Disclaimer: You all know the drill that if the
two of us owned these characters we wouldn't be on our asses writing
fanfiction, when we could prevent our Romy from breaking up in real life....and
yes, we said real life!
Note:
This
story takes place in an AU alterniverse where none of the characters are
mutants or have mutant powers. They are powerless humans! But Gambit gets to
keep his red eyes. Because we say so.
Enjoy!
-oOo-
by Ludi and angyxoxo
(1) Tempting Fate
I’ve finally come to a
conclusion.
Life is spontaneous.
It’s full of twists, turns, shocks and surprises. They say life can’t be lived
by a rulebook since most of the time, life isn’t predictable – at least, it’s
not meant to be anyway. There are those who go for this definition of life.
They take things as they come – no matter how obvious it is to avoid the many
miscellaneous mishaps of life.
I, however, do not
believe in the phrase, ‘go by the flow’. Okay, it’s not so much that I’m
prudent or uptight, but really, there are simple sensible procedures that
people just shouldn’t ignore. For example, if Aunt Flow (get the hint?) comes
to visit this month, a woman should have the sense not to wear any light
colours that week if it can be helped. Another example is that no matter how
cool it may seem, dark blue eye shadow and bright red lipstick should never be
used on the same face at the same time for any event. It’s never okay.
See, if people can just keep in mind all these simple little rules, then life should run smoothly and dare I say it, actually be perfect. But this will never be the case, for as much as women like to believe that we do know all there is to know about every little crook and cranny in this world (Heck, we prove this by analyzing basically every meticulous thing in life!), we still choose to ignore the unspoken, unwritten rule book of life when it comes to love.
Lame, you say?
Definitely, but
nothing can take away all commonsense from a woman faster than love… or a
half-naked, hot sweating muscular man with those dark Johnny Depp locks, Brad
Pitt’s strong jaw, Keanu’s oh-so sexy mysterious eyes… you see what I mean? All
commonsense just thrown out the window there.
Ahem, let me continue.
Where was I? Oh yes, rulebook.
Yes, women should
definitely write out this rulebook of life. We spend half the time coming up
with a standard for everything, yet, we never seem to remember it when we need
it the most. So, I propose the first rule that a woman must remember is:
Never cook a meal for a party
when you’ve never tasted your own concoction first.
Today is a brand new
spanking day. The sun is shining. Those lovely little birdies are singing. I’m
wearing my new Prada shoes and dressed in my new Gucci power suit. I feel
gorgeous. I feel smart. I feel free.
Yes, that cheap ass
pathetic excuse of a man dumped me last night.
But it doesn’t matter
because I was going to end the relationship if he hadn’t beaten me to the
punch. I mean, he had all these little annoying habits such as; he always had
to sleep on the right side of the bed. Did he ever think for once that perhaps,
I’m the one who likes to sleep on the right side considering I have this weird
phobia where if I sleep on the left side too much, the world might actually
invert itself… hey, I was an only child growing up. I didn’t have any older
siblings to tell me lies to scare me to death, had to make them up myself. But
that’s beside the point, we’re talking about what a loser my boy…I mean,
ex-boyfriend is. Okay, so not only is he selfish (remember the whole bed
sleeping thing?), he is also the worst cheapskate. Trust me when I say that
I’ve never heard the excuse ‘I forgot my wallet’ more times in those two months
together than my entire life. And to think, he was my boss and actually made twice as much as I did, yet he made
me pay for everything. Please note the emphasis on the ‘was’. That’s right;
when the bastard broke up with me, I quit. I full out flat fledged quit. No two
weeks notice. No warning. No resignation letter. I just looked him in those
gorgeous deep blue eyes of his… and he had that cute spiky platinum hairstyle
and my favorite suit on… the pin-striped dark suit that just… NO! It’s over.
Anyway, so, I tell
him, ‘Joe, Ah’m sorry. Ah just can’t
work for you any longer. Frankly, Ah’d
rather work for madman who’s trying to take over the world than your
sorry-pathetic-minute dick-of an ass!” I ended it with a ‘HMPH’, and stormed
out of there.
So here I am. In the
middle of the street, dressed in an outfit I can’t afford but bought in order
to cheer myself up. As shallow as it seems, it does cheer me up. So, I’ve lost
a wretched boyfriend. So, I’ve lost my job. But I’ve lost many things in life,
and heck, it only makes me a stronger person.
