⟢ Done Deal
cover: Gambit by KeyeskeKara, edited by roxy (pinterest link) + dividers
synopsis: you offer to make dinner for the X-Men using Remy’s world-renowned gumbo recipe. after dinner, you and some of the others partake in a game of Uno. found family and all that.
content: Remy is your velcro kitty. author just wanted an excuse to reference Gambit’s gumbo recipe.
word count: 3,748
⟢
The kitchen smells faintly of bell peppers and garlic. There’s a base note of something piquant, something fried. The smell is…distinct, heavier than what her nose is used to.
She recalls it being creamy, doughy, almost. The smell that hits you as you pull fresh bread out of the oven. The familiar smell of butter and sugar wafts across the kitchen, simultaneously light as it is overwhelming.
At first, she’s concerned. She tries to stay true to his recipe, browns the meat first before making the roux. Admittedly, she’s all too new to this. Not cooking for the house, but putting a piece of her soul into the pot. He doesn’t linger to help her; evidently, he has no intention to play sous-chef. She hasn’t requested that he do so, and he knows too many cooks spoil the broth.
“So does too little…” She utters it to herself, stirring the wooden spoon around. It’s been 30 long-drawn-out minutes, and the roux is barely golden.
She looks back at her iPad on the counter; something Remy typed down for her, having all of his quirks and spelling lapses. There, above the red squiggles, it reads out: over medium heat, do as my ancestors did; stirrin’ [sic] constantly for 25 to 30 minutes til it results in a dark brown roux. Same shade as chocolate.
Wonderful. The good news is that it’s safe to assume she has not burnt the roux, nor the bottom of his favorite Dutch oven pot. The bad news is that her back is starting to hurt, and she contemplates pulling a chair out from the dining room to facilitate such.
She sets the wooden spoon back against the spoon rest and lets herself lean back onto the counter island behind her.
It’s nearly sundown, the sun rests at the highest point, hot, yet not necessarily humid. The kitchen has proper ventilation. Something she’s never had the luxury of before this moment. The three hours she’s been here feel more like one. It hasn’t been awful, if only she could convince herself to make it a little more fun, something personalized.
She turns to face the island; there’s a portable radio there, a device that looks like it’s from the future compared to the millennia-old kitchen. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the teal tile and oak cabinets; the disparity makes her smile. Everything about the mansion, her team, it just so…Them.
When Remy cooks, he lays a claim upon the kitchen. Not a literal one, not one that’s full of authority; a figurative one, signified by low Jazz & a peppery aroma.
She’s always cooked out of necessity, never desired to do so. She feels that veil starting to lift nowadays, and it’s all because of him, because he makes it personal, there’s a piece of him in the food he cooks. There’s a warmth his food carries. She wonders if she’ll be able to bring that same thing to fruition. She desperately hopes so.
Ah, but speak of Le Diable, and he shall appear.
It’s juvenile, but the moment she sees crimson scarlet locks, she straightens, pulling herself towards the stove. She picks up the spoons and stirs the contents around once more, all while praying to a god she doesn’t even care to know exists or not. Please turn brown, please don’t make me look stupid right now, please don’t ask.
She hears the fridge door thrown open from behind her before it promptly shuts. She croons her neck over to the side, eyes shifting over his figure.
“You and Lo havin’ fun in the danger room?” She asks, watching him take a generous gulp of water.
He’s dressed in a black compression top. His hair looks darker than usual, more sanguine rather than scarlet. His skin is ruddy, something that indicates his exasperated state. He drawls out a hum in response, draws closer without a word. Arms drape around her waist, and she feels the dip of his chest against the divot of her back.
“Brought that fool to his knees wit’ a flick of de wrist,” His lips are against her shoulder blade, he murmurs triumphs she knows are at best, half-truths.
“But nothin’ ever dat fun wit’out you p’tite.” Then, a full truth, peppered between soft kisses that try to meet her neck.
“Okay, okay…Careful, Beau, I’m concentrating.”
He breaks away from the curve of her neck to give the air a brief sniff, and she can’t help but roll her eyes in faux-disbelief.
“Smellin’ good, t’ink you did your big one.”
She tries not to pay him much mind, pouring the vegetables she cut earlier into the roux cautiously. He’s much too charming; a bit too coy, not that she doesn’t like it, she adores it, adores being on the receiving side of it.
He’s a cuddle-bug, never been able to help it; she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. She only really noticed a lapse in his affectionate behavior when he was hard at work in the kitchen, stirring the pot or making precise adjustments to his recipe. He wouldn't outright decline her affection, but he had a way of making it known he'd return it at a later time. Their places are flipped now; she’d be lying to say she didn’t enjoy it.
