. Remy was sad, sincere, and bitter: it was Gambit that was the flirt, the rakish charmer.
But Remy and Gambit alike were too weak to comfort now, to woozy from blood-loss.
The action and the talking would have to come later.
(Nine Months Earlier)
Rogue left him in a heap in the garden. She wandered away; sifting mentally through the memories le diable had left in her head. Flashes of N'Oleans—of bright magenta lights, screams, and a beautiful blonde—left Rogue reeling. She made her way back to her bedroom, one shared with Kitty, and changed for bed.
As she slipped under the covers, wearing socks and gloves and long-sleeved pajamas, Rogue lets herself be sad for a moment.
-parce que la belle Orléans es la mieux ville dans l'Amérique, est Paris est la plus belle dans le monde—Ma belle Bella, ma mignonne, ma petite, mon amour, ma cœur—Mais père, ce n'est pas ma faute, I lost control—
A tear escaped as she thought of how warm his lips had been, but she wiped it away and made herself fall asleep.
They had barely touched, but his bush with the softest lips in the world meant that Remy awoke several hours later—a heap on cooling cement. For once in his life, Remy could honestly say he had no idea that would happen, but as they say, hind sight is twenty-twenty.
He should've been able to tell she couldn't touch. Remy paid attention, so did Gambit, so why didn't he or his alter-ego look underneath the underneath? She always wore gloves, stood in the corner or the background.
Gambit's all smooth flowing movement—all action and instant decisions. Remy is a long term planner, but a thief just the same. This is what you get for thinking you could steal a kiss from a girl with nothing to lose.
Remy should've realized why the beautiful girl with sad eyes didn't want to give in to a kiss in a dark corner, why she'd smirk with hard eyes after finally putting up with enough.
Mais, her lips were as soft as silk.
Anna Marie wakes as the sun rises, one sock loose underneath the covers of a delicate, babyu pink bedspread.
It's Rogue that gets up to face the day, however, one hardened eye all that can be seenin the bathroom mirror.
Her tumbling chestnut curls cover half of her face, one side of her, dark, mouth set in a frown. A shower gives her skin color, and makeup darkens lips and eyelids.
A knock at the door brings her out of the bathroom, and she is not surprised when le diable waltzes into her room like he owns it.
He casts a cursory glance to the sleeping Kitty. She is curled into a ball under her sheets, the comforter half on the floor, and her mouth half-open. She breathes heavily, still deeply asleep.
"Mornin', Chére, have a good night rest?" Gambit drawls. He fingers the pale pink of her bedspread, demon eyes taking in every sweet, girlish thing on her side of the room. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it.
"Ah've had better. Went tah sing the shower this mornin' and Ah started to singin' French. 'Twas a little annoying," Rogue replies, like the crack of a whip.
Gambit's smile spread like butter on cornbread.
"Sorry 'bout dat, Chére. I was born down in la belle ville, non?" Remy's face turns serious, strong line of his jaw set like stone. "I'm serious 'bout da'apology, chére, I had no idea 'bout you mutation."
"S'alright," she croaks, throat suddenly tight. "Ah'll just be speakin' creole for a coupla days until I get your psyche boxed away. "
"Did ya get Gambit's mutation, too?" he asks, honestly curious. He sits on her bed, and she tries not to think about how personal that is.
In response, Rogue picks up one of her Raggedy Anne dolls, and it slowly turns a faint magenta, the glow spreading slowly from her palm. She draws the charge back into her body, and sighs.
"Chére, you got da sigh of une ange," Gambit remarks. He smirks like honey. "Want tah get coffee sometime? Or icecream? You're bound tah have a favorite food that makes yah moan."
Rogue leans down in front of him. Her gloved hands smooth over his face. For just a second he sees Anna Marie. He looks into her sad, gray-green eyes, and understands.
Rogue smirks darkly, and with the help of a psyche, tosses Gambit into the hallway like he was a piece of crumpled paper. His head collides with the wall with a sharp thunk, and Kitty startles awake, back arched, and lands in a heap on the floor.
Rogue steps over him as Kitty starts yelling, and heads to the kitchen.
Remy doesn't follow.
Start with softened butter, just a quarter cup. Three eggs, large, grade A. Let them warm up too, it helps the ingredients mix better. Cast iron skillet popped empty into the over, preheat to 425 degrees farenheit.
Then cornmeal, sugar, bakin' powder, flour, salt, and soda.
Crisco. Lotsa Crisco.
Pull the skillet out carefully, add Crisco so the batter don't stick.
Pour the batter in carefully, then put it in the oven to bake for twenty minutes.
Pour over molasses, or honey. Eat with fat-back and fried okra.
Anna Marie starts to sweat, the oven's heat finally getting to her. She itches to take off her gloves, but she can't, she can't, she can't. The golden brown cornbread comes out of the oven smelling like home.
She starts on the fried okra and bacon then, oil, spices, pepper, pepper, and more pepper. Thinly sliced okra, tomatoes, and green onions start to steam when they hit the bacon fat, the cooking strips of meat making the kitchen smell even better.
Cooking is her one weakness. It's an escape to a happier time, a more peaceful existence with Irene.
