The Ante - REVIEW THIS STORY

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

Chapter 18

Overhead, a thin, barely-there sliver of the moon reflected on the Mississippi. Like a shivering white scar, it strayed just ahead of them until the small motorboat turned into a darkened niche of cypress trees, and the river broke off into the bayou.

The commandeered van they’d used to transport themselves from the Garden District, past the Quarter, and through Baton Rouge had been abandoned near the docks behind them. Rogue figured, with some resignation, that they’d most probably do the same with the boat whenever they reached the Guild House.

If she’d guessed correctly, the property was safely hidden, nestled into the swamps like the Thieves’ rivals, the Assassins.

This was plantation county, and from what she understood of Lapin’s nervous chatter below the drone of the boat’s motor, the Guild appreciated both the security and the splendor of the old property that served as its mother house.

"We not too far now," Emil said into her ear. Whether his voice was pitched low out of respect or caution, Rogue couldn’t discern.

"Dey know we’re here, y’ see. S’ important t’ be recognized as family; take t’ings slow. Y’ just keep y’ head down, and dere won’t be any trouble."

"Why would there be?" she asked, her attention divided between Emil at her side and the constant weight of Remy’s gaze on her back. She hadn’t turned around once, nor did she intend to. He and his brother were so silent that for a time, were it not for the grim reminder of what had transpired earlier, she’d have forgotten they were there.

"Dis is de back entrance," he whispered. "S’ usually better t’ declare y’self instead of tryin’ t’ sneak in — especially if y’ not part of de clan. Jean Luc don’t go in f’ dis sort o’ t’ing." He smiled weakly. "S’ not y’, belle," Lapin assured her without much conviction.

"Non, s’ me dat’s de problem," Remy called from behind them hotly.

"Shhhh!" Lapin hissed, swiveling in his seat. "Keep y’ voice down!" He huffed and turned back to face Rogue. She continued to glower at the prow of the boat.

"Ah think maybe ya’ll should consider droppin’ the liability overboard if that’s the case," she returned snidely. "Considerin’ he’s such a problem an’ all."

"Y’d never f’give y’ self, chérie. It’d be just like Romeo an’ Juliet; y’d be tossing y’self in after m’ in no time."

"Feel like testing that theory, swamp rat?" she shot back, not turning around.

"I t’ink dere were knives involved in dat story, actually," Lapin interjected.

"And poison," Rogue supplied, keenly aware that her skin would fit the bill perfectly for that particular criminal accessory. She grimaced at the thought, thinking of what she might have done to Remy if Lapin hadn’t interrupted them back at Lafayette.

"Quiet, you t’ree," Henri reprimanded. "Have some respect."

The motor slowed to a low putter as the boat turned into the trees. With a muted click, Henri pulled a quarterstaff seemingly from nowhere, extending the weapon and using it to drive into the silted bottoms of the swap - propelling them forwards with the soft sound of dragging water at their backs.

Massive cypresses loomed on either side of them, their roots splayed in little arches where the waterline dropped away - creating bridges of tangled vines that dipped their tendrils into the black water below. Overhead, the Spanish moss dangled in wispy clumps, falling from the branches in curtains.

Rogue sighed heavily and forcibly shoved away the memory of the last time she’d visited the swamps with Remy. This time, though the tension was there, it could hardly be considered the same. In retrospect, her first visit to the bayou had been much more pleasant, though she hadn’t thought of it like that when she’d been there. Beside her, Emil looked on.

In the distance, she could make out the hazy lights falling across the water, mirroring the wavering foundations of a massive plantation house.

As they drew nearer, the reflections revealed the whitewashed façade of a three-story antebellum mansion; a balcony wrapped around the second floor and cut through the massive columns that decorated the exterior. The window shutters were painted black to match the ironwork of the rails. Rogue couldn’t help but think that they sculpted the façade into a many-eyed visage — a face composed of hollowed eyes with the gaping mouth of a central back door.

Low, flickering amber lights dotted the winding, flagstone path that crept out from beneath a lush garden canopy. It led from the back porch all the way to a small dock, where several other boats and a hydrofoil were moored, bobbing serenely with the low current.

"Home sweet home," said Remy acerbically.

"Ah think it’s beautiful," Rogue declared, ignoring his maudlin proclamation.

Beside her, Emil grinned. "Y’ might want t’ wave, Rogue." He pointed upwards to the cover of tree limbs that blotted out the night sky. Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze away from the Guild House and looked up.

Overhead, silent and watchful, men lined the trees. Positioned in various states of concealment amongst the branches, some had guns, others carried bows; their taut strings slackened as Emil waved upwards at them. "Bonsoir, mes amis. Ça va? Où est Jean Luc?"

"Il vous attends," one of the guards shouted back. "C’est qui avec toi, Emil?"

Behind her, Remy snorted.

"Henri et ses amis," Lapin replied.

"Votre famille, Theoren!" Remy shouted finally.

"Merde," Emil muttered flatly. "Y’ couldn’t have waited ’til we got t’ shore, hein?"

"Remy?" Theoren called. The sound of a semi-automatic weapon clicking accompanied the question. "Den I t’ink de term ’family’ is debatable," he added a second later.

"Missed y’ too," Remy replied, his tone hard.

Rogue turned in her seat to survey him, but Remy’s expression was as unreadable as ever. He didn’t look at her, choosing instead to pull out a pack of cards and begin shuffling them idly.

"Put ’em away, Rem," Henri cautioned, guiding the boat into the dock with a final heave of his bo. Accompanied by a dull scraping sound, they stopped moving at last as the bottom of the boat banked roughly.

"Viens, p’tit," Emil said quietly, stepping onto the small wooden dock that jutted out into the bayou. He held out a hand for Rogue, which she grasped gingerly as he helped her onto solid ground.

She teetered a moment, her vision darkening a little, and she pressed her fingers to her temple. Before her knees gave out, a strong arm wrapped around her waist and hoisted her back up.

"Ah’m fine," she mumbled, the sudden dizziness disappearing. "Just a bit of a headache."

"S’ good t’ know," was his only reply. Startled, Rogue snapped her head around as Remy slipped his arm out from beneath her. He didn’t turn back as he stalked away to greet the men filtering out from the trees.

She’d thought it was Lapin, and turning to find him, she saw that he was a few paces away fastening the boat down securely in its mooring.

Henri merely shook his head sadly, whispering as he passed her, "Remy’s a good boy. He just don’t know what’s good for him sometimes."

Whether that was supposed to comfort her or just fuel the sorry, sad ache in her chest, Rogue wasn’t sure.

"Theoren." Remy greeted a clean-shaven, dark haired, barrel-chested man who swung down from the trees and landed before them, effectively blocking the path up to the Guild House.

Coolly appraising him, Theoren replied in kind, "Remy."

"Where’s père?"

"Same place y’ left him, I’d imagine."

"Really?" Remy appeared nonplussed. Flippantly, he goaded, "Doesn’t surprise m’ none, all t’ings considered. Still chained t’ dat desk o’ his, den? Drawin’ up plans t’ make life better f’ everyone?"

