Title: The Ante
Chapter 6: A Scattering of Chips
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
Secondary Pairings: Hints at Piotr/Kitty (if you squint)
Warnings: Bit of violence, but hardly worthy of mention.
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.
Audio: "Bite to Break Skin" by Senses Fail
---
The Ante
Chapter VI: A Scattering of Chips
(Part 2/2)
---
“Wouldn’t you like that?” he mused aloud. “Didn’t know y’ were so sentimental, Rogue, wanting t’ keep a piece of ol’ Remy all to yourself,” he continued, enjoying her shaken expression as he strolled in a slow circle around her. “I’m offerin’ something a lil’ different, that’s all.”
“Like what?” She narrowed her eyes, readying to pull off the glove that she’d kept on stubbornly to keep herself in fighting form. Without them, she was exposed. “Ah don’t cut deals with the Devil, Gambit.”
Pausing, Remy smirked at that; seemingly proud that she remembered his moniker was well-earned.
“Some company when y’ decide t’ make a break for it again,” he said lightly, favouring her with a small, half-smile. “A chance, if you’re willing t’ take a risk. You just gotta know how much it’s worth t’ you before y’ put your chips on the table.”
Rogue found her glove was already half-off before she stopped herself. That made two occasions, in the span of two days, where she’d either gone gloveless, or found herself wanting to despite the inherent threat of her mutation.
Reluctantly, and though she didn’t want to admit it, it felt good to have her fingers bare. Quickly, she crushed the thought. It was useless to even think about it.
“You want t’ know, Rogue. There’s a part of you that will always want t’ find an answer, t’ listen t’ that part of you inside that demands a solution to the problem, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much it’ll cost you in th’ end. That’s why you came out here to face me down. That’s why it’ll drive you mad if y’ walk away from this. Th’ only thing I can offer is that y’ see for yourself, and decide if the price t’ pay is t’ get in at this table is worth it,” he said, holding his hand out to her patiently for the second time.
She clenched her fists, and bit out, “Ah can’t.”
Patiently, he remained standing as he was; too confident, too sure of himself – what was worse was that she’d given him what he needed to know to make the offer a weighty one. She’d all but spelled out for him what had happened that morning. He’d touched her skin, and for whatever reason, he was perfectly fine for it. She hadn’t even noticed until she’d gotten into the Danger Room and blown up half of Scott’s carefully constructed simulation.
“Ah don’t wanna hurt ya, Remy! Ah don’t wanna hurt anyone!” she snapped, relying on her old protests. Her shame for the gravely cadence of her voice as she checked herself with her own self awareness was a secondary consideration to her renewed confusion. Turning her gaze back to his, for a moment, Rogue found she couldn’t look away. She meant to impress upon him how dangerous she was, but instead, Remy’s eyes were doing that curious churning thing again.
“I can take the pain.” He stepped towards her, smiling gently, his hand between them. “Y’ might even like it.” He winked, the usual arrogant smirk back in place.
Rogue swallowed, and focused instead on his fingers. Nothing strange about those. Nothing unusual, she concluded, a hint of hysteria bubbling upwards when she realized she was actually considering it.
“Trust me, Ah wouldn’t take any pleasure in it. Heaven knows where ya been prowlin’,” she returned blandly, trying to brush off her unease with sarcasm. “Ah’d be scrubbin’ out the filth in my head for weeks.”
How could he control it, she wondered. The thought was a sharp spike in the onset of panic.
He grinned. “That’s right, you’ve got your own way of keepin’ me around. Looked like that Queen of Hearts card got enough of your special sort of care.”
Though she was ready to snap at him, Gambit cut her off. It brought her attention back to his face.
“All I’m asking is that y’ give what I got t’ say a chance.” He shrugged, too confident in himself. “Think it’ll be any different than this morning?” he goaded. “Like you said, I’m still standing.”
“Why can’t ya just tell me? Ya been so intent on talking that ya set all this up!” She waved at her friends who were still trying to usher the Brotherhood off the property.
