Owner	Pose
Remy LeBeau	It's late evening, and while few are in bed, most are settling in for the night. Remy LeBeau has always been a night owl though. It's a point of contention between himself and the X-Men leadership who seem to think that Five AM is a proper time to be getting /out/ of bed, instead of having just arrived in it. Hell Remy was a teen before he had ever even /seen/ a five AM. But going out and getting drunk or finding trouble does not appear to be on the agenda tonight. No, tonight he intends to devote to his own secret passion. His shameful vice that so few actually know of. He studies the screen in front of him intently and shakes his head before shouting "Non! Don' do it! Don' be an idiot! De Banker is not yah friend! No Deal! No Deal!"
Psylocke	Why would anyone have cause to wonder where a multi-billionaire has been when their social media is rife with commentary, the occasional glossy photograph, and reports in high society pages across Europe? Or a teacher of Xavier's, when they're listed as on sabbatical? It's all a facade, of course. This sort of thing is simple to stage in this day and age, and it's been two years since Betsy Braddock has actually been in New York, let alone stepped foot on the grounds of the X-Mansion. "Remy LeBeau." A softly whispered mention of his name, /too/ close -- somehow right behind him -- uncomfortably close. "Is this how the once gloried thief passes his time these days?" Someone is judging. It's certainly Kwannon. It's almost never actually /fun/, having a ninja sneak up on you. For all that it's supposedly been years since one Betsy Braddock was a part of the Hand, the presence of Kwannon means those instincts are never truly lost. For the most part she generally doesn't mean to sneak up on people, it's just her default. Though maybe, tonight, she /does/ mean to sneak. Betsy's dressed all in dark, close fitting clothes, her purple hair left loose and half-hanging over the mark over her face where she stands behind his seat.
Warren Worthington	Whereas most associate the heavens with the day, sunlight, and warmth, and Warren was the quintessential angel, at least from a visual and audible perspective, even speaking with a Mid-Atlantic or Transatlantic Accent, as was so often the case in the movies, he had always been more of a night owl. He had not been to sleep yet, and might not for several hours yet, depending on his desires. Such was the life of a man of his wealth. He slept when he wanted, for as long as he wanted, and where he wanted. Sometimes, he would joking explain that he was on British or Australian time, if anyone asked, but in truth, he just enjoyed the flexibility. Tonight, or today, depending on one's perspective, he had chosen to dress casually, in white shorts, which didn't quite reach the knee, a surprisingly tight olive green button up short-sleeve shirt, a black leather band across his right wrist, and a silver watch on his left. White ankle socks and matching shoes completed the outfit. He had sunglasses tucked into the left breast pocket, for when the sun rose. Approaching the boat house, he simply knocked with one hand, leaving the other tucked into his pocket, knowing that Remy LeBeau was an equal night owl.
Remy LeBeau	Remy LeBeau is not an easy man to sneak up on. Few actually know it, but the Cajun can literally /sense/ motion. The list of people who can catch him unawares is quite short... but Betsy is on it. Still to the Thief's credit he doesn't jump. Doesn't even flinch. "Well 'ow 'zactly is de guy on de tv gonna know when it time ta push de button if he not got Remy yelling de information at 'im t'rough de tv an' t'ree mont's aftah de show is recorded?" He turns to face the Ninja an easy smirk crossing his face as he looks her up and down... the glance could be seen as lecherous to other eyes, but the trained assassin would know he is scanning her for potential weapons. Gauging her stance. Remy likes people to think he is nothing but a wastrel and lay-about, but Betsy would see through /that/ facade like glass. "De wine's cheap but open. De scotch is not cheap if yah prefer." He adds pointing to a small cabnet. "So to wha do Ah--" he glances at the door shaking his head. "Getting ta de poin' a fella can' even watch Deal or No deal anymore..." to that end he switches off the TV adding, "If dis Jehovah's Witness, yah shoul' know Ah don' believe in leavin' be'ind witnesses!" in a tone loud enough to be heard through the door.
