PI LOG: Vacation -- Rogue and Remy
Landing in New Orleans, Remy and Rogue have a brief joshing conversation on the way to their hotel. Rogue decides that she may actually be impressed.
Louis Armstrong Airport -- New Orleans
It was raining when they left New York, grey and drizzly and depressing. But when the plane lands in New Orleans near the end of the day, the skies are clear and the air is scented silk. Rogue is yawning, ruffling fingers absently through her hair. "Y'know," she drawls, "it occurs t'me t'wonder where it is we're gonna be stayin'."
"You'll see." Remy's voice is all smug assurance as he tries to wrestle his own hair into submission--and fails. He's flying under one of his work aliases--with the contacts in--to avoid any possible notority in landing. This is a vaction, and for once Gambit wants it to go like one. "All in due time, neh?" There's a certain sense of satisfaction on his face as he steps out into the sunlight from the airport, shielding one hand against the sun. He hasn't been home in a long, long time.
His response gets him a dubious sidelong look from Rogue. "You're bein' secretive," she points out dryly. "You know Ah hate it when you start talkin' like this. Bein' all sneaky."
Remy grins slyly, taking in Rogue's slightly-rumpled-by-the-planeride look and somehow managing to pull himself straighter and more polished in a single breath inwards. "An' I do it anyway. I mus' be some kinda jerk."
"Must be," Rogue shoots back, her exasperation only growing. It's not fair how he can do that as easy as breathing. "You're just rubbin' it in, ain't you?"
If Rogue had practiced being someone else as much as Remy had, it would be second nature to her, too. "Some kinna *big* jerk." Remy beams almost innocently--it's so fake, on him--before he's stepping forward, dragging his luggage behind him, trying to flag down a taxi. Even at airport lines this is a challange.
Maybe if he weren't such a big jerk, Rogue would give him a hand with that. As it is, she rolls her eyes expressively, following along with her own luggage slung casually over one shoulder. "Some kinda," she agrees.
It isn't hard for the Cajun to garner a taxi, mostly because even a long absense and the shift of a dimension or five doesn't make this any less of Remy's town. He knows it, and it's almost like New Orleans herself knows it. As the taxi pulls to at the curb, Gambit reaches to open the door for Rogue even as the driver hops out to take their bags. "Yeah, we see if you be agreein' wit' dat by de time we leave." It's very possible his accent just got thicker.
Once the driver's taken her bag, Rogue climbs into the cab. "Bein' all smug an' sneaky is not gonna turn my opinion 'round, honey. Ah *have* been t'New Orleans before, y'know, in case you're thinkin' you're gonna impress me somehow."
"Oh, I t'ink I still know a t'ing or two 'bout dis city dat you ain't figured out yet." Remy says, his voice all smugly pleased and as smooth as ice over a hot knife. "Seven-twenny-Seven Rue Toulouse, sil vous plait." That, of course, to the driver who peels away from the curb neatly and off into traffic. It will take about a half an hour, and for that entire half-hour Remy seems to be perfectly content to remain quiet and cat-in-cream about the entire affair. When the cab finally stops, it's pulled itself up in front of a redface building with whitewashed windows and blue shutters, an iron lace balcony lined with flags in the middle of the French Quarter. It could be just about any building, but it bills itself as Hotel Maison de Ville. Which translates roughly to 'Hotel Townhouse'.
Rogue considers the building curiously, first through the cab window and then tipping her head this way and that as she climbs back out, taking everything in. "Ah ain't impressed yet," she tells Remy, with enough of a grin to make the words teasing instead of sulky.
Remy dallies a moment to pay the cab driver, before the bags are on the sidewalk and he holds a finger out to Rogue. "Givit a minute or t'ree. I be right back." With that, he disappears into the building, to re-emerge perhaps ten minutes later, two small metal somethings in his hand. "C'mon, jus' 'round de corner."
