Disclaimer: Characters belong to Marvel, etc.
Rating: Rated for a bit of violence, a bit of strong language and a bit of sexy stuff. But probably nothing too strong.
Author notes: I just want to say thanks to everyone for the positive response and reviews to this story. I'm totally overwhelmed. I honestly didn't think anyone would be very interested in this story, so I am totally humbled and grateful. You are all amazing - thank you! :) I would also like to give a special shout-out to kataract52, Hardkandy and Ana Xpert for the pregnancy advice. I changed some of the details in the last chapter in light of their very useful suggestions and insights, and will keep it in mind for this chapter and any future ones. Thanks, guys - you rock! :)
Hardkandy - It's really read how you're enjoying the story so far! I hope the brief meeting with Tante Mattie doesn't disappoint in this chapter. There will also be more about Marguerite LeBeau too over the coming chapters. Hopefully I'll be able to write more of this story in the future - I don't really want it to be left unfinished. ;) LEGNA - Yups - Irene definitely does (did) know everything! :) Jehilew - Your grandmother's name was Marguerite?! How cool is that! :D As far as I can tell, Mrs. LeBeau has no first name in the comics, I just made it up (I had a conversation with jpraner about this, and she swears it's in the comics, but I couldn't find it anywhere... hope someone has a definitive answer on this one!). I didn't think of the baby connection between Jean-Luc/Remy and Remy/his own kid... Nice find! And thanks for sharing! :) Warrior-princess1980 - Thank you! ^-^ kataract52 - LOL! Well, I like to think they have had a few honest conversations throughout the course of the HoC AU - though probably not as many as they should have! ;) I will admit though, from here on in they are a lot honest with one another - they're definitely growing up. Bless! ^-^ Ana Xpert - Thank you! I think Remy has real insecurities about being a parent - luckily though, I think his feelings for Rogue, and his need to be a good father, will get him through the worst of that. :) RRL24 - Me too! ^-^ WhenInRomy - Thanks again for such a wonderful review! I think I can safely say that HoC Rogue and Remy will remain very much together as far as I can see. Although that's just between you and me... ;) jpraner - Yeah, you know me... All angst and dark!fic... But it seems to be working. Don't worry, I'll punish Remy a bit before the story's out, bwahahahaha! PKS - Thanks so much for all the reviews, dear! I'm so happy you're liking my work! :D I know what you mean about pulling faces when reading - I do that too. And when I'm writing as well, come to think about it! I hope you enjoy this chapter too! :)
As always, please read, review and enjoy!
-Ludi x
CODA
Chapter 4
It was temperate, even warm for a winter morning.
The sun was shining, the birds were singing; Rogue's hair was shimmering like copper in the light streaming in from the window.
Remy dressed quietly and left her lying still asleep in bed as he wandered downstairs.
It was nice to be back. Crazy… but nice. The last time he'd come here he had been overwhelmed by feelings of joy and heady exhilaration. Slipping back into his old skin had been so surprisingly easy that for a few short weeks he'd revelled in the life and the world he had always known, a world that he almost never seemed to have left at all.
He had known it was an illusion – an illusion because he had known that he could never really slide back into that old skin, that this was not his home anymore. That he had left this place as a boy and returned as a man, and that whilst it was nice to pretend to be a boy again, the pretence couldn't last.
Coming here again was different – and he knew it was because of Rogue. He had brought a piece of his real life with him, and the melding of the two had brought him some joy, but also pain. It had forced him to face exactly how much he had changed and how far his travels had taken him from this place.
This was a sanctuary, a haven – nothing but an idealistic paradise lay within these opulent four walls. And it wasn't his home; it no longer reflected or housed the total sum experience of his life so far, and whilst it was a comfort to be here, he knew that remaining here would bring its own complications and he could never really be happy here, not for the long term.
He stopped outside Jean-Luc's door and hesitated a moment.
He knew that whatever was going to happen in there was something that would bring home to him just how complicated even having the right to stay here was going to be.