“It’s not that easy.” He looked at her seriously for a moment. The expression faded almost as quickly as it came, and Rogue found herself searching for it again, locked in a failing battle with his stare. “You won’t want t’ give me your trust even if I could put it into words. It’s better like this, you’ll know f’ sure.”
Strange, she thought after a moment, her vision taking on a hazy, detached quality. Remy really did have the nicest eyes – oddly colored, certainly, but no one else that she knew had eyes that glowed in the same manner. It was as if a dying ember was set into the black surround of ash. They warmed her, and looking at him, truly looking at him for the first time in a year, Rogue felt the hint of a dewy smile curving her mouth.
Rogue glanced absently at his hand again, and tried to shake of the cottony sensation that suggested he was doing something to her head.
Absently, she wondered if it really mattered. Her care for the battle evaporated like the final wisps of Pyro’s smoke, pushed away with Storm’s handiwork. The thought became distant, little more than spectre of true worry. It felt nice.
“Th’ heart don’t lie,” he said calmly, offering a small smile – a genuine one, the shine to his eyes more intense than ever.
It felt good, she concluded, like the last two years had never happened and they were back at the docks on the first day they met; Gambit was pulling her towards him with his stare, pressing a King into her outstretched fingers…
Rogue hesitated, trying to recall why exactly she had put up such a fuss to begin with, and failed. Her fingers reached slowly of their own accord and then drew back. The pads of his fingers looked rough, calloused from wielding his staff for so many years, but that wasn’t what deterred her… slowly, she returned to herself, shaking her head a little as if to clear it.
What was she doing?
“It’s okay, chèrie,” he reassured her, and with her peripheral vision softening once again, Rogue nodded.
Everything was going to be okay.
“Don’t blame me if ya spend the rest of the month in the med bay,” she said vaguely, the sound of her voice trailing as she slipped her glove from her hand and let it drop to the ground beside her boot.
Everything was fine. She was floating. Remy was home. Everything was fine. Rogue hummed. Her head swam. Remy’s eyes shone. Everything was fine. They were such a pretty shade of red…
She exhaled languidly, like she was breathing easily for the first time in what felt like forever, and brushed her fingers against Remy’s. It was a ghosting of flesh, silken and barely there – and Rogue’s awareness returned to her with a crushing force.
Oh no, was her only thought. Oh no, oh man, oh no, she recited to herself.
She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the onrush of his memories – that bright sizzle of his mutation flowing into her… What the heck had she been thinking?
“Hmm,” he hummed.
Rogue peeked open an eye, her mouth forming a small “Oh!” of surprise as she realized there was nothing in her head but the pounding of her own heart. Remy’s fingers were beneath hers, curling her hand around his gently. “You – what in hell did ya just to ta me?” she spat, accusing.
“Chère?” Remy drew her attention to himself by squeezing her fingers. Her bare fingers. In his hand.
Oh gawd.
“What?” she gasped, staring, not wanting to believe, but seeing it first hand nonetheless. – their touching fingers – skin to skin, rough and soft, tanned and ghostly white pressed together so easily. So normally. “How?”
“Y’ ready, ma belle?” he asked, still wearing that insufferable smirk. There was challenge in his eyes – a concentrated, brilliant triumph that lit his entire face.
Apart from a slight beading of sweat over his forehead, like the struggle against the pull of her powers was putting an acute strain on him, Remy jutted his chin in acknowledgement. He was fine. Good lord. Rogue couldn’t get her head around it.
Nonetheless, he was grinning – a proud, lopsided smile that made Rogue’s breath catch. His eyes were brighter than she’d ever seen, but this time, as she looked at him, she felt nothing but an acute distress that his skin was unimaginably warm against hers. The sharp, brutal awareness that he wasn’t dead yet from the contact made her light-headed.
She nodded mutely, her heart lodged firmly in her throat, and utterly dumbfounded that he was touching her, actually touching her.
She blinked. “Ready for what?”
He laughed and bent forwards, his mouth hovering over her hand.
