The Ante - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Lucia de’Medici
Last updated: 05/11/2007 10:19:38 PM

Chapter 10

Chances.

In a man’s life, an ordinary man’s life, he is offered a handful at best: mercy, forgiveness, empathy, unconditional trust, a willing ear, and a guiding hand on the shoulder. For an ordinary man, these things suffice.

Remy fingered the instructions card, shucked into his palm from a new deck he’d found stashed away in one of his many coat pockets.

He wasn’t an ordinary man; never had been, never would be. Remy ran through his chances like he did his cards - fifty-two per fight, per hour, per day, per week - when needed, when bored, when at rest. Fifty-two chances offered graciously by the Bicycle Card Company whenever he needed them. A dollar in your pocket could buy you a lifetime of better odds.

Better days, however... those come at a higher price.

Remy LeBeau would know.

Beside him, the phone sat cooling in its cradle, warmed briefly by his ear where he’d kept it tucked between his shoulder and chin for a quick conversation with someone two states away. Someone with the ability to carry off a bout of histrionics that would distract a roomful of people long enough to slip a bogus payoff from the coffee table and ditch the damned thing in a mailbox for collection and disposal. St. John Allerdyce was the next best thing to an Ace up the sleeve as far as Remy was concerned - though Remy himself kept the Jokers under his cuffs.

Fitting, really.

Rogue, out of earshot, was talking to Xavier or Cyclops or one of the more "responsible" adults of the Institute.

Remy knew this because if it had been Wolvie, he’d have wrested the phone from her grasp just to taunt the old man. Remy knew this because Rogue’s gaze had flicked in his direction only once since the long-distance arguing had tapered off. Remy knew this because, as imperceptible as it would be to anyone else, Rogue had drawn a little closer to herself in the most subtle of ways.

He saw it in the roll of her shoulders, the petulant thrust of a hip where she tipped against the aluminum siding of the phone booth, and the nervous habit of folding her arms across her chest - gripping one elbow with a gloved hand. With her head bowed, the only part of her visible through her thick shock of hair was the lower half of her face. She chewed on the inside of her lower lip, and for a moment, Remy wanted nothing more than to smooth his thumb against that tense curve of pink.

The instructions card flared to life between his fingers - a dull bit of charge to remind him that the odds were still in favor.

They would come. Sooner or later, all of them would converge on the French Quarter - the X-Men, the Brotherhood, and the others when they realized he’d defied them and returned home.

For now, the game was played between him and Rogue. Priorities first, as they say.

He doused the charge, reabsorbing the jittering energy that made the hair on the back of his arms stand at attention, and relished in the pleasant aftershock as his body neutralized the small effort. He ditched the instructions, rolling the card into a tight cylinder and slipped it into the payphone’s change dispenser.

"Ya shouldn’t litter," Rogue called, hanging up the phone.

"I wasn’t," he returned, not looking up.

"Ya shouldn’t lie either," she retorted.

Remy smirked, enjoying the grosgrain rasp of Rogue’s voice as she got angry.

She was hard as nails, bit to the quick, and every primal instinct that Remy had ever possessed declared that it was a sound that didn’t need to be honeyed to get any sweeter. Dieu, what had he done to her to make her hate him so much?

Remy ran his thumb against the deck of cards in his hand, flicking at them absently as their hushed conference served to stoke the flame beneath Rogue’s ire.

Fifty-two chances for any other time and any other day; but for once in a long time, Remy only had one option available — and this was it.

The hell he wasn’t about to make it worth his while.

"What are ya smirking at, swamp rat?"

He peered at her from beneath his fringe, shifting his weight against the phone booth to better slide his gaze from her ankles to the top of her head in one slow sweep.

"What did dey tell y’ now?"

"What ya didn’t."

Slow swing of hips, shoulders following the lazy curve of her spine, the drag of boot heels on broken concrete - there was no denying it; a year ago, Rogue had been awkward, hostile, and insecure. She masked it over with a thick coat of eye shadow and a heavy lipstick, sure, but beneath all that, there was this creature.

She folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow.

Remy couldn’t control it - the same shit-eating grin fixed firmly in place was answer enough most of the time for most ladies, but Rogue wouldn’t take that from him. She didn’t want that from him.

Then again, Rogue wasn’t exactly a lady.

This creature standing before him, Remy thought, lazily dragging his thumb over the edges of the pack, this creature was something new. She was just as hostile as ever and still insecure, but the fluidity of her step betrayed her. She walked differently, and she held herself differently. From the smooth slope of her neck to the slight outturn of her ankle, those slim legs, and the slight musculature of her inner thighs - the format was the same, but the content had changed. The rules were different, but he didn’t need an instructions card to know that.

Sometime over the past year, probably when Remy had been doing a fair deal of arguing with Jean Luc or kicking the utter shit out of Julien because of inter-Guild politics, Rogue had slid into a new skin.

She wasn’t a predator yet, but her stripes were definitely beginning to show.

Remy wet his lips.

"What didn’t I say, chérie?"

More appealing still was the fact she didn’t know or just didn’t care that she had grown into something beautiful.

Remy figured it was the former. She would have gotten out of the whole goth thing if that were the case. Then again, not everyone used their assets to their advantage. If she had been inclined, Rogue would have made an exceptional Acolyte - had they been on the same side back then.

"First of all, ya touched me without telling me so two days ago."

"Slip of de wrist. Wasn’t nothin’."

"Really? Well apparently it ain’t since Beast has been running tests on us both."

Remy cocked an eyebrow, slightly bemused. He’d expected as much - hoped for it, even. If there was one thing to be said about the X-Men, their doctor and resident scientist, Henry McCoy, was certainly efficient. The fact that he’d already run the scans proved that.

"An’ what did de good doctor tell y’?"

She raised her chin defiantly, eyes flaring beneath the smear of makeup that marred her complexion and at the same time, gave her the protection she craved.

