remy lebeau (biokinetic) wrote in mutanthaven, @ 2009-11-20 13:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | plot: power outage, remy lebeau, rogue |
log: remy and rogue.
It was under an hour since Rogue had thrown caution to the wind and sashayed off into the great beyond, and Bobby and Art? Check and check. Rogue didn't know why she'd chosen Bobby to be the first to break her no-touch policy. Maybe it was because shortly after deciding she was, in fact, not only going to jump off the diving board, but back handspring off of it, Bobby's had been the first post she'd seen, and something had clicked. She'd decided right then and there that she was going to surprise Bobby wherever he was and show him just how much she, uh, appreciated their friendship. Okay, so he might have been a friend, but she still found him cute. Especially when she found out he was sitting by the pool shirtless. Bobby likely didn't know it, but he owned a nice set of abs, and Rogue had enjoyed the brief excuse to be close to them without coming off as creepy and asking to feel them or anything like that. This had seemed like the perfect occasion to do it. And Art was Art--nothing past the platonic there either, though Rogue would be the first to admit she wouldn't have minded. She'd come back to her room after seeing Art, with the intent of pulling out the bikini she'd kept buried at the bottom of her rickety old drawer for the last four months and giving it a wear. In her frenzied mind, she really wanted to see the reactions she'd get in response to wearing it. After all, seeing Rogue with bare skin was kind of like seeing a pink giraffe: You had to look at it. Not to mention, if Rogue said so herself--she was more than fine with the way she looked. But she'd paused in her rummaging, suddenly noticing that next door was oddly quiet.
Remy had always seemed resilient to Rogue, so it had been a shock to her when she'd seen him moping for the first time in February. At first, she'd offered suggestions to remedy what seemed to be one of the causes--only to be met with further sulking. Following that, her sympathy had evaporated like heated water, and she'd become irritated, marching right over to ambush him in the middle of typing with the lightest of kisses and a threat to lovingly kick him in the shins if his behavior continued. Was this another bizarre, unexpected turn of the planet during which Remy LeBeau was actually down about something? She hesitated, closing the drawer with her knee--then decided no harm could come from checking up on him. She tugged down the tiny shorts she was wearing to smooth out wrinkles and riding up, and ran a hand casually through her hair, eyeing the sunshine and green and blue beyond the balcony that was Santa Monica as she rapped on the sliding glass door.
Remy LeBeau wasn't sure about this whole 'losing your powers' thing.
He'd always envisioned the power loss thing being limited to Rogue only. He'd really meant it, perhaps that power inhibitor would look right at home stapled to her somehow, maybe hot-glued. Soldered? Welded, perhaps. Made into a pendant. Hung like a cowbell around her neck. But in any case, he'd never expected it to extend to the entire hotel. Thank goodness it didn't seem to work beyond there, though, as alarming as its current extent may have been, or he would have been out of a job. Miracles of petty theft were his specialty, what put food on his metaphorical table and money in the more realistic bank, but without being to tap into that vast reservoir of biokinetic energy that he usually would call upon, attempting to pull these feats of five-finger discountery off was proving a little -- difficult, putting it lightly.
Remy was a curious sort of individual, and with his powers inhibited in an environment where there was not a crisis afoot -- being locked in John Sublime's basement multiple times did not lend itself to much self-exploration -- he wanted to see just what he was capable of doing. Was he really that good, or was it his powers that were really that good? Remy was sure that the answer would be the former.
He started trying to lift everything. Food from the kitchen. Wallets, with the express intention of returning them, as he was only taking them away for experimental purposes and not for the cash that may have been contained within. Random assortments of items from any room that was unfortunate enough to be unlocked as he passed by, ditto returning them as quickly as he took them. He would have attempted to steal playing cards out of people's hands, if they were still sitting around in the rec room. As he went on a rampage through the hotel, though, he couldn't help but notice -- he was nothing to sneeze at, but he was not as limber as he could be. He was not as quick as he should be. In his line of work, split seconds and slight movements counted for everything. It was the difference between success and failure, a payday or a trip down to the station.
Without his powers, he didn't have his edge. He was just another petty thief. And there was nothing special or particularly glamorous about being average, he was beginning to discover.
And so, failure on his mind, he was sitting on the balcony he shared with Rogue. It was usually a place where he bothered the living daylights out of her, but in his current mood, he had none of his de rigeur motivation to do so. He needed to process. But a sharp rapping noise came from behind him -- Remy turned. There was Rogue, wearing nothing much, looking at him curiously through the glass. Looks like she'd finally come up for air after sucking face with the locals -- not that he blamed her. He grunted and made some perfunctory gesture with his arm before turning back around to look out at Santa Monica, cigarette jammed between two fingers. It was up to her to interpret it. Whether it meant 'come on by' or 'please fuck off and leave me to my felonious angst,' she'd have to interpret for herself.