Still sweating, and now a little tired, Marie cuts a pie-shaped wedge of cornbread and smothers it with honey. She scoops a small bowls worth of her fried okra, and sits at the counter island.
No one else is up this early, so she enjoys her meal, another sigh escaping her lips.
Remy stays in the hallway. It smells like his Tante's cooking.
He knows her weakness: she misses the south as much as he does.
(About a Week Later)
Anna sat cross-legged on her bench, the cool air raising goose bumps on her bare arms and neck. She shook her head, loose auburn curls settling in a soft swooping motion about her face and shoulders. She opens her eyes slowly, revealing wilting roses on the bushes and the delicate lavender light of dawn tinting the sky. A white stripe of hair covers her left eye.
She sees Remy. He's leaning against a stone arch several feet away, and he lets his face show how tired he is, how bitter. His frown lines deepen as they look at each other.
"Your cornbread was good, Chère," he says, breaking the silence. His voice is raw. "Made me miss ma Tante."
Rogue glares back. "How'd ya know Ah made cornbread?"
He looks at her like she's stupid, mock surprise making a caricature out of his handsome features, smile lines too big, eyebrows too high.
"Ah'm a T'ief," he answers, sounding amused.
"Go. Away." Her voice was poison.
"What'ya do out here all the time anyway, Chère?"
"I wait for people to leave me alone."
"Ah've been watchin' you Chère," he says, effortlessly moving from arch to bench in one long, lanky step. His weight settles on the bench silently, and it unnerves her. "Now Ah know you mutation, and it's no walk in la quartier, mais…you have to have some control, non?"
Rogue's scowl was stone, but as the seconds turn into minutes, it was Anna's tears that started to shine in her eyes. She tilts her head back, determined to keep them from spilling down her face. Her moment of weakness brought down Gambit's guard, but suddenly Rogue was back, snarling.
"Mind yer own business, Swamp Rat!"
Remy's frown lines were back, his glowing-coal eyes having a sad set to them.
She can't stand being around him another second, and leaves, furious.
Remy plucks a dying rose, and Gambit crushes it.
"It's like…your mutant name shows like, the embodiment of your power, your like, fierceness or whatever. Take Mr. Logan for example, Wolverine is a totally fitting name."
Kitty was explaining to the silent man, who the younger kids had taking to calling "Bob", about mutant names and their importance. The kitchen was almost brightly lit, the sun just peeking over the horizon, and the ceiling lights too dim in comparison. Kitty stood at the stove, pushing scrambled eggs back and forth in a skillet as "Bob" sat at the counter island.
"It's also a way of keeping your distance from people. Like, Rogue. If the name wasn't a hint, she doesn't really want to talk to people. We don't even know her real name."
Kitty looks up at that point in time to see Rogue standing in the doorway, face impassive.
Kitty's face falls in horror.
"Rogue," she can't think of anything else to say, and so her sentence trails off, giving way to awkward silence.
She's gone as quickly and as silently as she appeared. A second later it's Gambit who peeks into the kitchen, sees Kitty and "Bob", and moves past without a word.
"Gambit's name might be harder to explain," Kitty tries to continue. The silent man's black eyes roam her face, taking in a trembling lower lip and too-bright eyes. "D-Do you know any French?"
He places a hand on her shoulder, seeing tenderness in her that he saw, still sees, in Martin.
Her shoulders start to shake, but she doesn't make a sound, and doesn't look at him.
She decides to go to the roof, her only other option becoming less and less available with frequent visits from a flirty Cajun.
Leaning against the chimney closest to her access point (Her bedroom window and a precarious flower trellis), Anna Marie closes her eyes again. Settling into a relaxed pose, she starts thinking, pushing with her "borrowed" telepathy.
I will not absorb. I will not absorb. I will not absorb.
She knows it's probably futile. Meditation by itself would never do anything, but maybe if she approached the professor…
"You are one o' de hardest filles to find, didja know dat?"
The voice doesn't startle her, or even surprise her; it merely fills her with instant rage. She doesn't open her eyes, or acknowledge him.
"And Ah'm a T'ief. You woulda done well in de Guild."
She feels him settle on the flat roof in front of her, his breath on her face and neck. He's perfectly silent; she can't even hear his breath.
"Ah t'ink you're one o' de most self-involved people Ah've eva met."
This comment makes her break her silence. She opens her eyes, and his face is inches from hers.
"How in the world do you think that?"
"All you do is hide away, but I'm sure all you're t'inking is 'oh poor me, I can't touch so I take it out on the people I care about'."
"How dare you! You think Ah'm self-involved?" She leaned in closer, so close their noses almost brushed, so close she could hear him swallow. "You have got ta take the friggin' cake, buddy. Flirtin' with every girl you see, beddin' most of them. You're so aware of you looks that it's painful to watch."
Remy's gaze turned serious suddenly. His frown lines seemed to get deeper and deeper each time she saw him.
"Chère, I t'ink you should listen to gossip less."
She snorted, eyes rolling and head turning away from him.
"I want ta kiss you so badly, Chère.
Feeling vindictive, angry, hurt, and sad all at once, she couldn't help but want to punish him.
"Well, here ya go."
She held on as long as she could, until his thoughts overwhelmed her. Tear tracks made their way down to her collar bones, dripped off of her chin.
"Ya bastard."