Where he's leading her is the Audobon Cottage number five. Inside, Rogue will find a suite done completely in maghogony and teak, all hardwood floors and plush furniture. It's a two bedroom affair--both bedrooms sporting oversized four-poster King beds--because while Remy is hopeful he is also not stupid, with two full baths, one of which doubles as a jacuzzi. Sitting area, full bar. Balcony with a small spiral staircase leading to a courtyard shared with one other cottage and a path to a small private pool. It's more stops than Gambit usually pulls out.
Rogue's brows go up, and she doesn't say anything as she follows Remy into the "cottage," wandering into the middle of the sitting area and doing a slow turn in place. Well now. She eyes Remy a moment, but still doesn't say anything - not until she's peeked into one of the bedrooms and up the spiral staircase. *Then* she allows, "Okay, maybe Ah'm a little impressed."
"T'ink it'll do in a pinch?" Remy grins, still standing near the doorway with his luggage leaning against his leg. He's digging in the pocket of his coat so that he can remove those damned contacts and let his eyes go au naturale, as it were. He doesn't think Rogue will freak out about the change from hazel to hellfire.
If she were asked, Rogue would probably say that she prefers the red anyhow. "Wellll..." She stretches the word out, grinning a little archly. "It's roughin' it, but Ah guess we can tough it out okay for a little while."
Underneath the veneer of smooth grinning, Remy looks very pleased with himself. Rogue, of all people, can likely see the expression even under the gambler's mask. "Well, why don' you figure out which bedroom you're gonna want, an' mebbe avail y'self of one of de showers. You gotta be tired, after flyin' all dis way on a *plane*." Not-so-subtle emphasis on 'plane', there. Also, a not so unnoticable lack of an announcement concerning his own plans. He probably has something in the works.
Rogue eyes Remy narrowly, her dubious (albeit faintly amused) expression making it clear that he is not fooling her for one minute. "Ah believe Ah'll do that," she drawls. "Just don't you go doin' anything Ah'm gonna have t'hurt you for, sugah." Warning delivered, she saunters off into one of the bedrooms to poke around.
Why on earth would Gambit do *anything* of the sort? While Rogue is in the shower, there is of course the sound of shuffling through the cottage--but Remy could just be settling in for the week, right?
Of course not. By the time she makes it out again, she'll find that he's had dinner brought in from somewhere--it's a multi-dished and, naturally, Cajun affair, not actually Remy's own cooking but close enough, and it's spread out over the tables in the sitting room. There's evidence that it's already been gotten into, and an open bottle of wine on one table paired with one glass. The door to the balcony, which lingers mostly-shut but partly-open, may very well attest to where Gambit, the missing wine and the missing food all went.
"Y'know," Rogue tells the partly-opened door after a moment's pause, as she moves to pour herself a glass of wine, "y'*coulda* waited for me 'fore you started eatin'." Not that she's in any big hurry to dig in herself. Instead - wearing a very abbreviated pair of cutoffs and a black t-shirt that sports a picture of the Muppets' Animal and the words Rock Star, with her wet hair braided back - she takes the glass of wine and wanders out onto the balcony.
"*I* was hungry." Remy calls from the balcony, face lifted over his shoulder as he watches Rogue join him. He's seated in an iron deck chair on the far side of another deck chair and a small table--which holds a plate of half-eaten food--his feet up on the balcony's lacing and legs crossed at the ankle. There's something subtly different about him, in this light, something that had been stretched tether-thin and whipcord sharp by years away from the Big Easy, years running and fighting and never having a moment's peace. The something has been rekindled, here, and somehow Remy is brighter for it, fresher faced despite having come right off of a plane.
"No manners at all," Rogue complains amiably. Bypassing the other chair altogether, she moves instead to lean against the balcony railing, watching Remy over the rim of her glass as she sips her wine. "You're lookin' relaxed."
Remy smiles at Rogue, almost slyly, ergonomic motions of his wrist keeping the wine swirling in the glass while he ignores it. "Feelin' pretty relaxed. Been a long time since I been home." A long time since he's had the guts to return, although a lot of thinking and a few dimensions have helped him come to a point where he *can* come back.