Theoren didn’t appear to enjoy Remy’s sarcasm. He bristled, shoulders hunching, and Rogue found herself walking briskly to intervene, but Henri stepped in front of her, holding her back while allowing Lapin to dart up the path.

"S’ more den I could say f’ y’ y’ ungrateful, treacherous son of a -"

"Bonsoir!" Lapin cut in between them. The smaller man grinned beatifically, as if his stature didn’t matter a lick compared to the two giants that loomed over him who as if they were about to tear out each other’s throats. Nor did it bother him that one of them was still brandishing a weapon.

"We got business t’ discuss, hein? Leave de machismo at de door. No time! No time! M ’late. M’ late." Lapin began ushering Remy around Theoren, using his body as a shield.

"...F’ a very important date," Remy added, smirking at his cousin’s antics over the top of his head.

"No time t’ say, ’Allo! G’bye!’ M’ late, m’ late, m’ late!"

Rogue snorted, rolling her eyes. "Ah take it this is as close ta going down the rabbit hole as Ah’m ever gonna get."

Henri smiled at her warmly over his shoulder. "P’tit, y’ got no idea. C’mon, y’ let dese two take care of business. Mercy’ll get y’ set up in one of de guest suites so y’ can take a load off."

Guardedly, Rogue followed Henri up the path to the plantation house. As she passed Theoren, he gave her a once over that left her feeling decidedly uneasy. She didn’t like him, she decided. Family or not, bad blood was bad blood, and Rogue didn’t doubt that whatever the animosity was shared between the two men, somehow Remy was to blame for it. Oddly enough, it didn’t bother her as much as it should have. Stranger still was the fact that she’d be willing to defend him if she had to. A way ahead of them, Remy and Lapin had their heads bowed together, discussing something quietly.

"Is..." Rogue hesitated, scanning the large back porch and the cover of trees that lined the property. There were security cameras, obvious ones, and less-visible ones as well tucked into recesses in the walls, the floor, and the ground lining the path. Two men with leashed dobermans circled around the far sides of the house, one nodding to Henri, acknowledging their arrival. "Well Ah suppose it’d be redundant ta ask if this place is safe," she murmured.

Henri chuckled, clasping his hands behind his back. "Safer den de boudoir of de Queen Mother," he assured her.

"Will it be alright that Ah’m here?" she asked uncertainly. "If Remy’s... tell ya the truth Ah don’t know what Remy is exactly."

Henri paused, motioning for her to stop walking.

"Has he told y’?" he asked, sticking into his thumbs into his belt and stretching his back so that his belly stuck out a little.

Near the large portico, Remy and Emil continued their conversation. They were too far away to hear, but from what Rogue could discern, their discussion was fairly serious. She could make out their profiles, her gaze lingering a little too long on the aquiline nose and firm jaw line, as Remy offered his cousin a small, reassuring nod. Lapin looked over his shoulder and grinned at her, giving both she and Henri a brief waggle of his fingers, which passed as a wave.

Slowly, she replied, "Ah saw the grave."

"Exile," Henri said after a moment, looking at his brother. "It’s a serious t’ing in de families. Dey forgave him, or at least, we did - most of us - but père couldn’t offer de Assassins anyt’ing in return dat would keep ’em satisfied long enough t’ stop de blood flow." He took a breath, resignedly, and continued. "De war’s gone on as long as both families have lived in Naw’lins. Mon Grandpère Jacques, he used t’ say de war started even b’fore dat. Four hundred years, mebbe, from France t’ America, T’ieves an’ Assassins killin’ each other f’ somet’ing dey couldn’t even remember startin’. Dere are factions of de Guilds, smaller groups scattered around de globe. Each operates autonomously from de ot’ers."

"And Julien?" Rogue asked.

"Julien was de son of Marius Boudreaux, and Marius Boudreaux is Patriarch of de Assassins Guild; he’s de leader." Henri turned to her. "It was a miracle Remy got out wit’ his life."

"But he came back. He said he’s been living here for at least six months."

Henri pursed his lips, his pencil-moustache turning downwards at the corners. "Dat was true den?"

Slowly, Rogue nodded. "Ah guess he’s a better sneak than Ah realized, especially ta be so close ta his family for all that time and not have them know any different."

"He’s de best t’ief I ever seen," Henri conceded. "Dieu, we know he never been modest about dat." He winked at her and lightly asked, "What he take from y’ t’ make y’ so mad?"

Rogue felt her face heat up a little, but Henri at least was gentlemanly enough to drop it when he noticed her discomfort.

"Mebbe stayin’ here f’ a bit rub off on y’ some." He smiled a little, gesturing that they should continue up to the house now that their conversation was done. "Dere ain’t no better t’ing den getting one up on a man in his own game. I know dis place could use some lightenin’ up after t’night."

"You believe us, don’t ya?" she asked hesitantly. "We didn’t do that ta that man," she insisted when Henri didn’t reply.

"De law of de Guild doesn’t see y’ as one person, chére," he replied carefully. "It sees de whole clan."

Rogue opened her mouth to object but was cut off abruptly as a shout rose from behind them at the waterfront.

"Remy!" Theoren bellowed. "Don’t think we f’gotten!"

Henri shook his head warningly, motioning for Remy to turn around instead of going back to the docks to face off with the larger man.

On the porch, Remy shook his head, red eyes flashing, though the rest of his face was consumed by the shadows produced by the mansion’s backlight. For a moment, Rogue could have sworn his gaze shifted, flicking to her before he turned with the snap of his trench coat and followed Lapin into his former home.

"Who is that?" Rogue whispered, motioning to the retreating form of Theoren. Henri glanced at her skeptically out of the corner of his eye, placing a guiding hand on the small of her back and urging her forwards into the light spilling from the house.

"Theoren Marceaux. A cousin. Long story."

She chuckled dryly. "Ah figured. The secretiveness runs in the family, don’t it?"

"I could tell y’ dat, chére," Henri smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners good-naturedly, "but den I’d have ta kill y’."

---

"Emil?"

Remy hesitated, his hands slack at his sides, though already he could feel the nervous itch that begged him to pull out his cards, a cigarette, something to keep them occupied.

"M’ sorry, Remy. He hasn’t changed, y’ know... Theoren never f’gave himself, so ’e never f’gave y’ either," Lapin said apologetically, leaning a little closer and dropping the pitch of his voice.

"Non, not dat."

"Quoi? What is it, Remy?" Lapin asked, pausing before the steps of the large back porch.

"I need y’... t’ do somet’ing f’ me."

Lapin’s eyebrows shot up, and then slyly, he drew backwards and leered. "Whoa! Whoa! Sorry cousin, but y’ know m’ not into dat sort o’ kinky stuff."

"M’ gonna clean out y’ skull one o’ dese days, Lapin, with m’ fist," Remy threatened, although the jibe lacked its usual punch.