Maybe it was too bad for Remy, but Rogue was in too crazily buoyant of a mood to fuck off to anywhere. Except to find more people to celebrate her regained touching ability with; snap. In any case, she could see through her haze of bliss and barely-concealed nervousness at her new freedom enough to care about other people, at least enough to take two precious minutes out of her busy making-out-with-everyone-she-wanted-to schedule, Jubilee. Lord, that was a mess she didn’t want to wade into right now. This was her fun and her time to see how many boys she could squeeze into a whatever-hour period, and she wasn’t going to let anyone take it away from her.
The door was slid open, and Rogue stepped out to move to an area some feet away from Remy, enjoying the feel of the warmth on her legs and arms and skin in general. Not that she was ever too bundled up while in her own room, but this was different—and a tad freaky. When she wasn’t the first to make a move, she still flinched instinctively a little, but that was understandable, she thought, resting her arms on the balcony’s edge and looking out across the scene. A second glance at Remy confirmed that he wasn’t all right with the Hotel’s weird little status as a Power-Free Zone™. Hm. Well, while she’d gotten the sense that he was resilient, she’d also gotten the sense that he was very proud—proud of himself, and proud of what he could do. That wasn’t limited to cooking. After a little while, she turned around to face him and rested her hands behind her on the balcony railing in a pose that was unusually relaxed for her. Her expression was mostly neutral, a little curious. “Hey, sugah,” she greeted softly, tucking one leg over the other lazily. No Cajun, no LeBeau. She was at peace. Some people chose to celebrate Power Loss Day by almost dying; she chose to express her holiday sentiments in a more--positive way. “Pool deck’s a better place for sittin’ out an’ gettin’ tan.” It was a reference to the fact that he was sitting out there in a chair, where he was bound to get some sun. Someone loved her enough to give her bikini weather today.
Sugar? Instead of one of her usual, less loving appellations for him? Looks like being powerless really did do a Rogue good, just as he'd imagined before all of this had happened. Maybe his experience had differed, but he was happy for her. His issue was also was nothing he believed in taking out on the girl, if having the burden of her powers lifted off her shoulders meant she was having a good time. "Not really looking to get tan right now, ma cherie," he said, taking a long drag off of his cigarette. Normally all he had to do to light up one of these things was tap carefully on the end -- a little biokinetic energy, a little spark, and poof! It was all the heat he needed for his nicotine fix to be indulged. The indignity of actually having to rustle up some matches or a lighter, using a burner, a flamethrower, anything that had sparking potential that he couldn't provide for himself was yet another strike against this whole powerless thing.
"You know I don't like ending up with lines when I get some color on me -- you see I'm sitting here, shirt on, pants," he continued before flicking his little cancer stick off the ledge. It was an attempt at his usual sexual innuendo, the dirty jokes of which his lovely neighbor was so often a target and such a devoted fan. Instead of being wholehearted or playful, what should have been a flippant remark came off wearier more than anything else. "You enjoying yourself, though?"
Rogue tilted her head slightly, her gaze searching. He sounded different, like her daily dose of sexual jokes had been put on the backburner along with the arrogance. Instead of shooting him a withering look or sassy remark this time, her mouth curved into something Remy probably hadn’t seen her use on him often, especially in response to his antics; a genuine smile. She felt healthy, and in her floaty state of ohmygod,-i-can-touch-people, she found something endearing with the fact that he was still trying to act normal, even when he clearly didn’t feel like it.
“Sometimes, Remy, it ain’t a day in Paradise without you harassin’ me.” It was backhanded appreciation. When she could be counted upon to be honest about her thoughts on the Cajun next door, the boy was clever. He was fun, and sometimes, when she wasn’t feeling so irritated, she was reminded that she liked having him around. Now was one of those times. “Yup, I’m havin’ fun. I could say the same for the boys I've been findin', too,” she added coyly, meaning the people she’d made out with had enjoyed themselves too, if their enthusiastic reception was any indication. She had yet to be turned down, and somehow, she had a feeling she wouldn’t be. Apart from being formerly untouchable, she was attractive and confident, and today, she was displaying the latter in spades. A sudden breeze kicked up from somewhere to her right, threatening to make her hair go all crazy, and she even laughed a little, lacing fingers into the brown and white in vain until the air was flat again. “I’m happy,” she admitted when it was done, tossing her hair again and shaking her head slightly so it didn’t look like she’d spent a few hours with her head in a pillow, “Carryin' myself right." For the first time in a while, it seemed. Her smile faded to something gentler as she regarded him again. "You gonna be all right?" The question was genuine.
