PI LOG: Learning To Be Still -- Remy and Rogue
While rummaging through his thiefly toolbox, Remy has a sudden epiphany; the type he can only share with Rogue over pecan pie and a James Bond Flick.
Remy's Apartment -- Greenwood Properties
So the vacation down in New Orleans was significantly less restful than Remy had hoped it would be; the stress of finding your mildly-pyschotic ex-wife (who, by the way, doesn't think she's an 'ex') will do that to even the most carefully planned time off. It so happens that the Cajun has only really relaxed now that he's back home--and realized, dimly, that New Orleans is no longer home, and probably has not been home for a long time. Now it's time to make sure some of those new ties are reinforced.
Remy is pretty sure he made his position clear down South, but some things never hurt in being repeated. He's done a bit of cooking--baking, really--and a bit of digging in his work tools, his DVD collection. There are a few movies set out on the coffee table; all things like 'Desperado' and 'Rush Hour' because Remy doesn't own 'The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood' , and there's a pecan pie on the table, a sad dog shut in the Cajun's bedroom, and a call being made to a certain not-crazy-or-Cajun Southern Belle whose company Remy wouldn't mind even despite the week so recently past.
Rogue picks up on the third ring, and her distinctive, familiar drawl is lazy and amiable. "Yeah?"
"Heeeey." Remy draws the word out, as if he thinks she needs the time to recognize his voice. "You bored? Say you're bored."
"Ah'm bored," Rogue echoes obligingly, interest sharpening her voice with a new alertness that's half because of what he says and half just because it's him saying it. "What's up?"
"Well, I got here a coupla movies dat need watchin', a pie dat needs eatin', an' a couch dat needs sprawlin' on, an' it'd be a shame to waste all dese pecans on de dog." Remy says, oh-so-very-nonchalantly. "Dat is, if you ain't got somewhere else to be."
"Welll," and this time it's Rogue's turn to drag a word out into a couple of extra syllables, as though she's giving it reluctant consideration, "since y'put it that way... Ah guess Ah could find th'time in my busy social calendar."
Remy laughs, his grin clear on his voice. "Guess I'll see you in a few, den." And, unless she has more to say, this is where he hangs up, and cuts a couple of pieces free of the main pie, and curls up on the couch to wait, his expression all secretive, knowing amusement. He's up to something again.
Rogue would have come anyhow, but the promise of pecan pie is enough to make her put a bit more of a hurry on, and it isn't too long before she's dropping down into a landing on the fire escape, to make her usual entrance through the window. "Hey there, sugah."
Which may be a large part of the motivation behind making the pie in the first place; Remy knows it will lend a little speed to *Rogue*. He motions with his fork towards the table, where her piece of pie is waiting, seemingly vastly disinclined to move from where he's sort of haphazardly stretched across the couch on his side, propped up on one elbow so he can eat without choking himself. "Which one of dese you wanna watch?"
Rogue saunters cheerfully over to lean over the coffee table and peruse the selection, hovering a hand over the DVD cases and half-lidding her eyes. "Eenie... meenie... miney... mo." Her pointing finger lands on Tomorrow Never Dies. "Bond work for you?"
"Chere, I wouldn'a put dem out of I wasn't willin' to watch any of dem. If you'd be so kind as t'stick it in de machine, I can get it goin'." Remy does a little scooting on the couch to make room for Rogue--but not so much room that she isn't going to have to touch him somewhere along the way. Good thing the boy is in jeans and longsleeves. He has a *bit* of foresight.
Amiably enough, Rogue goes to put the disc into the machine and get the movie started. When she comes back to the couch and sees how Remy has arranged himself, she gives him a narrow-eyed, amused look that makes it clear she knows exactly what he's up to, or thinks she does. But she doesn't complain, just retrieves the slice of pie he set out for her and makes herself comfy. Good thing he's wearing those long sleeves, and so is she.
Remy meets Rogue's narrow-eyed look with a placid, peaceful smile of his own, setting aside the now-empty--it wasn't empty just seconds ago, was it?--plate and fork to better arrange himself around Rogue. "Trus' me." He tells her, in a soft near-purr, which is probably inherently dangerous all by itself, and he's reaching out with the remote to turn the movie on. Cue the theme music.