"Dat wouldn’t make y’ look too good in front of de belle damme, mon ami."

"I don’t t’ink I need anymore help in dat department, t’anks," he said dryly.

"Okay." Lapin shrugged, cramming his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.

"Quoi?"

"O-kay. Qu’est-ce que tu besoin?"

Remy raised an eyebrow. "Since when did y’ become such a pushover?"

Lapin glanced over his shoulder and smiled widely. Remy didn’t turn to see who he was looking at, though he could hazard a guess. He frowned. His fingers itched. Worse was the nagging feeling that pulled at him, willing him to turn around and look at her, though he managed, somehow, to keep his gaze fixed on Lapin.

"If I t’ink I know what dis is about? Dat ain’t being a pushover, cousin. Dat’s called a whole lotta trouble. More den what we in right now." He waved at Rogue and Henri, waggling his fingers. "Y’ draw it t’ y’ like bees t’ honey."

If Remy turned, just a little, he could pick up two blurred figures in his peripheral vision. It’d have to do for now, even if it made his head ache with something he didn’t want to identify. Giving that particular pang in his chest a name would give it life, make it real. It was easier shutting it into its own walled-off, imaginary cell; it was easier to pretend it wasn’t there or didn’t exist, keep it safe, save himself. It was all the same.

Whatever it was, it rattled him - that vengeful little secret. Compounded with the fact that in minutes he’d have to face off with Jean Luc, he had to clear his head. If he looked at her, if he let her, he’d lose his composure for sure. Cash in. Check out. Hobble off empty-handed and empty-hearted and cold.

Remy smirked at the irony. Lapin raised an eyebrow.

"Dis be bad," Emil said, a hint of foreboding drawing out the last syllable almost comically. "I ain’t seen y’ like dis since Bella Donna."

Remy inclined his head, conceding with a small, self-deprecating nod.

"Y’ not gonna tell m’ are y’?" Lapin asked. "’Bout de girl? ’Bout whatever dis is about? ’Bout why y’ came home?"

"I never left, Emil," Remy returned.

"Yes y’ did!" Lapin insisted. "I saw y’ wit’ m’ own eyes. Y’ looked like a beaten dog after Marius and Jean Luc reached an agreement."

"It was a vacation."

"Pah! If y’ hadn’t left, Belle woulda sent y’ on permanent vacation f’ what y’ did t’ her, an’ Marius woulda helped just because he could."

Remy’s expression, trained into remaining impassive after years of experience, did nothing to subdue Emil.

He continued, "Y’ can keep all de secrets y’ like, Rem, but jus’ so y’ know - whatever it is dat y’ cooked up - dere’s one Assassin dead already. De longer y’ try t’ work de situation in y’ favor, de more problems y’ create... especially with de Clan."

He checked himself, peering at Lapin fixedly so that his attention wouldn’t waver.

Cards. Cigarette. A dead Assassin. A missing gemstone. Julien’s grave. The kiss they’d shared. The kiss Rogue claimed she’d given him, when he thought he’d kissed her.

Remy lingered on that thought a moment too long. It took some effort to swallow it down.

Remy LeBeau never folded this early in the game, nor did he reveal how he worked the table. Emil pursed his lips, sniffing at him huffily. Not even to family, Remy decided.

Rogue told him she was going to leave, he reminded himself. It sobered him, and sluggishly, his resolve returned.

It was as if that was her way of paying him back for hurting her - a hollow threat. Of course, coming all the way out here into the bayou, to Thieves’ territory no less, was one way of finding out if she’d been bluffing.

He was counting on it that she would, that she didn’t mean it, and as much as he hated to admit it to himself - his want was clearly threatening to overtake his need for her to stick around.

It didn’t make the pang in his chest go away, unfortunately.

Remy’s fingers tingled irritably, an aftershock of nervous energy from funneling too much of his kinetic power into the three cards he’d used to defend himself and Rogue at Lafayette. Again, his mind slid back into that dangerous headspace, and on demand, the scent of her filled his senses.

Something. He needed something to take his mind off it or get it out of his system and be rid of it so he wouldn’t need to be rid of her too.

He blew out a breath, and deftly, his fingers contorting in a way that would be painful for anyone who didn’t have the sort of dexterity that he possessed; Remy dug his middle finger into his wrist guard and slid a card into his palm.

He squeezed it, imprinting the feel of stiff paper into his gloves.

A single downwards glance told him all he needed to know.

It must have been a lucky draw that he’d pulled the Queen of Hearts.

He smirked a little at that.

Rogue could leave, sure - but only after he was done with her. For now, luck was still on his side, if only just.

"I need y’ t’ pool y’ resources," he said to Emil finally, running his thumb against the face of the card. It soothed him somewhat. It kept him grounded knowing how easy it’d be to throw that particular Queen away. "M’ lookin’ f’ somet’ing, an’ I know I can run all over dis damned city m’self, but it’d take half de time if I went through y’."

"Less den dat." Lapin sniffed, puffing his chest imperiously. "De fille musta really hit y’ head hard t’ make y’ forget dat m’ de best dere is..."

"M’ head’s fine," Remy replied shortly. "Y’ gonna do it, den?"

Lapin looked at him inquisitively, his brow furrowing. "What m’ I lookin’ for exactly?"

"Remy!" Theoren bellowed from the waterfront. Jaw clenching, Remy turned to peer into the darkness. "Don’t t’ink we f’gotten!"

"How could I, Theoren?" he muttered under his breath. "What wit’ y’ reminding me every chance y’ get?"

"Wasn’t y’ fault, Rem," Lapin said lightly.

"I know."

"Etienne wasn’t ready f’ de tilling."

One glance at Lapin was all it took for him to drop the subject. Turning back to the night, and to the two figures on the path that had stopped their slow progress up to the house, Remy stilled. His eyes adjusted easily to the gloom, and for just a moment, his gaze lingered - seeking out the shine of telltale green, electric in the darkness. Rogue was a beacon. She drowned out the concerned expression worn by Henri, the sneer affixed to Theoren’s face, and like anyone who would flinch from the recoil, Remy blinked - surprised by how intense the look she fixed him with was.

It was a second too long.

Bang. You’re dead.

He turned away, the Queen of Hearts scrunched in his fist.

"I need y’ t’ find m’ a gemstone fragment, a ruby de size of m’ fist. It’s in de possession of a femme who calls herself, Maman Brigitte..."

---

"REMY!"

A screech, lilting and feminine, stopped Rogue dead in her tracks upon entering the lavish interior of the Guild House. A blond blur, clad scantily in a light silk negligee and matching aquamarine night robe, darted out of one of the side rooms and collided solidly with Remy a moment later.

Rogue bristled, eyeing the bare, tanned legs and ridiculous little slippers that dangled off the dainty feet that kicked a solid two feet from the ground. Remy embraced her, hoisting her up and giving her a fond squeeze.

Beside her, Henri snorted. "I hardly t’ink it fair dat Remy gets dis sort of welcome while y’ own husband has t’ stand by an’ watch, Mercy."