Psylocke	In the same way the thief is unbothered by her unannounced arrival, Betsy Braddock is unbothered by his lingering gaze, owing to years of modeling. It's almost like she doesn't even notice he does it, let alone acknowledge it. To his gaze, she has no weapons on her... but then he knows she doesn't need to have any to be armed. "I do not drink cheap alcohol," Betsy declares. She has standards and is not afraid to enforce them. Clearly she's bidding for the scotch then, a last lingering look at the thief before she turns to the cabinet, walking with an natural sway of her hips. The knock at the door makes the ninja freeze, violet eyes narrowing at Remy. Was he expecting visitors? The grumbling suggests not, and she withdraws back to one side of the entrance where she won't be seen by whomever's standing outside. The shadows are kind from what Remy can see; they conceal most of Betsy's expression, aside from a sudden purple gleam of her psychic knife in her hand, mostly hidden by the turn of her wrist as she eases back against the wall and waits with a blank, cool expression. This isn't the warm teacher who murmurs helpful platitudes to the youngest students of Xavier. This is the cold killer.
Warren Worthington	Not being a telepath, having an enhanced sense of hearing, smell, or anything else like that, Warren did not know who would be greeting him on the other side of the door. He just expected it to be one Remy LeBeau. He was not to be disappointed. Seeing the man wearing a black t-shirt and jeans, Warren knew that he had not roused Remy from slumber, "Hello Remy," he said in a friendly, casual tone, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. He would comfortably glide in his pristine white sneakers, entering the home, even if he might have to slip through the narrow gap between the Cajun and the door frame. The hand that had been tucked into his pocket pulled out what looked to be a memory stick, which was extended towards his companion, "everything you asked for," being more careful with his words than his thoughts. "Did I miss Deal or No Deal?"
Remy LeBeau	Remy LeBeau takes the flash drive and with a quick dance of his fingers he makes it vanish like he does with just about /everything/ that is smalle then a piece of fruit. It's simple slight of hand, and not magic, but hell the man is wearing short sleaves and his hand goes no where near his pockets. It's a pretty impressive trick. "Non mon ami it still on but," He coughs and manages to affect a look that is almost embarrassed in nature. "Yah see Warren, Ah seem ta 'ave a guest already... a female guest.." He nods in the direction of his bedroom and /not/ in the direction of the kitchen where Psylocke stepped away. "She arrived wit' out warning and wearing...very little..."
Psylocke	The telepath's mind reaches out to touch the visitor. Even before he speaks, Betsy knows who is there and why he's there. The timing, while suspicious, is nothing but coincidence. Kwannon doesn't believe in those though, so it takes a moment to wrestle that self-control and for the purple guarded by her hand to flicker into darkness. That cold expression is gone, and the model is there as she steps out from behind the door and sways towards the cabinet like her original intention was not interrupted. There are assumptions that can be made about Betsy's presence there. They'd be wrong, but she doesn't seem to mind, only: "I resent that, Remy. I wear /far less/ clothing when I arrive meaning to kill someone." Her smile is bright as she glances over her shoulder towards them both, pulling out a tumbler. "Drink, Warren?" she invites, as she reaches for the scotch.
Warren Worthington	At Remy's explanation, Warren immediately shifted his gaze towards the door to the Cajun's bedroom, expecting a female guest to be in there, only for Betsy Braddock to step out from behind the still open front door. Narrowing his eyes momentarily, he felt a few conflictatory emotions wash over him as he contemplated what he had just walked into. Why did life among the X-Men always have to be so complicated, with so many layers, each playing with and against each other. He was so worked up that he barely even noticed Betsy sway towards the cabinet... barely. He's conflicted, he's not dead. "It's a bit late for death, or is it early, but it's always happy hour, somewhere. I'd love a drink, Betts." Smirking, whether things were proceeding the way that Remy may have wanted to or not, it seemed that they were at least to be delayed. He did shake his head at the mental imagine that Remy had planted in his head with these unfolding events. The look he gave Remy spoke more eloquently than Warren ever could. It said, I will have my revenge for that, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and you will feel it for many days to come.
Remy LeBeau	Remy LeBeau seems not at all abashed by his mild deception. He didn't know Betsy's intentions, and for that matter still doesn't. But she went through the trouble of approaching him in secret and considered a professional courtesy to allow her to remain incognito, or not, at her own discretion. He gives a one armed shrug to Warren as if to acknowledge the other man's silent message, but also show he is not overly concerned about it, nor would he have done things differently if given the chance. As Betsy pours the Glenlivet, Remy turns back on the TV, watches as the man on the screen opens the million dollar case, and disgutedly turns it right back off. "So chere, before Warren here arrived Ah was about ta ask to what do Ah owe de pleasure?"