Grabbing the cell
phone out of my purse, I flip it open and dial Emma’s number.
“Good afternoon, Frost
Industries. Jubilee speaking. How can I help you today?” the peppy secretary
asks
“Hey sugah, Emma in?”
I ask.
“Hey Anna, yeah, she
is. Just give me a sec, I’ll send you through,” the girl informs me and does
just that. Moments later, the familiar icy voice of Emma jumps straight in with
her question. “Hey, did you finally dump that prick?”
“Does it count if Ah
quit my job, even though he technically said the words, ‘Ah don’t think this
gonna work’?” I question.
“I have to say no, but
I do like the touch with you quitting your job. So what do you want from me?
Words of sympathy? Words of comfort? Banter about what a jerk he was? I’m good
with the last one, you’ll have to find Jean for the first two.” Emma tells me
bluntly.
“Actually, Ah was
thinking… since Ah’m a free woman now, we gotta celebrate. How about dinner at
my house at eight tonight? Ah’ll cook.” I offer happily.
“You cooking?” Emma’s
apprehensive query came over the line.
“Yes, Ah’ll cook. Is
there something wrong with me cooking?” I ask, slightly offended.
“No, no. Just makin’
sure.” She replies, though it makes absolutely no sense to me.
“Alright. Well, be
there at eight, get ready to get wasted as well.” I warn her.
“I always am. But,
gotta go now. Have an important client to see in half an hour, and this bustier
just isn’t propping my boobs high up enough,” she informs me.
Rolling my eyes at her
tactful business skills, I mumble a quick ‘see ya later’, and start dialing up
the next number.
“Good afternoon, Dr.
Grey’s office. How may I help you?” a monotonous voice answers.
“Hi, Ah was wondering
if she was in at the moment?” I ask politely, not feeling too comfortable
talking to Jean’s secretary. Why she hired a seventy year-old former
schoolteacher back in the days when they used to perform physical discipline on
the students, I will never know.
“Yes, she is. I am
going to transfer the call through. Please, hold on,” she answers, her voice
frequency doesn’t change at all.
“Hello, Dr. Grey
speaking.” Jean’s cheery voice comes through.
“Hey Jeanie. It’s me.
Whatcha doin’ tonight?” I ask.
“Hey Rogue. Actually,
no plans yet. You proposing anything?” she questions in return.
“Yups. Dinner at my
place at eight. Can ya make it?”
“Definitely. Do I need
to bring anything?”
“No, Ah’ve got
everything under control. Just bring your oh-so-pretty self. That’s all, sugah.
See ya then.”
“See ya then.” She
hangs up and I dial the last number.
“Hello?” the British
accented voice answers.
“Betsy? Ya answering
your own phone now?” I query, completely surprised by this revelation.
“Yes, I don’t believe
that I should exploit someone into working for me especially when there are
millions of…” And on she goes, but I don’t hear any of it since I’m drowning
her out. She has been acting up like this for a few months now, and it has been
getting on my nerves for just as long. Sometimes, I just want to ram a ball up
that pretty, perfectly symmetrical…
“Rogue? You there,
luv?” she interrupts my thoughts.
“Oh yeah. Anyway,
dinner at my place at eight.” I inform her.
“Who’s cookin’?” she
asks.
“Ah am.” I tell her
proudly.
“Ohh…”
“And what is that
supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just good
t’know you’re cookin’… that’s all. I’ll see you at eight then,” she says and
hangs up before I can even say a proper ‘good-bye’. That girl gets weirder and
weirder every day since she quit the high fashion fast supermodel life.
Glancing down at my
watch, I realize that I have four hours to pull a dinner together with no
ingredients at home whatsoever. And so I head off for the market.
Entering
Super-Low-Val-U Mart, I pick up a grocery basket and head to the produce
section. Vegetables, I need vegetables. The problem is, I’m not quite sure what
vegetables I need. Picking up a strange looking ball of green thing that looks
as if it is made of layers, I read the sign. ‘Artichokes’, it reads and I
remember watching that cute Naked Chef using one of these in one of those pasta
veal things he cooked up. At least, I think he did. Grabbing about six
artichokes, I drop them in my basket and walk up to the lettuce section. Green.
Romaine. Iceberg. Red. Butterhead. All the different choices are giving me a
headache. I decide on grabbing one of each. If worse comes to worse, I’m sure I
can just throw it in the pot and it won’t even make a difference. Taking a few
tomatoes, potatoes, cabbages, eggplants and some Chinese greens called ‘Bak
choy’, I walk over to the meat department.