Everything and everyone were held at arm’s length - not for their safety, but for her own. It was a strategy Remy knew well - he’d coined it. He had Bella to thank for that, at least partially, and he himself for the rest. Remy shoved the thought aside and focused on the girl in front of him.

Rogue just dolled it up a little.

"Ah didn’t speak ta him. The Professor told me. Ya don’t really know what’s happened to ya."

"I know enough."

"Yo’ not fully evolved."

"C’est possible." He shrugged, matching her stance by folding his own arms - the deck of cards slid easily out of sight for later. "Woulda held on longer if I could have." He winked. "Y’ wanna know somethin’, Rogue? Y’ gotta ask. Y’ can’t draw out de bluff with me."

She shook her head. "We’re not playing."

"Gimme time."

She blew out a breath, rolling her eyes heavenwards and cupping her hands around her face to look at the sky without being blinded by the newly risen sun. It was going to be a warm day. Clear blue stretched overhead without a cloud in sight. Good weather to ride.

"Not even if you were Trent Reznor, Cajun."

Remy chuckled. Figures she’d listen to that sort of thing. He’d have to remember to find that CD.

"Look, they ain’t coming for me just yet. As it is, Ah figure we’re gonna have ta put up with each other until we meet with that friend of yours."

He regarded her, expressionless. Rogue dropped her hands and fixed her gaze at a spot beyond his shoulder.

"Y’ sayin’ y’ barely tolerating me?"

She fought back a grimace, and Remy watched, intrigued, as her jaw twitched.

"Barely is a huge understatement," she said firmly. "Ya said ya made this offer ta me ta help yo’self. Ah don’t know what that means, but Ah’m not gonna push it. Whatever ya meant by that, it doesn’t sound much better than any of the other garbage ya been spewin’ since ya showed up."

"S’ de truth," he replied evenly.

"How can Ah believe that? Ya couldn’t even tell me Ah was a test run ta see if yo’ powers had been boosted. Ya touched me without letting me know. Ya shouldn’t have. It wasn’t yo’ place ta make that decision for me."

"Dat was a mistake," he said quietly, taking a step forwards just as she took a step back. "I wasn’t expecting de damn branch t’ break on me."

"Don’t ya come any closer," she warned. "Ya might be able ta filter off the memories ya want ta let me see, ya might be able ta hold up that force field of yours for a little while, but ya don’t know for how long, and Ah’ll be damned if Ah’ll be the one ta help ya test yo’ limits."

"M’ not afraid of y’ Rogue."

She snorted, glaring at him. "Ya should be."

Slowly, Remy shook his head. "Fear hobbles a man. M’ not dat sort."

"No, ya got a death wish."

"Mebbe I don’ have anyt’ing t’ lose."

She paused, peering up at him. Gingerly, he took a step closer so that he stepped within the circle of her personal space. She sucked in a breath but otherwise held her ground.

"Yo’ tempting fate," she whispered, eyes wide. Dieu, how much did she hate this? Remy couldn’t imagine. Everything within’ reach, but all off limits - self-imposed restrictions that kept the thermometer hot enough to crack, but always just stopping short.

"And’ y’ just plain temptin’," he whispered back, offering her a small smile to break the tension.

"If Ah didn’t know better, Ah’d say ya were putting on this act just ta get under my skin," she breathed, scrutinizing him.

"Is it workin’?"

"Ya know it ain’t."

"I t’ink y’ mouth moves quicker den y’ mind, chérie. Y’ ret’inking dat already," he said softly, tilting his head a little and leaning forwards so that she’d feel the soft caress of his breath against her cheek.

"Ah think ya too self-assured for yo’ own good." She shivered, turning her head to the side.

"I t’ink y’ like it."

"Ah think ya better take a step back from the stove before ya get burnt."

"I like playing with fire."

"Then go find yo’ old buddy Pyro."

They stared at each other hard, Remy enjoying the way her glare intensified. He was practically towering over her, their torsos nearly brushing. He didn’t dare drag his gaze away to admire the quick rise and fall of her chest - the scooped neck of her uniform offering a tantalizing display of creamy flesh, flushed a little pink around her collarbone and spreading to her neck prettily.

"Y’ got some brass, Rogue," he acknowledged after a moment. She stepped back, finally thrown off guard.

Point, Remy thought.

As cliché as it was, perhaps honesty was the best policy. Pity she only believed him one time out of ten.

He’d have to work on that.

"I appreciate dat."

She blinked. "What?"

"I said, I appreciate dat."

"Ah heard what ya said. It’s the way ya said it that’s unnerving."

He shrugged. "There’s a lot y’ dunno about m’. We carry on like dis and I prolly won’t live as far as Tennessee. You’ll end up dropping m’ bones in a bag on Jean Luc’s doorstep."

"Is that what this is about? Ah knew it!" She poked him in the chest. Remy frowned at her gloved fist as she jabbed at him.

"How’s dat fair?" He looked at her hand pointedly. "Y’ can touch m’ but I can’t touch y’?"

She tore her arm away.

"What’s wrong with Jean Luc this time?"

"Everyt’ing," he replied dryly. "But dat don’t have anyt’ing t’ do with y’."

She narrowed her eyes and hissed, "Prove it."

"Mon dieu que c’est fatiguant." He rolled his eyes, and Rogue slapped at his arm. "Ow! Merde!" he shouted playfully, shrugging away from her with an exaggerated stagger. "Garde," he said, grinning and holding his hands defensively before him, "Jean Luc kicked m’ out."

"Like Ah believe that," she scoffed.

"M’ serious! Y’ just gonna have t’ see where m’ living t’ believe it."

"In the gutter?" she returned sardonically. "Ah could see that, Ah think. It’d suit ya. Gonna have ta change yo’ name now to sewer rat instead of -"

"Rogue!" he said loudly. "Jus’ stop f’ a second. Y’ can smack m’ around more later. Y’ wanna know? M’ tellin’ y’." He dipped his head, crooking a finger beneath her chin and lifting her gaze to meet his. She slapped at his hand. Remy put it back beneath her chin. She slapped at him again.

