DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Marvel. We're not making a profit. Be warned: it has some mild innuendo and some groanworthy jokes. About waiters, flies and soup. ;) Previous parts can be found at http://www.geocities.com/textualchemy/snapshot.html.
When he and Rogue returned to their hotel room after their dinner, Remy was not sure whether he should shoot Bobby or himself. The one might have been immensely satisfying and richly deserved, but the other would mean that he never had to meet anybody who had been at that restaurant again. At that moment, death seemed preferable to people recognising him as Bobby Drake and Mercy LeBeau's dinner partner. In the end, however, he settled for collapsing on the bed, loosening his tie and staring at the ceiling.
He had not known that one dinner could go so wrong so quickly. Especially since it had started off so well too. After half-an-hour at Broussard's, he had actually been beginning to relax. For a wonder, Mercy and Bobby had been behaving themselves. They had been confining their public displays of affection to linking arms whenever they had drunk and playing footsie beneath the table. Even the memory of how he had had discovered the latter had not been enough to set him on edge again. Bobby had had cold feet, so that had been almost certainly due to the three glasses of merlot he had downed in rapid succession. And the double scotches at their hotel's bar. And the little bottles of vodka that he had found in his room's refrigerator.
Unfortunately, by now, his system had long since burnt off the booze and the minibar was out of replacements.
He should have known it was a mistake to relax when Bobby was around him, he told himself. Even nicely tipsy, he should have seen it coming, coming up to the table with their waiter. Remy had spotted him as Parisian import in a second. He had had that air of hating everyone of his clients for not having the same impeccable taste in clothes, food and brylcreem as himself. His white cloth had been draped over one of his arms and balancing a silver tray on the other. His nose had been held so high in the air that he probably could have seen behind him. Snootiness was always directly proportional to the quality and the price of the meal, Remy thought. People expected to be insulted by their waiter in a good restaurant. It was a sign of the sort of temperamental genius that could produce brioches and spun sugar baskets. If you wanted niceness, you might as well go to your local McDonalds. Haughtiness cost.
Neither he nor Rogue had disgraced themselves, of course. He had spent enough years in Paris to hide his own, lazier French. And his girlfriend spoke the language exquisitely with an accent that was like the chime of silver on fine crystal. No, they had been fine. It had been all his sister-in-law's fault.
It had been Mercy who had started them on the slippery slope. Je voudrais la pasta puttanesca, garcon, she had said, with a wink and a pout that suggested that she was all too familiar with the puttanesca part of it.* The waiter's eyebrows had contracted sharply and the corners of his waxed moustache had begun to bristle. He had probably never been called garcon, even when he had been one. Still, her error might have been forgiven, if it had not been what Bobby had chirruped next...
"Moi, je voodoo le grilled sandwich doo fromage," Remy repeated with a groan, covering his face with his hands. The waiter had gone purple at that, asking if monsieur did not mean un croque-monsieur. Naturally, Bobby had replied that he did not eat Mr. Crocodile, or Mr. Alligator, or Komodo Dragon-san either. All he wanted was a grilled sandwich doo fromage. The whole room had been laughing at them at that point – polite snickers in their napkins, which had been even worse than open, honest laughter would have been.
"Are ya still on about that?" Rogue drawled from the bathroom where she was changing into her nightclothes.
"Chere, he tried t'tell dere's-a-fly-in-my-soup jokes to our waiter," he said desperately, "Waiters like dat don' have a sense of humour."
"Waiter, waiter, there's a fly in mah soup," she chuckled, "Don' yell so loud, sir, or else everyone'll want one. I thought it was cute, Rem."
"I know he's ya friend, chere, but ya don't always have t'side wit' him," he said, wincing at the note of petulance that was creeping into his voice. It had taken Robert Drake an evening to turn him into a combination between a sulky kid and Scott Summers.
"An' ya don't have to be so hard on him always," she shot back from the other side of the door, "He is genuinely sweet on Mercy. Boys always try an' show off around the girls they're tryin' to impress."
"No, he's takin' advantage of her," he said darkly, "I saw dem going off t'her room together."
"So? Why are you on your high horse about that? It ain't exactly like you're spendin' th' night alone."
"Dat's different," he rolled onto his stomach to face the bathroom door, "We're in love. Dey're just in ... in lust."
Rogue emerged from it, brushing her hair. She was dressed in an old pair of blue boxers and a faded, grey t-shirt. Comfortable sleepwear was the downside of having a comfortable relationship, Remy thought wryly. Not that she had ever had much more than a passing acquaintance with lingerie. When he had bought her some for her birthday, she had taken one look at it and told him to wear it himself if he thought it was so hot. Besides, he had obviously bought it for himself, she had added with a venomous smile. He should have the pleasure of using it. Needless to say, she had gotten a book-voucher from him for Christmas.
"Fun times," Rogue smirked, "Don't you ever miss th' days when we were just in lust with each other?"
"I had a flashback when I saw ya wearin' dat dress," Remy admitted candidly, then grinned at her, "Speakin' of which, how have I ended up sleepin' wit' its ugly stepsister?" Ducking the hairbrush that she pitched at him, he laughed, "Aw, chere, ya know I t'ink ya're too beautiful for any outfit ever sewn. Dat's de real reason I prefer ya wit'out dem."
Folding her arms across her chest, she smiled in bemusement at him: "It's good to have you back, LeBeau. You might have enjoyed bein' Scott Summers, but Ah missed you."
Continued in Chapter 9
* Puttanesca = prostitute in Italian. The pasta sauce was traditionally made and eaten by prostitutes, apparently.
** Croque-monsieur = the snootier cousin of the grilled, cheese sandwich
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