"Th'way you say that makes me think maybe Ah better not," Rogue drawls, but she doesn't protest the arrangement. Particularly not since she has pecan pie to dig into, and does, with enthusiasm. Yum.
"An' when've I ever led you wrong?" Remy asks--and quickly plows onwards lest she answer the question. "Somet'in' jus' 'ccured to me, 's all. But it can wait 'til you're done your pie." He doesn't want her wasting it, after all. And this has the added benefit of letting her stew on it.
Jerk. But Rogue grins a little, crookedly, and lets him get away with it, demolishing the pie with no less enjoyment than if she *weren't* wondering what the hell he meant. "Mmm." It could be a remark on the pie, or it could just be Rogue trying to talk with her mouth full.
Remy's eyes are, mostly, on the television where the movie is starting, but there's that lopsided smile along his face that implies his *mind* is elsewhere. He has at least one hand on her, over the protective clothing, and he's smoothing his fingers in a pattern that is distinctly affectionate, if a little absentminded.
Conversation is, to put it mildly, sparse for a bit after that, with the movie filling most of the space until Rogue has polished off the last of her piece of pie and leaned out to set the empty plate down on the coffee table. "If you were tryin' t'sweeten me up for somethin'," she notes lightly, "Ah think you succeeded."
"Sweeten? Peut-etre. Prepare? Certainment." Remy says, tucking his arm around her so that he can arrange for his left hand to fall flat against Rogue's stomach. "'Course, jus' b'cause I baked you pie don' mean you're gonna trus' me." He's definately planning something.
"Uh-huh." Rogue's response comes out sounding rather dubious, but she settles herself back comfortably against Remy and lets a gloved hand rest over the back of the one against her stomach. "So, what am Ah s'posed t'be prepared for, now?"
"Trustin' me. You *do* trust me, doncha?" Remy isn't letting on entirely--it's simply not in his nature to come right out and admit what he's up to--but he's plucking very gently at the hem of Rogue's shirt with those nimble fingers of his, with almost exaggerated care.
The breath that escapes Rogue is half a laugh and half a faintly exasperated sigh. "Remy, darlin'," she says, voice warm with affection and dry with suspicion all at the same time, "it ain't that Ah don't trust you... but what *are* you doin'?"
Remy doesn't exactly answer the question, instead making a quiet 'shhh' noise in the front of his mouth and repeating his assurance that Rogue need only trust him. Assuming she doesn't stop his hand immediately after that last reassurance, his apparently bare fingers will slip just under the hem of Rogue's shirt to her stomach below, initially a little hesitant in case his plan doesn't work.
Except the catch is, his fingers *aren't* bare. She'll still be able to feel the warmth of his fingers, the roughness of scars and callouses and fingerprints--but there's something distinctly *there*, light but sturdy, not quite as smooth-sliding as skin. It's, as becomes apparent under inspection, an exceptionally thin layer of latex, invisible but functional. It's probably better not to ask why, exactly, he has such a thing if she can't come up with a reason on her own.
"Remy--!" Rogue yelps, and her hand closes around Remy's wrist as though to yank his hand away - but that's about as far as she gets before she realizes just what isn't happening, and her mouth is left hanging half-open in surprise. "What're you--" she tries, but can't quite make it through a complete thought, "--how'd you--" Buh?
The Cajun shrugs, playing the entire situation down a little, but not-at-all-moving-his-hand. "Like I said, somet'in' 'ccured to me. An' I got some pretty handy t'ings layin' 'round, when I really t'ink 'bout it." Because, of course, Remy hasn't figured out how to control Rogue's power from the outside, he's only figured out how to make *some* things a little easier on them.
Rogue is silent for some while, a good bit of her attention caught up in the whole concept for the fact that he's actually touching her skin, or almost touching it. When she does find her voice, it's to say, with a breathless little laugh, "You could give a girl a bit more warnin'." But then he wouldn't be Remy.
"Pfft." Remy says, very articulate, before going back to the same affectionate, smoothing patterns he'd been running his fingers through before--this time beneath the cloth. "An' let you freak out an' keep me from doin' it? I t'ink not. Now you gotta keep in mind, 's only m'arms to 'bout de middle of my forearm, so de rest of me's still jus' me." That made sense in his head, at least.
"Ah'll be sure an' keep that in mind," Rogue drawls, and subsides into silence again to contemplate these sensations. She's become a little tense in spite of herself... but she's not in any big hurry to make Remy stop, either.