Rogue couldn’t conceal her surprise as the woman, a busty, petite blond released him, dropping to her toes and holding Remy at arm’s length. She peered over at Henri with mock sourness, her cheeks dimpling prettily.

"Y’ mean t’ tell m’ dat I don’t get t’ welcome m’ own brother-in-law home proper? Where’s y’ hospitality, cher mari?"

"He left it out on de doormat f’ de milkman," Lapin piped up, earning a swat from Henri’s wife, who moved quicker than a fox in a chicken coop.

Rogue flushed a little as Mercy rounded on her, embarrassed by her knee-jerk reaction to a woman who was smiling at her so kindly.

"An’ who might y’ be, chile?" Mercy arched an eyebrow, placing her hands on her hips and throwing a sly grin over her shoulder. Remy merely smirked, lidding his eyes and shrugging with a carelessness that made the movement seem both graceful and seductive.

"She followed m’ home?" he offered innocently.

"Ah seemed ta have dragged him in, as a matter of fact," Rogue ground out. "If that’s a problem, Ah’d be happy ta put him out too. Name’s Rogue." She nodded, and Mercy whistled.

"Oh, you are gonna fit right in ’round here, girl," Mercy stated, sauntering over and giving Henri a peck on the cheek. He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he returned the favor. "Dat Southern sass is a rare commodity. It’s good t’ hear, ’specially with dat accent o’ yours. Where y’ from?"

"Mississippi," Rogue replied, and hesitantly, she added, "but Ah live in New York now."

Lapin coughed. "X-Man!" he managed in between pounding his chest and hacking with exaggerated loudness. Rogue pursed her lips, giving him a sound thumping in between the shoulder blades that sent him staggering across the wide hallway.

"Mmmhmm," Mercy said, brushing her bangs out of her eyes and peering down at Lapin, peeling himself off the polished oak floor. "Dey teach y’ how t’ hail a cab up North, but dere ain’t no other place that’ll teach a girl t’ hit like dat den de South. It’s good t’ meet y’. Dey show y’ dat up at dat school o’ yours?"

Rogue smiled reluctantly. "My, word does travel fast, don’t it? What else do y’all know about us?"

Henri cut in, "Too much t’ include in a two minute conversation. Chére, Rogue’s gonna be stayin’ wit’ us f’ a couple o’ days. Y’ tink y’c an get her settled?"

Mercy nodded. "Y’ gonna have t’ show m’ dat swing o’ yours while y’ here." She winked. "S’ tough... keeping dese hooligans in line." She peered around them, smiling fondly at her husband. "Bein’ de only femme who runs wit’ ’em can get a lil’ rough."

"Only as rough as y’ want us t’ be, Merc," Remy purred.

Mercy raised an eyebrow. "Good t’ know somet’ings haven’t changed." To Rogue, she nodded. "Remy’s a pack of trouble, don’t y’ know." She leaned in, winking. "Awful cute, though, hein? Always said it was a pity... such a nice package belongin’ ta such a rotten boy." She clucked at him, and Remy rolled his eyes.

"Ah been hearin’ that a lot lately," Rogue agreed dryly.

"De femmes like dat sorta t’ing," Remy replied in his defense. His gaze shifted a little, raking over Rogue suggestively, and she found herself balling her fists at her sides. She cocked an eyebrow, daring him to continue. "De normal ones anyhow," he added.

Rogue scoffed to block out the accompanying sting of his words and folded her arms across her chest. It was a delayed reaction, if only by a second or two, but if Remy noticed, he didn’t comment.

"So what are y’ doin’ here, exactly?" Mercy asked. "Not that we ain’t happy t’ see y’, Remy, but..."

"Eh, s’ a long story, Mercy. We don’t much know ourselves at dis point. Gotta talk t’ Jean Luc - an’ -" Lapin glanced at Remy, "de sooner de better."

Mercy sighed, slipping out from beneath her husband’s arm. "Fine by m’, y’ got m’ outta bed at four in de morning plenty o’ times before, an’ probably f’ less no doubt. C’mon, girl." She motioned for Rogue to follow her. "Let’s let de boys wallow in de testosterone."

"But Ah thought -" Rogue turned to Remy, who had dropped his gaze to his hands. She blinked, surprised to see that he was rolling a card over his knuckles. Between the flashes of movement, she could discern brief blurs of red on black. It was a hearts suit, and which card specifically, Rogue had a fair idea. He was nervous, she decided. The smooth-talking, sly, stubborn, swamp snake was actually nervous enough to fidget. That comforted her somewhat; at least she knew he was still human for it.

"S’ family business," he said simply, as if that would alleviate the sudden rush of responsibility she felt. "I’ll deal with it."

He glanced up at her, and Rogue felt her stomach do that same sinking, fluttering, and uneasy twist that she’d experienced right before she’d kissed him. Rogue swallowed, watching as Henri and Lapin flanked him. Remy stood there a little longer, returning her gaze even as the others began moving away down the hall.

Mercy cleared her throat and rocked back on her heels. With a graceful twirl, she crossed the hall, hands folded neatly behind her back. "Stairs are over dis way, Rogue. I’ll be at de top."

Remy didn’t move, though through the shag of hair that fell into his eyes, Rogue sensed that he was taking her measure keenly. He was waiting for her to make the first move.

"It’s not fair that ya should have ta have that conversation alone," she whispered once Mercy’s footfalls had faded.

Remy shrugged, looking back to the card. "Got lady luck watchin’ over me."

"Ah should be there, too," she insisted.

Remy merely shook his head. "Y’ don’t know Jean Luc like I do," he replied dismissively.

Rogue counted to five before she hissed at him, stalking across the hallway and tearing the card out of his grasp. He looked between his empty fingers and the partially torn Queen now gripped in her fist, and smirked.

"If y’d asked nicely..." he began, but Rogue cut him off.

"Listen up, Cajun," she seethed, squaring her shoulders. "If ya think ya can just shoulder that man’s death all by your lonesome, ya got another thing coming. Ya been pushing me for the better part of a week about my own issues, and Ah been stupid enough not ta realize why ya were so confident about it. Ya do the same thing, that’s why ya know how Ah react. Ah know exactly what it feels like ta have ta stand on my own two feet and hold up against the world, and because of ya, as much as Ah hate ta admit it, Ah know it doesn’t have ta be like that."

He quirked an eyebrow. "If dis is y’ way of propositioning m’, chére..."

Rogue winced and smacked him on the shoulder. "Stop tryin’ ta make me blush!"

"It’s workin’," he countered smugly.

"It’s ending right here, right now." Rogue grit her teeth.

"Non, actually -" Remy lifted his hand, and with the tips of two fingers, he lightly lifted a lock of white hair from the side of her face. "Looks like y’ still blushin’ t’ m’," he breathed, favoring her with a triumphant, lopsided grin.

