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The Ante
Chapter XIII: Snakebit
(Part 1/2)
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“That one, mate! Here we go, here we go, here we go! Hup to! Pick it up!”

“This is so stupid!” Fred bellowed, his large gut wobbling as he lagged behind Pyro. Toad sprang from Fred’s shoulders, and in two bounds, he slammed into the moving train, clinging to the wagon stays easily.

“Common, yo! Man, Blob, you could total this train if you wanted!” Toad called, grinning toothily.

Fred groaned and kept running – the stunted grasses and rocky ground of the freight station catching at his ankles and making him stumble.

Pyro cackled, tearing alongside the freight car that was already beginning to increase in speed as it rolled towards the turnpike. He launched a small backpack into the open caboose and bellowed over his shoulder, “Quit your whinging and move, you yobbo!” Leaping at the iron stepladder, Pyro caught it by the tips of his fingers and swung his dragging feet off the ground.

“Little help, love?” John wheedled at Wanda, who leaned against the opened door with her arms folded across her chest. She rolled her eyes, sending a hex to wrap around Fred and ignoring the indignant shout of protest from the Australian. She lifted Blob easily, drawing him forwards and into the carriage, only to land with a whump that rattled the entire boxcar.

“Th-thanks, Wanda,” Fred wheezed, lowering himself to one knee, then to his bottom, and then flaking out spread eagled against the dusty floor.

From around the opened doors, Todd swung inside, landing in a squat on Fred’s stomach.

“You’re outta shape, yo.” He poked Fred’s wobbling triple chin.

From where Lance was seated, his legs dangling off a large crate, he could see Toad rising two feet and dropping two feet with every labored breath Fred took.

“I meant me!” Pyro shouted, clinging onto the ladder, still grinning.

Wanda leaned down, sweeping her long, red jacket behind her legs. “John,” she said with false sweetness, “you are the one who got us into this mess.”

“What?” he squawked. “Ya filthy swot…!”

“Don’tinsuultmysisterPyro!” Quicksilver snapped, zipping to Wanda’s side to glare down at him.

“She’s torturing me!” Pyro whined, clutching the ladder desperately as the train rattled onwards. “Me!” he continued, “Who took the biggest loss from that stupid fight with the X-Men? ME! After all I’ve done for you sods, this is the kind of treatment I get?” His foot slid off the bottom rung, his chin nearly banging into the plywood floor.

“Let him in, Wanda,” Lance said sternly, though he didn’t move to help Pyro either.

“You lot forget… I’ve got the bloody, stinking, sodding, duffering directions down me trousers!” Pyro sniggered, wincing as the train bucked as it took a bend and his grip slid.

“Pull him in, Wanda,” Lance muttered again. “We need him.”

“Ugh,” she snarled, grabbing onto Pyro’s collar and hauling him into the cabin, unmindful that she’d scraped him over the floor in the process.

“Technically,” he grimaced, rolling onto his back, “since it was put to a vote, ya oughta be blaming ya’selves, too.” John nudged Fred’s calf, making a better pillow to rest his head against the larger boy’s knee. “It’s a bloody orgy of error.” He smiled lasciviously at Wanda, his eyes flicking to her brother. Somehow, the pointed look managed to be both suggestive and derogatory. Regardless, it produced the desired effect.

Pietro reddened, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Ignoring the pair’s livid expressions, John pulled a harmonica from his pocket.

“Oi, Freddie?”

“What?” Fred rasped.

“You’re from Texas, right mate?” he asked.

“All homes needs is a ten gallon hat.” Todd nodded, answering for Fred who was still exhibiting certain difficulties breathing. “But he makes a better cow than a cowboy if you ask me.”

Neither paid any attention to the furious look shared between the Maximoff twins. In the corner, Lance merely shook his head. If he had to start mediating now, they wouldn’t make it as far as Washington.

