Notes: FenellaG - Thank you so much for taking the time to review on each chapter - I really appreciate it! ^-^ Guest - Thanks for the awesome comment! Of course, I can't give away the whole Kurt thing just yet, but I will say that I did get a kick out of reading your thoughts on it! And also on Rogue's situation. Women really do get the raw end of the deal, especially in those days. General Wagner is right about one thing - she does deserve to be happy again. I won't say whether she finds happiness again or not! ;)
That's it for now! As always, please read, review and enjoy! x
CITY OF LIGHTS
Chapter 6
It was nearing midnight when Millicent finally ventured into Remy's room, wondering why he hadn't left her apartments for his usual visits to Jeanne, or some other establishment.
She was surprised to find him dressing into his work gear – trousers and shirt and boots and gloves, all in black, his trench coat draped across the back of an armchair. Ropes and carabiners were laid out on the table.
His bracelet was on the nightstand, and the devilish glow of his remarkable eyes never failed to unnerve or fascinate her, even after all this time.
"Well, I had thought it would be time for play, Mr. LeBeau," she greeted him sarcastically. "But it looks as if it is time for work. And where might you be off to at this time of night, hmm?"
He grinned over at her, slipping the climbing gear into his backpack.
"La Rue de la Rochefoucauld," he replied.
That got her attention. She straightened, shut the door softly behind her.
"You got some information from the ball?"
He nodded.
"Dat I did."
He looked pleased with himself. Despite her best efforts with the general, Millicent had been unable to glean a single thing of use. Remy LeBeau, it turned out, had a far more accomplished silver tongue than she did.
"And what did Fraulein Darkhölme divulge?"
He almost paused pulling the drawstring on the bag.
"Fraulein Darkhölme." His mouth twisted in a contemptuous grimace. "You won't get a t'ing outta dat one. She's tighter den a miser's old fist wit' whatever secrets she knows. Dere are far easier marks 'n dat one. She's a waste o' time."
"Really?" Millicent raised a casual eyebrow. "You said she was armed. Don't you find that suspicious?"
"Hmph." He grabbed at his trench coat, began to slip it on. "It's not'ing unusual wit' dese Nazi types. Some of dose femmes like to walk around packin' heat. It's a power thing."
"Even at a ball?"
He shrugged, like he didn't care.
"Trust me," he said. "Fraulein Darkhölme is a waste o' time. Sure, I could hook my way in dere, spend some time wit' her, get close to her. But she's a suspicious one. It'd take time we don't have."
Millicent was silent, going over the evening's events.
"Then…"
"Yeah," he nodded impatiently. "Frau Gruber. Ain't a sensible thought in dat pretty li'l head o' hers. Get her talkin' and she don't stop."
He slipped on the backpack and pocketed a deck of playing cards.
"And what did she say?" she asked, curiously.
"That her husband collects old maps. And he was talking about some maps that the general was showing him in his study."
She mulled on that a moment.
"Perhaps the general likes old maps too…"
"Non. These were new ones."
"And how can you be so sure of that?"
"She started to tell me they were of the forest, before she shut herself up."
Ever a fellow student of human folly, Millicent merely quirked a knowing smile.
"Ah," was all she said.
He flipped a packet of Juicy Fruit out of his pocket, slipped a piece of the gum into his mouth, and grinned at her.
"Well, Madame," he said, "wish me luck."
"Good luck, LeBeau," she rejoined. "Come back alive."
"Always do," he answered breezily as he left. "Always do."
-oOo-
It hadn't been difficult for Remy to locate the general's study.
Millicent had visited the apartments many times, back when they had been the residence of a Collins' family friend, an exiled Russian aristocrat and his glamourous, French second wife. The only downside was that the room faced onto the street; but on the other hand, it would make for a quick getaway in a pinch. And Remy was always one to look on the positive side of things.
He'd taken the time to take out the streetlamps, one by one, before scaling the wall up to the office window. Within five minutes he'd made it up to the third floor, and was cutting a perfect circle in the glass with his single exposed right pinkie. Thirty seconds later he was poking his hook through the hole and manipulating the window handle; another thirty seconds, and he was finally inside.
He stood by the window, slowly taking in the room, his mutant ability allowing him to take in every inch, even in pitch darkness. It was as old-fashioned and fastidious as the general himself – the book-lined walls and the sturdy oak writing bureau, the thick pile carpet that mercifully cushioned his footsteps. The desk was to his right, and he stepped up to it, rifling through the papers there swiftly.
Hm. A few interesting things, for sure... But not strictly what he was looking for.
He skirted the desk and went for the drawer. Of course, it was locked – the general was astute enough to take the key with him. This was no impediment to Remy. He simply produced his skeleton keys, and after a few seconds of skilful prodding, he had it opened with a soft click.
There was no shortage of papers in there, sitting beside a Luger pistol. He rifled through every single one – but still no dice.
He straightened up, frustrated, and snapped the draw shut.