Psylocke	Betsy Braddock may have her back turned for that look, but the purple-haired woman is a telepath. And even apart from that, she's an attractive woman. She can practice sense when interplay is happening. Betsy's, "Play nice, now," is deliberate as she hands Warren the glass of scotch, while she sips appreciatively from the second. "Somehow," she turns her gaze to Remy, "I'd expected you'd have the /good/ wine and the /cheap/ scotch. It's nice that you can still surprise me, Remy." Whatever the former assassin's reasons for being here in specific, despite her long absence from Xaviers, are held in abeyance. For now. The flicker of her violet gaze towards Remy and the slight tip of her glass suggests gratitude for holding his silence -- and curiosity -- so it seems at least to be Betsy in full control. Which is always a good, and not always sure thing. "Oh, you know. I just flew back into town tonight. Everyone in the mansion's asleep and I saw the light on down here. And I thought," she taps her lip, thoughtfully, "I wonder whether Remy still had some of his old skills, or whether," Betsy lifts that finger from her lips and runs the tip of her finger along a window sill, wrinkling her nose at a sliver of dust, "You were going stale, out here in the boathouse, all on your lonesome?"
Warren Worthington	(Play nice? Where's the fun in that?) O o . thought Warren with a wry smirk as he accepted the glass of scotch, fingers briefly touching Betsy's in the hand off. Standing with perfect posture, he always had perfect posture, probably a by product of those wings he hid so well in his back, he swirled the glass around, watching it, and observing how the crystal caught the light just so. He brought it up to his nose, taking a sniff, before finally sliding some of the mixture across his lips. "Our man LeBeau has many talents," he added. Moving around, Warren carefully slid his hand across the television, finding it warm, as if it had been playing for some time, until recently. Though not a ninja, or a thief, he was not entirely without observational skills. He still hadn't figured out what he had walked into, and if anything, he was even less sure of it now. Such things were always tough. It was never easy to lose someone you care about. But you can't catch a butterfly. You can only enjoy it while it lasts, and hope for the best. Yeah, he finished off the rest of his scotch in one gulp after that thought.
Remy LeBeau	Remy LeBeau grins slightly, "Well chere, dat's because Ah /bought/ de wine, an' /stole/ de scotch." He says with a wicked grin, serving himself a glass of it as well. Still he always did appreciate good Scotch, and this /was/ good. He raises his glass in return of Warren's salute and sips lightly smirking at Betsy, "An' how Ah do, hmm?" he asks amused, leaning against the wall and actually refraining from a flirty comment, at least with Warren there. The X-men are a bit...incestious... with relationships. To quote Kitty Foreman, they switch partners more then square dancers. But Remy respects Warren, considers him as close to a friend as the Cajun would allow himself to have. And so isn't going to go out of his way to make the other man upset of jealous, especially since despite his earlier insinuation there actually is nothing going on.
Psylocke	Some might be scandalized; Betsy certain is not. Stolen scotch? "That must be why it has that little kick to it," the purple haired woman muses with a smile, as she tracks Remy's progress to pour himself a glass. "I have a... let's say, an opportunity, that could use your skill set. If you can acquire a bottle of- what was that whiskey we had on the French Riveria, Warren?" She glances towards him, casually. "Dalmore? Yes. Forty year old single malt scotch whiskey. Bring me back a bottle before the sun rises, Remy, and we'll have some interesting discussions in future." There are all sorts of promises in her voice with that. She's smiling the whole time, and it's not wholly Betsy's warm kind of smile.