Assessing the various
types of poultry, I finally decide on chicken. Everyone loves chicken and when
it’s not chicken, everyone thinks it tastes like chicken anyway. So, chicken it
is. I reach for the package of half a dozen chicken breasts when a hand reached
out for the same package at the very same time. He brushes my hand and we both
pull back immediately. Smiling at the stranger, he apologizes, “I’m sorry.”
“Nah, it’s my fault
too, sugah. Should have seen a hand reaching for it.” I apologize as well and
gaze into the icy blue eyes of this fine brunette.
“Heh heh, guess we
both should have been looking. But take it, it’s fine.” He says and offers me
the package. I smile politely at him and respond, “No. It’s alright. You can
take it, sugah. Ain’t like there’s not enough chicken for all of us.”
Laughing at my lame
reply, he beams, as he checks me out not so subtly. I take this as an
opportunity to check him out as well, and notice that he’s dressed in a pair of
khaki shorts, a white t-shirt that frames his lean muscular frame so well, and
open-toed sandals.
“Ain’t ya cold?” I ask
without even thinking.
He chuckles at my
blunt question, then answers, “Nah. I like the cold. Body just prefers it ever
since I was a kid.”
“Wow… but it’s below
ten degrees Celsius outside, not to mention, it’s almost winter.” I point out.
“Trust me, it feels
like summer to me,” he replies and grins this goofy grin. It’s right there and
then that I decide he’s a complete weirdo. Not wanting to talk to this
apparently cold-blooded man anymore, I reach for the chicken, and say, “Well,
thanks for the…uhh… chicken. Best be going now.” With that, I hastily run off
to the checkout stand.
In a matter of
minutes, I’m standing outside the store with my bag of grocery in hands and
ready to forge ahead to the next chapter of my life. All my baggage is gone
from before, no man to hold me back now – I’m going to concentrate on my career
and make a name for myself.
Keep in mind that this
is the speech I give myself after every break-up.
-oOo-
Chopping mercilessly
at the lettuce while trying to keep the water from overflowing the pot, I
grumble frustratingly as I look at the mess before me. The Baked Jerusalem Artichokes with breadcrumbs, thyme and lemon
look nothing like what Jamie Oliver made. Sure, I alter the recipe a bit by
substituting the breadcrumbs with pieces of crackers, the lemon with grapefruit
(they are in the same family after all), and the thyme with rosemary, but it
shouldn’t be so far off from the picture should it? The pasta I’m trying to
cook is all soggy since I left it in the boiling pot too long while forgetting
to check on it when my favorite soap opera was on an hour ago. The chicken
breasts don’t fare any better considering all of them are burnt on one side.
Ding dong.
Oh shit, it’s eight o’clock already and I have nothing that is the
least bit edible. Walking grudgingly to the door, I open it and find Betsy
looking in on my apartment uneasily. Holding a big brown paper bag, she says,
“Hi luv, how’s the cookin’?”
“It’s
almost ready…” I lie through my teeth and usher her in. As I’m about to close
the door, someone yells, ‘wait up.” My other two guests have arrived as well,
each holding a big brown paper bag of their own. We all say our ‘hellos’ and
walk back into my mess of an apartment.
“Have
a seat, gals, Ah’m almost done.” I tell them, but instead of obliging to my
request, they all walk to the kitchen with me. One glance at my mess, they gaze
at each other and simultaneously begin to laugh at my poor attempt at cooking a
meal. At first, I pretend to be furious with their ungratefulness, but soon
find that my culinary skills are definitely laugh-worthy.
When
the laughter finally subsides, the girls pull me out of the kitchen and back
into the dining room.
“So,
what’d ya bring, Jean?” Betsy asks.
“Chinese.
What did you bring?” Jean asks in return.
“Italian.”
She answers.
“You
guys brought food when ya knew Ah was gonna cook?” I ask half-indignantly,
half-surprised.
“Rogue,
that was the cue to know to bring food.” Betsy replies.
“Hmph.”
I huff, but then quickly drop the act when I realize that Emma hasn’t revealed
what she brought. “So, what did ya bring?” I ask her.
“No
food… just loads and loads of liquor. You did say we are going to get wasted,
right?” She says and starts taking out bottles of all different types of
alcohol.