"That’s not what Ah meant!" Rogue swatted at him, and Remy evaded her nimbly. She held her ground, turning with him as he circled her. "This ain’t gonna turn out like Julien. Ah won’t let it," she said firmly. "That was an accident. Ya said so yo’self - this ain’t even our fault, so stop tryin’ ta play the martyr. Ah don’t buy it!"

Remy slowed, his steps little more than a whisper against the bare hardwood floors. She had his attention. Good, she thought viciously.

"That’s what yo’ afraid of, isn’t it? They’re gonna pin ya with this too, and ya been pushin’ me away so ya can take the blame. Ya so damned scared that by opening up Ah might see something there that ya can’t face yo’self. That’s why ya been acting like such a... such a..." She floundered, waving her hands in a small, severe gesture of frustration.

Remy jutted his chin, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes had darkened, and for a moment, Rogue had to bite down on her tongue to keep from spluttering something she didn’t entirely mean.

"Shut up!" she snapped finally.

"Didn’t say anyt’ing."

"No but ya thinkin’ it - it’s all over yo’ face!" she bit back.

"My, my," he purred, pressing a hand to his chest and splaying his fingers across his ribcage. He stretched languidly, rubbing his side and deliberately drawing her attention to his personal ministrations. "Y’ are quite striking when y’ get tongue-tied, chérie," he tossed at her easily. "S’ a pity I couldn’t be of more service in dat department."

It felt like a punch in the gut.

Bowing her head, Rogue lifted the card again, turning it over between her fingers.

That kiss was going to be her undoing. Standing so near to him made her feel as if she wanted to unravel right there on the spot, but it didn’t mean she was any closer to him than before.

He was determined to keep her at arm’s length, no matter what she did. She could hand herself over to him, body and soul, and he’d still somehow manage to shut her out to save his own sorry hide.

"Ya somethin’ else, LeBeau," Rogue replied after a while, her tone lowered. "If Ah’d known that’s what ya were playin’ at this whole time, pretending that ya really wanted ta help me and all..." She shook her head, laughing bitterly under her breath. "Ah don’t know what it is with ya, but somehow, ya always get me ta believe ya right when Ah decide ta stop believe in anythin’ at all."

She took a breath, smiling wryly at the Queen. She waved it at him. "Stakes get too high for ya?" she asked. "That’s why ya ran, huh?" Then sardonically, she added, "’Ah’ll always bet on ya.’ Right. Ya just can’t bet on yo’self; it’s gotta be somebody else who does it for ya. And when they do, you cash out. Game over." She held the card out to him. "Ya gonna need her," she said, resigned to the fact that if he didn’t want her help, there was nothing she could do to force him into accepting it.

Remy didn’t even look at it. Instead, he stood back placidly, his gaze smoldering.

"Take it," she said again, this time a little more forcefully.

"Y’ gonna leave?"

He refused to extend his hand.

The question was voiced in a tone weighted with something Rogue couldn’t possibly begin to understand. It carried with it something hollow and bottomless, and Rogue knew, if she stepped too near to that edge, he’d pull her over and down with him.

An hour ago, she would have leapt into that darkness without question. She would have followed, if only she’d known he’d be there with her. Now, she was certain of the absolute opposite.

"Everyone leaves, Remy," she said coldly, her hand dropping. "You should know that better than anyone."

She turned on her heel and shot over her shoulder as she left the room, "When ya decide that it might be a nice change ta take things on with a bit of backing, maybe take yo’ own advice and stop playin’ solitaire, ya can come and find me." She held the card aloft above her head, not turning around as she stalked through the doorway Mercy had disappeared through. "Ya get one Queen, swamp rat, and it ain’t this paper one. Ta remind ya, Ah’m keepin’ this damned card."

She had never been more thankful that her voice had remained level.

Beneath the staccato pounding of her heart and her thin, constricted breathing, Rogue didn’t hear the heavy sigh, or the muffled oath that echoed behind her as she took the stairs two at a time.

---

"Okay!" Mercy clapped her hands together, stopping before an impossibly large door on the second floor of the house.

It had taken nearly five minutes to reach their destination, crossing through two parlors and passing several rooms that appeared to be loaded with electronics, surveillance equipment and computers - not to mention the half-dozen sculptures that decorated the massive corridor. Thankfully, Rogue had quickly managed to siphon off the nervous knot of tension that was forming between her shoulder blades with the long walk, but the lingering echo of her one-sided conversation with Remy had stubbornly clung near, making her heels heavy. It was a weight that matched that of the Queen of Hearts now crammed into her coat pocket.

Its presence was a burden, and with its weary load, her heart begrudgingly dragged along behind.

The art adorning the mansion, however, was an easy distraction.

Rogue had forced herself to keep walking the instant she’d seen the first Caravaggio. She’d staggered in front of the floor-to-ceiling Reuben’s and barely collected herself enough to follow Mercy’s running commentary of the family’s "collection."

It had been the Escher framed neatly next to the guest room door that betrayed her utter astonishment, causing her chest to fill with a leaden ache that forced her to settle a hand against the wall lest she fall apart entirely.

"Quoi?" Mercy asked, her ponytail flicking over her shoulders as she looked between Rogue’s gobsmacked expression and the woodprint on the wall.

"Is that...?"

Mercy made a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat. "Dat’s an Escher, yeah. S’ a replacement f’ de one Remy took b’fore he left. De first one was much better - buncha staircases goin’ all over de place? Dis one’s alright, but Remy always had t’ have his favorite." She cocked her head to the side, peering at it speculatively. "He always liked t’ wake up in de mornin’ and have somet’ing pretty t’ look at."

Mercy glanced at her, a small smirk causing her cheeks to dimple.

"Where’s -" Rogue’s voice cracked, understanding the double meaning of the statement. Flushing, she cleared her throat. "Where’s Remy’s room exactly?"

Mercy smiled mischievously, opening the door to the guest suite and letting Rogue pass her with tentative, reluctant steps.

"Why, it’s just across the hall, girl," she answered lightly. "Pleasant dreams."

With the door shut behind her, Rogue seized the opportunity to swear loudly.

---

When he had left New Orleans four days ago, if anyone would have had the brass to tell him, and if he’d had the slightest bit of sense to listen, he wouldn’t have lifted a finger.

He would have sat the hell back, kicked up his feet, waited for Tante to make him dinner, and maybe read Forbes to pick up a few new "clients" until he got bored and the clubs opened for the evening.

He’d have woken up in a strange smelling bed the next day, with another strange smelling woman in the shower, stumbled home, and the routine would have started again in its vicious, predictable, circadian cycle.

He would have been fine with that, Remy told himself.

Remy paused, cocking his head and listening as Rogue’s footsteps faded away on the second floor and down the East wing.

He really was shaping up to be a poor liar.

Just when the hell had he lost his touch?

Oh that’s right, he thought derisively, the instant Rogue had unconsciously robbed him of his ability to exercise that particular right.

Remy frowned, strolling down the long hall of the Guild House with his hands in his pockets. It had been a while since he’d been here. Such a long time, in fact, that although he remembered the way to the back rooms where Jean Luc kept his office, he was still reluctant to take that long walk and knock on that door.