“If that ain’t th’ question of the night,” he murmured, and placed a lingering kiss on her bare knuckles.
The moment slivered, split in half out of wonder that his touch could be so gentle, and then it shattered completely.
It came at her in a rush – a barrage of sounds and sights and smells that flooded over her as she staggered backwards. She let out a small groan, snatching her hand back and clutching at her head as the memories, his memories, began to form clear pictures.
Before her, Remy dropped to his knees, breathing hard, but still beaming, victorious.
Rogue didn’t even notice as he strained to catch her before she swayed and fell to the ground next to him.
---
She’d kissed him.
But for the life of him, Remy couldn’t remember the feel of her lips, whether her skin was warm or cool to the touch, or what she tasted like.
He sat in front of the recording system in Magneto’s stronghold, his trench slung over the back of his seat, and hit the rewind button for the twenty-third time that hour. The large screen before him paused on one frame, then rapidly, the figures began moving backwards; scattered bits of dialogue crackled through the speakers in a higher pitch than normal.
“Awe, yeh not still at it, mate?” Pyro wheedled, banging the door shut behind him.
Remy didn’t turn around, and he didn’t deign to respond.
“Magneto says we’re leaving in an hour, and I’d like,” Pyro paused, dropping into a chair on the far side of the room and wheeling over with a spin and a flourish, “some bloody entertainment me’self.”
Gambit caught his wrist before he could hit the play button.
“Later, mon ami,” he said evenly, his gaze fixed on the paused frame before him.
“Ow! Gambit! Leggo!”
Remy held firm to Pyro’s wrist.
“Y’ gonna let me have m’ five minutes peace, John?”
“Ugh! If ya let me have my wrist back before ya break it, ya duffer!” Pyro struggled to get free, and Gambit looked at him out of the corner of his eye, his lips drawn into a thin line.
“Ha! Alright, alright!” Pyro laughed nervously. “Ya can bugger yesself all you like to that tape. Go ahead, see if I care.” He grimaced. “So much for share and share alike,” he added in an undertone.
Remy gripped his wrist a little harder, and Pyro’s sleeve hummed to life as the molecules of his uniform began to vibrate rapidly, taking on a bright fuchsia glow.
“Ack!” Pyro screeched, struggling to break free of Gambit’s hold. “Fine! Ya not a perve! I take it back!”
“S’ better,” he murmured, diffusing the charge and releasing him with little ceremony.
Pyro snorted. “If the Sheila’s worth blowin’ up your buddies, mate, I’d say you’ve gone soft on us. Bloody tosser.” Pyro pushed back in the chair, hard, so that he rolled well out of reach.
Gambit smirked over his shoulder.
“Take a squizz at this, Gambit – once Mags is finished with her, there won’t be much left to have a naughty with anyway. Best hold onto that tape, it’s all you’ve got.”
Pyro ducked out of the room a second too soon. Remy looked at the crackling card between his fingers, produced with little more than the flick of his wrist, and frowned. He chucked it into the hallway anyway.
Gambit turned back to the screen as the card exploded behind him, hitting the play button one more time as the door to Magneto’s surveillance room slid shut.
“Bravo, chèrie.” His own voice returned to him from the speakers, in the eerie, surreal quality that comes from listening to one’s own self. No matter how many times he replayed it, it always served to unsettle him. Onscreen, the security camera looked down on two figures from overhead, tracking their motions across the base’s storage facility with the aid of automated motion detectors.
He was clapping.
“Looks t’ me like Rogue is up t’ no good.”
He lifted his staff, poking her in the shoulder. The glint off her armor was disconcerting, and for a moment, she merely stood there before returning to her normal shape, devoid of Colossus’ stolen powers.
“But hey,” his recording continued. “I like that in a girl.”
She knocked his staff out of the way; batting it like a cat would a piece of string.
Before the monitor, Remy leaned his chin against his fists, trying to force his mind to comply with what his eyes were seeing.
“Only thing is, you’re not alone in this, are you? Who's behind it — Mystique?”