“Know any good tunes about forbidden love, mate?” Pyro poked the ham of Fred’s leg, though his gaze didn’t waver from the twins. “Nice and hokey, like?”

Lance cleared his throat, a terse note of warning that went unheeded as Pyro began to sing.

“Oh, many, many years ago, when I was twenty-three, I was married to a widow who was pretty as can be. This widow had a grown-up daughter who had…” He peered up at Wanda, “jacket of red, my father fell in love with her and soon the two were wed…”

“John?”

“This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life, for my daughter was my mother 'cause she was my father's wife. To complicate the matter though it really brought me joy - I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy. Oh bugger it… chorus!”

Fred wheezed as Pyro used the side of his ribcage like a drum, beating out a rhythm to match the tune. The air around Wanda crackled menacingly.

“I'm my own grandpa!” Pyro bellowed. “I'm my own grandpa! It sounds funny I know, but it really is so! Oh, I'm my own grandpa!”

Crossing his legs at the ankles, he lifted his head to peer at Lance upside down. “Yes, darling?” he drawled, putting the harmonica to his lips and blowing a warbling, off-key note.

“You’re sure this is the right train?” Lance asked.

Pyro hitched on his best Cheshire smile, not removing the instrument from his mouth he answered into the harmonica. The result was a muffled, airy garble of words, completed with a waggle of his eyebrows and something that sounded curiously vulgar.

Wanda kicked him in the hip, preventing any clarification.

“I think what John was trying to say is…” she began tetchily.

“You kicked me, you slag!”

CRUNCH!

Several necks craned towards the ceiling of the caboose where John’s skinny frame had made a substantial dent. He was presently spitting a string of unintelligible profanities that were muffled out by the aluminum roof. Wanda, patiently inspecting her nails on her free hand, continued lightly, “John says this is the right train. Unfortunately for him, he is unable to respond for himself at the moment due to the unfortunate circumstance that he has his mouth full.” She grinned at Lance, turning her wrist slowly – the hex pinioning Pyro to the ceiling, grinding him into the roof and sending a flaked scattering of rust-colored grime to the floor.

“Wanda,” Lance warned.

“Since no one thought to bring soap, I would assume that the next best thing would be to wash his dirty –” CLANG! “Filthy –” THUD! “Perverse little mouth out with paint chips. It’s the next best alternative,” she explained casually.

“You think they were still using lead the last time they painted these things?” Pietro asked, admiring his sister’s handiwork.

“I can only hope so.” She smiled with saccharine sweetness.

“Wanda!”

She rolled her eyes and released the hex. Pyro slammed back to the floor next to Fred, the wind knocked out of him, and covered in debris from the ceiling.

“Keep him quiet,” she warned, baring her teeth in a snarl.

In a matter of strides, Wanda had swept to the far end of the boxcar and had begun rearranging the stack of heavy crates into a neatly arranged, fortified wall. In the process, several mountains of cargo went flying out the opened door.

Pietro whistled.

For the moment, it appeared that Pyro had found his reprieve. He groaned, propping himself up on an elbow, and wiped at his split lip.

“That smarts.” Coughing theatrically, he pounded a fist against his chest. “I think I swallowed the blasted harmonica.” He wheezed and bellowed over Fred’s massive stomach, which blocked Wanda from view, “You owe me a harmonica, Wanda!”

Pietro smirked. “Be glad she didn’t cram it up your a-”

“Shut up!” Lance bellowed. “Where are we switching trains, John?” he snapped.

“Alabama, sir!” he answered promptly, baring his bloodied teeth in a feral grin.

“That’s disgusting, yo.” Toad grimaced, leaping off Fred and springing across Wanda’s makeshift stockade at the far end of the car.

Lance grimaced. “Good. It’s a miracle she didn’t throw you off the train entirely.” As if to emphasize his point, the hollow sound of splintering wood from the opposite end of the boxcar interrupted John’s retort. It appeared that Wanda was successfully venting her frustrations, turning one crate at a time into toothpicks.