"Look and see if m’ lying instead of beatin’ me down all de time," he said firmly.

She relented grudgingly, squaring her shoulders. "Should Ah try ta take yo’ pulse at the same time?"

"If dat’s what it’ll take, be m’ guest."

"Ah am not touching ya."

"Y’ just did," he retorted.

"Cause ya keep pushing me, swamp rat!" she snapped.

"And m’ gonna keep pushin’ until y’ realize dat dere’s more den one way dat I can get through t’ y’."

She snorted. "Ta you, swamp rat? Ah’m like Fort Knox."

"I can break into de Pentagon wit’ m’ hands tied an m’ eyes blindfolded. Y’ wanna test dat theory? Fort Knox? Shoulda picked a better analogy. I relish de challenge." He smirked.

"Like that’s gonna win my trust -"

"Ah don’ need t’ win dat. M’ trying t’ earn it but y’ giving m’ de roundabout." He jutted his chin, eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Ever heard of Escher?"

She paused, frowning suspiciously.

"De artist?" he continued. "Homme’s a personal favorite - y’ like one of his staircases - upside down, backwards and inside out."

If the girl didn’t want to be touched, so be it. There were other more effective ways of getting around that particular defense mechanism - and the first was earnestness.

"Now listen t’ me."

He widened his eyes comically, cleared his throat, and spoke very slowly.

"I’m not interested in Jean Luc’s business. Y’ know dis, y’ know why?"

"Been down the same roads," she muttered blandly, turning away.

Remy chuckled; pleased she hadn’t forgotten their temporary truce from a year before.

"Copy cat." He grinned, straightening up. "Y’ did me a solid dat time."

"Ah helped ya free yo’ good-for-nothing adoptive father."

"Despite y’ better judgment." He nodded.

"That’s what we do, Gambit. We help people we care about."

Remy’s eyebrow’s shot up.

"Did y’ just -"

"NO, Cajun!" she snapped, her cheeks flushing brightly as she struggled to backtrack. "That’s not what Ah meant."

"S’ a general care f’ everyt’ing, oui?" he sniggered.

"Shut up," she bit back petulantly. "Ah’m only here because if what ya said was true, then Ah’ve got a real chance..."

"F’ control." He nodded slowly. "F’ freedom. De real sort."

"Ya gonna give me some line about opening doors next?" she muttered.

He shook his head. "Chére, y’ already stepped through." He offered her his arm. "C’mon, let’s get some breakfast. M’ starving."

"Wait." Rogue held up her hand; she was still a little flushed from her admission. Apparently hate was far too strong a word to describe her sentiments towards him. What was it then? Disdain? Discomfort?

Rogue swiped at her forehead with the heel of her hand. "Just give me a reason - a real one. If ya doing this for yo’self, then what is it? Ya think ya owe me something?"

He pursed his lips, considering just how much he could tell her. The answer, simply, was very little.

"Didn’t think so," she muttered, turning on her heel. "Forget it," she said over her shoulder as she began striding across the beaten parking lot. "Ah couldn’t begin ta understand how your head works anyway. And Ah know who Escher is - if either one of us can be compared ta one of his paintings, it’s you."

"Don’t I get a say in dis?" he called after her, breaking into a light jog. He caught her by the elbow and turned her around to face him, fully prepared to launch into another round of verbal sparring laden with suggestion.

Rogue looked at him tiredly, a hint of unease apparent at the fact that he still held her lightly by the arm.

"Gambit," she laughed mirthlessly, rolling her head back on her shoulders to ease the coiled muscles. "Please." She looked at her arm, at his fingers pressed into the soft spot at the elbow joint. She didn’t tear away from him or try to wrest herself from his grasp.

He released her delicately, lifting his fingers lightly and not bothering to linger.

Was it ironic that now he could touch her physically, she didn’t want him to?

Perhaps it was just a matter of going deeper than that.

Remy nodded slowly.

"I get it," he said after a moment, dimly aware that her request had landed heavily in his gut. She genuinely didn’t want him anywhere near her - the question was, why? It settled there, leaving a growing silence between them that made him uncomfortable. He was never at a loss for words, and if anything, Remy LeBeau always had an answer.

"No," she said quietly, shaking her head. She smiled at him a little, sadly. "Ya really don’t."

Rogue turned, stalking towards the small truck stop they’d decided to break at before heading south. They’d driven for two hours, exchanging snappish comments and flirtatious banter - well, he had provided the latter, at least.

Remy watched her retreating back, his confidence deflating a little. That hadn’t gone as planned.

"Y’ wrong!" he called after her. It sounded feeble even to his own ears, and inwardly, Remy winced. There was no room for him to get caught up in anything that could present itself as a liability in the days to come. He’d learned his lesson once already.

This hand was going sour fast - and that meant one thing and one thing only.

"I watched y’ for a long time, Rogue. I know y’ better den y’ know y’self."

Pulling the Aces.

She froze between a battered Toyota and a ridiculous little red thing that looked like it could barely fit two people comfortably. As Remy approached it, he noted with some disdain that the miniscule vehicle was named a "smart" car.

"What de hell kind of idiot would buy one of dese t’ings?" he muttered to himself.

"The kinda idiot that doesn’t need ta overcompensate for the things they’re lacking," Rogue shot back.

Remy smirked. That was better.

"Didn’t ya have anything better ta do with yo’ time, swamp rat?" she asked, exasperated.

He shrugged, feigning indifference. "Mebbe I just liked what I saw."

She scoffed. "How many girls fall for that garbage?"

He waved it off, ushering her towards the diner door so he could hold open it for her before she could object.

"Like I said, gimme time."

"Fat chance," she muttered, striding into the diner ahead of him.

Rogue paused, taking in her surroundings. The parking lot had been full, but apparently she hadn’t expected the crowd inside as well. Already, she was pulling closer to herself and ensuring that she had a clear path around people. Remy strolled forwards to a little sign that read, "Please wait to be seated."