He knocked briefly, not waiting for an answer. He knew his father would be expecting him, and so he opened the door quietly and stepped in.
Jean-Luc was at the grand, burnished oak desk, going over some papers.
"Remy." He looked up and smiled, nodded to the leather swing chair opposite him. "Take a seat."
Remy moved up to the desk wordlessly and settled casually into the chair. The nonchalance of his attitude masked the churning anxiety that was stirring ceaselessly within him, and he was pretty sure that Jean-Luc could sense it.
But Jean-Luc made no reference to it if he had so.
"Dey've agreed to hear your petition," was all he said instead.
And whilst Remy appreciated the fact that his father didn't bother beating round the bush, his stomach still lurched uncomfortably at the news.
"How long will it take?" he asked quietly.
"Not long. We put it in pretty much straight after you left. De negotiations have been ongoing since den. I haveta warn you," he spoke in a more confidential tone, "dey'll prob'ly accept it."
And his stomach wrenched again.
"Brilliant," he commented flatly. "So t'ings are goin' exactly accordin' to plan."
Jean-Luc's eyebrow twitched.
"Are dey?"
Remy shrugged, as non-committal as he could be.
"I know what dis means to you, Remy," Jean-Luc replied. "But are you 100% sure dis is what you want?"
He didn't dare to take a moment to think about it.
"I'm sure."
Jean-Luc stared at him with a penetrating gaze for several seconds, a gaze he met without flinching. After a while, his foster father looked away, set aside his papers, and leaned back in his chair.
"You do understand," he began gravely, "dat you ain't exactly endeared yourself t' de Assassins, Remy. Dey won't go easy on you."
"I didn't ever expect dem to," Remy muttered. "Why should anyt'ing have changed?"
"Well, for a start," Jean-Luc rejoined wryly, "you brought your girlfriend here wit' you, in broad daylight. One might almost t'ink you wanted dem to go hard on you."
"Or to give dem a reason for dem t' accept de petition."
Jean-Luc darted a sharp glance at him.
"You want it dis bad?" He sounded almost incredulous. Remy lifted his shoulders, an expression of 'yes' rather than of uncertainty. His father exhaled heavily. "Remy. Dey won't ever agree t' you bein' reinstated into de Guild. You do know dat, right?"
"I know," Remy looked aside, out the window. "Dat ain't de point any more, pere. You know it as well as I do."
He was suddenly itching for a smoke. His mind went absently to the packet in his back pocket, but he consciously held himself back.
"So what is de point?" Jean-Luc pressed him calmly. "Is de price really worth de freedom t' pass through dis city? If dis is guilt talkin', Remy, dere are easier ways t'deal wit' dis. Unless," he continued shrewdly, "dis ain't just about you, mon fils."
Again, Remy met his gaze without blanching and Jean-Luc's lips broke into the same kind of lopsided smile that Remy himself wore so well.
"So dere is a reason you brought along Anna. Or should I call her Rogue?"
This time Remy did blink, even if he still remained silent.
"Ah, come now, son," Jean-Luc spoke softly when Remy still said nothing. "You know better den t' t'ink we ain't been watchin' your career wit' interest – as far as we could anyhow." He tapped the tablet at his elbow, bringing it to life. When he slid it over in Remy's direction, he saw that it was a page from the FBI's Most Wanted list; and there, in the corner, was a photo of Rogue – that old, familiar photo of her, the one that had been splashed all over the news in the aftermath of the Rifkind fiasco several years ago. Her at eighteen, nineteen years old, self-assured and fresh-faced, her green eyes brazen, staring directly at the viewer as if to lay down a challenge.
At the sight, Remy's heart sank, but he pushed the tablet back to his foster father calmly, said, "You guys sure went to a lotta effort t' pry into my fuckin' life."
Jean-Luc was unfazed.
