Fic: 5 Ways in which Rogue never met Remy LeBeau
Five Ways in which Rogue never met Remy LeBeau.
By Flash_indie
All the usual disclaimers apply.
1. The one with the asshole boyfriend and the tattoo.
She liked it best when the needle pierced white flesh. It was kinda masochistic, she guessed. But really, there was nothing better than an outside pain to distract one from a swiftly breaking heart.
Cody had always hated tattoos, and really, that was all there was to it. So here she was, standing outside the dodgy little parlour, her act of honest rebellion, because two hours ago he’d left her for some big-breasted bimbo.
The guy behind the counter was good-looking, but really not her type. She was more into the wholesome sort, blond hair, blue eyes. This guy had neither.
“What can Remy do for you, ma cheri?” He asked, flashing her the most charming of grins. She didn’t fall for it for a second, she told herself, the upturn of her lips and the flush on her cheeks was nothing more than the slight thrill at such attention. Honest.
“Tarnish me.”
He quirked a perfect eyebrow.
“Ah want a tattoo.”
Grinning, the man gestured to a stack of magazines and catalogues filled with design after pretty little design.
“Ah know what ah want.”
The quirked eyebrow was back, and he nodded. “And what may that be, cheri?”
“Ah want you to tattoo the word ‘Rogue’ on mah lower back.”
“Interestin’ choice.”
“Ah’m makin’ a statement.”
And really, she was. She didn’t flinch or sob as the ink coloured her flesh through those tiny needles, and she didn’t worry about the cost. The woman smiled at the end result, and flushed pleasantly when Remy asked her out. She’d say yes, because this was her act of rebellion.
2. The one with the one-night stand.
He likes the way that skirt looks, pulled up high, corners clenched in ivory fists. She’s dancing on the bar, her body curving and moving and bending at impossible angles, and he really wonders what she’d look like naked and sprawled on his bed.
Because she’s beautiful really, with all that hair falling down her bare back. Her emerald eyes flash sultry looks over the crowd, everyman clawing at her exposed white legs. She moves like a professional, and maybe she is, because he really doesn’t know a thing about her.
He’s at the bar now, sitting contently upon the little red stool. Maybe he caught her eye, because she sidles towards him, all seductive pout and curving white flesh.
“Ya’ll lookin’ at me?” A southern drawl leaks through full red lips.
“Who’s askin’?”
But she doesn’t respond, merely climbs from her tabletop stage, and plants her bare feet into a pair of worn stilettos.
“Maybe you’d like a private show.” Its not so much a question as it is a statement, as she wraps long fingers around his forearm.
“Maybe.” He replies, as he flashes her the smile that would make the most heartless bitch swoon.
The woman grins, all repressed and shy, nails digging that much harder into his arm. “Marie.” She mumbles, before she drags him off his stool.
3. The one where they know of each other, but don’t really know the other.
“Get in, get out. Don’t fuss, don’t fret, and for the love of Christ, Remy, don’t fuck around.”
Waving his hand in some form of acceptance, Remy LeBeau pulled the waist-length blazer tighter around his shoulders, fighting off the evening cold.
Tonight they would cheat the most prestigious woman in the whole of New York. Tonight they would rob Ms. Raven Darkholme of her pride, her dignity and, most rewarding to them, her fortune.
The mansion in which she lived was very much like herself. Tall, beautiful, a parade, and in some ways, it managed to appear cunning and intelligent, and tonight, it would hold a ball.
Remy would go, the pair had decided, undercover. He would infiltrate the party as one of their own, before heading to the safe, silent as a shadow. The job was straightforward, simple and they’d done it many times before.
So here he was, new shoes marking the varnished wooden floors, as Raven gossiped and flaunted herself through the crowd.
It was then that he saw her. She sat across the room in the most disgusting dress he had ever had the displeasure of seeing. At least, he thought, it seemed she had the same opinion. She sat on an antique-cushioned chair, head in hands, as she blew white bangs off her face.
If she were wearing anything else, she might have been pretty.
“Ah know, ah look like a wedding cake.”
Remy started, when had he moved to stand beside her? She glanced up at him with jade eyes, a sneer marring a flawless face.
“It is not that bad, chere.”
But she scoffed, leaning back on her chair and folding arms over a voluptuous chest. Neither said another word, until she rose from her seat, shaking her hips lightly to smooth out the dress.
“Come dance with me, sugah.”
He flashed her a charming grin, reaching out a tanned hand. The words of his mentor echoed in his head, don’t fuck around, but this wasn’t fucking around, this was sizing up the enemy.
They twirled and danced to some dull classical number, as she leant over, a warm breath on his ear. “Ah know who you are, and ah know what you’re here to do.”
“Really, mon cheri?”
“Remy Lebeau. Thief. Here to rob mah mama for all she’s worth.”
He spun her lightly, his charming grin never faltering, “That would make you Marie Darkholme. Beloved adopted daughter.”
She smiled back, eyelashes batting in what may have been slight apprehension.
“Ya’ll don’t belong at this ball.”
His face was warm, with a hint of affection as he dipped her low for the finale of the dance. “Ah, cheri, you don’t belong in this life.”
4. The one with the highschool clichés and predictable stereotypes.
She was sort of preppy, maybe, with her low-slung jeans and clingy green tank top. Hair pulled off her pale face, green eyes covered with stylish sunglasses.
Her locker was on the second floor, and had quite happily earned itself the prime spot, away from nerds, freaks and losers. Only, the guy standing next to her wasn’t quite what she was used to.
“Who are you?” She asked, to a trench coat covered back.
The guy turned swiftly, eyes crinkling in amusement at the girl before him. She had to look up to see him properly, he was twice her size after all. Maybe he was good-looking, maybe his smirk left her with butterflies in the pit of her stomach.
“Remy LeBeau, ma cheri.” He stated, leaning bodily on the lockers to his left.
She quirked an eyebrow, “Well ah’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna be a resident charmer.”
And he grinned down at her, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
5. The one where they almost marry the wrong people.
And Bella Donna had run, fled the scene in a flurry of white gown and French lilies. He’d stood there at the alter, watching her flee and sob and stumble. But there was something akin to relief blooming in the base of his stomach.
He’d left abruptly, ignoring the cries of his family, and the comforting hands of his friends. As if on cue, a bus pulled up outside the church, and without a further thought, he threw himself on.
“Fancy outfit ya’ll are wearin’.” He looked up, startled at that Southern drawl. Across from him sat a pretty young woman, two toned hair, long and lush, what could only be a white wedding gown hanging from her slim frame.
“Not to bad yourself, cheri.”
She grinned back at him, red lips curving up.
“On your way to a weddin’?”
“Tonight’s not our night.” He said, and watched as her eyes turned solemn.
“Not ours either.” She replied, dropping an engagement ring onto the floor of the bus. “You and me, we should get outta here.”
And really, what could he say to that?
*
Fin.