Finis!
Remy's Apartment -- Greenwood Properties
So the vacation down in New Orleans was significantly less restful than Remy had hoped it would be; the stress of finding your mildly-pyschotic ex-wife (who, by the way, doesn't think she's an 'ex') will do that to even the most carefully planned time off. It so happens that the Cajun has only really relaxed now that he's back home--and realized, dimly, that New Orleans is no longer home, and probably has not been home for a long time. Now it's time to make sure some of those new ties are reinforced.
Remy is pretty sure he made his position clear down South, but some things never hurt in being repeated. He's done a bit of cooking--baking, really--and a bit of digging in his work tools, his DVD collection. There are a few movies set out on the coffee table; all things like 'Desperado' and 'Rush Hour' because Remy doesn't own 'The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood' , and there's a pecan pie on the table, a sad dog shut in the Cajun's bedroom, and a call being made to a certain not-crazy-or-Cajun Southern Belle whose company Remy wouldn't mind even despite the week so recently past.
Rogue picks up on the third ring, and her distinctive, familiar drawl is lazy and amiable. "Yeah?"
"Heeeey." Remy draws the word out, as if he thinks she needs the time to recognize his voice. "You bored? Say you're bored."
"Ah'm bored," Rogue echoes obligingly, interest sharpening her voice with a new alertness that's half because of what he says and half just because it's him saying it. "What's up?"
"Well, I got here a coupla movies dat need watchin', a pie dat needs eatin', an' a couch dat needs sprawlin' on, an' it'd be a shame to waste all dese pecans on de dog." Remy says, oh-so-very-nonchalantly. "Dat is, if you ain't got somewhere else to be."
"Welll," and this time it's Rogue's turn to drag a word out into a couple of extra syllables, as though she's giving it reluctant consideration, "since y'put it that way... Ah guess Ah could find th'time in my busy social calendar."
Remy laughs, his grin clear on his voice. "Guess I'll see you in a few, den." And, unless she has more to say, this is where he hangs up, and cuts a couple of pieces free of the main pie, and curls up on the couch to wait, his expression all secretive, knowing amusement. He's up to something again.
Rogue would have come anyhow, but the promise of pecan pie is enough to make her put a bit more of a hurry on, and it isn't too long before she's dropping down into a landing on the fire escape, to make her usual entrance through the window. "Hey there, sugah."
Which may be a large part of the motivation behind making the pie in the first place; Remy knows it will lend a little speed to *Rogue*. He motions with his fork towards the table, where her piece of pie is waiting, seemingly vastly disinclined to move from where he's sort of haphazardly stretched across the couch on his side, propped up on one elbow so he can eat without choking himself. "Which one of dese you wanna watch?"
Rogue saunters cheerfully over to lean over the coffee table and peruse the selection, hovering a hand over the DVD cases and half-lidding her eyes. "Eenie... meenie... miney... mo." Her pointing finger lands on Tomorrow Never Dies. "Bond work for you?"
"Chere, I wouldn'a put dem out of I wasn't willin' to watch any of dem. If you'd be so kind as t'stick it in de machine, I can get it goin'." Remy does a little scooting on the couch to make room for Rogue--but not so much room that she isn't going to have to touch him somewhere along the way. Good thing the boy is in jeans and longsleeves. He has a *bit* of foresight.
Amiably enough, Rogue goes to put the disc into the machine and get the movie started. When she comes back to the couch and sees how Remy has arranged himself, she gives him a narrow-eyed, amused look that makes it clear she knows exactly what he's up to, or thinks she does. But she doesn't complain, just retrieves the slice of pie he set out for her and makes herself comfy. Good thing he's wearing those long sleeves, and so is she.
Remy meets Rogue's narrow-eyed look with a placid, peaceful smile of his own, setting aside the now-empty--it wasn't empty just seconds ago, was it?--plate and fork to better arrange himself around Rogue. "Trus' me." He tells her, in a soft near-purr, which is probably inherently dangerous all by itself, and he's reaching out with the remote to turn the movie on. Cue the theme music.
"Th'way you say that makes me think maybe Ah better not," Rogue drawls, but she doesn't protest the arrangement. Particularly not since she has pecan pie to dig into, and does, with enthusiasm. Yum.