He evaded her reaching arms, grunting as he flipped backwards onto a crate.
“I think so. Question is, why?”
“Remy, y’ damned fool,” he cursed himself, squeezing his eyes shut.
“See if ya can guess,” Rogue snarled.
Gambit listened to the scuffle, knowing she’d brought him to the ground. The only things between them were his legs lifting her by her midsection and his quarterstaff. Rogue strained, reaching for him.
With a heave, he flipped her off of him. Remy opened his eyes, watching his own figure turning slowly, searching for her.
From behind him she emerged swiftly, a blur of torn clothing, lily-white skin, and smeared eyeliner.
Remy bowed his head before the computer screen. He heard his own muffled groan, and again, he tried to recapture that sensation: that swift peck on the lips that plucked his powers from him with such absurd ease.
He frowned, his mind drawing a frustrating blank where the memory should have been, and hit the rewind button again.
---
Rogue gasped, her eyes fluttering open and straining to find him. The ground was wet beneath his knees, and his arms were heavy, but nonetheless, Gambit reached for her.
She struggled, clutching at her head as he pulled her against his chest.
Rogue whimpered and her eyes closed again.
Remy held on gently, waiting for her to ride out the memories.
---
They’d failed.
Remy strained, grit sliding beneath his fingernails, hurting his hands as he tried to push himself off the dusty floors of Apocalypse’s tomb.
They’d failed, and somehow, they were still alive – the ones he could see anyhow. His ribs were bruised, his face caked in sweat and dirt, and it was probably a miracle that his head hadn’t cracked with the force of the blow that knocked all of them, the Acolytes, the Brotherhood and even the X-Men, to their backsides.
He coughed, feeling his chest expand painfully. His arms shuddering with the effort, Gambit pulled himself to knees that could barely support him. Pyro was out-cold to his left, and Xavier was breathing shallowly ahead of him – thrown clear from his wheelchair.
Magneto?
Remy blinked the grit out of his eyes, though they burned anyhow.
Alive. He coughed. Unconscious, maybe, but alive. There was hope yet.
On the far side of the room, Sabretooth was growling to himself, cursing the slowness of his healing factor, apparently. His leg was sticking out an odd angle.
“Gambit?” he snarled, his teeth bared. Creed never used his codename without a hint of malice backing it.
Served him right, Remy thought vindictively.
He nodded after a moment, little more than a grim acknowledgement of their mission, and recognizing the look the larger man fixed him with. The three of them, Sabretooth, himself, and Wolverine had been appointed a specific task, and damned if one of them wasn’t going to finish it… even if it was half passed the eleventh hour and Rogue was probably dead anyway.
At least Creed wouldn’t be the one getting to her before him. So much for putting past trespasses aside, he thought. That was one of Magneto’s orders he wasn’t willing to stomach when it came to Sabretooth. The guy made it impossible to play nice.
He winced, unsure whether the pain was issued by a twinge from his insides or from the thought that Rogue might be gone for good. Who she was, where she’d come from – all of that, just like him, was tucked away neatly under years of well-concealed contempt. What a shame that it could disappear so quickly. He hated it, as much as he hated the sluggishness of his limbs, and the despicable sense of failure that threatened to overtake him.
Sabretooth growled again, and Remy brought himself to unstable legs.
“Good t’ see y’ well, homme.” He sneered as best he could, hobbling past the downed motley crew of mutants.
“If ya don’t move any faster than that, you won’t be.”
Gambit waved him off with a wince. “Heard ‘nuff of that already. Save it for Wolvie when he comes to.”
When he reached the first wall, Gambit nearly groaned. At least, he would have had his throat not been so dry. It was as if he’d swallowed a sandbag and washed it down with a healthy glass of dust.
Two figures were sprawled at the bottom of the chamber. They lay together, a twisted mass of limbs crumpled together on the floor. Dolls, he thought, they looked like rag dolls that a child had grown bored of.
Wasn’t that entirely appropriate, given the situation?
