The figure cut through the bar like starlight through a cosmic cloud; everything and everyone seemed to move heartbeats before their gravity even entered the figure's atmosphere, nudged gently by some invisible hand they could never sense, let alone conceive of. Few even noticed, and those that looked in the direction were left looking away, forgetting the image as quickly as they'd seen it, just another face in just another crowd, nothing worth noting or remembering. The figure was dressed for an autumn's gathering in Cape Cod, not a crowded bar thick with smoke and alive with chatter and music and the kinetic motion all too familiar with those that just wanted to let off a little steam.

They knew where they were going, turning shoulders this and way and that to breeze through the dense gathering of drunks near the back of the bar, at the entrance of a back hall that led to restrooms. Only briefly did they stop and retrieve the gin and tonic adorned only with a few slivers of lime in the thick based scotch glass before continuing on, excusing themselves past the small line waiting on the restrooms with no more than a smile. Reaching the back room and slipping in unannounced and unnoticed was no more than a matter of doing so at the exact same moment a young waitress slipped out the same backroom door. 

The fact that Jean Grey stood behind Remy during the entire hand in silence, without a single soul at the table so much as gazing up beyond the green felt and shiny plastic playing cards, proved to her she was in the right place--at the right time. His heroism only brought about the memory of a smile on the red head's soft pink lips, a few of the players dealing themselves out and excusing themselves from the table at the conclusion of the shocking upset of the farmer over the Cajun. She picked the seat across the table from him to sit down at, setting her drink just to her side, her hair loose and straight with only a half-curl at the ends of every strand that hung just past her shoulders. 

In a navy Henley with the top alabaster button unbuttoned, a pair of white skinny cords, and handsewn loafers of brown leather that were softer than sin to her feet, there was no denying a Boston girl even in a back room of a hole in the wall. There was no hesitation as she reached out and took the deck of cards, beginning to cut the deck, and shuffle the deck, and cut the deck, with the precision and speed of a card shark: the product of poker nights at the Institute that all too usually went to dawn of the next day.

It was only when Remy finally looked up from his drink and the realization of just who was sitting across the table struck him that a wide smile formed across Jean's face, a beat later bright green eyes under long black lashes fluttered up to meet his black and red look. She took a pause in shuffling to steal a long, thirsty, sip of the gin and tonic; her lips taking a drink of the cocktail, her eyes drinking in the image of an old friend.

Casual and cool she replaced the drink on the table, rebusying her digits with the plastic cards; cut and shuffle, shuffle and cut, before repeating the process all again. It was only a tiny eternity between when their eyes met, and her voice revealed itself, proving herself no ghost, no figment of his imagination. "Hello, Remy. You look bored."