"You were gone, Remy, but we still cared about you. After you left you went dark. Dat was okay. We expected dat. But den you resurfaced wit' dose mutant superheroes. De X-Men." He gestured to the tablet beside him – Rogue's photo had gone dark. "It wasn't hard to recognise your Anna once we'd met her face t' face." He leaned forward in his chair, steepled his hands in front of him. "You have known her a long time."
"You shouldn't've pried," Remy insisted in an undertone. "De less people know about her de better…"
Jean-Luc had the good grace to look piqued at that.
"You know me better den dat, Remy. You t'ink I'd go givin' away her identity? We're de Thieves Guild, son. We keep our secrets better den most. You know dat. Besides," he continued staidly, "she's a nice girl. And I ain't interested in makin' t'ings difficult for nice girls, 'specially not when dey're involved wit' my ingrate son."
The last was said with humour, and Remy knew then that he could trust his foster father with this particular information – not that he had ever really doubted it, but things being what they were, it was always better to be sure.
"So 'nice girl' is what you call her, huh?" He couldn't help it – this time he went for the packet in his back pocket and shook out a cigarette – now only one more was left. "I'm so glad you approve." He lit the cigarette with the tip of his finger and sucked on it gratefully; Jean-Luc was unimpressed.
"If anyt'ing she's too good for you and you know it, boy," he levelled with mock severity. "Like your mother – too good, too pure for de world we come from."
Remy smirked, amused by the comparison with his foster-mother, and blew smoke aside.
"Words like 'good' and 'pure' are relative terms, pere. But I know what you mean. And you don't need t' tell me I should count myself lucky. I do. Every day."
Jean-Luc's expression was serious.
"So you're in-love wit' dis woman. You wanna bring her here t' meet de fam'ly. Dat's cute, but it ain't de whole story." He nudged an ashtray in Remy's direction and Remy obliged him, flicking ash into the antique crystal bowl whilst his father continued: "When you came here last month, you told me dis meant a lotta t'ings to you. To be a part of dis fam'ly again. To atone for Julien's death. But goin' t' dese lengths… Something's changed…"
"Trust me, pere," Remy answered bitterly, "if I could be a part of dis fam'ly again wit'out havin' t' go t' dese lengths, I'd take it. But you know as well as I do dat de Boudreaux's will take not'ing less. I've already forfeited my place as a member of de Guild. I could'a lost my place in dis fam'ly too, but I wanna see to it dat I don't. Not entirely anyway."
"So…" Jean-Luc stared at the ashtray, his brow furrowed as he tried to work out this conundrum, and Remy finally took pity on him, explaining: "Anna's pregnant."
Jean-Luc stared at him for a long while.
"I take it dis was an accident," was the first thing he said after regaining his tongue.
"Heh." Remy looked aside, the bitterness now returned to his voice. "An accident don't necessarily mean unwanted." He paused, looked back aside to his father. "Some t'ings can be made purposely, Jean-Luc, and still be unwanted." He leaned towards the desk, tapped his cigarette against the ashtray deliberately and stated reflectively, "I don't want dat for my child. I don't want dem t'have half a father neither. A father who doesn't know himself. Who made bad choices dat he ain't come to terms wit'. And I don't want my child t' not be able to see their fam'ly because their dad is an exile and is likely to get beat or maimed or killed if he steps foot in his hometown again. You get it?"
He raised his eyes to his father's and held them. Several moments of charged silence followed before Jean-Luc nodded his head.
"How does Anna feel 'bout dis?" he asked.
Remy didn't say anything immediately. He slouched back in the chair, all his false nonchalance back in place.
"She don't know yet," he replied, putting the cigarette back in his mouth.
"You need to tell her."
Smoke curled from his nostrils.
"I know."
"But?"
"No buts. I know." He chewed on the cigarette thoughtfully. "She ain't gonna like it. But I ain't gonna change my mind."
"It's her child as well, Remy," Jean-Luc reminded him sternly. "She might decide dat dis entire t'ing is unnecessary for its future."