A girl, no more than seventeen, came around a counter. Her step faltered a little, pale blue eyes roving over his figure. Remy lifted an eyebrow casually, glancing at Rogue who had managed to slip abreast of him. She pursed her lips, appraising the girl’s expression coldly.

"Ain’t there enough food in this place? She looks likes she’s ready ta take a bite outta ya," Rogue muttered dryly.

"Table f’ two, s’il-vous-plait," Gambit smiled lazily at the waitress, leaning in a little to read her badge. "Jennifer?"

At his side, Rogue rolled her eyes.

"S-sure," the girl stammered, collecting two menus and smiling at him shyly. "Right this way, sir." A faint blush crested over her cheeks as she peeked over her shoulder to see if he followed.

She swung her hips a little, the starched fabric of her blue and white waitress uniform bunching at the waist. Cute. Probably clingy, he assessed, with an affinity for small, yappy dogs. He knew the type. That sort kept their doll collections and stuffed animals well into their mid-twenties because it reminded them that at one point, the only man in their lives, apart from their daddies, were named Ken. Incidentally, Ken was usually easier to keep around - plastic grin, bendable legs and all. Ken didn’t argue. Ken didn’t complain. Ken was always a willing ear who didn’t comment on a ballooning waistline or the trivialities of birth control.

"Merci, Jennifer," he murmured, letting the waitress’ name slide of his tongue like syrup.

"Oh, please," Rogue snorted, brushing past him. "Ah’m gonna use the bathroom. Get me a coffee."

It wasn’t a question.

Gambit grinned at Rogue’s back, at the smooth crescent of creamy skin at her neckline that taunted him where her auburn hair brushed to the side as she walked. Rogue, he’d be willing to wager, never had a Ken doll in her life.

And if she did? He smirked; she was probably the type to have stuck the poor plastic bastard in a microwave and set it to "nuke."

Rogue cut past the other servers, jutting tables and the few folk who were either leaving or being seated, her arms stuck firmly to her sides just in case someone brushed a little too close. It was like a dance, he thought. Despite the heavy boots she wore, she evaded and parried around people nimbly, her hips swaying a little as she dodged the threat of exposed skin. Remy pursed his lips and tried not to shake his head at her behavior.

He had slipped a little outside. Reaching for her that one last time had nearly been a real accident. She didn’t like being touched, he thought. Not physically, for fear of her power, and not emotionally, because she’d been used up and thrown out too many times. Grabbing her elbow had nearly been a real setback, but she was snapping at him again, and that, at least, was a good sign.

It just wasn’t enough.

He needed to turn the hand in his favor with a deft draw, or a mighty streak of luck. In poker, the odds were fifty-fifty at best. Fifty percent handed graciously to chance and the other fifty to skill. In life you worked the angles and fucked the success ratio.

It’s what Remy had been trained to do after all.

Scanning the diner as he strolled behind the waitress, he ran a quick mental diagnostic of the place. Two visible fire exits, rows of windows emblazoned with various advertisements for new things to try, and probably a back door through the kitchen, he noted. Safe enough when you accounted for the number of people squeezed into the space.

Secondary analysis, intrinsic to his training as a member of New Orleans’ Thieves Guild, located sixteen purses, a quarter of those open or half-opened, two with broken zippers, twelve wallets within ridiculously easy reach lined up at hand-level to his left and... jackpot! He allowed himself to be jostled, bumping his hip into the table of nearby teens that clearly appeared to have spent a late night out.

"Je m’excuse," he said politely, offering the teenagers a little bow. "It’s a lil’ crowded." One of the girls tittered. Neither saw the small slip of his fingers as he extracted what he was looking for from her miniscule purse.

The breakfast rush appeared to be in full swing - the smells of bacon, frying eggs and flapjacks on the griddle suffusing the cramped eatery’s atmosphere. He shucked off his coat and slid into a booth, draping an arm across the backrest. He thanked Jennifer with a polite but distinct curve of the mouth, to which she blushed a little more fiercely and stammering something about coffee.

"Attends, p’tit," he called her back, flipping open the plasticized menu and selecting two plates, barely looking at it the choices illustrated in favor of the charming grin he flashed her. "Make de eggs spicy, if y’ could."

Rogue returned after a few minutes, sliding into the seat in front of him with a grimace.

She’d scrubbed the smeared makeup off her face, leaving her skin a little rosy in the cheeks and a lot creamier everywhere else. Remy leaned closer, entirely unable to prevent the half-smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"What are ya lookin’ at, swamp rat?" she snapped, her shoulders hunching.

"Y’ eyes, dere green."

Her mouth, two plump peach slices from where he was sitting, pulled into a tight frown.

"...Wit’out all dat black shit on ’em, anyhow," he added, unable to resist the jab.

"Don’t start again -" she warned.

Remy held a hand up before him, silently requesting a little patience. Rogue glared nonetheless. In the same motion, he pulled the recently acquired stick of kohl from beneath the table. He twirled the eyeliner, slipped from the spilled contents of another girl’s purse, between his fingers. Rogue eyed it warily.

"M’ just saying it’s a good look on y’." He shrugged, sliding a little lower in the seat and continuing to watch her intently. "But since y’ not comfortable wit’out it..." He offered her the stolen cosmetic.

"Do ya usually carry around girl’s makeup?" She lifted an eyebrow, bemused. Remy remained silent, taking in the slight dimpling in her cheeks, the soft curve of her lower lip as she chewed on the inside of her mouth, fighting back a smile.

"Non. Dis is merely a demonstration of m’ good will." He beamed beatifically.

"Ya can drop the act, Gambit. Ah told ya already, Ah’m not interested," she huffed, rolling her eyes. Nonetheless, after a moment’s hesitation, she plucked the eyeliner from his fingers. He feigned disinterest as Rogue turned the reflective surface of the napkin dispenser to face her and applied a thick layer of black around her eyes.

He couldn’t help but notice how the tension in her shoulders visibly uncoiled. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

It was a damned shame that it made the natural colour of her irises dim.

"Sure y’ not. Dat’s why y’ sitting at dis table with me."