Remy paused, trying to draw out the moment as long as possible.

He had known this entire situation would be a gamble. He had known that trying to fix things would have risks. He hadn’t anticipated his own reactions. He hadn’t measured the critical loss, hadn’t measured the fact that somehow, Rogue had learned to work him just as he had taught himself to work her.

Just when had the wager gotten so high?

Remy grimaced, raising his fist.

He should have taken his own advice.

"Never bet more den y’ willin’ t’ lose."

He’d have it tattooed to his forehead one day as a permanent reminder.

With a frustrated sigh, he knocked on the door to Jean Luc’s office.

---

Dreaming again...

Wisps and tendrils of things slide past Rogue’s subconscious. Seated on the back of a large, blue elephant, her knees tucked beneath its flapping ears, Rogue flies - her fingers trailing lazily in thick, cotton clouds that evaporate into ripples of molasses. The clouds drip behind her, her arms growing tired as she continues to pull her fingers through the streams. When she draws her hands back, joyful in the delirium and disjointed lucidity of the subconscious mind as it rests, her fingers come away sticky.

Curiously, she licks her thumb, expecting something sweet and sugary... but it is wrong somehow.

It tastes like metal.

With bleary, dubious recognition, she realizes that it’s not molasses. The dark, viscous coating on her hands is blood, and she is covered in it.

The elephant disappears, and below her feet unfolds something solid - a checkerboard of marble, diamond patterned and severe. The floor spreads to all sides of her, and where it stops, walls build themselves like steam turning solid.

It is then that she smells the heavy, soporific resin in the air.

Rogue remembers, and at the same time, she knows that it is not her memory. This is the property of someone else. She has stolen it from them, and the thought draws a smirk from her, as does the empty space on her ring finger, soon to be filled.

The lines that delineate Rogue’s identity blur where the dream shifts to accommodate that of another. This is his memory, tumultuous and wavering before it settles, solid and heavy once it does. It is Remy who stands before the altar at St. Alphonsus church, but it is Rogue who feels the hard marble steps below her feet, and Rogue who begins to understand and recognize, experiencing as he had, as the story tells itself through Remy’s eyes.

Her hands are clean, bare - and for a moment, as the ghosts around her swirl into form, she is disoriented. The tuxedo she wears is pressed neatly, the tie too tight at her throat, the cummerbund uncomfortable, but she wears it with ease, and she knows she looks good.

Several women in the crowd of onlookers gaze at her appreciatively to reinforce her outward calm. She can’t help but smile back winningly. She winks at one, who titters, turning to a girlfriend and whispering heatedly.

In the front most pew, her adoptive father, Jean Luc, looks on. For him, this is a business arrangement, which leaves the celebration of the union lacking its expected luster, though the church is magnificent and the company resplendent. Members from both Guilds sit on either sides of the church, divided for now by the aisle that has been strewn with white and pink rose petals, but soon, that will change. They bear it. They will learn to get along because there is hope that they can. This union will forge the links between them and make the Guilds strong once again.

Beside her, Henri clears his throat.

"Dere anyt’ing y’ need, Remy?" he asks, and Rogue grins, her gaze fixed on the door as the bridal march blares from the organ overlooking the altar from the second floor balcony.

"Y’ plan on giving m’ tips f’ de wedding night, frère?" she replies good-naturedly.

Her brother gives her a firm slap on the shoulder, and beside him Emil chuckles. "Remy should be givin’ y’ pointers, old man."

Henri chuckles. "Can’t teach an old dog -"

"Eh, mes amis?" Rogue hears herself saying, her smile widening. "T’ink y’ can save dis lil’ debate f’ another time? I t’ink it’s a sin t’ be talking ’bout dis sorta t’ing in church."

"I t’ink it’s a sin t’ ever have done dem sorta t’ings in a church," Emil shoots back in a whisper.

Henri rolls his eyes.

"Remy, y’ didn’t -"

"Wasn’t m’ idea," she returns, smiling even wider. Her chest swells, a feeling of happiness so thorough that she could burst. "Belle, she’s somet’ing else."

"He been sayin’ dat since he was fifteen," Emil mutters. "Me? I t’ink y’ both crazy."

Emil’s complaints go unheard. Rogue is happier than she has ever been, a feeling experienced vicariously through the memory. True, she herself has not known a sentiment so strong, so pure; it thrums in her deeply, making her head swim. It fills her lungs and leaves her dazed as through the massive, open doors, in walks Remy’s bride-to-be.

Remy is cotton-mouthed, light headed, but Bella Donna is... Rogue’s breath catches... she is everything she has ever imagined, wrapped delicately in white satin and pearls. It scares her a little — though that is not something she can admit to her brother or cousin, regardless of how close they are. Nor to Mercy, who frequently tries to ply her for information involving her escapades. Bella is not pure, no, but neither is Remy. She, he, they understand one another, and above all, it is not the contract of their marriage, nor what it will do for both clans, but what it will mean for them.

At Belle’s side, his arm cocked at a severe angle in the crisp linen suit he wears, Marius Boudreaux deposits his daughter at Rogue’s side, placing a light kiss on her cheek and offering Remy a glance that carries with it a warning.

Do not trifle with me and my own, it says, and Remy doesn’t care.

Not a lick.

Remy is buoyant, and Belle, smiling, radiant, beautiful Belle who has taken out the rows of knotted braids in her hair for today so that her gold locks fall lightly over her bare shoulders, is an angel.

This love, thinks Remy, thinks Rogue through their symbiotic union in memory, this love makes him want to drown, press his face into Belle’s neck and lose himself in the welcome embrace of the woman who he has known since the tender age of nine, who he has been betrothed to since he was twelve, who he has loved from the age of fifteen, and now - at eighteen - she will be his and he hers. As much as it scares him, somehow, Remy knows that this is right. This is how it was always meant to be.

He has never seen Jean Luc look so proud, sitting in his cream seersucker suit in the first pew. Remy has finally done something to serve his family, to thank them for this life they offered him without question. For once, he is worthy of them.

He doesn’t see the hairline fracture in his père’s smile, doesn’t see the years of orchestration and planning that have come to make this moment possible. Sure, this wedding is part of the nonaggression pact, but all Remy sees is Belle.

She is smiling at him, her blue eyes wide and shining as the Priest begins the opening speech.

---

"Remy."

"Bonsoir, Jean Luc."

Sighing, the Thieves’ patriarch re-seated himself behind his desk. Near the door, Henri and Lapin exchanged a glance as Remy entered the room. He did not take the seat that his adoptive father offered him.

"Henri tells me y’ brought a friend with y’."

Remy concealed his disdain by quirking an eyebrow.

"She didn’t do it either, if dat’s what y’ getting’ at," he replied evenly.

Jean Luc ignored him, choosing instead to fold his hands before his pencil thin moustache. "It’s dat girl, isn’t it? De one dat helped m’ escape from de Rippers last February?"