"Dat may be true," Remy replied flatly. "But even if it was, it ain't unnecessary for mine. I want t'ings square, Jean-Luc. After all de places I've been, all de ugly t'ings I've done… How else can I make peace wit' myself? We can argue all day about what you or Anna or anyone else might t'ink is right for me, but at de end of de day, it's my decision. And de bottom line is, I want to be able to live wit' myself, Jean-Luc. For my own sake; for my child's."
"And I admire dat, mon fils," Jean-Luc replied gravely. "But Anna still needs to know what you're plannin', and de sooner de better."
The cigarette had already pretty much burned to the stub. Realising he hadn't savoured it as much as he had thought he would, Remy leaned forward in his chair and twisted it out in the crystal ashtray slowly, deliberately.
"I know, pere," he murmured softly. "I know what I owe Rogue, and I know I owe her de truth about what's really at stake. I'll tell her. I can promise you dat."
He rose, ready to go; but when he got to the door he heard Jean-Luc say:
"I'm proud of you, mon fils. More den you can know."
And he looked back over his shoulder, said softly:
"Dat feelin' you have right now, pere… Dat's de feelin' I want my kid to have 'bout me."
And with that he left.
-oOo-
He walked out into the gardens, standing on the veranda for a long while, taking in the early morning air of the bayous of his home. He toyed with the idea of smoking his last cigarette, but somehow the allure of it had gone. It would be Christmas is a few days – but the temperature was still balmy, a warm 65 degrees. If there was one thing he suddenly felt he missed about New York, it was the snow. The snow, flitting across the little rectangle of the safe house window.
It was as he was thinking this that he noticed a small figure begin to approach the house from over the hill that led down to the more unkempt areas of the vast estate – the copses, the wildernesses, the edges of the swamps that he and the boys had used to play hide-and-seek in as kids. The gait of this small figure was so familiar that he recognised it immediately, and he found himself stepping off the veranda and walking towards it at a rapid pace.
"Tante!" he called out as they both drew close. "Tante Mattie!"
He was almost running as he said the words, and it was with an almost boyish feeling of joy that he threw his arms around the small, round little figure of the middle-aged woman who had been his surrogate mother for the great bulk of his formative years.
"Remy, mon 'tit chile, it does my heart good t' see you again!" exclaimed the woman in a matronly tone, fully accepting his embrace before pulling away and adding: "Now lemme have a look atcha!"
She did so, with all the seriousness of every doting mother, proclaiming after a few moments: "Well, mon cher, I always did tell your mamere she had a strong, handsome boy on her hands and I t'ink I was fairly right."
He grinned down at her. "I seem t' recall you always told her she had trouble on her hands too," he added, and Mattie gave him a withering look, declaring, "Dat I did, dat I did: and it ain't no use sayin' dat weren't de truth, neither"; but there was a twinkle in her eye as she said it, and he knew that she was only playing with him in a way that he'd never quite been able to forget.
They looked at one another a moment more. Tante Mattie was at least two heads shorter than he was – she'd only ever reached his chest height since he'd turned about 17. She was a plump woman, dressed in the fussy, gaudy clothing of every Voodoo priestess, although there was grey in her neatly dreadlocked and braided hair, and she held herself with the distinguished air of New Orleans' pre-eminent Voodoo queen. Hey eyes, a deep shade of brown that was almost black, held a stern gravity that could shoot down any man that valued his life at a 100 paces. There were few in this city who would cross her, knowing as they did her ability to call on magical forces far outside the human realm.
She had also one been the mentor and guardian of the young Marguerite Laveau, joining her ward once she had married into the LeBeau clan.
"It's good to see you again, Tante," he murmured. He was an adult now, and had seen and done so many things to strip him of the waywardness and immaturity of his youth – but somehow he still couldn't help but call her 'tante'.
"It's good to see you too, mon cher," she replied with a smile that was too faint to be happy. "It was a shame that we only met so briefly last time you were here. Dis time, I hope we'll have more time to catch up on everyt'ing dat's happened de last 10 years."
