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“How do I get myself into this kind o’ situations? Oh, yeah...”
That last blow had been way too close for his liking. He felt the air in front of his eyes being slashed with surgical precision, and saw with a knot in his stomach but keeping a calm face, as half of his bangs flew to the air. Remy jumped back. It had been a slip, a minor slip of concentration, and it had almost cost his eyes. He damned himself for being that careless. Deadpool could be insane, and enjoy the sound of his own voice even a lot more than Remy enjoyed his, but the man was a killing machine, and he wasn't playing.
"Almost got you there," Deadpool said, both swords pointing at Remy. "Look at that, now you can actually see. You owe me eighteen dollars. You're welcome."
Remy sneered and threw a quick look at his bangs, "Eighteen dollars for a Dennis the Menace haircut? I think you're overestimating your hairdresser skills, mon ami."
"And you're overestimating my knowledge about movies of 1993," Deadpool said, and darted to Remy again.
Remy turned around and jumped off the roof to the next one. Fighting Deadpool wasn't a priority; he would only do it if it was really necessary. Knowing the mercenary, he would lose all interest if Remy kept on avoiding confrontation. Or maybe not. Maybe he would chase him all the way to Canada. With Deadpool you could never be certain.
To think the night had started so well …
He was back in New Orleans, problems with both the Thieves’ Guild and the Assassins’ Guild were solved —for now at least—, he was going to lay low, to keep his hands in his pockets and his charming away from married women. He was going to be a good boy, have some drinks in a bar with no poker tables. He was going to be away from temptation because he needed a break. For this night only, he was going to be a face in the crowd and nothing more; not an X-man, not The King of Thieves, not a Serval employee. Just Remy, plain old boring, carefree Remy having drinks in a plain old boring, carefree bar on a plain old boring, carefree Saturday night. This was going to be perfect.
He went out of the inn and out into the street, swaggering his way through waves of people. He felt eyes linger on his frame and smiled appreciatively. A few acquaintances took notice of his presence back in town and welcomed him with brief hugs and handshakes. He realized that everytime he came back to his city, there were fewer faces he knew and more strangers. "What are you talkin' about, Remy?" The thought popped in his head. "They're not the strangers here. You are the stranger, mon ami." That saddened him a little, but he shook his head, ran his fingers through his unkempt hair and smiled again. He wasn't going to let anything ruin his carefree night.
"C'est la vie," he whispered softly, and then grinned at a pretty girl that was passing by with a group of friends. When she smiled back at him seductively, Remy forgot everything about his feelings of inadequacy.
He asked around and found out about a bar he hadn't visited yet. It was less than a year old, they told him, and it was a good place; not too flashy and not too dull. That was exactly what he needed. A quiet place that didn't make him feel like committing suicide.
Remy followed the directions he was given, but didn't hurry up to get there. He took his time, looking around, checking out everything that was new. "Why are you doin’ this?" he asked himself. "Why," he answered, "I'm makin’ myself familiar with the new buildings." "Why?" "So I know which path t’ take if I need to make an escape." "Why would you need to make an escape, Remy? You're not takin’ your carefree night seriously." "I am!" He answered irritated at his own statement. "Then go to that lousy bar and stop playin’ around." He took a last look at the buildings and reluctantly locked his eyes on his boots. He was right, this was a special night, the night of plain old boring Remy, and he was not going to let gaudy spandex Remy take control of it. "Ha! Screw you, Remy. Remy is not letting Remy taking control of Remy's night," he thought a little confused, but glad because there was a lot of Remy going on in that sentence.
It was almost eleven o'clock when he approached the back alley where he found the scene that minutes later had him running for his life.
"Please," a terrified voice was saying. "I'm beggin' you, don' hurt me."
Remy stopped dead in his tracks and crouched, positioning himself behind a dumpster. He peered with caution and saw two men. One of them was a middle age thin wreck of nerves; he was white as a ghost and trembling like a leaf. The other one was someone Remy knew: you don't forget the person who once was paid to hack you into tiny little pieces.
"But I'm not going to hurt you," Deadpool said, "I'm going to cut your head off, Rob." He went silent when Rob yelped, and then shook his head. "I'm so good at this you won't even know what happened, Rob, so save us the embarrassment. God, I've eaten egg salads that accepted their fate faster than you do… and were braver too."
"Please, I-I got a wife and–"
"I know, Rob," said Deadpool, drawing both his swords in a nonchalant motion. "She paid me."
