Thick as Thieves - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Valerie Jones and Lori McDonald
Last updated: 01/02/2007 02:01:11 AM

Chapter 3

"I am impressed," Storm said as Bobby restored his human form. It was easier, this time, to turn himself completely to water, spreading out into a nearly invisible film on the danger room floor.

"Thanks." Bobby tried not to blush. "I've been. . . practicing."

Storm nodded. "So I see. I believe this would be a good time to end today's session. You have made significant progress."

Bobby felt his smile widen. Storm didn't hand out praise lightly. He really was becoming more powerful, more capable. It was a tremendous feeling. Not that he wasn't floating already, but he had at least managed to banish thoughts of Diedre long enough to finish the training session.

"Robert?"

"Huh?" Bobby jerked out of his reverie, flushed in embarrassment. "Sorry."

"Is everything all right?"

Bobby simply couldn't help his smile. Diedre's blue eyes danced before him, momentarily obscuring Ororo's own. Storm studied him for a moment, her lips quirking ever so slightly. Then she turned on her heel, smiling secretively over her shoulder at him.

"It is time for breakfast. Are you coming?"

"Yeah. Sure." He trotted a few steps to catch up with her.

Storm strode through the metal hallways, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Bobby was left wondering what she was thinking about. As always. Storm was inscrutable. For a brief moment, he wondered if he should tell her about Diedre, but then he decided against it. She was too observant, and might very well ask him questions he couldn't answer without embarrassing himself. Where did I meet her, Ororo? Oh, well, in the women's bathroom at the library. Yes, the women's. What was I doing there? Um, y'see. . . Better yet, Actually, it was in a club run by the New York thieves' guild. I was spying on your favorite Cajun. Yeah, right. He wasn't going to be able to tell anyone about Diedre until he'd come up with a pretty good story.

The elevator door slid aside, and they emerged into the first floor hall. It was panelled in wood rather than metal, and accentuated with a subdued Victorian print. Personally, Bobby thought it was atrocious, but he was no interior decorator. Everyone else seemed to like it. Well, the women, at least. He'd never yet heard one of the men comment about wallpaper.

His train of thought was broken by the sounds of an argument. It was obviously coming from the other end of the house, and someone was doing an awful lot of yelling. Storm's brow creased in concern. She said nothing, but her pace increased Bobby broke into a trot to keep up. After a few moments, he realized why she was so disturbed. The voice belonged to Gambit.

As they drew nearer, Gambit's voice became clearer, but Bobby still couldn't make out what he was saying. Or who he was yelling at. There were occasional pauses in the tirade, but no other voice filled in the spaces. It was unnerving. Bobby couldn't imagine anyone in the house taking that without some kind of response.

When they reached the scene, Hank was standing just inside the doorway, a stack of papers cradled in his arms. He was watching the loud argument with a rather bemused expression. Bobby's alarm faded some. If Hank wasn't disturbed, it couldn't be too bad. Bobby stepped into the room just behind Storm and stopped beside Hank. He had to cover his mouth to suppress a snigger. Gambit was yelling into a phone. All that worry, and he wasn't yelling at an X-Man at all. And the reason he couldn't make out the argument was because it was in French.

Bobby glanced at Hank, then leaned over to murmer, "Any idea what that's about?" Storm, too, looked to the Beast.

Hank grinned. "I'm afraid my knowledge of the language has been well exceeded at this point. But I belive our cajun friend is having a disagreement with the French government. Something about an export tax."

"An export tax?"

Hank shrugged. "Funny, that's exactly what Remy said. Though the conversation has obviously deteriorated since then." He waved in the direction of the fuming Cajun. On cue, Remy slammed the phone back into its cradle, then stood there for a moment, glaring at it.

"Remy?" Storm took several steps toward him.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, then turned abruptly. "Two hundred an' fifty thousand francs, Stormy! Dey wan' two hundred an' fifty thousand francs t' release my car!"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Dat's outrageous! It's extortion! Plain an' simple!"

Bobby couldn't resist the opening. "For a con man, Remy, you seem awfully surprised."

The red eyes snapped to him, and Bobby sucked in his breath as the man's anger transferred momentarily to himself. But then Gambit seemed to catch himself. A thin smile appeared on his lips.

"Gov'ment's de best scam of all, sure `nough," he said in a tight voice. "Don' mean I like bein' taken." He paused for a moment. "Not gon' be, neither."

"Remy?" Ororo's brows were arched in curiosity.

"I'd pay half dat in bribes, chere." He gestured wildly.

"I admit it's a sizable sum of money," Professor Xavier said in a mild voice. Gambit's gaze snapped to him in surprise and Bobby realized that he hadn't noticed the Professor's approach. Bobby had seen him, but he had a wider field of view from his position by the door. "However," the Professor continued, "I would be willing to supply the other half. I would rather not have anyone bribing government officials of any country while a student at my school."

Bobby nearly choked trying to hold in his laughter. The Professor had really stuck it to Gambit this time!

Gambit simply blinked at him, his expression frozen in a flat mask. After a moment, he crossed his arms. "Nevermind, Professor," he said quietly. "I'll take care of it." His voice, too, was studiously neutral. Without another word, he turned and left, his long coat snapping about his boots as if that were the only way he could express his chagrin.

Bobby and Hank joined the other two. "Remy is not much for government, is he?" Hank inquired with a smile.

Ororo regarded him cooly. "Remy is. . . something of a closet anarchist. It comes of being a thief."

Professor Xavier studied her with interest. "And you disagree?"

She gave him an oddly enigmatic smile. "No, Charles. I find I often agree with Remy's politics."

Why do I get the feeling I've been missing the more interesting conversations around this place? Bobby thought, but aloud he said, "You do?"