"I t'ink you can count on it," Remy replied soberly. Without any more words the two began to walk back towards the house.
"I hear you arrived yesterday," Mattie spoke, her tone seeming to suggest to him a conscious effort to make small talk. But there was one thing that he hadn't lost, and that was his ability to forego deference when he felt it necessary. So he turned to her and asked seriously; "Where've you been?"
She glanced sharply at him, seeing that he was in no mood to fence around the truth.
"Wit' de Boudreaux's. Tryin' t' act on your behalf."
He grunted.
"Shoulda known you'd be de liaison…"
"Who else could it be but me, Remy," she retorted with a certain hardness. "I've myself t'be impartial, haven't I?"
He begrudgingly accepted that fact. It was Mattie who had, originally, facilitated his exile from New Orleans and his ejection from the Thieves Guild all those years ago. It had smarted to know that the woman who had brought it him like a son had done everything in her power to banish him from everyone he had known and loved. What it had taken him years to realise was that she had actually saved him from losing his life.
"And as it happens," she was adding in a slightly nettled tone, "you haven't been making t'ings easy for me. What you pulled yesterday… bringin' dat girl in broad daylight…"
He stopped abruptly, and she stopped too, waiting for him to make his excuses. He had none to make.
"Mattie," he spoke quietly, gravely, not using the usual term of endearment, "lissen to me. Whatever dey want, whatever dey ask for… it's okay. Dey lay down a challenge, I'll meet it."
The look she passed him was curious.
"Remy, mon cher… D'you want dem t' reinstate you as a member of de Thieves Guild, chile? 'Cos dat, I'm 'fraid, is somet'ing dey will not allow…"
He shook his head, a sad smile on his face.
"I know. And it ain't about dat anymore." He turned away, began walking again, ignoring her narrow-eyed, questioning look. "As long as dey let me be a part of dis fam'ly again, I ain't gonna complain. Dat's all I'm gonna ask for."
"Such low stakes?" she asked as they began walking again. "Is dat all you really want?"
"Low is a matter of perspectives," he answered obliquely. "I happen t' t'ink dey're a little higher den low." He didn't elaborate for now, ploughing right on and adding in a flippant tone, "How's Belladonna?"
There was a short pause before the older woman answered.
"Belladonna never changes," she replied, just a cryptically has he had just a moment ago.
They had reached the steps up to veranda. He stopped as they climbed to the top, this time passing her a genuine, boyish smile. "Have you got a few minutes, Tante?" he asked her. "Before you gotta go see mon pere?"
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"A few minutes for…?"
And he cocked that mischievous smile she knew so well.
"Dere's someone I want you t' meet."
-oOo-
Rogue had awoken to something she hadn't been accustomed to much back in New York – birdsong and sunshine. It was pleasant, and for a while she had lain in it, basking in a glowing sense of security she had rarely felt throughout her humdrum life. It was only after a couple of minutes that she turned and found Remy gone – the space beside her still warm with his residual imprint. She breathed in that warmth for a second before sitting up slowly. A wave of nausea took her and she promptly sank back down into the pillows with a groan.
Her morning sickness had increased the past week, markedly in the past couple of days. She wondered how long this was going to last, and wish she'd thought to ask Kate Pryde for her phone number. Kate was the only friend she knew had been pregnant, and right now any advice would've been nice.
Half an hour passed before the nausea passed. She slipped out of bed and went for a shower, and when she was dressed she stood out on the balcony for a moment. It was so beautifully temperate for this time of year that she was tempted to go out for a walk in the well-manicured grounds, and she was just about to do so when the door opened behind her. Turning quickly, she walked back into the bedroom, surprised to see Remy enter with a short, stout black woman who had all the air of a queen, no less.
Rogue stood at the French windows, finding that she recognised the woman instantly without having to be introduced. From all Gambit's descriptions of her past acquaintances (he hadn't given her many), this had to be no other than Tante Mattie. She wasn't to be disappointed.