The only place left was the bureau – if it wasn't there, it'd have to be in some secret place he'd have to go digging around for, and the rule was to always go through the path of least resistance first.
Again, he took out his skeleton keys and unlocked the cabinet. Slowly, carefully, he lowered the door open and was immediately rewarded with the rolled-up sheaf he knew he was looking for. With bated breath he unrolled the paper out on the desk and scanned its contents. It was a map, a detailed schematic of the neighbouring woods.
Bingo.
He swiftly rolled up the paper again, when—
Click.
The electric lights switched on, and he was briefly dazzled by the brightness, his eyes smarting with pain; and then—
Click.
This time it was the distinctive sound of the hammer cocking back on a gun.
"Hands up," said a feminine voice in quiet, commanding French. "Where I can see them."
He turned, hands in the air, knowing it was her.
She was standing there, by the door, dressed in a pale silk nightgown, her hair long and loose, her feet bare. The Derringer was in her hands, pointed right at him. At the sight of his red-on-black gaze her eyes widened; the gun lowered in her hand, then quickly jerked up again.
"Remy," she said.
It was the first time she'd said it, the rich Southern lilt bleeding back into those two syllables, making his heart skip an involuntary beat.
He squished down the feeling as soon as it came.
"Rogue," he answered.
She inched into the circle of lamplight, her lips going thin. He knew she had to have been wondering about his presence here in Paris, in Madame Collins' life. And what he saw in her face now were puzzle pieces being shifted, slotting together. She knew for certain now that his presence had a purpose – that it was at cross-purposes to her own.
"Come out from behind the desk," she ordered him, her voice steely. "Slowly, now. No sudden moves."
He did as he was told, never taking his eyes off her. In a few split seconds he had clocked everything he needed to know – that the bracelet wasn't on her wrist, that she was stronger and more deadly now than he could ever be… that she was wearing nothing underneath that filmy gown.
He licked his lips slowly.
"Y' think you're gonna hurt me with that tiny gun?" he quipped derisively.
Her expression darkened.
"I don't kill," she seethed at him through grit teeth. "Only incapacitate."
"Oh really," he threw back, icily mocking. "Time was, it wouldn't take much for you to murder, would it? To rip out the heart of a poor, innocent woman and leave nothin' more than a blackened husk. Huh?"
"Stop," she half-whispered, her throat taut, her jawline rigid. The gun didn't waver in her grasp, but he knew for certain she didn't want to hurt him.
"Make me," he shot back, and showed her the glowing piece of gum beneath his teeth.
First confusion, then comprehension quickly passed over her face; but before she could even think to take cover, he had spat the small projectile at her, knowing that with her invulnerability the best he could do was stun her – but that was all he needed.
The ball of gum whizzed through to air, striking her square in the chest, the tiny explosion sending her careening back into the wall. The Derringer fell to the floor with a thud, and faster than a flash he'd kicked it aside, slamming a dazed and confused Rogue back up against the wall with his body, pinning her there with the weight of his forearm against her throat.
For several heartbeats the buzz of their short scrap hummed between them, until there was nothing left but the sound of their breathing and the press of their bodies, their eyes on one another as the silence descended.
Creak.
A footstep squeaked on the floorboards above them, then another.
Unwillingly Remy broke his gaze from hers, his breath coming shallow as he tried to pick out the sounds. They didn't stop.
"The general…" Rogue whispered, but his gaze snapped back to hers and, "Shh," he hissed.
Together they listened as the footsteps slowly crossed the room towards what he knew was the door to the hallway. In that moment he had a choice, and he knew he could crush her windpipe with just a simple jerk of his elbow, and make his escape. The rage in him demanded he snuff the life out of her. But he didn't.
He couldn't.
The door above them opened, and there was the general's voice, surprisingly small and wavering:
"Anna?"
Remy glanced back at her, surprised to see that her eyes were on his, measuring his expression. Perhaps she had expected him to leave her for dead too, to make his escape, and was wondering why he hadn't. He had made a fatal error – all she had to do now was call out for her lover, raise the alarm.
But instead, she did not.
"Anna?" came the querulous voice of the general again, this time louder.
He looked at her, and she looked at him, their breaths coming light, sharp, hers warm on his face…
"I'm okay," he whispered meaningfully to her, and she understood in a flash, twisting her head slightly, calling out in astonishingly rapid and fluent German:
"Mir geht es gut!"
Good girl, he thought, and he fed her her next line, whispering:
"I thought I heard somethin'."
"Ich dachte, ich hätte etwas gehört!"
"But it was nothin'."
"Aber es war nichts!"
"I'll be back up in a moment."
"Ich bin gleich wieder da!"
There was a pause, the general's weight shifting slightly above them.
"Very well, my dear!" he replied at last, and there it was – the door opening, the trudging of old, tired feet, the faint creak of a bed, and then… silence.
Remy allowed himself to finally breathe again, only then becoming acutely aware of the shape of her body against his. Memories flooded him, of the sensual slide of her limbs, of the effortless fit between them, a fit he was suddenly longing to test. Her green eyes were on his, mingled desire and defiance… just like the old days. So many things had changed – but this hadn't. This spark between them.