“That shiela needs to get some action in a bad way,” Pyro chortled, giving Pietro an exaggerated wink.

“Really? I can call her back over here if you want,” Pietro snapped. “That box could just as easily be your neck, Oz.”

“Ozzie!” Pyro cackled. “Ozzie Ozzie Ozzie!”

“Idiot,” Pietro breathed, stalking away to join his sister.

Pyro snickered. “Anything else, o benevolent one?” he asked Lance, dropping back onto the filthy floor next to Fred.

Avalanche merely shook his head, slouching over to the opened doors to peer out at the landscape that whizzed by with each rattle and rumble of the train.

It was going to be a long trip.

Pyro rolled onto his stomach, digging into his pocket for a wadded ball of paper with the directions, then shifted to his other side, extracting a small Zippo lighter. He clacked it open, igniting the flame with a languid flick of his thumb. Pyro propped his head onto his fist, and the directions crunched beneath his chin. For a moment, he merely stared happily at the flame, fixated with the subtle flicker or orange and yellow, before turning the blaze into a delicately formed cyclone with the swirl of his fingertip.

He peered at the directions like an artist would a freshly primed canvas, and with a grin, dropped them into the blaze. They crackled for a moment, blackening at the edges, before being spat back out as several smoldering, charred bits of ash.

Beside him, Fred coughed a little, but paid Pyro no mind.

Anchorage? Alabama. Close enough, he concluded.

With a shrug, he flopped onto his side with a wince. Something was digging uncomfortably into his ribs.

“Crikey! My harmonica! Look mates! I didn’t swallow it after all!”

---

Waking.

“Whomsoever God hath joined together, let not any man put asunder…”

Rogue’s eyelids fluttered, disoriented momentarily.

The resinous coil of incense, smoking freely from its brazier in the corner, dampens the smell of the roses that line the aisle. The scene before her, nightmarish in its clarity, strikes a resounding chord of familiarity, of dread.

Dim, hazed evening sunlight splayed across floors from the balcony. The doors were thrown open wide, letting in the sounds of traffic and chatter from Rue St. Anne below. At the far end of the apartment, a similar door was opened – letting in a fragrant cross draft. The flimsy curtain around the bed swayed gently with the breeze. Like a fine mist, it filtered out the pale sunset, amplified by contrast with the roll of thunderheads further to the East. Rogue propped herself on her elbows, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. The humidity made the apartment uncomfortable despite the circulating air.

The dream faded a little more with each moment that passed.

The incense is thick, but it does not cover the copper tang of blood. Her feet are sticking to the marble floors of the church. The stain, so dark that it’s nearly black, spreads steadily from the fatal wound… Her hands are covered in it. She can do nothing but stare.

A woman is crying, the sound clear amidst the roar of voices in the background. Sharper still is the Priest; he is begging.

“Please! Please! You mustn’t – this is a house of God!”

Rogue shuddered, passing cold fingers over her forehead to wipe the fresh prickle of sweat that had sprung out over her skin. Beneath the cuff of Remy’s shirt, the one that she had slept in without complaint, something crackled lightly. Rogue paused, looking at her hand and not entirely remembering… oh. Oh hell, she thought.

Tucked into her sleeve, the half-bent Joker was digging into her wrist.

It brought the earlier hours of the morning to the forefront of her mind with vivid clarity.

“Chile, y’ been sleepin’ like de dead. De sun’s settin’ now, up y’ get.”

From the kitchen, the distinctive clatter of plates and cutlery, and the sizzle of something frying were discernable over the bustle on the street below.

Rogue flushed, sitting up and fussing to yank the card out of the shirt cuff. It tore with a muted rip, and distractedly, she dropped the pieces before kicking the tangled covers off her legs.

“Remy?” she called, her voice faltering. She grimaced at the sound. “Gambit!” she tried again, a little more harshly. It sounded a little closer to her usual, harder sotto.