He staggered down the long row of steps, knowing that regardless of how fast he could move, getting to her any more quickly wouldn’t give him the answers he was looking for.
She was dead, snuffed out without ever really offering him the chance to know if they were as alike as he’d thought. One more missed opportunity, one more sacrifice, and one more death on his hands because he wasn’t quick or strong enough.
And just like that, she moaned.
Gambit staggered down the last few steps, nearly collapsing over the prone body of Wolverine.
“Rogue?” he croaked, dropping to his knees and reaching out to feel for a pulse. He stopped, his hand inches from her throat.
“Merde!”
Her skin – he couldn’t touch her skin, he reminded himself. Wincing a little as his side pulled painfully, he held his fingers beneath her nose, saying a silent prayer.
Moist warmth, barely there, but there nonetheless.
She was breathing.
Ignoring the throb in his side, he scooped her up with a taxed groan. Sliding one arm beneath her legs and the other below her shoulders, he rocked her against his chest so that her head slid back against his shoulder and her airway was clear.
He didn’t spare a second glance at Wolverine, though his leg twitched a little against the ground in a spasm. He’d be up sooner than later.
Remy turned, checking to see that the unconscious girl in his arms would stay there without slipping until they reached the top of the stairs, and he began the upwards climb.
She weighed next to nothing, and in the dim light of the darkened chambers, Rogue appeared paler and more drawn than ever.
What had that fils de putain done to her?
Remy fixed his eyes on the top of the stairs, a grim line setting his jaw, and climbed.
One step at a time, he moved towards the light.
“I’ll take it from here, bub.”
Remy winced, his arms shuddering a little. Wolverine stood at his side, ready to intercept. His wounds had knit together already, mostly, and he was getting healthier every second.
“I’ve got her.” Remy grimaced, protesting even as his legs threatened to crumple beneath him.
“Ya done enough, Cajun.”
It was that simple. And just like that, Logan slipped her from his arms and into his own.
Gambit frowned, closing his eyes for a moment and letting his arms drop to his sides limply. His muscles burned, his head hurt, and he was cold.
Wolverine turned, taking the last few steps to the chamber room with increasing ease.
Remy LeBeau wasn’t built to be a hero anyway.
---
“You’re not…” Rogue moaned, her fingers flexing uselessly against her head. “You didn’t…”
“Shh, it’s almost over,” he murmured into her hair, rubbing slow circles over her back with the palm of his hand. Gambit swiped at his forehead, mentally gauging the amount of time Rogue needed to work through the last of it, and the amount of time they had before the X-Men returned from damage control.
She shuddered. “Ah know,” Rogue said weakly. “Ah know ya meant well. Just like with Jean Luc…”
“Don’t struggle against it,” he whispered, unsure whether she could hear him or not. Wordlessly, he collected her fallen glove from the ground, and slid it over her bare fingers as gently as he could.
It offered a suitable distraction from the flicker of concern that he’d given her too much. A small taste would be fine. Three memories chosen selectively. More than that could present a problem.
He ignored the tightening knot of worry in his chest at the thought, resigned to the fact that it made up only part of the risk. Right now, it was only a matter of convincing her of his convictions.
Rogue slipped away again, sinking back into her mind and his memories with a groan fresh on her lips.
---
Remy ducked his head, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. The alley stunk from the backlash of Rue Bourbon – rain water, trash, stale alcohol, and that sweet, heady perfume of hot house blooms that hung heavily over window boxes.
Beneath that, the unmistakable scent of the swamp.
He knew each cobbled road, each corner, each lamp post like he’d grazed the pads of his sticky fingers over them all, caressing the city’s dips and curves, her damp, secret places untouchable to only those who feared them.
She was his, and she offered the sheltering cloak of night to him eagerly.
He smirked, appraising the Botanica’s decrepit exterior with something akin to amusement — but not quite.
The address was correct; he’d memorized the scrap of a note left by Tante Mattie and destroyed it without as much as a bat of an eye. He couldn’t leave any traces lying around that would incriminate her if either of the Guilds showed up.