He leaned into her then, closer, harder, wanting more than anything to kiss her, to remember what it was like to do so, to know whether this dark magic between them had stood the test of time.
Slowly he withdrew his arm, pressed his palms against the wall either side of her face, eased the full weight of his body over hers. He was so close to her now, his breath caressing each curve and slope of her face, a beauty he hadn't seen matched in any other woman since… and he'd seen so many beautiful women, so many they almost all seemed the same to him. But she… she was something else. Always had been, always would be.
It was only when he was merely a breath away from a kiss that he felt her body go rigid beneath him.
"S'okay," he murmured, the heat radiating from her lips like a brand on him. "I don't wanna hurt ya."
"Neither do I," she breathed; and suddenly he felt the tip of a knife poking against his ribs. "But get any closer and I will, so step away before we both end up hurt."
She jabbed the knife warningly at him, and he gave a self-deprecating grin, pushing himself from the wall and backing away from her slowly, hands in the air.
She was glaring at him; but there was a fire in her eyes now, and her breath was coming short and choppy from desire. The was a tear in the top of her nightgown, where the charged gum had hit – a small tear, to be sure, but enough to bear the slight swell of a single breast to him, and his loins twitched hungrily.
"You coulda stuck dat knife between my ribs before I even got close to crushin' your windpipe, chere," he noted, that smug smile still on his face.
"And I said I don't want to hurt you," she replied, anger edging into her voice. "Kiss me now, and I will."
"I kissed you once without dat ring on, and it didn't hurt much," he said, serious now.
"Pft," she scoffed tetchily, and he wasn't surprised that she remembered. "That was barely a kiss. Anymore contact and I woulda ripped your mind and your soul right outta that pretty head of yours. And you wouldn't like bein' stuck inside me, Cajun."
Her old Southern accent was in full force; and he raised an eyebrow, his smile widening.
"I dunno, chere, once I upon a time I mighta said dat bein' stuck inside you was one o' my fav'rite pastimes. Might still be, you slip one o' dose bracelets on."
The words were jovial, but the true horror of her powers made his blood run cold, to be sure.
"No more games, Gambit," she spoke bitterly. "I ain't inclined to play with you no more."
She still knew how to wipe the smile from his face, that was for sure.
"Rich, comin' from you, chere. Remy was only ever honest wit' you. Seem to remember it was you always playin' games wit' me."
Her mouth crumpled; and he found out where she'd been hiding the knife all along when she hitched up her gown and sheathed it back inside a flesh-coloured garter. He slowly lowered his hands, and for a long while they stood there in the silence, gazing at each other.
"What now?" he finally asked, quietly.
"I can't let you leave here," she answered – but she seemed uncertain.
"Can't you?"
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"You're in here stealing the general's papers. I assume you're with the Resistance? If I let you go…"
"If you let me go, the general and his entourage don't have to hear about the… 'interestin' past of his lovely young mistress."
She looked nettled at that.
"Suppose the general knows all about my past already?"
He laughed softly.
"I don't think so. And I'm fairly sure the rest of your Nazi friends don't either. Whatever your sugar daddy's good for, it ain't gonna last when he finds out you ain't above usin' men and murderin' women for your own gain." He paused, cocking his head and regarding her closely. "Is dat it, chere? You usin' the general to gain dat control you never found? So you can finally be free?"
Her beautiful eyes narrowed, flashing with anger.
"Leave here," she said, the words taut, controlled. "But leave the papers. I can't let you take them."
He was almost sad, to hear that sweet Southern accent bury itself under something so fine and cold again. He took a step back, then another, said with honest regret:
"I'm sorry, chere. But I can't leave here wit'out my prize."
He reached for the desk and his fingers closed round the paperweight. A wisp of a charge, and he bowled it in her direction, not even waiting to see whether it connected. He sprinted for the window, grasping for the cache of papers on the desk, hearing Rogue's breathless 'oof!', as he leapt out of the window and into the night.
.
Rogue quickly got to her feet, barely feeling the sting of the paltry blast to her shoulder, a litany of curses bursting from her lips. In the few seconds it took for her to get to the window, his speed and agility had already taken him far out of her sight and reach.
"Damn that bastard Cajun!" she hissed into the night.
How many times had he out-manoeuvred her now? She'd already lost count.
It's because you care too much, said the voice in her head. He's moved on now, too far to care.
And yet… had she imagined the tenderness with which his gaze her caressed her face? Had the longing in her heart mistaken what was nothing more than the fickle bedfellow called lust?
Her cheeks flushed in the cool, night air, alive with the imprinted heat of his body on hers.
"Anna," the general's voice sounded behind her, wakening her from her trance. "What has happened here?"
She pressed her lips together, her expression hardening again. In a single split second, she was Anna Darkhölme once more.
"There was a thief," she told the general, and she clamped the windows shut with a resounding click. "We'd best call the police."
-oOo-