“Remy be back soon enough. He left y’ dem bags over dere.” She pointed to a few packages propped up against the armoire opposite the bed.

“Uh…” Rogue began, pausing with one leg in the air, and the other still half-tangled beneath the linens. She glanced from the bags to the hefty woman ambling about the kitchen.

“Dat boy,” she tutted, coming around the small island and setting down the flatware. “Been runnin’ off at all hours f’ as long as I known him, not a word t’ Tante neither.” She huffed, turning to Rogue and wiping her hands on her checkered apron. “If y’ ask me, I t’ink y’ scared him good, whatever y’ done.”

Rogue gaped, her leg dropping back to the mattress. “Ah didn’t –”

“Sho’ y’ didn’t, chile.” Tante winked, urging her to get out of bed and come to the table. “Emil said Remy had a handful on de back of his bike, but y’ just as timid as a kitten.”

“Ma’am, really Ah didn’t do anything ta him –” Rogue protested feebly.

The pieces of the torn Joker had plastered themselves to her thigh, the backings sticking to her sweat-damp skin. Irritably, she peeled them off and flung them away. They fluttered, disappearing between the folds of the sheets.

“If y’ did, y’ wouldn’t know it. Dat boy’s a hard case t’ crack, but if y’ got him runnin’, I reckon y’ done somethin’ good. Takes a strong woman t’ get dat sorta reaction from m’ boy.” She nodded, appraising Rogue with something close to admiration. “He only done dat wit’ two other women, an’ I’m one of ‘em.” She hmphed proudly and folded her arms across her ample chest.

Rogue grinned a little to be polite, idly wondering who the third woman in their shared circle was.

If anything, Gambit had brought it on himself – she hadn’t been the one to instigate their little… snuggle session… or whatever the heck that had been.

She swallowed with some effort, recalling the exact sensations he’d produced in her in those early hours of the morning – the precise, deft caress of his fingers sliding between her shoulder blades, the heat of his body, molded around hers protectively…

Her eyes widened. She was not thinking about the swamp rat like that, she reprimanded herself. She would not contemplate the swamp rat like that. That was exactly what he wanted in the first place, wasn’t it?

Tante interrupted her thoughts, pointing to the steaming supper on the table.

“Well? Aincha hungry?” She smiled, a soft, warm radiance settling about her rounded features. It felt eerily as if she knew exactly what Rogue was thinking about.

Rogue could feel the prickling, heated sensation of the blush as it rose to her face.

The dream had gone entirely by then, smothered out with the sick babble of her own conscience reminding her that she was still under the scrutiny of a woman she did not know, in a place she was unfamiliar with, and wearing the clothes of the man who had let her have his bed for the night after coaxing out her desperation for human contact. The cold sweat renewed itself across her shoulders, causing them to knot with tension.

Rogue looked at the torn playing card, lying in two halves on the bedspread, then back to the woman. With skin as smooth as the richest milk chocolate, her expression remained kindly. Her hair was a crazed tuft haloing her face that she’d fastened back with a red bandana in a shade of crimson that matched her skirts. When she smiled, it reached her eyes.

“Well?” she asked again.

Rogue pulled back the curtains and slid from the bed. Hesitating, she scooted around to her uniform, folded into a neat pile atop a large, ornamented wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Funny, she hadn’t noticed it the night before – she must have crawled right over it. She picked up her gloves, hastening to put them on.

“Don’t y’ put those things on when y’ eatin’ at my table,” the woman scolded good-naturedly.

Rogue swiveled, flushing. “Ah – ma’am, Ah hafta.” I need to, she thought, ignoring the ironic stab that made her mouth curve in self-deprecation. I don’t want it, I just need it, she thought wryly. What an utter mess. They were gloves, not heroin, not pain killers, just simple, unadorned leather. With thoughts of Remy lingering threateningly near the surface of her composure, those small, worn garments practically begged to be put on.

“Ah –” she tried again, only to be abruptly cut off.