The last time he’d been here, Julien had made him the promise of a permanent slumber at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain – not that that would ever happen; not now, at least – not with Julien rotting in the Boudreaux family crypt at St. Louis number one.
All that bad blood washed aside, Remy had to admit, his small flat overlooking Rue Saint Anne was comfortable, especially with Tante Mattie coming around once a week to fill up the kitchen with the heady scents he remembered best from childhood… Last night’s crawfish étouffée had been particularly good; it was still burning in his throat today.
He cast a lopsided smile at the woman in the doorway who did not fail to purse her lips and look down her nose at him like he was a sewer rat just waiting to be swatted off the stoop with a broom.
He was here only because it kept him from the crowds of grazing, drunken tourists – those easily distracted by a brush of a shoulder or a sly half-smile.
They opened their pockets to him willingly, and the ladies, they opened their hearts, and more often than not, their thighs.
“Hmph,” the woman standing within the rectangle of light cast from the back rooms said for the second time. Her hands were tucked into a faded, patterned apron that covered her sizable belly.
“’Cho name, chile?” she asked him. Her voice was like rich chocolate spiked with a sharp bite of cayenne.
“LeBeau, mam’selle. Remy LeBeau.”
“Maman don’t see nobody she don’t know, an’ she don’t know yuh if I don’t know yuh.” She appraised him sternly. Proud woman, he thought. He liked her already — especially since she was lying through her teeth. “An’ don’t yuh try spreadin’ dat charm nowhere, boy-o, devil yuh do.”
“S’ what they call me,” he inclined his head politely. “Le Diable Blanc. Y’ think y’ were readin’ m’ mind.”
“Hmph,” she said again, folding her arms across her large bosom, blocking even more of the doorway than she had a moment ago.
“Cecile! Quit yuh small talk an’ bring dat boy in heah!”
Cecile “harrumphed” one last time before stepping aside to let Remy pass.
He could feel her gaze on the back of his neck as he ducked beneath the doorway. The inside of the Botanica was small, smelling heavily of incense, burned herbs, and the metallic twang of copper beneath that. Blood on the floors, he thought; there was nothing out of the ordinary then. This place, like many others in the city, served as a temple for old ghosts.
“T’ de back,” Cecile muttered, giving him a light push to the shoulder. “An’ mind yuh manners ‘round Maman Brigitte,” she added with a frown.
The air was considerably warmer than outside, and a thick layer of dust covered the artifacts piled high on the shelves and tables he navigated around. Not wanting to brush anything to the floor, Remy peered at the wide assortment of bell jars; their magnified contents were floating suspended in liquids that had obviously gone off with time. Roots and stones and bones, trinkets and talismans, twine and buttons – all kinds of worthless knickknacks that any self-respecting thief wouldn’t bat an eye at.
He frowned. Tante was a wise woman, but perhaps her age was beginning to show. He hadn’t taken her for the superstitious type.
“Mmmhmm. Not concerned by de look o’ dis place, huh? Yuh c‘mere boy, an’ let Maman see yuh f’ herself.”
Beyond the thin layers of moth-eaten fabric, a low gaslight flickered. A woman, stooped with age, sat beneath the shadows where the torch light couldn’t reach.
Cecile had disappeared abruptly.
Slowly, Remy slipped behind the thin curtain that divided two rooms and stopped, suddenly wary.
“Don’t yuh know, chile? Dere be more like yuh in dis world, an’ some o’ us have seen more an’ done more den yuh’ll evuh imagine.”
She shifted in her seat with a groan, beckoning him closer with a gnarled finger.
Remy didn’t move.
“Dey say yuh got red eyes; dat yuh gifted.”
“Oui,” he replied, masking his unease with pointed, abrupt respect.
“Take a seat chile. Dis ol’ damme canna do nothin’ but help yuh.”