“Okay, so we have
Chinese, Italian, and lots of booze,” I say, laying everything out on the
coffee table. “Is it just me or does this sound like a guy thang?”
“Hey,” Jean prods me
affectionately, “don’t go jinxing us before we get started. Just add the prerequisite tub of Hagen-Daaz
for dessert and we’ll be fine.”
Lucky for me we passed
out before we could finish the king-size tub of pralines and cream left over
from last week’s bitching session.
“So,” Betsy cuts in,
liberally filling up a glass with some Archers and lemonade, “I hear you
finally ended it with Joe, right?”
“Well, in a manner of
speakin’…” I begin hesitantly. I don’t
exactly want to elaborate on how close I came to making a mess out of that little affair.
“He got in before
her,” Emma explains to the others, a wicked grin on her face. “So guess what
our Southern friend goes and does? She
quits her job. Right there and then, on
the spot, in his face. Now isn’t that
just positively wicked?”
“Oh Rogue, you didn’t!” Jean gasps, aghast. I shrug evasively.
“Are you kidding,
Jean?” Emma interrupts smoothly. “I say we toast the girl. How else is a woman supposed to keep her
dignity?” She pauses, musing over her wineglass. “Although I must confess,
there’s nothing like taking one’s nail file to a guy’s brand new spanking
sports car…”
You can probably guess
right about now that Emma has a rather sadistic taste for revenge on her
numerous ex-boyfriends.
“Well, I have to
admit, I never liked the guy,” Betsy
interjects, going for the noodles. “You remember the day he came over to take
you out to that charity gala, Rogue?
The day the heel on your Anna Wong shoes broke? Do you know
what he told me while we were waiting for you to come down?” She leans in
towards, eyes narrowed. “The guy doesn’t recycle! And the gasoline he
uses isn’t even unleaded! I mean, what
kind of an example is that to his employees?
Trust me, luv, you’re better off without the sod.”
Jean, Emma and I pass weird
looks between ourselves. It hasn’t
escaped our notice that recently Betsy’s been talking weird. We suspect it has something to do with the
tree-hugger guy she’s seeing. Neal, or
something like that. Looks like I’d
have to ask her about it later. At the
moment the only thing anyone’s interested in is my impromptu resignation from
work, plus my current boyfriend-less state.
Nice to know that someone
appreciates my misfortune.
“She’s right about
that,” Emma agrees, ignoring Betsy’s rather strange statements. “I mean, Joe
may have been a veritable tiger in bed, but I could never trust a guy who’s so self-obsessed that he has to bleach his
hair! Trust me, Rogue, any man who bleaches his hair is the kind of guy who’s
had trouble getting past a mountain of teenage inadequacies.”
“He did not bleach his hair!” I counter
irately. I can’t believe Emma’s
bringing up the whole bleach thing again.
I down the rest of my can of beer in an attempt to steel myself for what
I can tell is going to be a very long
night.
“You’re telling me
that hair was real?” Emma raises a scornful eyebrow.
“You’re tellin’ me your’s is real?” I scowl back at her.
“Oh, stop it you two,”
Jean scolds us before Emma can make her usual scathing comeback. “The fact is,
it’s over between you and Joe and we all
agree you’re better off. Now is the
perfect time to make a clean break and start over.”
“Like Ah’m evah gonna
find a guy who’s as wonderful as Scott,” I grumble. Somehow I’d rather not hear advice from Jean, who just happens to
have the perfect career and a diamond
ring from a perfect fiancé on her finger.
“What you need is a
change,” she suggests anyway, while handing over another beer can, which I
foolishly accept. “Someone new, exciting… refreshing. Have you noticed something, Rogue? All the guys you date are blonde, blue-eyed workaholics who care
more about their careers than they care about you.”
“They do not!” I try
to defend myself.
“Oh come on!” Betsy
cries. “What about that Erik guy? He
was like, the king of corporate America!
Anyone would think he’d want to take over the world or something! And might I add he was almost twice your age?!”
“But that lasted, what – a
week?” I retort, not wanting to be reminded of that particular disaster.
“And what about that
other guy, the one who’s on TV and dates that pop star, Dazzler?” Emma adds,
grinning slyly at me and nudging me in the arm. “What’s his stage name –
Longshot?”
“Oh my God…” I groan, hiding my face behind a
hand as I remember Longshot, who now battles it out every Saturday in the Gladiators arena.