The trinity blends with the roux; her fingers tap the screen of the iPad to double-check the next step.
“Since you’re here, do me a favor and get me the garlic?” She doesn’t crane her neck.
He undoes himself from her form with one last kiss to her shoulder, gives a small nod as he obeys. It’s the home stretch now, past the slower and more intricate steps. She’s onto the more foolproof stage for the most part. She watches him place the clove on the counter. It’s a slight oversight, likely a good one considering how temperamental they are once peeled. She’s about to grab her knife as well as the garlic, but she finds both missing.
She’s barely surprised to see him make quick work of her next ingredient.
“Remy,” It should sound stern, but it’s barely that at all, halfway between a whine and a scolding.
“Sleight o’ hand, sha,” he holds up a small bowl to her gaze, and she takes it with a click of her tongue.
“Darn swamp rat…” I love you. She omits the last half, yet she’s unable to fight against the smile that takes over her pursed lips. She feels the tension between her shoulder blades lift. It’s like some kind of magic, like he’s some sorta kitchen witch.
It’s unbelievable, really. He must know that he is.
She tosses the cloves in, then adds a few bay leaves for the more mature notes. Part of her expects him to pick up more of the process, or slow it down in some meaningful way, but he does neither. He’s leaning into the curve of the counter, hands resting languidly on the tile behind him; he’s watching her.
And she knows he probably isn’t, at least not like that. He’s not nitpicking, not looking for a way to discourage her- it’s softer than that, and it’s easy to make it out in those eyes of his. When he smiles, they form crescent red moons rather than something that can be read as skepticism.
He’s then not looking at her at all; she sees it in the corner of her eye. His gaze snapped onto his phone, thumb swiping occasionally. Some more time passes by, and the aroma has changed after the introduction of the chicken broth. Rich, homey.
She’s blowing on the spoon when she beckons him, “Come here,” and any previous investment he had is gone in an instant.
She places the spoon between his lips, and a low hum travels throughout it. “Now, dat…”
Her expression softens, and they stay like that for a while, not a long while. Remy dips a smaller spoon back into the pot, this time—treating himself to a sausage as well.
He points the spoon at her, “An’ you sure you ain’t ever done this?” It’s almost accusatory.
She laughs at that, genuinely laughs, because the accusation could not be further from the truth. She was a hair’s breadth away from dropping this whole meal. Her lips graze against his cheek; it’s almost as if he predicts the movement, agile. He turns his head and redirects the kiss to his lips.
She doesn’t mind.
Her thumb skims across his jaw, feels around the scruff there. He melts into the touch; neither of them would be shocked if he were to purr.
He’s her velcro kitty after all.
“Wha’ ’bout Gambit go head an’ set dat table?” She doesn’t prompt him; he brings it up anyway.
“Sounds lovely,” she’s already running tepid water over the wooden spoon. She hasn’t tasted what he has yet, but she takes his word as though it’s gospel.
While she’s cleaning up, he tends to the table with a near-impossible decorum. He’s between the kitchen and the table, she hears him hum a familiar tune.
Jubilee is the first to descend from the stairs, then Rogue. Then they have a full table.
“Again?” Logan quips. It’s a quiet murmur, loud enough for only some ears to hear. There’s amusement, masked bewilderment.
It’s also faint, superficial, melting away the moment his tongue swipes over his spoon. There’s a rowdy conversation that grows into something more light-hearted. The younger students spark most of the conversation, Bobby and Remy exchange stories that sound fictitious; gratefully exaggerated in nature if true at all.
Nothing much comes out of it; there’s a silent acknowledgment of her hospitality, some more discernible than others. Anna compliments her seasoning blend, something about Jubilee’s expression changes, and Remy’s stays the same throughout the meal.
There’s a smug look on his face, his eyes are neigh impossible to make out.
Dinner turned out to be a success, but none of them bothered with the dishes immediately; they were all too caught up with chasing fun. It’s Remy who suggests a simple game of Uno. Scott is standing in the doorway, more toward the living room rather than the hallway. Logan scoffs, yet doesn't say no.
She doesn’t quite say yes.
“Laissez le bon temps rouler,” Let the good times roll. He’s shuffling the stack of Uno cards, a simple riffle. They cascade; he makes it look effortless.
“Uno? Deal me the heck in! Me, me, me.” Jubilee chants.
Jubilee takes a seat beside Remy, and she thinks they look cute like that. She doesn’t really care to join; she carries herself over to the other side of the room. She feels eyes on her form, something expectant.