Rogue sips her wine again, green eyes lidding, and she contemplates him through her lashes for some while before observing dryly, "Y'look like you're schemin' somethin'." But then, isn't he usually?
"Schemin'." Remy repeats, almost as if he's tasting the word, before he gives his head a little shake. "You wound me, chere. Since when do I *scheme*?" He plots. He plans. He have clever ideas. But he doesn't scheme. Yeah, right.
Rogue lets out a breath in a quick, amused snort. "Since th'day you was born, sugah, an' you ain't never gonna make me believe diff'rent. You was prob'ly wrappin' th'girls 'round your fingers by th'time you was a year old."
Here, the Cajun laughs, giving his fingers a look as if he expects real, literal girls to be wrapped around them. "Mostly, only de unimportant ones." Remy says as if he's allowing Rogue some sort of victory, his smile gone long and secretive. "But dat don't mean I was *schemin'* to do it. Jus' natural charm, I guess."
Rogue grins in spite of herself, and she shakes her head. "Ah still say you're schemin' somethin'," she persists. "But you ain't gonna cop to it anyway, so Ah guess Ah'm just gonna have t'wait an' see."
He never cops to it, she should know that by now. Instead, Remy lets his smile go a little more placid, and he gestures with the glass of wine to the chair next to him. "Ain't you gonna sit down? You keep standin' de whole time you gonna make me t'ink you don' wanna be here."
"If it'll make you happy..." Rogue is grinning as she pushes away from the railing and goes to settle herself into the empty chair, casually crossing one leg over the other as she leans back. "ah could ask what's on th'agenda, but Ah don't think you'd tell me."
"Act'lly, to be perfectly honest, I ain't got much of an 'agenda'. We've vacationin', neh? Not'in' ruins a good vaction like too many t'ings crammed into one week. You got somet'in' you wanna do, we go do it. Ot'erwise?" Remy shrugs a little, and finally takes a sip of that wine he's been swirling for the past half an hour. "We jus' take it easy."
That makes Rogue smile - a real smile, rather than a knowing one, and she dips her head in a nod. "Sounds just fine t'me. Ah dunno 'bout *you,* but Ah'm gonna enjoy th'break while Ah got it." She really ought to know better than to say these things.
And Remy ought to know better than to encourage tempting fate. But he smiles, and reaches out to offer his glass for clinking. "To a good break." Then he's laughing to himself, bright and quietly. "An' Jubilee tol' me I'd never get you to go anywhere wit' me dat wasn't ten miles from where you was already."
A giggle bubbles up in Rogue's throat, and she grins into her wineglass. "Jubes told *me* Ah'd be lucky f'you took me to a Taco Bell."
"She didn' have much fait' in eit'er of us, seems." Remy says, his eyebrows peaking a little into his hair. "Well, I gotta say dis is a good bit more dan ten miles from Beacon Harbor, an' I t'ink a sight better dan Taco Bell. Guess we showed her." Not that she's around to have her face rubbed in it.
"Sure did," Rogue agrees, and lifts her wineglass as though in a salute. "Next time Ah see her, Ah'll be sure an' tell her so. But for th'time bein' Ah mean t'kick back an' relax. Which means," and here she eyes Remy sharply, "that you best not go behavin' like a scoundrel an' makin' me harm you."
Remy spreads his hands as if showing that they are empty but for the wine glass will absolve him. "I ain't been a scoundrel dis whole trip, now have I? I booked us airfare, an' I didn' make you try an' cramp in bus'ness where it'd be too easy for some touchy kid to grab your nose, an' I got us here an' I ordered us a dinner you's lettin' get cold." The Cajun gestures to Rogue with his wineglass, although there's no denying the sly grin he's trying to repress. "I been a *gentleman*."
"Which just means," Rogue counters, getting back up out of her seat, "that you got somethin' in mind."
"You jus' got *no* fait' in me at all." Remy says, his voice playfully mournful as he briefly tips the wine glass to his mouth again. "None."