"Ah’m here," she ground out, "because -" She faltered. "Because - "

"Because y’ tired of dancin’ around people so y’ don’t touch ’em," he supplied. "An’ because m’ de de best lookin’ t’ing in dese parts, and y’ can’t keep y’ eyes off me," he added as an afterthought.

"Ah’m surprised yo’ head still sits comfortably on yo’ shoulders," she groused. "Where’s the menu?"

Appraising her lazily, he replied, "Took care of it."

Her eyebrows shot up; surprised or offended, he wasn’t entirely certain. "Ya ordered for me?"

In response, Jennifer, flushing, shimmied back to their table and deposited two plates before them. "Can I get you anything else?" she said breathily.

Remy didn’t turn to her, choosing instead to enjoy Rogue’s expression as she stared at the plate.

"C’est parfait," he said absently. "It’s perfect, merci."

"Ya gotta be kiddin’ me," Rogue muttered, shaking her head.

Remy chuckled and pulled his own breakfast closer. He threw a wink at Jennifer, who managed to look a little disappointed that his attentions had settled on his companion. It was enough to prompt her into tottering off, albeit reluctantly.

"Ya know this is downright creepy, right?" Rogue remarked, picking up a fork and gingerly poking at the food on her plate.

"M’ just proving a point."

"Ya knew Ah like grits and sausage," she deadpanned.

"Don’t forget de eggs. I told Jenny t’ make ’em spicy just in case." Experimentally, he took a bite of his own scrambled concoction and winced. He fumbled for the steaming cup of black coffee in front of him and slurped at it, trying to wipe the taste from his mouth. "Mebbe we shoulda stuck to the local cuisine." He grimaced. "Dey put paprika in dis instead of cayenne."

Rogue snorted, tasting her own food and chewing thoughtfully. Delicately, she picked up her napkin, and promptly spit out the mouthful.

"For once, Ah think Ah might have ta agree with ya." She flushed a little and dipped her head.

"It was a nice thought, non?" he murmured, noting the slight bit of exposed wrist as Rogue lifted her hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Slivers, he thought, the girl was all slivers of skin - those dangerous tracings of lily white that held within it something far crueler than any man could ever imagine. Desire and denial, friendly bedfellows that made the dreams of those predisposed to reckless abandon quiver.

As it were, Remy appreciated her for what she was: a blossom of deadly caliber; strength and fragility encapsulated; a thorned rose, arsenic and fishnets.

She cleared her throat, looking pointedly at the table and pushing the food around with her fork.

She just didn’t know how very strong she was or what a hard case to crack.

Remy always loved a challenge. Fort Knox, indeed.

"What else do ya know about me?"

She said it so quietly that he almost missed it beneath the scraping of forks and knives, the clatter of plates from the kitchen in the back, and the noisy conversations taking place all around them.

Rogue was the calm centre of the diner at that moment, and to Remy, it was as if the rest of the world had the volume turned down.

I know y’ scared, he thought. Remy cleared his throat.

"I know y’ mére and pére were Owen and Priscilla," he began, tracing the rim of his coffee cup lightly. "I know y’ don’t remember dem, and I know y’ don’t remember y’ Tante Carrie either."

He studied her, but the smooth plains of her face remained impassive, her gaze fixed on a spot on the tabletop between them.

"I know y’ were adopted when she couldn’t take care of y’ no more. Y’ were four. Y’ foster mother, Raven Darkholme, alias Mystique," he spat the name, "sent y’ t’ live with Irene Adler, alias Destiny. She never told y’ she was a precog - but dat’s how dey knew dat y’ were gifted. Dat’s why Mystique chose y’ - it was prophesized."

Rogue hunched her shoulders, shrinking into the seat as if he’d said something she didn’t care for. "This ain’t a gift, Cajun," she interrupted. He ignored the self-deprecating twinge of the statement.

"Destiny took care of y’ until y’ powers manifested, despite being blind. She did her best, t’ condition y’ f’ your future, t’ protect y’," he continued, despite her quick interjection.

Rogue visibly flinched. "Ya mean she was protecting everyone around me."

Remy kept his voice level and leaned across the table, pushing away the atrocity that was his breakfast. With Rogue’s hair obscuring her face, it was difficult to see her exact response, but he could hazard a guess how she was taking it. It was incredible that her shoulders didn’t knot up the way she pulled in on herself all the time. Go easy on her, LeBeau, he reminded himself.

"Non, dat’s what y’ started doin’ when y’ realized what y’ are."

So much for easy, he thought wryly.

"She used me," she hissed. "My so-called ’mother’ tried ta follow Destiny’s prophecy to the letter."

"I was dere. I know."

"Ya weren’t there for all of it," she muttered. "Apocalypse brought her back."

Remy froze, his coffee cup raised halfway to his mouth. Carefully, he controlled the tremor that threatened to slop the black brew over his wrist. He set the cup down and propped his weight on his elbows.

He cleared his throat, trying to force his expression into one of utmost passivity.

"Don’t ya start," she warned. "Ah don’t need ta hear any of that cockamamie nonsense about how ya feel guilty for staying in Louisiana when the rest of us were out saving the world."

Remy dropped his gaze, staring fixedly at his hands. His fingers itched to find a pack of cards.

"Cajun?"

Shaking his head, he began examining his nails carefully to avoid her gaze, and that thoughtful expression that softened her features.

"Ah didn’t mean that," she said quietly.

"No, y’ did. I deserve it." He blew out a breath. In truth, he deserved much worse, but they’d come to that eventually. This was about Rogue, first and foremost.

"Y’ were sixteen when y’ ran away," he continued his previous train of thought, steadying his voice as he began to speak again. "Destiny knew before dey manifested, of course, and t’ keep y’ safe from y’self she insisted dat y’ had a rare skin condition. Dese t’ings don’ always work out, y’ know - Jean Luc told me I used t’ have a sensitivity t’ light. Made me wear glasses for a year after he adopted m’." He grimaced and added in an undertone, "Stupidest t’ing I ever done."