Ororo turned to him. "You forget, Robert. I used to be his partner." And on the heels of that odd statement, she, too, left. Bobby could only stare after her retreating figure. After a moment, he turned to the Professor.

"Isn't Gambit going to get into any trouble over this?"

The Professor cocked his head. "Is there any reason he should?"

Bobby gaped at him for a long second. "But. . . but you and Scott and everybody else would rip me up one side and down the other if I said something like that!"

Xavier frowned as he considered, and then agreed, "Yes, we would. But you are not a trained thief."

Bobby was starting to get angry. "What difference does that make?" he demanded.

"The difference. . . " the Professor paused as he considered his reponse. "The difference is that Remy's value cannot be measured against our normal standards." He began to turn away. "I believe it's time for breakfast, if either of you would like to join me."

"But--" Bobby glanced at Hank for support. Hank only shrugged and then went to join the Professor. Effectively cut off, Bobby could only stare at their retreating forms in sullen anger. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.

Diedre ran the brush through her straight hair in a steady rhythm. Her gaze was fastened on her reflection in the mirror, but she wasn't really looking. She had learned the trick of appearing attentive when, really, her mind was far away.

Noises from the hallway beyond her door brought her back to herself. She tensed, but the door didn't open. After a moment, she forced herself to relax. She still had a few minutes. She studied her reflection in the mirror, for once managing to ignore the chromed metal tube that formed the mirror's frame. She hated techno. But Michael had given her the vanity, and he would have been angry if she hadn't kept the tangle of chromed steel and glass.

Delicately, she adjusted the shoulder of her dress. It was new, and she was nervous about wearing it. She knew it was too frilly for Michael's taste. But maybe it would be all right. It was tight-the pale yellow material hugged her like a second skin. A small triangle of lace bridged the gap where the neckline dipped dangerously low, and she angled her shoulders for a moment to study the effect in the mirror. She smiled a real smile that died at the sound of the doorknob being turned.

Michael walked into the room. He was dressed in his black Armani, and Diedre couldn't help but admire his clean, graceful lines. He was still one of the most beautiful men she's ever seen. She stood to meet him, self-consciously smoothing her short skirt.

Michael looked her over, and she knew instantly that he didn't like the dress.

"Take that ugly thing off," he told her.

Diedre tried to hide her disappointment, and turned toward the walk-in closet. Yellow was her favorite color, perhaps because it looked so good on her. Any pastel was flattering to her pale features, but Michael like the dark colors-black, navy and verdant-that made her look like death warmed over.

Diedre closed the closet door behind her, careful to do so gently. But once safely away from Michael's hawklike gaze, she kicked off her shoes with vehemence and stripped off the dress in one motion, dumping it in a heap on the floor. Her eyes began to burn, and she fought back the tears by holding her breath and focusing on the line of dresses hanging in front of her. After a moment's indecision, she grabbed one and slid into it. She adjusted the fit, then took a few calming breaths, though her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. This one was Michael's favorite. He'd bought it for her birthday. Maybe he would forget about the yellow dress. Then she could quietly return it, and he would never see it again.

With one last deep breath, she squared her shoulders and stepped out of the closet. Michael's expression of annoyance hadn't changed. He looked at her and then nodded once.

"Much better. You look beautiful, Didi."

Diedre let her breath out slowly, relieved. For once, the nickname didn't bother her too much.

"Let's go. We're late." Michael gestured for her to come, and then turned away. Diedre followed him out the door, trying to be as invisible as possible. All she'd managed to do tonight was annoy him. Now, all she wanted was to get to the club so he would get involved in business and forget about her for a while.

The club was in full swing when they arrived, and the noise hit Diedre like a hammer. She winced invisibly. For once, she was grateful for the people who converged on Michael, dragging him away to take care of whatever their particular emergency was. He went without a glance in her direction. Diedre sighed and made her way toward the bar. She climbed onto one of the tall stools, crossed her legs.

"The usual?" Yosa asked, and she nodded at the scarred barman. Ice tinkled musically against the side of the glass as he set the gin tonic down in front of her. Diedre drained it as quickly as she could stand to. She set the glass down and tried to ignore the burning in her throat as she waited for the first flush of the alcohol to hit her. It was good to be numb, she thought. Like ice. Cold, hard, beautiful ice. Like diamonds, only better. She'd said that to Michael once and he'd laughed at her. What can you buy with ice? he'd asked scathingly.

Yosa refilled her glass, but this time she sipped it. Michael would be mad if she got too drunk. The ice in the glass captured her attention again. No one understood. Except maybe that sweet young man she'd met. Bobby. She'd been absolutely astounded to see him appear like that. She was still amazed-he could turn his whole body to ice! And when he was flesh, he had been so cute. She couldn't remember the last time a man had looked at her like that. The memory made her smile.

Unconsciously, she scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar blond head. She was disappointed when she didn't find him. But, she reminded herself, if he was with the Cajun he wouldn't be there very often. Gambit had his own business. He came and went. She knew that Michael didn't like him very much. Diedre herself had no real basis on which to judge the man. She'd hardly said hello to him. And Michael was always edgy if she were anywhere near him. She'd always thought it might be because of his reputation for womanizing, but he'd never been anything but politely distant with her.

At least Bobby hadn't treated her that way. Like she had a "Do Not Touch" sign plastered to her forehead. For a few precious minutes, she'd felt like an ordinary girl again. If she ever saw him, she decided, she'd have to thank him. The thought of his reaction if she simply walked up and planted a great big thank-you kiss on him made her giggle.

Considerably heartened, she drained the last of her drink and waited for Yosa to fill it.