Title: The Ante
Chapter 10: Black Maria
Fandom: X-Men: Evolution
Author: Lucia de’Medici
Summary: Never bet more than you are willing to lose.
Extended Summary: When Remy LeBeau left Rogue on the shore of the Ripper’s bayou hideout, he slipped a solitary playing card into the palm of her hand. It was a conciliatory gesture — an offer for friendship, an unspoken apology, and the beginning of a less-than-friendly game between rivals. A year has passed, the stakes have been raised, and Remy is not a person who enjoys entertaining the idea of folding before the bluff gets called.
Rating: Teen/Mature
Pairing: Rogue/Remy
Warnings: Innuendo, language
Author's Notes: Thanks are extended to Lisa725 and Sionnain, my two brilliant betas.
Disclaimer: All characters and situations remain the property of their respective owners. Considering Marvel has not contacted me to write for them as of yet, I think it’s safe to say they ain’t mine.

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The Ante
Chapter X: Black Maria
(Part 2/2)
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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.

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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