Author's Note: I'm not going too heavy on writing Gambit and Rogue's accents because they can become harder to read, readers are welcome to give the characters as thick of an accent as they wish.
Ian Somerhalder as Remy LeBeau (Gambit)
Matt Bomer as Courier
…
Chapter One
Latvia – Eight Years Later
"Remy," the sharply dressed man with a neatly coifed hair cut and cheap six hundred dollar suit asked casually, "have I told you in the last ten minutes how much I hate you?"
There was a chuckle from the slightly disheveled man standing at his back, "Yes you have, mon ami."
"Good," Jacob resisted the urge to straighten his tie, he could feel it was crooked and if he was going to die today he wanted to go without a single hair or piece of cloth out of place.
"Search 'em," barked one of the fifteen security men, mercenaries more likely, who currently had Jacob surrounded in the courtyard his friend had lead them into after the handoff did not go as planned. Each of the dangerous looking men had assault rifles drawn, not a sight the courier considered pleasant at all.
"Watch the suit," Jacob grumbled as he was given a rough pat down. The merc wouldn't find anything, Jacob never carried a weapon and why would he? He was the essence of neutrality. It was the man standing behind Jacob that was questionable on a good day.
A bruiser with a badly set nose held Jacob's briefcase in his hand. "Locked."
"We'll take care of that later," said the leader, his weapon trained on the bigger threat.
Jacob's merc finished patting him down, "This one's clean."
"This one has something up his sleeve," another spoke and the courier tried to hide a smirk.
"What?" the lead merc just had to ask, didn't he.
"Cards," the other responded, a likely confused look evident in his voice. "They aren't even high cards."
"Dey for a magic trick, mon ami," his friend said lightly, "wanna see?"
They should say no, they should always say no, but no one could ever resist.
The neatly dressed man risked turning his head to look over his shoulder as his Cajun companion flipped two cards between his fingers expertly as if they were coins. An eight and a nine, these lackeys were clearly only worth a three and four.
There was a sizzle, a sound Jacob knew well from his long friendship with the man, and it was his cue… to drop into the fetal position and stay out of the way.
Jacob Gavin Jr was not a coward, he's stood tall in front of all manner of dictator, sycophant, and lawyer, but his strength came from his complete removal from the situations he found himself in. He was a courier, the Courier. You needed a message or item delivered safely and securely between friends or enemies without even a hint of reproach, you called him.
You wanted something stolen… with style… then you called his friend, Remy LaBeau. Of course, this meant that the Cajun thief got himself out of a jam with equal panache.
Jacob squatted, not wanting to get dirt on his suit, after all it may be cheap but he loved the pin striping on it. He held his hands over his head to protect himself as LaBeau's biochemically charged playing cards hit their marks, exploding with the trapped kinetic energy he put there thanks to his mutant abilities. Watching the feet of the men around him four went immediately down as another was slammed against the wall of bodies.
A couple of mercs managed to get shots off but Jacob had no doubt they missed their target. LeBeau must have gotten his Bo staff back, a walking cane that extended into a full quarter-staff, and there was a brush of air as his friend vaulted over him, taking out two with a kinetically charged kick.
The Louisiana native laughed, "Mind if I have dat back?"
There was a thud and the quick patter of combat boots on stone. Jacob thought it might be over, but one never presents themselves as a target until they are sure they won't get shot.
"All clear, mon ami," his friend was decidedly cheery, his Cajun accent always a little thicker in his jubilance.
Giving it a second, Jacob stood and brushed down his clothes, taking in the sight before him. Fourteen mercenaries laid unconscious on the ground around them, a few with charred breast plates but most simply knocked out by LeBeau's quick and powerful punches. All would recover, it wasn't the Cajun's style to do more than lay a man out in a fight.
Remy LeBeau didn't look like he should always end up on the winning side of a bar brawl, his slightly taller than average height and medium built lent itself to more of a lover than a fighter. LeBeau fancied himself both. Born with an angel's smile and the devil's eyes, they say the New Orleans native is the greatest thief in the world. Le Diable Blanc he's been called, "The White Devil", but due to his affinity of playing big and far from safe, those who knew him best tended to call him Gambit.
"You enjoyed that," Jacob admonished, finally able to fix his tie.
"Dey started it," the man shrugged, retracting his staff and dusting off his trench coat.
One of the mercs groaned and Jacob didn't exactly panic but assess the situation. "We should get to the airport."
"Aye, mon ami," LeBeau grabbed the fallen briefcase and the two of them headed out of the courtyard.
Grabbing a taxi, their original transport having been disabled, Jacob called ahead to make sure his jet was ready to take off as soon as they were on board. The two managed to reach the plane without being followed, well, that Remy could tell and Jacob was apt to trust his friend on such matters. Both quickly rushed on board and the steward closed the door behind them.