"An' when've I ever led you wrong?" Remy asks--and quickly plows onwards lest she answer the question. "Somet'in' jus' 'ccured to me, 's all. But it can wait 'til you're done your pie." He doesn't want her wasting it, after all. And this has the added benefit of letting her stew on it.
Jerk. But Rogue grins a little, crookedly, and lets him get away with it, demolishing the pie with no less enjoyment than if she *weren't* wondering what the hell he meant. "Mmm." It could be a remark on the pie, or it could just be Rogue trying to talk with her mouth full.
Remy's eyes are, mostly, on the television where the movie is starting, but there's that lopsided smile along his face that implies his *mind* is elsewhere. He has at least one hand on her, over the protective clothing, and he's smoothing his fingers in a pattern that is distinctly affectionate, if a little absentminded.
Conversation is, to put it mildly, sparse for a bit after that, with the movie filling most of the space until Rogue has polished off the last of her piece of pie and leaned out to set the empty plate down on the coffee table. "If you were tryin' t'sweeten me up for somethin'," she notes lightly, "Ah think you succeeded."
"Sweeten? Peut-etre. Prepare? Certainment." Remy says, tucking his arm around her so that he can arrange for his left hand to fall flat against Rogue's stomach. "'Course, jus' b'cause I baked you pie don' mean you're gonna trus' me." He's definately planning something.
"Uh-huh." Rogue's response comes out sounding rather dubious, but she settles herself back comfortably against Remy and lets a gloved hand rest over the back of the one against her stomach. "So, what am Ah s'posed t'be prepared for, now?"
"Trustin' me. You *do* trust me, doncha?" Remy isn't letting on entirely--it's simply not in his nature to come right out and admit what he's up to--but he's plucking very gently at the hem of Rogue's shirt with those nimble fingers of his, with almost exaggerated care.
The breath that escapes Rogue is half a laugh and half a faintly exasperated sigh. "Remy, darlin'," she says, voice warm with affection and dry with suspicion all at the same time, "it ain't that Ah don't trust you... but what *are* you doin'?"
Remy doesn't exactly answer the question, instead making a quiet 'shhh' noise in the front of his mouth and repeating his assurance that Rogue need only trust him. Assuming she doesn't stop his hand immediately after that last reassurance, his apparently bare fingers will slip just under the hem of Rogue's shirt to her stomach below, initially a little hesitant in case his plan doesn't work.
Except the catch is, his fingers *aren't* bare. She'll still be able to feel the warmth of his fingers, the roughness of scars and callouses and fingerprints--but there's something distinctly *there*, light but sturdy, not quite as smooth-sliding as skin. It's, as becomes apparent under inspection, an exceptionally thin layer of latex, invisible but functional. It's probably better not to ask why, exactly, he has such a thing if she can't come up with a reason on her own.
"Remy--!" Rogue yelps, and her hand closes around Remy's wrist as though to yank his hand away - but that's about as far as she gets before she realizes just what isn't happening, and her mouth is left hanging half-open in surprise. "What're you--" she tries, but can't quite make it through a complete thought, "--how'd you--" Buh?
The Cajun shrugs, playing the entire situation down a little, but not-at-all-moving-his-hand. "Like I said, somet'in' 'ccured to me. An' I got some pretty handy t'ings layin' 'round, when I really t'ink 'bout it." Because, of course, Remy hasn't figured out how to control Rogue's power from the outside, he's only figured out how to make *some* things a little easier on them.
Rogue is silent for some while, a good bit of her attention caught up in the whole concept for the fact that he's actually touching her skin, or almost touching it. When she does find her voice, it's to say, with a breathless little laugh, "You could give a girl a bit more warnin'." But then he wouldn't be Remy.
"Pfft." Remy says, very articulate, before going back to the same affectionate, smoothing patterns he'd been running his fingers through before--this time beneath the cloth. "An' let you freak out an' keep me from doin' it? I t'ink not. Now you gotta keep in mind, 's only m'arms to 'bout de middle of my forearm, so de rest of me's still jus' me." That made sense in his head, at least.
"Ah'll be sure an' keep that in mind," Rogue drawls, and subsides into silence again to contemplate these sensations. She's become a little tense in spite of herself... but she's not in any big hurry to make Remy stop, either.
Finis!