It was nice to hear -- that she was happy, that somehow out of all this mess, someone had the ability to enjoy themselves. He nodded slowly, mulling it over, the gesture more for himself than anything else. "Happy looks good on you, cherie," he replied. It was true. There was nothing in his remark that smacked of his usual obnoxious flattery, or the constant stream of untruths or half-truths that he wrapped himself in in the hopes that no one would see what was underneath. That Rogue was always cute, to be sure, but with a big smile and the weight of her powers visibly removed from her shoulders, she was a downright stunner. "Nobody deserves it more."
It was time for another cigarette. He didn't need a reason. Remy shook one out of the box, tucked it into his lip, and tapped the end -- damn. He forgot. Cursing under his breath for a moment, he lifted his rear off the chair, fishing around in his back pocket for a match, hoping it hadn't been crushed. He was in luck. Striking the match against the arm of the chair (it took a few tries), he lit the cigarette and breathed a sigh of relief. Vaguely he wondered whether being powerless meant that the nicotine would kill him sooner rather than later. "Don't you worry about Remy, ma petite," he continued. "I get outta this place for a few hours so I don't puke all over, I come back, I'll be fine. I always am. You just go enjoy, yeah?" It wouldn't be pretty when her powers came back, if they came back. She could do better than hanging around with someone who wasn't having the best time.
That got a smile, too. A more reserved one, but a real one nonetheless. In her experience, most people couldn't be counted on to be happy or supportive of someone when they themselves were having a bad time of it. Matter of fact, this was a rarity: She was usually the one on the opposite side of the fence, privately wishing hell on the people who rubbed it in her face--but otherwise, she always did her best to act normally. She'd had to; she was close friends with Jean Grey, whose life was (while far from perfect) far healthier and happier than Rogue's was. But today, all that was hers. She was on a higher level; it was just a pity that not everyone could join her there.
In any case, even with flashes of the old Anna Marie all over the place today, she'd grown up a little. Enough to see past her own needs and concerns that Remy felt incomplete without his powers, if his moment of frustration with the cigarette was any clue. There was nothing she could do for him, and she had an entire Hotel to kiss her way through, but that didn't mean she was just going to leave without some parting gesture. And awkward though it was, with Remy in the chair and having a smoke, she held out her hand. "Much as I'd like to be able to squat an' do this, Remy, I ain't that short. Help a girl out." And once she'd gotten him to stand, before he had time to verbally react, she'd draped both arms around the back of his neck and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Months ago, she'd pecked him, just a brief brush before the soul-sucking kicked in. She figured his being nice to her and not trying to solicit anything had earned him the real thing.
Oh, well. He was never in so bad a mood that he couldn't appreciate an attractive female feeling the urge to kiss him. In his move from sitting to standing position, he'd lost his cigarette, but he supposed it was a much more constructive use of his mouth -- Remy obligingly kissed her back, keeping the pressure off as much as he could. Not that he didn't want to toss her against something and shove his tongue down her throat, at least not in theory. But he wasn't really in the mood for much more, all things considered.
After a few minutes he disengaged, gently pushing her away -- and then, because he was Remy LeBeau, rewarding her with a congenial smack on the rear. "Thank you," he said in a serious tone at odds with the gesture he'd just made. His eyes, though, were a different story. One kiss, whether out of pity or genuine affection or whatever label he chose to stick on it, she'd managed to make his eyes, and this whole sorry situation, just a little brighter. "But you go on, yeah? You got a whole hotel full of other admirers just waiting for you."
On another day and in a bad mood, Rogue might have awarded a pat on the derriere with a knock to whatever unfortunate body part popped into her brain first. But this was different. Remy wasn't being lecherous or creepy; he was just being his obnoxious self. And under the day's circumstances, she was way more inclined to give him a Did you just smack my butt? look than to serve Remy's face four knuckles. So, lips reddened from kissing her neighbor and a gleam in her eye, she reached up to brush a strand of hair out of his face, bare fingers briefly brushing against his skin. "I'm goin'," she murmured, her voice softer and lower than it had been a few minutes ago. "Take care o'yourself, Remy."
And with that, she maneuvered her hip so she could slip past him. But she hadn't taken two steps before she reached behind her back, hand outstretched, and grabbed Remy's own (admittedly nice) backside very pointedly. She didn't stay to see his response, slipping past the sliding glass door and back into her room, a smirk so wicked it should have been criminal on her face. Today was a day for catching up on things she used to do. She'd just have to brush her teeth from all that smoke first.
Remy grinned, despite himself. "You take care of yourself too, cherie," he said, watching her strut back out. No chance she'd actually take him up on the idea of playing it safe, not today, not with that kind of grip she had going on his rear -- and not that he blamed her -- but he could play the responsible adult just once, couldn't he?