She leaned forwards, her body creaking from the effort – or perhaps the weight of her numerous shawls made her old bones grind together. The light overhanging the small table cast a warm glow across her weathered features; it deepened the shadows beneath her eyes and made the lines around her mouth look like worn tree bark. Her eyes were hidden beneath a pair of sunglasses that looked as if they’d been plucked straight out of the 1980s. They caught the flare of gold from the low-burning tallow candles, creating oddly tinged reflections in the lenses – like amber irises floating on the plastic surfaces.
Remy shuddered, a feeling of familiarity blurring together with his discomfort and leaving him unsettled.
“If y’ lucky, yuh’ll look olda den me one day, if dat’s why yuh starin’,” she wheezed, laughing at him dryly. “M’ a hunnert an’ foa’, if yuh curious,” she added primly, puffing herself up. “Yuh get t’ be m’ age, yuh know, chile. Yuh got a long time left – ain’t no young foolhardy children gonna tell yuh different.”
“Pardon madame,” Remy bowed his head, moving forwards to take the seat before her. “Je m’excuse, Tante didn’t say why I should visit. She just said t’ come. I’m thinkin’ she’s trying t’ give me a taste of m’ own medicine.”
“M’ blind chile, so don’t make Maman strain t’ hear yuh too. Viens, sit by me.”
Remy did as he was told – sweeping his duster out from beneath him as he perched on the small stool opposite the Mambo.
“Yuh Tante, oui. She told Maman alls about yuh. She say, ‘Dat boy’s got de luck. He carries a Dead Man’s Hand wherevuh he go.’ She say, ‘But de boy, he foolish, and he don’t always t’ink. He don’t realize his full potential.’ An’ dat’s where Maman comes in.”
She groaned, raising herself to a stoop and shuffling from behind the table. Her fingers dragged across the surfaces that fell beneath her arthritic hands, feeling her way by combination of memory and touch. With the aid of a gnarled cane, she made her way slowly to a concealed cabinet, buried beneath several thick shawls. These she parted, revealing a dusty looking curio. She opened it with gnarled fingers, and to Remy’s surprise, revealed a strong box with a combination lock that would be intimidating to anyone other than himself.
“She want me t’ give yuh somethin’,” she murmured. “A lil’ gris gris t’ finish off dat lucky mojo o’ yuhs”
Remy coughed, masking a chuckle. He stifled it with his fist and prepared to stand.
“Désolé, madam. I mean no disrespect, but I’m not much the sort t’ put stock in magic. Tante Mattie musta told y’ ‘bout the cards –”
“Yuh just plant yuh rump,” she snapped fiercely.
Remy did what he was told, properly cowed, but not at all convinced.
“Bon p’tit,” she continued, turning around with a small bundle held loosely in one hand. “But dis ain’t no hoodoo, no sleight o’ hand neither.”
She settled herself before him once again and beckoned for him to lean closer.
Placing the package on the table, her knotted fingers peeled back the thin fabric covering the item in question.
Best humor her, he thought. If he didn’t, Tante wouldn’t let him live it down – not to mention the fact that he’d be cooking for himself as long he stuck around in the city. Quite frankly, Tante Mattie’s gumbo he could survive without if he had to, but the nagging? Remy repressed a shudder.
“Yuh gimme yuh hand, boy,” she said, revealing a mouth full of gummy, blackened holes where her teeth had once been. “An’ hold on tight. S’ gotta touch yuh skin f’ it t’ work.”
Carefully, she dropped the bundle’s contents into his hand.
He blinked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the strange stone. It was a dull red, nearly the size of his palm, and cool to the touch – cool, until from its depths, a light flickered and his fingers began to tingle where his skin touched its surface.
“Dieu,” he breathed, his eyes wide. The sensation spread from his palm and up his arm. It was a crackling heat he was familiar with – it was his own powers siphoned through the stone. It felt… cleaner, somehow, stronger. The gen crackled in his fingers, leaping charges of fuchsia wrapping around his wrist and rocketing beneath his flesh. He could feel it – it sung in his veins. Remy gasped, dropping the stone to the table as he felt his power surge. It imbued the air around him in a kinetic ripple – he could practically see each molecule of dust vibrating, desperate to explode in the small confines of the room.