“Don’t be foolish. Viens.” She ushered her forwards. “Y’ just sit right there and pick up a fork. Growin’ girl like you needs a bit of meat on her bones, y’ ask me.” She pulled the gloves from Rogue’s grasp gently, setting them back atop her folded uniform.

“Y’ Rogue,” she continued with a nod, stating the fact and not asking as she moved back to the kitchen, her hips rolling awkwardly as she walked. Arthritis, Rogue thought – she’d seen Irene begin moving much in the same way before she’d left.

“I know all about y’. Y’ can call m’ Tante, just like everyone else does. There ain’t no one ‘round here that’s gonna try t’ touch y’ when I’m around, y’ hear? Not even that boy. Lord, y’ think he don’t know he’s not too old f’ me t’ put him across m’ knee. Pah!”

Rogue grinned a little, casting a last, longing look over her shoulder at the limp leather atop the pile of her dirty clothing. So this was Tante Mattie.

“Ah’m sorry, Ah didn’t mean ta sound impolite, but Ah… my skin… it… it ain’t safe, ma’am.” Rogue fiddled with the sleeves of Remy’s oversized shirt, and casting a nervous glance around the apartment. Since the first time she’d arrived, she took in her surroundings. The flat was spacious and sparse of furniture. The walls were painted a rich coral, and the trim gleamed white. Several pieces of artwork adorned the walls, though only one in particular caught her attention; it hung above the armoire opposite the bed. Grey and white, Escher’s “Relativity” stared back at her, downplayed next to a nearby Cezanne.

Rogue pursed her lips, but didn’t comment.

The entire room seemed warmer for the hazy sunlight pouring through the open windows. Beyond the small kitchen, Rogue could see the heavy wrought ironwork of a balcony overlooking the street.

Over the rooftops of the houses opposite, the sky darkened steadily, promising rain later in the evening.

“S’ fine, chile,” she said reassuringly. “Tante’s a healer. She knows all about your unique talents without y’ having t’ tell her.” She winked. “You just sit right down and have a hush puppy or two. Tante made ya some fried catfish, not too spicy just in case y’ weren’t feelin’ up to de excitement just yet.”

“Ah think the excitement’s only getting’ started, ma’am,” Rogue replied, padding across the floor to the small island that divided the kitchen from the rest of the flat.

“Honey,” Tante said in a no-nonsense tone of voice. “Y’ known Remy long?”

“Depends what ya mean by ‘know’,” Rogue said under her breath, perching on a stool and accepting the plate Tante offered. Her stomach rumbled appreciatively, and ignoring the fact that Remy had probably dropped a none-to-subtle hint that hush puppies and catfish were second on her list of favorite meals, she dug into the food with relish.

She groaned, forgetting her manners, and graciously accepted the tall glass of iced tea Tante passed to her with a satisfied nod.

“Don’t talk with y’ mouth full, girl. Y’ just eat up, now.”

Wiping her hands on her apron, Tante turned back to the stove to fill another plate with the delicious-smelling food. She set it between the burners to keep warm, covering it with a bowl to keep the rising steam in. Gambit would be home soon, Rogue surmised. The thought made her stomach uneasy, and she swallowed a gulp of the sweet tea as if to drown out the feeling. It tasted like nectar. Rogue took a larger gulp, the food and drink doing something wonderful to her disposition.

“I known de boy since he was an ankle-biter,” Tante Mattie continued, “an’ I’ll tell y’, he’s trouble. Now what’s a good girl like you runnin’ with him for, huh?” She peered over her shoulder with a small frown. “Y’ don’t seem like his type, if y’ don’ mind my sayin’ so.”

Rogue chewed a little slower, acknowledging the prickly, uncomfortable truth of the statement.

“Ah don’t suppose Ah am, ma’am,” she replied quietly.