She peeked up at him through her fringe, a small smile appearing for a second. Internally, he breathed a little easier.

"What happened?" she asked, the pitch of her voice dropping, taking the edge off with the smoky, Southern cadence he remembered fondly.

Remy laughed, forcing as much disdain into it as he could muster, and narrowing his eyes. "Jean Luc learned de eyes were better t’ intimidate de competition when he took me t’ his ’business meetings.’"

She smiled at that, though the expression was fleeting - there and gone with the blink of an eye.

Remy sighed inwardly and continued his recitation. Rogue’s file had been lengthy, documenting everything from meal preferences to socialization - which wasn’t much prior to involvement with the Brotherhood and then the X-Men. Even now she was unusual in her mannerisms — insecure? Sure, but not a pushover. Fiercely independent? Without question. How much more collateral did she need before accepting his offer to help without skepticism? She was still resisting, despite his best efforts to persuade her. Rebelliousness? Saints, the fact that she was sitting in front of him two states away from home confirmed all of that and then some.

The meticulous detail on the accumulation of information was unsurprising since when Magneto had been around, the interest in Rogue’s abilities had been furthered by the involvement of Mystique. That wasn’t something he was ready to offer her, though - it had been difficult enough selecting the memories he’d allow her to see when she’d absorbed him yesterday night. Even then, perhaps Remy had revealed too much.

She had yet to comment on anything other than the stone. But perhaps it was best left untouched for now. Sharing these little anecdotes about their respective, dysfunctional upbringings was fodder enough for bonding.

Hell, she’d smiled!

The file, however, had been incomplete, and frankly, flicking through paperwork wasn’t Remy’s style to begin with.

It was the hands-on approach that provided some spark of interest, and before whisking her away to Louisiana for the first time, his reconnaissance had been thorough.

"Y’ name -" he paused, looking up at her again through the fringe of hair that fell into his eyes. A slow smile spread across his face as Rogue’s head snapped up.

"Y’ real name, de one on y’ birth certificate?" he pressed, growing all the more amused the more she bristled.

She shook her head slowly, her eyes narrowing to slits. "No one knows that -" she hissed. "It’s Rogue. Just Rogue, ya hear?"

He leaned in a little closer, his chest pressed into the edge of the table, knowing full well that those ties to her past made her particularly uncomfortable. If something unsettled her enough, then maybe he’d find a way to slip through her guarded demeanor.

"Is henceforth undisclosed," he whispered.

"Ugh!" She threw her hands into the air, and Remy chuckled as she wadded up her napkin and lobbed it at him.

"S’ cool." Remy dallied with the idea of letting her name slip, and decided against it. He needed time to win her over; work his way past her defenses. "I won’t tell anybody." He was good at being patient.

She folded her arms across her chest and scowled at him. "Ya know this ain’t fair? Ya know all this about me, but ya ain’t offering anything in return about yo’self."

He sidestepped the accusation easily with a wolfish grin. "I’m a gift y’ gotta unwrap, ma belle. Slowly."

She sniffed, albeit with a touch more derision than before. "What else ya got on me, swamp rat?"

Shrugging it off, he took a sip of his coffee. "Y’ want me t’ give y’ de psychological profile I pulled too?" he asked lightly.

"Do Ah have a choice?"

"Always."

"Then Ah don’t want ta know," she returned, picking up her fork and stabbing at her cooling breakfast sausage. "If ya got all this information from Magneto, ya’ll probably had some crackpot running analyses on all of us, right?"

Giving her a noncommittal tip of his head, he neither confirmed nor denied the accusation, choosing instead to pull a pack of cards from a pocket. Absently, he began shuffling hand-to-hand over the tabletop while Rogue struggled with her breakfast.

"What did it say?" She held up the speared link, looking at it distrustfully. "Ostracizes herself from the great part of the plebeian hoard? Tendency towards the morbid? Severe bi-polar tendencies, approach with caution?"

She bit into the sausage with vicious relish, and Remy found himself repressing the urge to cross his legs beneath the table.

Recovering quickly, he shot back, "Disarmingly beautiful and doesn’t see it f’ herself?" He cocked his head, leaning back into the seat without sacrificing his composure. Rogue rolled her eyes.

"That’s hardly part of a psychological assessment, LeBeau," she said out of the corner of her mouth, chewing.

"Certainement. Dat’s just de part I found out while doing recon."

Rogue’s fork dropped with a clatter, and she coughed.

"Y’ t’ink I was gonna let some stuffed shirt have all de fun? Pah!"

"Ya destroyed my favorite tree ya know?" she muttered sullenly after taking a large gulp of coffee. Collecting her fork from the plate, she prodded at the grits. They were beginning to take on a grey tinge.

"Y’ keep crushing m’ hopes of a romantic interlude," he retorted, smiling slyly. "De balcony t’ing gets a lil’ old after a year."

The fork hit the plate again, and Remy snatched it out of her grasp, setting it on the table in front of her. He returned to his cards, his fingers finding the right rhythm again without as much as a glance.

"Balcony?" she hissed. Nodding slowly, admiring the quick flush that crested over her cheeks, Remy decided that she was definitely something else when she got flustered.

"Y’ keep gaping like dat, chérie, and y’ gonna get a fly stuck in y’ mouth," he teased. "Couldn’t just waltz through de front door t’ leave y’ dat card, could I? Had t’ be a bit more creative."

"What did that mean, anyway? ’Ah’ll always bet on you,’" she snarled. "Ya can’t play me, swamp rat. Ah’m wise to ya."

"Is dat so? I t’ink y’ like it," he goaded. "Y’ just can’t bring y’self t’ admit it - it’d destroy y’ image, river rat."

"Ah don’t have an image, bayou breath. This is me, ya take it or ya leave it."

He tsked her. "Know y’ better, Rogue," Remy replied mildly. "Y’ dress like dat f’ one reason and one reason only. ’Look, but don’ touch,’ oui? Y’ not protecting anybody but y’self. M’ sure de local Hot Topic jus’ loves y’ for it too."