A ringing filled his ears, and he looked up at Maman Brigitte as his vision tripled, swimming hazily out of focus in a burst of vibrant magenta. She was doubled over across the table, shaking and grinning her toothless smile.
The stone pulsed on the table, once, twice, his heart singing with the tremulous demand to be let loose from his chest, just like his power, and on the third time – Remy blacked out with the sound of the Mambo’s laughter in his ears.
---
“Remy?” Rogue groaned, her pupils an unfocused red on black as she opened her eyes. She blinked up at him, the color draining from her irises as her power overtook his. After a moment, they settled into the familiar colour he’d grown used to; looking like slate in the deeper darkness left by the extinguished fires.
He breathed a little easier for it.
A steady rain had begun to fall, smothering the errant blazes that flared across the grounds courtesy of St. John.
No doubt, the X-Men had Storm to thank for the change of climate. The Weather Witch had taken care of his friend in much the same way before.
“I’m right here,” he assured her. His strength had returned for the most part, and lifting her to his lap had been easier than expected.
“Ah didn’t take all of ‘em,” she murmured tiredly. Remy reigned in a knowing smirk.
“It’s fine, Rogue, I didn’t give you all of ‘em. Just the important parts.”
She tried to smile and ‘hmmed’ instead.
“Y’ want me to take y’ to the med bay?” he asked, hoping just the same that she’d say no. For added emphasis, he gave her a small mental nudge – a grazing of his propensity to manipulate people into agreeing with him. He was not disappointed.
“Mmmno,” she murmured into his chest. “Ah’m good right here, sugah.”
He chuckled. So she was a little delirious. While he hadn’t quite expected that sort of response, he wasn’t about to stop her either. A little charm couldn’t hurt the girl, really, he reasoned.
“’Fraid y’ friends aren’t gonna think the same way, chère.” Remy slipped an arm beneath her knees and lifted her easily as he stood.
“Remy?” she whispered.
“Oui?”
“Ya gonna show me how ya did that?” She yawned, trying to curl a little closer to him. “How ya were able ta touch me?” It had become cool enough outside to feel a chill if you lingered in the damp long enough.
“Like they say, sometimes, its best t’ have nine lives an’ six packs of cards.” He chuckled, setting off across the grounds. “For you, let’s just say I owe you this much.”
“Are… did she… Ah mean…” She mumbled something unintelligible, but Remy understood her nonetheless.
He smiled.
“Louisiana,” she whispered after a moment, her lashes fluttering lazily, with a small smile on her face.
“That’s right, Rogue. That’s where we’re headed.”
With that, they slipped beneath the cover of the trees and out of sight.
---
In the grass, not more than a few yards away, two crumpled playing cards lay where they had fallen - a King and Queen of Hearts, taped together at the corner with a promise scrawled across their faces.
---
Post Script:
- “Like I want you running around inside my head.” X-Men #8.
- “I can take the pain.” Ultimate X-Men #53.
- Memory Number One: Based off Dark Horizon I
- Memory Number Two: Based off Dark Horizon II
- Totally random inclusion: If you’ve ever read “The Sandman,” and encountered that crazy old bint Hattie – that “hunnert” was my little paean to Neil Gaiman.
- Lafayette number one: A cemetery in New Orleans, one of the many Cities of the Dead.
- Big love to Kataclysm for providing the link to the Evo transcripts for the dialogue so I wouldn’t have to sit in front of the TV taking notes.
Translations:
Bonsoir: Good evening
Désolé: Sorry
Fille: girl
Fils de putain: son of a bitch
Gris gris: A curio, a conjure, a bit of N’awlins hoodoo
Homme: man
Je m’excuse: Excuse me
Ma Belle: My pretty
Mon Ami: my friend
Merde: Shit.
Oui: Yes
Pardon: Pardon me
P’tit: little one
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(Revised: August 27, 2007.)