"None!" Rogue agrees cheerfully, and then she's turning away, heading back into the suite to go fetch herself a plate of dinner, since he mentioned it.
Finis!
Louis Armstrong Airport -- New Orleans
It was raining when they left New York, grey and drizzly and depressing. But when the plane lands in New Orleans near the end of the day, the skies are clear and the air is scented silk. Rogue is yawning, ruffling fingers absently through her hair. "Y'know," she drawls, "it occurs t'me t'wonder where it is we're gonna be stayin'."
"You'll see." Remy's voice is all smug assurance as he tries to wrestle his own hair into submission--and fails. He's flying under one of his work aliases--with the contacts in--to avoid any possible notority in landing. This is a vaction, and for once Gambit wants it to go like one. "All in due time, neh?" There's a certain sense of satisfaction on his face as he steps out into the sunlight from the airport, shielding one hand against the sun. He hasn't been home in a long, long time.
His response gets him a dubious sidelong look from Rogue. "You're bein' secretive," she points out dryly. "You know Ah hate it when you start talkin' like this. Bein' all sneaky."
Remy grins slyly, taking in Rogue's slightly-rumpled-by-the-planeride look and somehow managing to pull himself straighter and more polished in a single breath inwards. "An' I do it anyway. I mus' be some kinda jerk."
"Must be," Rogue shoots back, her exasperation only growing. It's not fair how he can do that as easy as breathing. "You're just rubbin' it in, ain't you?"
If Rogue had practiced being someone else as much as Remy had, it would be second nature to her, too. "Some kinna *big* jerk." Remy beams almost innocently--it's so fake, on him--before he's stepping forward, dragging his luggage behind him, trying to flag down a taxi. Even at airport lines this is a challange.
Maybe if he weren't such a big jerk, Rogue would give him a hand with that. As it is, she rolls her eyes expressively, following along with her own luggage slung casually over one shoulder. "Some kinda," she agrees.
It isn't hard for the Cajun to garner a taxi, mostly because even a long absense and the shift of a dimension or five doesn't make this any less of Remy's town. He knows it, and it's almost like New Orleans herself knows it. As the taxi pulls to at the curb, Gambit reaches to open the door for Rogue even as the driver hops out to take their bags. "Yeah, we see if you be agreein' wit' dat by de time we leave." It's very possible his accent just got thicker.
Once the driver's taken her bag, Rogue climbs into the cab. "Bein' all smug an' sneaky is not gonna turn my opinion 'round, honey. Ah *have* been t'New Orleans before, y'know, in case you're thinkin' you're gonna impress me somehow."
"Oh, I t'ink I still know a t'ing or two 'bout dis city dat you ain't figured out yet." Remy says, his voice all smugly pleased and as smooth as ice over a hot knife. "Seven-twenny-Seven Rue Toulouse, sil vous plait." That, of course, to the driver who peels away from the curb neatly and off into traffic. It will take about a half an hour, and for that entire half-hour Remy seems to be perfectly content to remain quiet and cat-in-cream about the entire affair. When the cab finally stops, it's pulled itself up in front of a redface building with whitewashed windows and blue shutters, an iron lace balcony lined with flags in the middle of the French Quarter. It could be just about any building, but it bills itself as Hotel Maison de Ville. Which translates roughly to 'Hotel Townhouse'.
Rogue considers the building curiously, first through the cab window and then tipping her head this way and that as she climbs back out, taking everything in. "Ah ain't impressed yet," she tells Remy, with enough of a grin to make the words teasing instead of sulky.
Remy dallies a moment to pay the cab driver, before the bags are on the sidewalk and he holds a finger out to Rogue. "Givit a minute or t'ree. I be right back." With that, he disappears into the building, to re-emerge perhaps ten minutes later, two small metal somethings in his hand. "C'mon, jus' 'round de corner."