“Anna, the guy had a mullet, for God’s sake!” Emma persists
in torturing me. “Now if that isn’t a warning sign that there’s something funny
about a guy, I don’t know what is. A
girl’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb to fall for someone like that.”
“Okay, okay!” I
interrupt before they inevitably end up mentioning the name of a certain man
I’d really rather forget, a man whose name I’ve been avoiding the past couple
of years. “Ah get the picture! And yes,
he was a mistake. And so was Erik. But you can’t tell me you ain’t made mistakes, Ms. Ah-Whipped-Mah-Boyfriend-into-ER.”
Emma nearly chokes on
her chow mein at that one. Oops. Emma can be highly sensitive about her –uh–
recreational activities. She scowls and
the party’s suddenly in serious danger of turning into a free-for-all. Luckily our sweet and temperate Jean plays
her peacemaker role to perfection.
“Girls, I think we all
know better than to fight with each other over guys. Especially guys we all ditched long ago.” She turns to me and
passes me an overdone smile. “Anna, dear
– all I’m suggesting is that you break the mould. Maybe those types of guys don’t work for you because they’re not you’re type. Why not go out, meet someone different for a
change? How about… tall, dark and
handsome?”
“Yeah, someone with an
accent – accents are so damn sexy!”
Betsy enthuses.
“And someone with big,
gorgeous, hypnotic eyes, the kind that make you go weak at the knees,” Emma
coos mockingly. Sometimes I think the
girl lacks all sense of romance, and that’s why she goes through men at the
rate she buys handbags. I decide that
this is not going to get out of
hand. For once, I am resolved to take
control of my life, and it is not
going to involve some lame-ass excuse for a man. At least, not until I’ve gotten my life back on track.
“No, no, no!” I put up
my hands. “Today, Ah have made a resolution!
Ah am officially done with men!
Ah am fed up with waitin’ round a phone every night, puttin’ the toilet
seat down, and bein’ barred access to the right side of the bed!” I ignore the
strange looks the girls pass me for that
remark. “Yes – this is it! Ah’ve had it
with men, and until Ah find some nice, kind, respectable and carin’ guy who loves me for who Ah am…” I falter off,
not sure how exactly I’m supposed to end this declaration. “…Ah am goin’ to
concentrate on gettin’ mah life right back where Ah want it to be! An’ Ah’m gonna do it all without some stupid, small-dick guy!”
“You should write that
down and put it on your fridge, then you might just stick to it,” Emma jibes
skeptically, arms crossed.
“You don’t believe
me?” I huff at her, half standing up and almost spilling my beer. I think I must be a little tipsy at this
point, but I have just made myself
jobless after all, so I think I deserve it.
However much it’s going to hurt tomorrow morning. “Then mark my words,
Emma Frost,” I begin jabbing a chopstick in her direction, “because this gal is
not never gonna give herself to a
sleazebag guy again. No! Not even a tall, dark, handsome guy, with an
accent or gorgeous eyes! Period!”
From the looks on the
girls’ faces, they don’t believe a word I’m saying. All right, I think. I’ll
show them, just for the satisfaction of proving them wrong. This time, Anna Raven, the self-professed
Rogue, is gonna play things straight.
Right?
-xXx-
Once the gals have all
gone home, it finally hits me. I’m
jobless, I’m broke, I’m alone. I’m
pathetic. My life has just been ruined,
and I have only one person left to blame.
Me.
But the evening has
left me full of resolutions. I may not
have a high-flying career like Emma. I
may not be a spoiled rich girl like Betts.
I may not have an oh-so-perfect fiancé like Jean. But I’m a fighter, and from now on, I’m going
to get my life organized. I take out a
notepad and pen and begin the one thing I’m good at doing but terrible at
following. I write a list. Anna Raven’s List of Priorities.
1)
Find a job.
2)
Tidy the apartment. (I’m
undecided as to whether that should be top of the list.)
3)
Fix plumbing.
4)
Budget until job is found.
5)
Get a pet. Dog?
I pause, bite the tip of my
pen, then cross the last line out and write:-
5)
Find a man that actually gives a damn about me.
I look up at the calendar
and decide I’ll give myself a month to get the entire list crossed off.
Optimistic? Probably. But right now, my drink addled brain is
telling me one thing – anything is
possible. So I take Emma’s advice,
stick the list on my fridge, and go to bed finally feeling I’ve achieved
something – something – worthwhile
for today.
Little do I know just
how much I’m tempting fate to bring disaster my way.
-oOo-