"Anna," he reached out an arm to her as they walked in. "I wantcha t' meet someone. Dis is my Tante Mattie. She brought me up when I was a kid here."
Rogue walked towards them, surprised to find herself nervous. She wasn't one for following rules or adhering to stereotypes, but some stereotypes must've buried themselves deep at some point, because if there was one person close enough to being the 'dreaded mother-in-law', it was this woman, and the idea of it made her uneasy. It made her even more uneasy when she thought of it in terms of Remy and Mystique.
"Anna," Tante Mattie repeated in a voice that was warm and welcoming; and the next moment a smile had broken across her face that was so sunny and good-natured that all doubts in Rogue were quickly evaporated. "At last, I get t' see what all de fuss is about!" she exclaimed, and before Rogue could say or do a thing she had been gathered up in mother bear of a hug by the older woman, who planted a kiss squarely on each of her cheeks. The exuberant Creole greeting having been dispensed with, Mattie pulled away to take a good look at her, all sign of jollity now gone. As she gave Rogue the once over her expression grew so serious, in fact, that Rogue began to grow anxious again.
"Ah," the voodoo priestess concluded at last, her voice soft. "I see now why dis is so important to you, Remy." She looked up at Rogue with dark brown eyes that were soft and of feeling. "You are wit' chile, ma chere."
Rogue was all at once surprised and oddly embarrassed at the forthright and unexpected statement, feeling the colour rush unbidden to her cheeks.
"Ah — how did you know?"
Mattie's smile was indulgent.
"I am a diviner, ma p'tite, amongst other t'ings. And sometimes you learn t' divine t'ings wit'out de aid of magic spells and incantations. I seen a lot," she continued offhandedly, and, as an aside to Remy: "I seen it in your mother. When your brother was conceived."
Much as Rogue hadn't been expecting all this, she didn't think Remy had been either. He didn't look entirely comfortable with the way this was playing out. Tante Mattie herself seemed to sense this. A small, dry little smile touched her lips.
"Don't worry, mes p'tits. I won't tell anyone your li'l secret. Although you'd best not make it a habit of keepin' dem. Remy knows to his detriment the damage some secrets can cause in dis place." And she gave him a penetrating look. "He might find out some more, if he's ain't careful."
The look was so penetrating, in fact, that Rogue sensed a pretty pointed dig in it. Remy's only answer was a twitch of the mouth, and before either of them could make a response, Mattie was ploughing right on forward.
"Now, I'd best get on and see your pere before he starts worryin' de Assassins have kidnapped me." Her tone was breezy but again, the sarcastic wit only slightly poking through. When she looked back at Rogue, it was with the kind of motherly expression she had never got from her own mom. "Take heart, p'tite, whatever de future may bring. You're a good match for him – as strong and as brave as he is." A slight pause, a wider smile. "Non – I t'ink more so."
She squeezed Rogue's upper arms before dropping them and adding, "Well – it's a pleasure to meet you, Anna – and I'm sure we'll have plenty of time later to t' get t' know one another better. Unfortunately, I got bus'ness t' attend to right now." She moved towards the door, pausing only to shoot sternly over her shoulder: "And Remy: p'us de mentir – d'accord?"
"D'accord," he answered quietly, and the next moment Mattie had bustled out the door with a tight smile and a nod.
Rogue let herself breathe.
"What the hell was all that about?" she asked.
He scrubbed the back of his neck with his fingers.
"Dat was my tante remindin' me what it's like t' be a pup again."
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"Pfft. Your auntie's a sweet lady, swamp rat. The only reason she's treatin' you like a kid is prob'ly 'cos she thinks you're actin' like one. And by the way," she continued, "Ah take it you went to see your pop? Did you tell him 'bout the baby?"
He looked like he was bounding from one distraction to another.
"Oui," he nodded.
"And it went?"