Remy fished three cards from his jacket, charged them and threw them at Deadpool's back. As they exploded full of energy, Remy kissed his carefree night good bye. He dashed to Rob and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him out of the alley. Rob was screeching like a little girl and Remy had to stop and slap him across the face.
"Shut up, homme!" Rob did as he commanded. "Go away, now. Things are goin' t' get difficult around here."
He didn't need to hear it a second time; he turned on his heels and ran away. Remy wished he could do the same, but if he disappeared before Deadpool saw who attacked him, the mercenary would go on and kill Rob. No, Remy had to be the bite... it was a role he was quite used to, anyway.
"You!" Deadpool shout at him when the smoke faded away. He was squeezing his swords with trembling hands. "What the hell are you doing in New Orleans?"
Remy blinked at that. "I'm from New Awlins."
"No, you're not!" Deadpool screamed, waving his swords at him. Remy jumped on a dumpster. Deadpool threw the blades against Remy, and the later dodged them again. "You're French!"
And now, they were both running on the rooftops of the city. Remy trying to shake him off, and Deadpool shouting every single thing that came into his mind.
“Those jeans make you look like a sissy, LeBeau. Where is your manly uniform?”
“Laundry day.”
"You know, I realized something: everytime I come across you, you cost me money. You’re worse than my last girlfriend."
"That wasn’ a girlfriend," said Remy, jumping through the window of an old abandoned building. "It doesn’ count if she’s bein’ paid."
Remy heard a low whistle swept by his right ear and jerked away. Deadpool's sword pierced the wall ahead with ease. Remy tried not to think about what would happen if they connected with his body at some point in the night. He ran to the sword, grabbed it with both hands and, putting a foot against the wall, pulled it out of the bricks.
"What do you think you're doing?" Deadpool sounded so outraged, Remy couldn't help smirking. "No one touches my sword. NO ONE!"
"I can see that," Remy's smirk grew and his eyes narrowed. "If you'd let someone touch it once in a while, you wouldn' be so moody."
Deadpool jumped, his remaining sword up in the air, and when he fell in front of Remy, the power of the blow when both swords collided together send Remy against the wall. Deadpool's blade was now mortally close to Remy's face. Even if he was putting all his strength in keeping it away from him, Deadpool was proving to be a tough match —a lot tougher than Remy dared to acknowledge—. The blade touched his cheekbone, and a small drop of blood rolled down his face. Remy tried to move his head away but he was trapped. The sword was pushing his skin, stretching the thin red line. And then Deadpool chuckled.
"If you'd let someone touch it once in a while... you wouldn't be so moody." He laughed out loud. "If you'd let someone touch it once in a while, you wouldn't be so moody."
"Eh?"
"You made a dick joke.”
Remy sneered again, "I don' know what yer talking about."
He put a foot on Deadpool's abdominals and kicked him back.
"Oh c'mon, LeBeau," said the mercenary. "Everybody knows you're Mr Sexual Innuendo, Captain Hot Pants, Lap Dance Boy..."
Remy sighed, "Lap Dance Boy? Speakin' to you is like speakin' to a schizophrenic Spiderman."
"HEY!"
Remy avoided the blow for a couple of inches, then he jumped on the windowsill and out of the building. Deadpool followed really close, slashing the air behind him.
"Don't. You. Insult me. You. Filthy. SonuvaBITCH!" he said, stressing the words with a new slashing. "I'm not fucking Spiderman!"
Remy snickered. He jumped off the roof and fell on the street. His right hand still holding Deadpool's sword.
"Of course you're not fuckin' Spiderman." He hopped on a parked car. Deadpool stared at him, waiting for his next move. "Can you picture that? 30 minutes of sass talk and neggin', and then both of you returnin' t' your homes, angry and confused." He smiled at the mercenary. "That's not sex, mon ami, that's my entire relationship with Rogue."
"Ha!"
"Catch!" he threw the sword at Deadpool, who caught it with a casual flick of the wrist. Remy gazed at him mischievously.
Deadpool turned his attention to the sword. "You mother–"
The explosion sent him flying to the opposite sidewalk, while Remy sprang to the roof of a souvenir shop. This was it. This was the escape he was waiting for. He jumped off and fell in the back of the building, running away and losing himself in the waves of people going in and out of bars. So much for his quiet night.
Deadpool blinked hard under his red and black mask. He stood up, put away his swords and dusted his uniform off absently, his eyes on the car Remy had been perched on.
"If his fighting skills were half as good as his comebacks, I’d be the one running away." Then he chuckled. "It was definitely a dick joke."