She scowled. "Next thing ya’ll are gonna tell me is that ya know what colour underwear Ah’m wearing right now too, aren’t ya?"

"Black," he said, not missing a beat. "But if m’ wrong, I hope y’ plan on correcting me proper." He lidded his gaze, appraising her with just enough suggestion to make her shift in her seat uncomfortably. He had yet to forget the fact that he’d rifled through her dainties to find the Queen of Hearts he’d affixed to her mirror upon returning to Bayville.

Rogue blushed straight to the tips of her ears, her fingers twitching on the tabletop.

It appeared she hadn’t forgotten either.

"Y’ want details, too?" He raised an eyebrow, waiting for the inevitable moment where she reached across the table to smack him. He’d deserve it, certainly, but at this point, if it were coming from Rogue? It’d be too good an opportunity to pass up.

And when that window of opportunity presented itself...

"Ah think Ah need some air," she said flatly, shoving her plate away and readying to slide from the booth.

Merde. Wrong window.

"I tell y’ what," he began, summoning whatever lazy, indifferent grace he possessed at that moment. "Let’s make a deal, you and me."

Regarding him suspiciously, Rogue stilled, hands poised against the table edge. "Ah don’t like bargains, Cajun."

Damnit, LeBeau, think fast, he berated himself. He needed to keep her sitting there, needed to keep her listening for just a little while longer.

"Den let’s make a bet," he tried again, immensely impressed that his voice hadn’t taken on a thready quality that would have dashed his nonchalance into little bits against the linoleum.

"What stakes? Ah’m already giving ya enough of a chance as is," she said, her tone wary.

"And f’ dat m’ honored. S’ more den I deserve." He pulled from the deck two cards, black ones, and presented them to her squeezed between three fingers. "But m’ a gambling man, Rogue, and I’ll take as many o’ dem chances dat y’ offering."

She sighed, waving him on.

"Y’ gave me de Queen o’ Hearts at de hotel. Y’ charged it. I get it. We’re square?"

"For that, yeah. Ya nearly blew off my hand the first time we met."

"I remember." He nodded. "Couldn’t possibly forget dat look on y’ face when I handed y’ dat card down at de docks. Why de Queen?"

She smirked. "Thought it’d be ironic. Ya gave me a charged King the first time we fought."

Reigning in his surprise that she actually remembered the suit, he kept his tone light, nearly playful, "And it blew up in y’ face, didn’t it?"

She swatted at a tuft of white hair, feigning boredom. The girl didn’t have a poker face at all, he chuckled to himself.

"Caught y’ interest, chérie?" Remy arched an eyebrow, splaying both cards between his fingers. "What did y’ t’ink I was telling y’ with dat card?"

Rogue glanced between the spade — a Queen and an Ace — and back to his face.

"Thought dat was a clever analogy? Trying t’ tell y’ somet’ing about m’self?"

She shook her head slowly, a wry smile curving her mouth upwards. "Ya not the King of Hearts. Not ta me."

"What am I?" He grinned, slipping a third and fourth card from the deck with ease, red ones - the hearts’ suit royalty. He set both elbows on the table and waited for her response.

Leaning across the table, eyes glittering beneath the neon track lighting of the too-crowded diner, Rogue hummed, "Ya think too highly of yo’self, swamp rat. An Ace is the highest card in the deck, and yo’ something else entirely. But Ah appreciate the gesture." She nodded to the Queen of Spades. "That’s a bit closer to the truth."

"Black Maria." Remy grinned. It figured that Rogue would see herself as the Black Queen. "Y’ play?"

Rogue shrugged, trying to feign disinterest once again. "Used to."

Remy couldn’t help but notice how her gaze flit back to the cards he held before her, hesitant, curious, and still cautious.

"Den y’ know dat when y’ pull the Queen of Spades, the game stops on her," he said slowly, trying not to laugh outright at how absurdly easy Rogue was making things.

She stiffened, glancing at him cagily. "Everyone antes again."

Remy slid his fingers together, the cards brushing against one another in a quick shuffle. Rogue watched him carefully as he deposited four cards face down on the table before them.

"Two hearts and two spades. Two faces f’ you and me." He pointed, spreading his hands over the cards like a carney talker. "Y’ pull de King, we carry on like dis as long as we have to - I tease y’, y’ blush, y’ threaten m’ with somet’ing."

"And if Ah pull the Queen?"

"Y’ stop calling me ’Gambit’ and y’ start calling me ’Remy’. Moaning or breathy whispers optional," he returned.

She scoffed. "How’s that fair? This is yo’ cracked version of three card monte, Cajun - worse odds with a fourth card."

He smirked, his fingers skimming the tops of the cards lightly as he began to swap them across each other. Left, right, above, below, left, right, above, below. "Dese are my rules."

"Alright, fine," she sighed, exasperated, "and the last card?"

"Y’ pull de card dat best represents m’, and I’ll tell y’ what I meant by de message I put on y’ mirror last night."

She shook her head. "No deal. Ah want measure for measure what ya just told me about myself. The truth. All of it."

Remy cocked an eyebrow, meeting her gaze though his hands maintained the steady rhythm of the shuffle.

"Ah want yo’ file, LeBeau," Rogue said sternly. She ducked her head, peering at him with a determined half-smirk from beneath her fringe.

"Dem’s fighting words, Roguey." He paused, fingers hovering over the cards, and whispered, "But I don’t lose either."

"And if Ah pull the Queen of Spades, we’re doing this again, aren’t we?"

"Y’ pull the Queen, and its m’ decision what de stakes are. You pull de Queen, I make de call. Ante up." Returning to the task of swiping the cards back and forth, he nodded, jutting his chin in silent contest. "Just say when."

Remy turned the speed of his shuffling up a notch, the cards sliding back and forth against the table in random, but controlled, order.

Rogue lidded her eyes.

"Stop."

She pointed to a card furthest to the left, and Remy, smirking, flipped over the Queen of Spades.