"Well. Let's jes' say he didn't have a heart attack when I told him." The humour in his voice was absent, pre-occupied. When he looked back at her his expression was sober. "Dere's somet'ing we should talk about, Rogue. Y'feelin' up to a walk?"
-oOo-
'A walk' ended up being a stroll in town, and 'a stroll in town' ended up being a meander through the French Quarter.
She remembered the hustle and bustle like a kaleidoscope of memory, a dizzy spell mostly of colours and scents and sounds – all of which was exacerbated by the lights and the dazzle of the fast-approaching festive season. Nothing had changed much here, at least not in that respect. She loved the joy, the exuberance, the irreverence. It wasn't what you saw in the north. Most of the south, it seemed, had been a hinterland of Sentinel rule. There were still a couple of decommissioned ones hanging around that no one had bothered to clean up. One was still standing on the corner of Bourbon Street, partially tagged with graffiti; and everyone was pretty much just flowing around it, engrossed in their normal everyday business.
There was a concentration of three or four more, just over the horizon.
"Where's that?" she asked Remy, pointing in the direction of the cluster.
"De mutant slums," he'd replied soberly.
He led her to a chic little café in an old, colonial building, where they were led to their own private booth once the name LeBeau had been dropped. All paths of resistance were also made about a thousand times easier with Remy throwing around his famous charm like he was Santa Claus himself.
"Well, fuck," Remy swore mostly to himself when they were finally seated. "I forgot it's Christmas in a few days."
"What?" she joked. "You don't wanna present, sugah?"
He gave her a look.
"Fuck, chere, I ain't done Christmas since de last one we had at de mansion. Dat was nearly 10 fuckin' years ago. Jesus. De idea of doin' Christmas makes me wanna rejertee."
"Say what now?"
"Throw up."
She chuckled.
"Mah gawd, you're such a Scrooge! But Ah hear yah. Best gift Ah had this year is to be alive. Don't think anyone can top that."
"Heh. Yah."
He looked like he was thinking of things he'd rather not remember, and it was weird to her how she could so clearly separate the man in front of her from the man he had been when merged with Sinister – the man or the thing who had so nearly killed her. Both were thankful when the waitress came over and took their orders – Remy pulled a face at her when she ordered a chicory coffee, as if to say, what de fuck?
"What? Ah love the stuff," she threw at him, and he shrugged comically, holding up his hands.
It wasn't long before their drinks arrived, and once again Rogue settled into a taste of the South she hadn't had in a good long time.
"So," she began, after savouring a couple of sips in comforting silence. "Yah said you wanted t' talk. Ah'm guessin' this is about the meetin' you had with your daddy this mornin'. Ah'm guessin' it's also why you've been so on edge since you got here. So talk."
He gave her a look over his espresso that clearly said to her – yet again, that she was way too good at figuring him out.
"Have I been on edge?" he asked, surprised.
"You've been all sorts of things, sugah," she told him dryly. "Bein' here has been very instructive where you're concerned. But Ah ain't talkin' about that. Ah'm talkin' about somethin' you and your folks have been not-so-subtly referrin' to ever since you got here. Possibly it's somethin' t' do with why you're here in the first place, this plan to get back in with your fam'ly. Every time someone talks about it you get tense. So. Care to share?"
He looked something close to horrified.
"Fuck. I t'ink de Phoenix took away my poker face."
"Pshaw." Rogue batted away an imaginary fly. "Either that or Ah know you better than anyone. Ah don't know what's worse t'yah, but whichever one you go for, you're still gonna tell me what it is that's buggin' you, sugah."
For a moment he looked like he was tossing up whether to laugh or to sigh, and it must've been a difficult choice because he went for neither. Instead he laid down his cup, and leaned back in his chair, the casualness of the gesture belied by the slight expression of helplessness on his face.
"So I said dere was a way t' get de exile lifted," he began, feigning interest in the stucco on the wall; she nodded.
"Uh-huh. A Guild protocol, you said…"
He seemed amused by the description.