Tante chuckled. “Don’t get me wrong. Don’t mean t’ be rude or nothin’.” She sighed. “S’ been a long time since dat boy look so beaten down. Only one conclusion f’ Tante, y’ see; either he’s met his match or history’s repeatin’ itself.” She winked.

Rogue cleared her throat, vengefully squashing the irritating, bubble of expectancy the words brought with them. Met his match? “Ah’m sorry?”

Obviously, she wasn’t Gambit’s type. The thought made her want to laugh. Still, how could she explain why he was going out of his way for her? How he’d known so much about the past year of her life? He’d clearly done his research and even gone beyond the call of friendly obligation to retrieve her from Bayville – but who was to say there wasn’t some sort of deranged, nefarious subtext she wasn’t reading?

The boy was locked up tighter than a maximum-security prison, and with some dismay, Rogue realized that he had yet to reveal anything about himself willingly.

Still, in the very least, everything he’d done for her so far pointed to one very possible conclusion – control of her powers. That was something Rogue couldn’t ignore or beat down. She wanted it, loathed as she was to give the thought life by saying it aloud.

“Nothin’ chile. Don’t trouble y’self.” Tante shook her head, quickly changing the subject. “Remy’s cousin called m’ dis mornin’… Emil?”

Rogue nodded, staying silent in the hopes that Tante would continue feeding her with information.

“…Said Remy be back in town, brought along a pretty lil’ thing – that’d be you, chile – a regular spitfire.” She nodded, and Rogue flushed a little. “Lord knows Remy could use a taste of his own medicine from time t’ time.” She sniffed, sauntering up to the island and looking down her nose a little, almost wistfully. “Back in de day, when he was still just a pup, Belle was de only one who ever got him t’ sit still long enough ta keep him outta trouble…” she trailed off.

Belle? Rogue’s ears perked up. Lapin had said the name too, and Remy had shut down the conversation quicker than green grass through a goose.

Before Rogue could ask about the girl, Tante returned to herself and cleared her throat. “I don’t think y’ need me t’ say so, but if he don’t behave himself? Y’ let Tante know, would y’? I taught that boy t’ be a regular gentlemen, and if he puts one toe out o’ line...”

Rogue ducked her head, chuckling and mentally tucking away the name to ask about later. “Ma’am, Ah think Ah’m already a step ahead of ya.”

“Good.” She nodded, folding her knuckles against her hips. “He’s a good boy, our Remy. Loyal to a fault, but that don’t mean he don’t make mistakes.”

“Ain’t dat de truth.”

Rogue’s attention snapped to the balcony, though Tante Mattie didn’t seem the least bit surprised by Gambit’s soundless entrance. Leaning up against the edge of one French door, Remy stood with his arms folded, smirking outright. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

“Y’ forget t’ comment on how devastatingly handsome y’ little boy’s become, Tante.” He drawled, strolling lazily into the kitchen and pressing a warm kiss to Tante Mattie’s cheek. He winked over her shoulder at Rogue, and set a large, black box on the counter.

“Dis f’ me?” he asked lightly, lifting the covered plate waiting for him on the stove.

Pulling a dishrag from the countertop, Tante Mattie swatted at him.

“Wash y’ hands, boy! Don’t y’ be puttin’ those paws all over the kitchen I just cleaned not two minutes ago.” She huffed, turning back to Rogue as Remy crossed to the sink. “Y’ see what I mean?” she asked, exasperated.

Behind her, Remy grinned while sliding around the counter to the stove. He snuck a biscuit without Tante noticing, proceeding to wave the pastry over her head, before cramming the entire thing into his mouth. Grinning at Rogue, he chewed hugely.

Rogue pursed her lips. “Gambit, didn’t ya hear the lady?” she snapped.

“Mmph?” Remy’s eyebrows shot up, desperately to hide the evidence by swallowing as Tante wheeled on him. He backed up, his hips knocking into the sink as he shook his head vehemently, pointing at Rogue over her shoulder.