Remy looked askance at the series of monitors that lined the far wall. Different parts of the mansion flicked on and off, revealing images of everyone who could be anywhere and at anytime. Jean Luc knew what each and every individual in or around the Guild House was up to at all hours. It was precautionary. It was clever.

Remy made a mental note to disable the cameras in both his and Rogue’s room that night.

"I don’t know what y’ t’ink y’ doing, mon fils -"

Remy forced himself to bite back a snide retort as Jean Luc lingered on the word. "Son" was a subjective term, just like "father."

"But I can tell y’ dis: since de Assassins were led t’ believe y’ haven’t been back here, it’s obvious t’ me dat y’ either haven’t been mindin’ de treaty, or y’ putting y’ nose back where it don’t belong."

"Don’t tell me dese are dangerous times, Jean Luc. I seen dat much," he returned wryly.

"Y’ need t’ be careful, Remy," he said firmly. "I can’t take care of y’ in dis situation. Y’ not even supposed t’ be in de city."

"I know," he said, enjoying, just for a moment, the ire it caused the man before him.

"Den y’ know dat because de nonaggression pact’s broken, de death of dose Assassins is gonna made de streets run again."

"Dere was more den one?" Remy asked, casting a long glance over his shoulder at Henri for confirmation. He appeared just as startled.

"Two dead," Jean Luc supplied blandly.

"Merde," Emil said flatly. "We didn’t see a second. De first one was bad enough."

"I’ll leave as soon as m’ done what I came for. T’ings’ll go back t’ normal," Remy said.

"What y’ came for," Jean Luc said, his tone still decidedly level, "don’t want y’ no more. When are y’ gonna realize dat?"

Remy swallowed, his composure maintaining despite the strain he felt at those words.

"Like always," he said in a low tone, "it’s been about what y’ wanted f’ de Guild den y’ family, Jean Luc. Guess y’ could say de apple doesn’t fall too far from de tree."

---

"Whomsoever God hath joined together, let not any man put asunder..." the Priest intones, smiling benevolently at the couple before him. Remy smiles softly, taking Bella’s gloved hand with gentle guidance, and waits for Henri to present him with the ring.

Just as Henri steps from behind him, the sound of panting, staggering footfalls and the clang of metal against marble floors echoes in the quiet sanctuary.

"Stop dis!" Julien shouts raggedly, his voice rising over the startled voices of the crowd. "Dis can’t happen! Putain de merde - y’ get y’ hands off m’ sister!"

"Julien!" Marius roars, standing to full height in his pew.

Most of the church has swiveled in their seats. Necks crane around, people whisper, others point out the sword dragging from the scabbard at Julien’s hip that scrapes roughly as he pulls it free. His arm quivering, he points it at his father while those nearest the blade shriek and lean backwards as he swings.

"Non, père! Dis wedding will not happen so long as I live!"

In an instant, he is racing down the long aisle.

"Marius! What is de meaning of dis?" Jean Luc cries, standing as well.

"Dey mean t’ break de treaty!" someone else shouts. "Dis be treachery!"

"They want the power for themselves!"

"They set us up!"

"C’est la fin de la paix fausse! Vous avez menter!"

Julien bellows, "Belle get away from him! Dat maggot ain’t even blood t’ LeBeau! He’s adopted!"

"Dieu," Bella breathes beside him, "dis can’t be happening." Remy squeezes her hand tightly. The crazy coyoon meant to slaughter him right then and there by the looks of it.

"Dere won’t be some urchin runnin’ de Unified Guilds - I won’t have it! I won’t answer t’ him!" Julien rails.

He is nearly at the steps. Pulling Belle behind him, Remy searches for something to defend himself with. As it were, the closest thing at hand is a bible, grasped in the Priest’s trembling fingers, and a bowl of holy water, neither of which seem particularly appropriate to use as a weapon.

"Remy!" someone shouts. From the side of the church occupied by the Thieves, the hilt of a sword sticks out over the crowd.

It is pandemonium as the Assassins surge upwards, the Thieves rising to match as brawls break out amongst the rival clans. In the midst of it, Julien continues to run at him.

"I challenge y’ Remy LeBeau! Defend y’self!"

---

"Dere’s not’ing y’ can do." Jean Luc continued evenly. "De damage is done, an’ as per usual, it’s gonna be de people y’ left behind who pick up de pieces, Remy." He shook his head slowly, apologetically almost, but Remy knew better.

"Dis guilt t’ing," Remy gestured between them, "it don’t work anymore... père."

That caught Jean Luc’s attention. Though his outward expression didn’t change, Remy had known the man far too long not to notice the slight twitch of a muscle in his neck. It was involuntary, and therefore, an unreliable tell, but Jean Luc had taught him how to read people.

"An’ I suppose y’ got a better solution... mon fils?"

Jean Luc had taught him a lot of things: how to cheat, how to steal, but most importantly, how to lie.

"Somet’ing more valuable den all de artwork y’ got stashed upstairs," he replied neutrally, pulling out a deck of cards. "What would y’ say if I told y’ dat fille upstairs was de girl who helped y’ escape last year?"

His interest piqued, Jean Luc leaned forwards. "An’ what d’ y’ suppose she can do f’ me?"

Conversely, Bella Donna had taught him how to kill. She was, after all, the daughter of an Assassin.

Remy smirked, splitting the deck with feigned disinterest, his fingers working the cards quickly into a steady shuffle.

Now, he thought, it was time to go in for the kill.

---

"Julien! I don’t want t’ fight y’!"

Remy leapt, soaring into the melee and plucking the outstretched hilt from his cousin’s hand. The sword has barely torn from its scabbard, and Julien is upon him.

In the background, through the din, he can hear the priest yelling, "Please! Please! You mustn’t - this is a house of God!"

The resinous coil of incense, smoking freely from its brazier in the corner, dampens the scent of the roses that line the aisle. Remy flings himself through the roses, tearing past the neat silk ribbons that drape along the pews. Thorns and stems catch on his slacks, slowing his progress out of the fray and out from beneath Julien’s sword.

For a moment, as his ears fill with the grinding sound of steel against steel, Remy wonders where in the world Julien came up with the idea of using a blade to do him in.

It’s far too Shakespearean for his liking: medieval, almost, and Remy’s always been a Star Trek kind of guy. Using his shin to knock Julien’s knee out from beneath him, the swords scrape together again, and he grits his teeth against the force of the blow.

He’d have much preferred his staff — something a little less... sharp.

Belle screams. It startles him. Never has he known her not to fight when the opportunity presents itself, but standing there in her brilliant gown, she is no longer Bella Donna; she is heaven personified - she is an angel who will watch over his death. Remy thinks he’s ready for anything, usually, but for just one second, he doubts he can die for her. He does not want to die for her, no matter how strong he believes his love to be.

Turning to see that she is unharmed, there is a slight miscalculation. Just as Remy twists, as the world around him slows down, Julien lunges forward and the point of Remy’s sword pierces cotton, and then flesh.