Where he's leading her is the Audobon Cottage number five. Inside, Rogue will find a suite done completely in maghogony and teak, all hardwood floors and plush furniture. It's a two bedroom affair--both bedrooms sporting oversized four-poster King beds--because while Remy is hopeful he is also not stupid, with two full baths, one of which doubles as a jacuzzi. Sitting area, full bar. Balcony with a small spiral staircase leading to a courtyard shared with one other cottage and a path to a small private pool. It's more stops than Gambit usually pulls out.
Rogue's brows go up, and she doesn't say anything as she follows Remy into the "cottage," wandering into the middle of the sitting area and doing a slow turn in place. Well now. She eyes Remy a moment, but still doesn't say anything - not until she's peeked into one of the bedrooms and up the spiral staircase. *Then* she allows, "Okay, maybe Ah'm a little impressed."
"T'ink it'll do in a pinch?" Remy grins, still standing near the doorway with his luggage leaning against his leg. He's digging in the pocket of his coat so that he can remove those damned contacts and let his eyes go au naturale, as it were. He doesn't think Rogue will freak out about the change from hazel to hellfire.
If she were asked, Rogue would probably say that she prefers the red anyhow. "Wellll..." She stretches the word out, grinning a little archly. "It's roughin' it, but Ah guess we can tough it out okay for a little while."
Underneath the veneer of smooth grinning, Remy looks very pleased with himself. Rogue, of all people, can likely see the expression even under the gambler's mask. "Well, why don' you figure out which bedroom you're gonna want, an' mebbe avail y'self of one of de showers. You gotta be tired, after flyin' all dis way on a *plane*." Not-so-subtle emphasis on 'plane', there. Also, a not so unnoticable lack of an announcement concerning his own plans. He probably has something in the works.
Rogue eyes Remy narrowly, her dubious (albeit faintly amused) expression making it clear that he is not fooling her for one minute. "Ah believe Ah'll do that," she drawls. "Just don't you go doin' anything Ah'm gonna have t'hurt you for, sugah." Warning delivered, she saunters off into one of the bedrooms to poke around.
Why on earth would Gambit do *anything* of the sort? While Rogue is in the shower, there is of course the sound of shuffling through the cottage--but Remy could just be settling in for the week, right?
Of course not. By the time she makes it out again, she'll find that he's had dinner brought in from somewhere--it's a multi-dished and, naturally, Cajun affair, not actually Remy's own cooking but close enough, and it's spread out over the tables in the sitting room. There's evidence that it's already been gotten into, and an open bottle of wine on one table paired with one glass. The door to the balcony, which lingers mostly-shut but partly-open, may very well attest to where Gambit, the missing wine and the missing food all went.
"Y'know," Rogue tells the partly-opened door after a moment's pause, as she moves to pour herself a glass of wine, "y'*coulda* waited for me 'fore you started eatin'." Not that she's in any big hurry to dig in herself. Instead - wearing a very abbreviated pair of cutoffs and a black t-shirt that sports a picture of the Muppets' Animal and the words Rock Star, with her wet hair braided back - she takes the glass of wine and wanders out onto the balcony.
"*I* was hungry." Remy calls from the balcony, face lifted over his shoulder as he watches Rogue join him. He's seated in an iron deck chair on the far side of another deck chair and a small table--which holds a plate of half-eaten food--his feet up on the balcony's lacing and legs crossed at the ankle. There's something subtly different about him, in this light, something that had been stretched tether-thin and whipcord sharp by years away from the Big Easy, years running and fighting and never having a moment's peace. The something has been rekindled, here, and somehow Remy is brighter for it, fresher faced despite having come right off of a plane.
"No manners at all," Rogue complains amiably. Bypassing the other chair altogether, she moves instead to lean against the balcony railing, watching Remy over the rim of her glass as she sips her wine. "You're lookin' relaxed."
Remy smiles at Rogue, almost slyly, ergonomic motions of his wrist keeping the wine swirling in the glass while he ignores it. "Feelin' pretty relaxed. Been a long time since I been home." A long time since he's had the guts to return, although a lot of thinking and a few dimensions have helped him come to a point where he *can* come back.
Rogue sips her wine again, green eyes lidding, and she contemplates him through her lashes for some while before observing dryly, "Y'look like you're schemin' somethin'." But then, isn't he usually?