Warren Worthington	"Hopefully this scotch wasn't from the Professor's wine cellar", because that would be frowned upon. It was never a good idea to steal from a telepath. Warren on the other hand, had a cellar in the Centerport, Long Island mansion, in the Aspen, Colorado chateau, in his New York City apartment, and many other residences he kept. He never knew what was there or not. One missing bottle might not be discovered for years. Having drowned his own glass, Warren would head towards Remy, who had the bottle right now, and extend it, in a silent gesture that he could use another pour. As the liquid filled up his glass, he heard Betsy's proposal, listening intently, even if he was not exactly involved. "Competitive thievery, that's a new one," he had to smile to himself at the thought. Fortunately, anything and everything one might want to acquire was within driving distance from Xavier's School. Finding it was easy, but leaving with it, that was the hard part. "It was, we paired it with dark chocolate, and brie." He remembered.
Remy LeBeau	Remy LeBeau pours a healthy measure into Warren's glass before setting the bottle back down, amusement crossing his eyes at Betsy's challenge. "Careful chere, yah know de expression livin' in interestin' times was a curse non?" He says with a chuckle and the shake of his head. Still his eyes glance towards the clock, and it's pretty obvious he's measuring how much time he'd have before sunrise. Seven hours maybe. Hour one way into the city and back, that's if he payed no regard to the laws of man, physics, or common sense while on his motorcycle...which he never does anyway..
Psylocke	"Indeed I do, Remy LeBeau. I live in said saying." Betsy doesn't need to be a telepath to know he'll accept when the man looks at the clock. It's in his blood. It's the challenge that motivates him, and Betsy is very clearly trying to do exactly that. She smiles knowingly at him. Draining the rest of the glass, purple-haired woman says, "Bien. Leave the bottle in your window before dawn, and I'll come and see you when I'm ready." Betsy glides across the room, and some movements are just natural, unthought of -- the way her body sways towards Warren's, out of old habit. Her fingers lift to rest on his bicep for a moment, but that's all. No words, no explaination for her two year absence. Just a weighted look, a tiny squeeze of her fingers, and then her hand drops free as she sways towards the door. Not the way she came in, mind, but one likes to set expectations sometimes.
Warren Worthington	With his glass neatly re-filled, Warren nodded his head in thanks, before adding, "careful is not... quite... the first word that comes to mind when I think of you, Betts." And to Remy, "would you have it any other way?" He joins in the chuckle. And before he knew it, Betsy was gliding across the room, hips swaying in that all black outfit she wore, fingers going to his exposed bicep. He was somewhat underdressed compared to his companions, as he was dressed for summer, Betsy for espionage, and Remy for a spring or autumn. He looked to Betsy, no words being spoken aloud, but the body language was far more communicative. And then she let go, dropping her hand, and heading towards the door. With a sideways glance to Remy, he decided to follow suit, seeing where it might lead. But experience had taught him that when Betsy wants to, she can disappear, and that had nothing to do with her ability to teleport via shadows.
Remy LeBeau	Remy LeBeau finishes his glass, He's already stripping off his t-shirt as he heads into his bedroom, the angles of the rooms afording him a measure of privacy as he changes from comfortable staying in clothes to prowling the night gear. "Alright chere, but we do dis Ah wan' clear stakes. We c'n discuss ot'er matters at anot'er time but foh dis... Ah lose? Ah'll cook yah dinner. Ladies choice, anyt'ing yah like. If Ah win, yah cook me breakfast. An' Ah mean a full English, start ta finish. Agree?" He steps back out, way too quickly for most people to believe, having transformed from Remy LeBeau, into Gambit. "An if yah two decide ta make out on mah couch while Ah gone? Ah really don' wanna know about it."
Psylocke	Betsy has undergone many traumatic and horrible events in her life, and Kwannon no less so. It's rare that one can surprise the ninja, in any kind of way, and yet Remy's counter offer clearly does that. It's apparent in the way her brows rise as he offers to cook her dinner if he loses, and for her to cook /him/ breakfast if he wins. "You are a strange man, Remy LeBeau. But I agree to your terms." She waits just a moment before adding, "You realize I have staff to do all that for me, yes?" Betsy gives a bemused smile. "But it's your stomach. If you want to risk it, I'll give it my best shot." He never specified the food had to be /good/ or even /edible/, and Betsy's making no promises. She, like Warren, grew up in the lap of luxury. She knows how to dismember a man whilst causing almost no pain, but boiling eggs might just be the death of her. Or in this case, the Cajun. Remy's final words startle Betsy into laughter, as she slips out the door. No making out, no. She's gone by the time Warren leaves, greeted only by shadows.