"Are we all clear?" Jacob asked as he moved to the forward sitting area, meeting the co-pilot halfway.
"A runway's been left open for us," said the man, an elder balding gentlemen with a sharp disposition.
"Are we cleared through customs?" the Courier turned back to the steward, Mr. Winlet.
"We were never here, sir," the equally sharp man answered. Jacob could not abide sloppiness.
"Good," he nodded appreciatively, "then we best be off."
"Very good, sir," the co-pilot moved back towards the cockpit and Jacob handed his briefcase over to Winlet who would stow it safely until they landed. Trust, that was another absolute requirement of any member of his staff.
Jacob collapsed into a seat, his stewardess immediate offering him a gin and selzter. "Thank you, Leena," he took the glass gratefully. LeBeau may have done all the work but just watching his kinetically charged friend wore him out.
"And you, sir," Leena, a bright enough girl to keep her mouth shut about company business but trapped by the gift of long legs and long blonde hair, moved to serve LeBeau a scotch and whiskey, her tone decidedly different towards the Cajun.
"Why, thank you, cheri," LeBeau's deep-red colored irises sparkled at the girl and she practically swooned as he lifted his drink from the platter.
"Oh, I kept it safe for you," Leena leaned across the Cajun to reach the man's hat, a type of fedora known as a Trilby, a rich man's hat in England and a soft brown to match the trench he favored wearing. The trilby happened to be strategically placed just behind the thief and the stewardess afforded both men a nice view as she fetched it.
"Much obliged," LeBeau winked as he took it gently from her hands and flipped it back onto his tousled brown locks.
At first glance Remy LeBeau looked like a man just kicked out of a bar after a fight, which, honestly, did happen a lot to the Cajun. He tended to wear a brown suit, the trench and hat, but usually a bright silk shirt, purple or blue, all kind of thrown together.
But there was nothing haphazard about his friend. While he might not tuck in the shirt or get a decent hair cut, the clothes fit him perfectly, his permanent scruffy chin always trim, even his hair was organized chaos. He was the most well put together ruffian on either side of the Mississippi.
Remy LeBeau was a walking contradiction and sadly, that's likely what charmed women the most.
"Leena, you should get ready for takeoff," the steward called from the rear cabin before Leena had a chance to fall into LeBeau's lap and possibly stay there for the rest of the trip.
At least the girl knew her duty and immediately straightened herself and headed to her takeoff position, though giving a back glance at the Cajun, who of course gave her another wink and smile.
Jacob sighed, sipping at his drink, "You're incorrigible my friend."
LeBeau simply grinned, shrugged, then relaxed into his seat. It was an hour later when Jacob was on the plane's satellite phone when the thief pulled the item from somewhere deep in his jacket and began to unconsciously flip it through his hands.
The Cajun thief wasn't ever far from a deck of cards, whether he was winning at a game of poker or charging them into weapons, but this one was difference, special, old, worn at the edges and ever so crinkled. It was years after their friendship started that the thief even felt comfortable enough to let Jacob know of its existence. Not that LeBeau actually mentioned it outright, simply felt no need to hide it. One day Jacob was going to ask his friend why that card, the King of Hearts, was so important though he doubt the man would give him a straight answer.
The Courier knew Gambit for almost ten years now… but he barely knew his friend at all and he was sure that was exactly how the mutant thief liked to keep things.
…
A limousine greeted them at the Parisan airport and quickly trekked them through the City of Lights, in the middle of the day. Still pretty though.
They pulled up to the Hotel Regina and Jacob let LeBeau exit first, the man scanning for more threats. Instead the Cajun threw a smile at two women who were waiting for their bags to be loaded into a car. Jacob gathered the coast was clear and joined his friend on the curb, briefcase in hand.
Within minutes they were ushered by guards to a fifth floor suite where a dark skinned Italian in a suit slightly cheaper than Jacob's sat waiting.
"Ah, so it is done?" the Italian spoke in pretty decent, if accented, English.
"Signore," Jacob nodded politely, flashing a grin that while not as disarming as his friends, had been known to get him places. The Courier sat the briefcase down on the table and turned it towards the client, popping the lock so he could open it in one smooth gesture. LeBeau wasn't the only one who knew the value of style.
"Ah, good work," the Italian grinned, running his hands over whatever was inside. The contents were none of Jacob's business, LeBeau had already placed it in the briefcase before they met up and he had enough faith in his friend not to double cross him.
An awkward moment passed as the Italian enjoyed the sight of what was in the briefcase a little too much, but eventually he cleared his throat and closed the top. A snap of his fingers and one of the guards moved forward to collect the case and take it away, likely to be placed in a safe.
"I heard there were trouble, no?" the client asked.
"Nothing I couldn't handle," LeBeau said casually, leaning on his cane as if he was Fred Astaire.