"Schemin'." Remy repeats, almost as if he's tasting the word, before he gives his head a little shake. "You wound me, chere. Since when do I *scheme*?" He plots. He plans. He have clever ideas. But he doesn't scheme. Yeah, right.
Rogue lets out a breath in a quick, amused snort. "Since th'day you was born, sugah, an' you ain't never gonna make me believe diff'rent. You was prob'ly wrappin' th'girls 'round your fingers by th'time you was a year old."
Here, the Cajun laughs, giving his fingers a look as if he expects real, literal girls to be wrapped around them. "Mostly, only de unimportant ones." Remy says as if he's allowing Rogue some sort of victory, his smile gone long and secretive. "But dat don't mean I was *schemin'* to do it. Jus' natural charm, I guess."
Rogue grins in spite of herself, and she shakes her head. "Ah still say you're schemin' somethin'," she persists. "But you ain't gonna cop to it anyway, so Ah guess Ah'm just gonna have t'wait an' see."
He never cops to it, she should know that by now. Instead, Remy lets his smile go a little more placid, and he gestures with the glass of wine to the chair next to him. "Ain't you gonna sit down? You keep standin' de whole time you gonna make me t'ink you don' wanna be here."
"If it'll make you happy..." Rogue is grinning as she pushes away from the railing and goes to settle herself into the empty chair, casually crossing one leg over the other as she leans back. "ah could ask what's on th'agenda, but Ah don't think you'd tell me."
"Act'lly, to be perfectly honest, I ain't got much of an 'agenda'. We've vacationin', neh? Not'in' ruins a good vaction like too many t'ings crammed into one week. You got somet'in' you wanna do, we go do it. Ot'erwise?" Remy shrugs a little, and finally takes a sip of that wine he's been swirling for the past half an hour. "We jus' take it easy."
That makes Rogue smile - a real smile, rather than a knowing one, and she dips her head in a nod. "Sounds just fine t'me. Ah dunno 'bout *you,* but Ah'm gonna enjoy th'break while Ah got it." She really ought to know better than to say these things.
And Remy ought to know better than to encourage tempting fate. But he smiles, and reaches out to offer his glass for clinking. "To a good break." Then he's laughing to himself, bright and quietly. "An' Jubilee tol' me I'd never get you to go anywhere wit' me dat wasn't ten miles from where you was already."
A giggle bubbles up in Rogue's throat, and she grins into her wineglass. "Jubes told *me* Ah'd be lucky f'you took me to a Taco Bell."
"She didn' have much fait' in eit'er of us, seems." Remy says, his eyebrows peaking a little into his hair. "Well, I gotta say dis is a good bit more dan ten miles from Beacon Harbor, an' I t'ink a sight better dan Taco Bell. Guess we showed her." Not that she's around to have her face rubbed in it.
"Sure did," Rogue agrees, and lifts her wineglass as though in a salute. "Next time Ah see her, Ah'll be sure an' tell her so. But for th'time bein' Ah mean t'kick back an' relax. Which means," and here she eyes Remy sharply, "that you best not go behavin' like a scoundrel an' makin' me harm you."
Remy spreads his hands as if showing that they are empty but for the wine glass will absolve him. "I ain't been a scoundrel dis whole trip, now have I? I booked us airfare, an' I didn' make you try an' cramp in bus'ness where it'd be too easy for some touchy kid to grab your nose, an' I got us here an' I ordered us a dinner you's lettin' get cold." The Cajun gestures to Rogue with his wineglass, although there's no denying the sly grin he's trying to repress. "I been a *gentleman*."
"Which just means," Rogue counters, getting back up out of her seat, "that you got somethin' in mind."
"You jus' got *no* fait' in me at all." Remy says, his voice playfully mournful as he briefly tips the wine glass to his mouth again. "None."
"None!" Rogue agrees cheerfully, and then she's turning away, heading back into the suite to go fetch herself a plate of dinner, since he mentioned it.
Finis!