"A protocol. Yeah, I guess you could call it somet'ing like dat." He gave up ruminating on the décor and leaned in closer towards her. "It's called de Winnowing, chere," he explained in a low voice, mindful, perhaps, of listening ears and prying eyes. "It's a ritual. An old one. We don't use it much anymore. But we do, now and den. In special circumstances."
His voice was low and soft, more serious than usual. She leaned in, accommodating his obvious need for confidentiality.
"Go on," she murmured. "Ah'm listenin'."
He looked aside briefly, as if considering something, before looking fully back at her.
"Bottom line is dis, chere. It's a way of dealin' wit' problems, wit' grievances. Back in de day, when de Thieves and Assassins were always at war wit' one another, it was a way of keepin' de peace wit'out sheddin' insane amounts of blood. Any serious beef between members of de Guilds would be sorted by de Winnowin'. It's ritualised justice, Rogue, for lawless people. It's sanctified retribution."
He trailed off, looking morose, and Rogue was silent, patiently waiting for more, even if the more she heard of this the less she liked it.
"So," he continued on a heavy exhalation of breath, "let's say a Thief wants payback b'cause an Assassin slept wit' his wife. If he kills de Assassin it'll start a Guild war. So he petitions for de Winnowin'. He petitions for de right t' have his revenge. If it's de price for peace, both Guilds will accept it. The Assassin will submit, or face exile. He faces de man he wronged, and, short of a man's death, de Thief is allowed to mete out whatever punishment he sees fit."
He stopped abruptly and downed the rest of his espresso, looking like he wished it was something harder. He didn't meet her gaze.
"So what you're sayin'," Rogue spoke at last in a flat tone, "is that in this 'Winnowing', the injured party is basically allowed to, um… huh, lemme see… beat the offender to a pulp until he figures he's had his come-uppance?"
His dark eyes flicked up to hers, unable to tell if she was joking or not. One look into her stone cold gaze told him she wasn't.
"If you wanna put it dat way, chere," he agreed at last. Rogue let out an outraged breath.
"But that's crazy! Half of both the Guild's members would probably wind up dead!"
He looked up at the ceiling, a faint smile on his face.
"Yeah, well… it ain't that barbaric. Dere are rules…"
"What, like in Fight Club or somethin'?"
He dropped his eyes again and hitched a flash of a grin at her.
"Somet'ing like dat. No maimin', no killin', for instance. Not t' mention which, all Guild members haveta be present… And dere's an adjudicator who knows de case inside out t' make sure no one's outta line. It's as sanitised as a pretty brutal beatin' can get, but…" he settled back in the chair again, smirking sardonically, "I ain't gonna lie t' you, Rogue. People have died. After de fact. When dere's more den just one wronged party."
And this time she really did hold in a breath, her blood suddenly running cold.
"Lemme get this straight," she interrupted him in a faint voice. "You asked for this… this ritual, Remy?"
"Non," he shook his head. "Not dis. I asked for de Assassins to decide what it would take t' have my exile lifted. De Winnowin' was de only t'ing dey would take."
She gaped at him in disbelief.
"Because the reason you were exiled was because you—"
"Slept wit' de Grandmaster's daughter and den murdered his son and heir so I could have her? Yup."
She looked at him as if she wasn't quite fitting this together correctly. Like one piece of the puzzle was left and it didn't look like it was supposed to wedge in there, but it was slotting right in just fine anyway.
"But… But that means that…" She paused, still seeing no other conclusion than the one right in front her, and her eyes lifted back to his again, only to find his gaze right back on hers without flinching. "Holy shit, Rem, it means that the entire Assassin's Guild is the wronged party in this."
He didn't need to say anything. His entire demeanour as he met her gaze told her that she was right.
She opened her mouth to protest at it, when a sudden wave of nausea hit her again.
She snapped her mouth shut. Shoved away her coffee.
She pushed herself away from the table and stood.
"Ah need t' get some air," she muttered, and promptly left.
-oOo-