"Good choice." He nodded with mock solemnity.

"Fine," she hissed through grit teeth. "What’s your call?"

He cocked an eyebrow, fingering the edge of the card. It scraped lightly over the puckered linoleum table top, the noise lost beneath the volume of the dinner. "Y’ sure?"

"Ah’m good for it, Cajun. Just tell me what it is," she bit out.

"Y’ going on a date wit’ me when we get to de Big Easy," he replied, almost flippantly.

"What!" she shouted.

"Don’t bet nothing y’ can’t afford t’ lose." He grinned, starting the shuffle again.

"Ah don’t do dates!" Rogue barked. "Least of all with the likes of ya."

He chuckled, grinning at her outright. "Y’ lost, Rogue, but y’ got another chance coming up. How bad do y’ wanna know ’bout what goes on inside m’ head? Hmm?" He waggled his eyebrows, shuffling blind again.

"Ya ain’t touching me, swamp rat. I told ya -" she started, the heat rushing to her face, making her cheeks flush in a flattering shade of roses and cream.

"S’ fine. I can get t’ y’ without layin’ a finger on y’," he informed her.

"You are such a -" she seethed, nearly growling. "No holding hands, no linking arms, no nothing!" she shouted.

"Y’ pull dat Queen again and m’ gonna get y’ t’ wear a dress too," he quipped.

She smacked at his hands, jabbing at the card to the far right this time. "Stop!"

Remy chuckled, and flipped over another Queen of Spades.

"Ya dirty, no good, two timing..." she snarled.

"Quoi? Figure y’ a size six, oui?" he returned lightly.

"Did ya get that from my ’file’ too?" Rogue spat derisively.

"Non, from y’ closet."

Rogue slapped her hands over his, wrapping her fingers around his wrists and dragged him forwards into the table. The cutlery rattled, the creamer bounced in its holder, and the sugar dispenser wobbled precariously in the direction of the window.

Remy smiled, nodding a hello at an elderly couple that peered distrustfully at them a few tables away.

"Ya cheated," Rogue hissed, her grip tightening.

Inclining his head to the cards between them, he continued to appreciate the stubborn set to Rogue’s jaw. "See f’ y’self," he murmured.

She let go of his wrists, and flipped the four cards over, whacking them against the table in her irritation.

Two hearts and two spades remained spread between them.

"Go again?" he asked lightly, swallowing a laugh at her infuriated expression.

"Yo’ dead," she returned, turning the cards over again stubbornly.

Remy began the shuffle for the third time, chuckling.

"Stop," Rogue murmured, her gaze fixed determinedly on the cards between them. After a moment of staring at the stationary set, she lifted her gaze to meet his. She was smiling.

"Y’ choice, mam’selle?" He dipped his head politely, stifling a snigger.

Slowly, tentatively, Rogue reached over and grasped his hand. Her fingers were warm beneath the gloves, and despite the fact that he nearly started from the quick movement, neither pulled back. Remy stopped laughing entirely and forced himself not to stare at the slim fingers working their way beneath the leather covering his wrist, or the little stripe of teasing, ivory flesh that peeked out from between Rogue’s own sleeve and glove. From beneath the thin protection of his wrist guard, Rogue pulled a card.

She held it up before him, releasing her hold, and tapped her temple.

"Ah told ya, yo’ not the Ace in the deck," she declared, triumphant.

Remy snorted, shaking his head at the Joker.

She had touched him willingly. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. The spot on his palm where her fingers had gripped him was still warm from the contact.

"So," she said lightly, folding her hands beneath her chin and dangling the Joker negligently between her gloved fingers. She peered at him with unchecked amusement. "Why don’t ya start by telling me why ya left me that note on my mirror?"

Remy forced a laugh, his mind sliding back into the comfortable place where he could assess and process and form a strategy.

It wasn’t the number of chances available that were important here, not the ratio, not the mechanics that would tip the odds in his favor. It was the ante.

---

Post Script:

- The Eyeliner: OMG that is so so so unhygienic. If you didn’t know it already, don’t share your eye makeup with other people. Yuck. In this case, I’m letting it slide because it’s a gesture that’s supposed to demonstrate how well Remy knows her, despite Rogue’s best efforts to keep herself closed off. It’s a little thing, but it’ll end up meaning a lot to her when she has a moment to think back on it.

- Black Maria/Queen of Spades: (Poker) It’s a variation in seven-card stud. I was trying to find a proper summary of the rules on the variation and came up with two different things: When the Queen of Spades comes up in a hand, the hand stops and everyone has to bet again. The second variation involves the holder taking half the pot. I’m referring to the former... even though they’re playing three-card monte (with four cards. Remy’s ignoring the rules, what can I say? Oh I can say something: He didn’t cheat! Ha!)

- Ace of Spades: Remy’s trademark card. Also the card in the deck significant of death - oftentimes you see him throwing this sucker. He identifies with the Joker, hence Rogue’s skilful pull after she grabbed his wrist.

- "Gimme time." If you’re old enough to remember "Hackers" - Dade Murphy. Same goes for the dress bit and, "Ah don’t do dates."

- "...Wit’out all dat black shit on ’em, anyhow." The Breakfast Club.

- Trent Reznor: Lead singer of Nine Inch Nails.

- Escher: Canonically correct. I double-checked with the Gambit Guild on this one. Remy’s favorite artists are Escher and Cézanne. Google: "Relativity: 1953" if you want a visual.

- Ante: (Poker) An ante is a forced bet in which each player places an equal amount of money or chips into the pot before the deal begins.

Translations:

Attends, p’tit: Wait a second, little one

Bonjour: Hello/good morning

Certainement: Certainly

Dieu: God

Fille: girl

Garde: (Regard) Look

Homme: man

Mam’selle: (Madamoiselle) Miss

Merde: Shit

Mon dieu que c’est fatiguant: My god, this is tiring.

Non: No

Non, mais, c’est quand-meme amusant: No, but it’s still funny

Oui: Yes

Quoi: what

Vraiment: Really

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