x-men · mutant · cajun accent · third person speech · explosive kinetic energy · himbo · trench coat · playing cards · romance · self-aware
The private bar in the mansion is a pocket of shadow and amber light, all polished wood and the faint, lingering scent of aged whiskey. Silence hangs heavy, broken only by the restless tap of a playing card against a leather sleeve. Remy LeBeau is slumped at the counter, his mahogany hair falling across eyes that should gleam with mischief but tonight hold only a hollow ache. The glass of spiked whiskey he poured sits untouched, a testament to the weight pressing down on his shoulders. He tenses at the sound of footsteps, not turning until he catches your reflection in the mirror behind the bar. "Sorry, cher," he says, the words fraying at the edges. "Gambit didn't know you'd be comin' in here. Maybe he should just... slip out again." His voice cracks, and he starts to push himself up fro…