“Don’ be a stranger, sha.” He drawls. All smooth, yet jagged. All that southern flair searin’ the back of his throat like hard liquor. She makes a show of it, draping her body over the recliner. She’s curled up like a rag-doll cat, all coquettish now. Turns out making gumbo is no small feat; she’s tired.
Her eyelashes droop when she says, “If you always have me, then how you ever gon’ miss me, beau?”
Her chin is in her palm, and she watches him pass the deck over to Jubilee to cut. She doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick over to her; his eyes admit that she’s got him all affected before his words do.
“Mais La…You gon’ kill Remy one of these days.”
“Alors péris, mon cher.” Her accent isn’t perfect; she’s out of practice. Whenever she speaks it, her accent is a toss-up between standard and whatever attributes she’s managed to nab off of him.
Then die by my hand, my dear.
“Are we gonna play Uno anytime soon, or?” Her eyes flutter open; she can hear the sardonic matter-of-fact tone in Scott’s voice. He’s full of condescension, making the air in the room fall stale. She hates feeling like she’s suddenly gotta watch her mouth. As if. A bit of flirting won’t kill him.
He’s moved and now sits at the end of the sofa right beside her recliner. She leans so far to the left that the chair feels off-kilter with the undistributed weight. Jubilee hands each person their stack of cards, dishing them out heedlessly. Originally, she wasn’t planning to play—but she has a change of heart.
Seven cards are splayed across the arm of the chair. She picks them up and doesn’t give them back. Huh, he shuffled the fuck out of this deck. ’Course he fucking did.
“Clockwise?” She asks, speaking out to no one in particular.
Laissez le bon temps rouler. She can never say it out loud without getting tongue-tied. As Logan places down the red 8, she thinks of the phrase, lets his voice do aerials in her mind till she feels it’s run its course.
She watches as Jubilee immediately tosses a card on top of Logan’s, and she hears the click of disbelief fall from her boyfriend’s tongue.
Remy gives the stack a tentative gaze, drawing 4 cards. “Uh huh, das okay, jus’ watch.”
“I—It’s literally all I had!” With the way Jubilee’s voice wavers in fear, it’s almost as if she owes him money.
Scott is next, throwing a red 2 into the stack. When her turn comes, she tosses over a blue 2 that barely makes it into the pile.
And it’s nice, she enjoys this; she enjoys whatever this is. Scott’s immediate laser focus, Jubilee’s laughter, Remy’s occasional stolen glances. She enjoys it all. Somewhere along the way—she isn’t sure if she’s playing Uno or poker. Things get quiet because Scott and Logan usually are, and she’s just here for the chair. Maybe the company is a bit of a plus, although.
“You still playin’ for fun, or playin’ for the keeps, baby?”
Remy has this look on his face: concentration. A lone card is laid face down against his lap.
He does look up at her right then, although. “Sha, you know Remy dont kiss an’ tell.” For a moment, she wonders if he forgot to call Uno.
His thumb swipes at the single card, revealing a second behind it. “So why ya t’ink he woul’ tell you wha’ he got up his sleeve?”
She watches as he puts his card into the pile, nearly calls him out on it, but—
“Uno,” He says it in a sort of melodic lilt, mischievous. Bastard.
She can’t even be mad; no one ever is anyway. She doesn’t necessarily get the odds of Uno, but no matter the card, they bend in his hands; simultaneously, they bend to his will easily when he handles them. No one questions how his luck suddenly becomes boundless.
It’s just what he does; he has an aptitude for it.
Or maybe—he’s just eating the cards.
She wouldn’t put it past him.
Jubilee and Scott start to pull out all the full stops; all the action and wild cards they’ve either been omitting the whole game land in the pile. She can’t tell if they’ve been saving them, or if they’re ones they’ve had to begrudgingly pull from the deck.
Regardless, Jubilee ends up changing the color to red, and his last card matches accordingly. Well, surely they all know what they were getting into. It’s nice to see Scott get knocked down a few pegs, she thinks.
Eventually—They’re on their third round. Logan’s managed to secure the second round; she’s not sure why, but Remy passed her the deck. She shuffles the cards in a way that’s akin to his. Her fingers aren’t as lithe, nor as calloused—but they fall into the same positions despite it, slotting within each other as they should.
And that’s enough, because it results in someone else winning.
They let her shuffle again, and she figures they think Remy has somehow been pocketing the cards all the time. She knows he isn’t. She knows the look he has when he does; the sly cunning grin he dons when he starts treating table games much more like blackjack.
It’s just him today, just Remy.