"There was fighting, explosions," the Italian gestured in the air, "the theft, it was noisy, it did not go unnoticed."
"Signore," the Cajun accent made the word sound funny, "you paid me to steal for you, never said anything about how quiet it had to be done."
"If I may," Jacob held up his hand, diplomacy his strongest skill, most days, "you hired Mr. LeBeau to… procure an item for you any way he could and then I was to deliver it safely here to you. Those were the only stipulations and both were met."
LeBeau let out a little chuckle, that tended to worry Jacob in situations like this. "Dem last guards where da fifth batch and spoke mighty fine English of da American variety, military drop outs the lot of dem, says mercenaries to me. I'm betting our Italian friend here knew dere was extra security at the villa, dat it wouldn't be an easy score."
The Italian played a good bluff, but Jacob and LeBeau's were better. "Yes, well, I was told it could be… complicated."
"You must have figured on more dan just complicated," the thief mused, never breaking eye contact with anyone in the room was a remarkable feat in and of itself, "cause you could have called on da Thieves Guild, but instead you asked for lit'l ol' Remy LeBeau."
"Yes," the Italian said in frustration, "the greatest thief in the world they say you are, yet, what did your own Guild do to you, exclude you? Um, Ostracate?"
"Castrate?" Jacob added cheerfully earning a dirty look from the Cajun.
"Excommunicate be da word you're looking for," LeBeau was not amused.
"Yes, that," the client rubbed his chin in thought, "now, why would a Guild excommunicate their most valuable member, I wonder."
LeBeau's trademark smile came back to his lips, "I imagine I deserved it."
"Yes," the word trailed off but the Italian was smart enough to know that he had gotten as far as he would in this line of discussion. Jacob hadn't gotten much father himself.
The tanned gentlemen waved over another guard who pulled a folded over manila envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to LeBeau.
"Courier," the client spoke up, "your money will be wired to your account momentarily for your part in getting my… 'trinket' to me. LeBeau, liquid assets, as you requested."
LeBeau took the offered item and weighed it in his hand, checking the balance. With a satisfied shrug he slipped it into his trench's inside pocket without counting the contents. The Italian looked like he was about to question the move but then shrugged his head.
To be honest, the money could have been short a million dollars and LeBeau might not have cared, well, not that much anyway. Jacob figured out long ago that it was never about the money.
…
"Will you be staying in Parie', mon ami?" LeBeau asked as they exited the Hotel and waited for the limo to be pulled around.
"I have three courier assignments lined up for the end of the day, my friend," Jacob slid his phone into his pocket. "You're welcome to catch a ride to New York, avoid immigration and customs authorities. InterPol is still looking for you."
"Always are," LeBeau shrugged, the limo finally being pulled around, "but I enjoy da challenge."
"Suit yourself, Remy," Jacob turned and offered the man his hand. The two gripped at almost the elbow and nodded to each other. "Try to stay out of trouble, would you?"
"Why don't you try to get into some," he bantered back, "aye, mon ami?"
Jacob shook his head and released his grip, life was definitely more interesting with Remy LeBeau around. "Vous voyez autour de, friend."
The driver of the limo opened the door to the rear passenger's seat but before Jacob could take a step closer, the steward from the plane stepped out. "Begging your pardon, sir."
"Yes, Winlet?" this was only a tad peculiar.
"Package arrived for you at the airport through the courier service," he held up a folded letter of thick parchment, "actually it is for Mr. LeBeau and I thought it best to bring it around in case the gentleman would not be joining you."
LeBeau leaned slightly forward, an almost kiddish move. Though, LeBeau never seemed much able to sit still. Jacob gathered it had something to do with the mutant's access to real and potential kinetic energies. "For moi?"
Sure enough, Remy LeBeau was written in strong penmanship via a classic fountain pen across the top of the parchment. Where the paper folded over it was sealed by wax with a very familiar emblem.
"That's the seal of the New Orleans Thieves Guild," Jacob said as LeBeau took the item and proceeded to look it over, test it for, what, traps?, before he was going to open it. "How was this contracted?"
"Regular contract, standard rates," the steward answered.
"Probably didn't even know we were working together," Jacob mused, "easiest money I ever made."
LeBeau was ignoring him, slicing open the seal with his thumb. Laws of civility, and a dose of curiosity, kept Jacob in his spot until the man read the short letter. True to the thief's nature, his expression never changed nor showed any emotion regarding the contents.
"Mon ami?" LeBeau asked when he was done, "Mind dropping me off in London, if not out of your way."
The Courier thought about it for a moment, then sighed, "Sure, why not, but I'm not your taxi service."
"Of course, mon ami," his friend's smile was entirely too broad.
…
Author's Note: Courier's first line of dialogue was stolen, erm, borrowed, from the comics because it was just too perfect.