He can feel the blade sinking, its path through Julien’s ribcage stilted as the weapon shears against bone. Right next to his ear, he hears Julien struggle for breath - it comes out as a rattle, a quiver as the blood begins to flow over his hands.

Over Julien’s shoulder, he can see the tip of the foil. It glistens darkly, streaked with oxidized scarlet.

---

Jean Luc smiled thinly, leaning back in his chair.

Remy waited, his expression neutral.

At the door, Emil and Henri remained sentinel, not moving, and not making a sound.

Jean Luc cocked an eyebrow, peering at the offering left be Remy’s hand on the desk.

Ante up, he thought. Winner take all.

---

The incense is thick, but it does not cover the copper tang of blood. His feet are sticking to the marble floors of the church. The stain, so dark that it’s nearly black, spreads steadily from the fatal wound. Remy’s hands are covered in it. He can do nothing but stare as Julien slumps to his knees and lands sprawled on the cold, hard marble.

The foil makes am ugly, wet sound as it pulls free from Julien’s chest.

Belle is crying, the sound clear amidst the roar of voices in the background. Sharper still is the Priest; he is begging for the fighting to stop.

"Père?" Remy croaks.

Bella Donna keens, staggering over to her fallen brother. She is babbling.

"No, oh no, Julien! Julien, no... no... dieu, somebody help... Somebody help him!"

"Père!" Remy bellows, the sword still grasped in his hand, the end quivering over Julien’s body - pointing to the atrocity on the floor.

Silence descends, thick and heavy as the nearest Thieves and Assassins both turn to stare.

Bella is crying.

"Père?" Remy whispers, horrified that he has done it again. He has blood on his hands again, and this time, it is not figurative. It is a real stain that will turn the water red when he tries to wash it off.

"Y’ killed m’ son," Marius Boudreaux whispers, his large form pushing through the crowd. He stares coldly at the body on the floor, his gaze turning to Remy with a look of mingled horror and disgust, and then to Remy’s father.

Jean Luc is shaking his head, his eyes closed.

"Your son’s life for mine," Marius demands, his voice pitched so low that it comes out as a hiss.

"It was -" Bella Donna hiccoughs, swiping at her running makeup, "an accident!" she sobs.

"T’ keep de peace, dere must be justice!" Marius bellows.

Belle howls, and Remy can’t bear it. Swallowing, he turns from her.

His angel.

From the places he will go, she cannot deliver him.

Silently, Jean Luc concedes, and with a nod, he confirms Remy’s fate.

---

Rogue woke, her chest aching, her feet ensnared in the bedclothes that twisted around her ankles. Pressing her shaking hands to her face, she sobbed, her fingers coming away wet with hot tears.

Thin, pre-dawn light slipped through the curtains, drawing a veil across the suite. Still half-cloaked in darkness, and through the sheen of tears, she had difficulty orienting herself. Kicking at the sheets with a hoarse moan, Rogue finally managed to draw her legs up to her chest where she buried her face into her knees, her shoulders shuddering with the empathic weight of Remy’s burden.

It hurt. It hurt like her heart was being tugged out of her chest.

With the pain came a tumult of something else, something she felt so acutely that it started her sobs afresh just as she thought she’d calmed down.

It was love. A love so strong and so forceful that it would sacrifice itself just to survive a little longer despite the strain of time and distance. A love that turns to bitterness and self-loathing; a love that becomes the mortar for the wall that is built around the heart to protect it in its most fragile state.

A love that can know none other because it had seen its lifespan once, for someone else.

It was not for her.

It could never be for her.

Slowly, shaking with the effort of straining against the sadness of sudden and violent understanding, Rogue extracted herself clumsily from the bed. Setting her bare feet down on warm wood floors, she retrieved her socks, her boots, the clothing Remy had bought her, and her trench coat.

She dressed, swiping at her nose occasionally with the heel of her hand while keeping her eyes downcast, not really seeing the shadows of the room as they shifted.

What did it matter? Like a thief, she had collected a part of Remy that she should never have seen. It meant something far worse - Rogue took a shuddering breath, and moved with deliberate, dragging steps to the ensuite bathroom.

One look in the mirror was all she needed.

Rogue cringed away from her reflection and left the room.

She padded silently into the hall, her boots grasped in one hand to not make a sound as she escaped from the night-bathed mansion and headed for the swamps.

So immersed in the lingering emotions wound tightly into Remy’s memory, the understanding that by kissing him, she had absorbed him, that his powers had failed... she did not see the shine of red eyes in the corner of her room watching her.

A dismantled security camera sat on Remy’s lap.

---

Translations:

Belle: Beautiful/pretty

Belle damme, mon ami: Beautiful woman, my friend.

Bonsoir: Good evening

Bonsoir, mes amis. Ca va? Ou est Jean Luc: Good evening, my friends. How are you? Where’s Jean Luc?

C’est la fin de la paix fausse! Vous avez menter: It’s the end of this false peace! You have lied!

Cher mari: Dear husband

Fille: Girl

Femme: Woman

"Il vous attends," one of the guards shouted back. "C’est qui avec toi, Emil?": "He’s waiting for you," one of the guards shouted back. "Who’s with you, Emil?"

Henri et ses amis: Henri and friends.

Dieu: God

Merde: Shit

Mon fils: My son

Mon Grandpère: My grandfather

Non: No

Père: Father

Putain de merde: Son of a bitch

Quoi: What?

Qu’est-ce que tu besoin: What do you need?

Viens, p’tit: Come, little one

Votre famille, Theoren: Your family, Theoren!

Post Script:

- Suicide King: King of Hearts. So named because in the drawing the king appears to be stabbing himself in the head. (I thought that fitting. Damned Cajun.)

- The Guild House: I’m basing its appearance loosely on Oak Alley, if that wasn’t already obvious. An architectural note, antebellum isn’t a style per se, but refers more to the period in which these houses were built. The "not style" refers to pre- Civil War buildings - symmetrical, a little boxy. Oak Alley is Greek Revival style (columns, frieze-work and all).

- Theoren Marceaux: Alright. Can you say serious liberties with characterization? I can! Please allow me two seconds of feeble justification: He’s never appeared in Evo. As this is an Evo fic, and I require him to hold just a wee little bit of a grudge against Remy for... a particular incident that we will get to shortly... I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry for ignoring comic book canon. He has a minor part in the grand scheme of things, so forgive me when I say that this is necessary. For those of you who only know Evo and not comic canon, mores the better. He first appears in #17 of the Gambit series if you’re curious. For now, just go with it. Like everything, just go with it. I don’t like breaking canon, I hate it, in fact, but I’d like to finish off this story in 30 chapters instead of 50. Small sacrifice. The end justifies the means, ad nauseum.

- "I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date." Largely thanks to the White Rabbit in "Alice in Wonderland" and the convenient parallel made with Lapin.

- Symbiotic (relationship): Tip of the hat to ishandhalf.