Remy and his witted luck.
“Uno, quel dommage.” What a shame indeed.
“No way!” Jubilee quips, her brows starting to furrow inward.
She crooks a brow up as well, her eyes falling upon him with clear suspicion. You can take the man away from the poker table, but you can’t take the poker out of the man. He never loses his way with the cards.
As she’s watching him put down his last card, she can only shrug. “Huh, guess I don’t got the magic touch after all.” She offers.
Jubilee shoves her hand in his pocket; she can’t believe it. He has to have some cards hidden in there. She’ll probably check his sleeve as well just to make sure; no rock left unturned and all. She searches, even tugs at the insides of his pockets. Nothing but residual dust and a crumbled piece of blue wax paper, so her hand slides out empty.
“The games jus’ be in Gambit’s favor,” He shrugs, looking as sly as he usually does; the edges of his lips upturned into a sly sheepish grin.
“You’re cheesy,” Jubilee rolls her eyes. She makes a noise of amusement, somewhere between a huff and a noise of interest.
When she hands the rest of her cards to Scott, Scott hands them over to Jubilee, and Jubilee deals because her name doesn’t end in Lebeau.
“You guys go on ahead,” She insists.
“Aww…” Jubilee seems disappointed, her expression doesn’t falter for long; Remy just doesn’t allow her to sulk.
“Hey! No,”
She gets comfortable on the recliner, and Jubilee attempts to wrestle the deck from Gambit’s grasp.
The more exhausted she feels, the less she starts to care about the squabble unraveling in front of her. She’s never been a particularly light sleeper, and really—she’s not a heavy one either. Her legs unravel from their position nestled up against her chest, and the volume in the room drops once more. Even when she’s this tired, she can feel his eyes on her; the heat of his gaze.
She doesn’t know how to describe it.
It just feels serene. Falling asleep in front of people she knows would stop at nothing to protect each other. She feels the same about them, of course. So she allows herself to drift off, their voices drown on into low, soft mutters swimming at the back of her mind. Gradually, their voices turn into near whispers.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been out by then, how many rounds they go on for. Remy’s voice emerges from somewhere inside of her, somewhere between the clouds and the copse of trees in her dreams.
“Bébé,”
Or rather outside of her dreams.
She can hear Remy call out in a sotto tone, the hinges of the recliner squeak to welcome new weight against it.
He’s warm, of course—because when isn’t he? His fingers graze the skin of her thigh, tapping once, again. Light-work, and no reaction. He lingers there. For a moment, she’s curious if he’ll situate himself right where Scott was and just fall asleep beside her. He’s certainly the type. Always laying his head in her lap or draping his larger frame over hers until they both sort of slot together.
The chair dips again; she wasn’t expecting to feel him lift her lower half up. She also wasn’t expecting to have her legs thrown over his arms and her head gently poised against his shoulder.
She allows him to. She may be feigning being dead asleep, but it’s fair, right? The exhaustion is real, at least.
He carries her the whole way through the hall without missing a beat. Luckily, her room is downstairs. A part of her wonders if he’d go through the effort had it not been.
Yeah, he totally would.
She can tell by the way he does this whole awkward ordeal of trying to pull back her sheets to place her against the bed. Even after tucking her in, he stands there like he’s questioning if she’d rather him leave, or if he can slip right under the covers and lie his head on her satin pillows too.
She blinks her eyes straight open, looks up at him casually, like a snake that’s managed to wrangle its prey.
“You’re so creepy.”
“Couldn’ help but notice ya stopped snorin’ back there bébé.” Smooth, like snakeskin.
“Pft…Just went ahead and proved my point, huh?”
She turns on her side, beckons him over by patting the empty side of her bed. It happens…Nearly immediately. He’s on his back, so she props his head against his stomach. She curls up under the sheets ever so slightly.
Her fingers trace circles against the flat, hard surface of his chest, idly tracing every ridge and incline of his ribcage. He’s never minded, never even questioned why she’s so adamant about tracing invisible lettering and symbols into his skin.
Typical of him.
“‘M not cooking for the next five months,” She murmurs out absentmindedly.
“Tha’ so?”
“Yep,”
Most of it was worth it; but she still just doesn’t get how the benefits outweigh the effort. It’s nice to indulge him every once in a while, though. Learn a bit of his culture and pay meticulous detail to it. But maybe she’ll let him do that from now on and she'll help from the sidelines.
“Coul’ do it together, no? ‘N I mean me an’ you proper.”
“…Sly devil.”
Or maybe he might just deal her in, because he always manages to; no contract or jet black ink needed.