“Thank ya, Tante. It was delicious,” Rogue called, tossing Remy a wicked grin and hopping from her stool.

“Was nothin’ chile, you just get cleaned up, y’ hear? Bathroom’s over there,” she said over her shoulder. “The bags down there’ve got some fresh clothes for y’. An’ you, boy!”

“Mmph!” Remy protested, his mouth still crammed with biscuit.

“Don’t y’ talk with y’ mouth full! Haven’ I taught ya nothin’?” Tante raged on.

He spluttered, his normal speech patterns obstructed by the doughy wad in his mouth.

Rogue smirked, ducking her head a little to poke through the bags. Behind her, Remy let out a choked yelp. “Y’ all against m’ in dis town! Rogue! How could y’?”

“Just returning the favor, sugah,” she returned with false sweetness, not turning around. Inwardly, she bristled. “Ya skimped on our bargain, remember?”

Rogue paused, her hands on her hips as she studied the line of bags leaning against the dresser. He’d gone shopping for her, too? She blew out a breath, closing her eyes as Tante barked out, “He did what?”

“Don’t trouble y’self, Tante. S’ just a joke me and Roguey got going. Isn’t dat right, chére?” he called, a trace of desperation evident in his laugh.

Rogue turned on her heel, a malicious spark of amusement getting the better of her.

“Ah’d say that’s relative, don’t ya?” She inclined her head to the wall before her.

Hanging over the bureau was the framed woodcut she’d noticed upon waking; the very piece of art that Remy had alluded to when they’d been at the diner in Virginia yesterday morning. In the corner, the canvas was signed. A wobbly scribble proclaimed the piece to be the work of M.C. Escher.

“Ah hope this isn’t an original,” she murmured, studying the fine lines of the print. Every measure appeared to be calculated to a precise degree. Staircases wound in and out, upside down only to tumble onto another surface where a different body approached from a different angle. Emerging and disappearing from a variety of realities, almost, the tiny figures ascended and descended and swirled out of focus as her eyes and mind tried to reconcile the irregular planes.

It made her head swim. Rogue grinned. She liked it, despite the fact that Remy had compared it to the inner-workings of her mind; it wasn’t too far off, really, she thought wryly. Though if she had the choice, Rogue wouldn’t subject her consciousness to a maze of such orderly chaos.

“I’ll remember dis!” Remy shot over Tante’s shoulder. It appeared that she had ushered him to the sink to clean up. “An’ it is an original!” he added with a smirk.

Tante tsked, sharing a glance with Rogue. “Where are y’ two headed?” she asked after a moment. Rogue sunk to her knees, bracing herself to see what Gambit had brought back for her to wear in replacement of her X-Men uniform.

“We’re gonna head over t’ see y’ friend, Tante,” Remy replied over the running water in the sink.

“What y’ talkin’ ‘bout, chile?” Tante muttered, overseeing his efforts. She appeared nonplussed at Remy’s attempt to scrub the frying pan in his hands. “Did I teach y’ t’ wash de dishes like dat?” she huffed, elbowing him out of the way and taking over.

Remy, meanwhile, had snatched the plate of food from the stove and vaulted over the island countertop – his slacks sliding easily over the tile and coming to rest with his legs dangling over the edge. He lifted the bowl with a flourish, and inhaled deeply.

“She’s not expecting us, exactly,” he replied. “But m’ sure de femme’ll remember Remy. Everyone does.” He winked at Rogue, a sly grin creeping across his face that caused a nervous tingle to spread through her belly. She abruptly turned away, yanking one of the shopping bags towards her with more force than necessary.

She cleared her throat, busying herself with the task of finding something to wear. “That’s yo’ ego talking, Cajun.”

“Hush, girl,” Tante murmured, though not without a proud smile at her brash retort. “Who’s dis y’ talkin’ about, Remy?”

A pause stretched while Remy failed to reply, which caused Rogue to look over her shoulder. With Tante’s back to her, Rogue couldn’t see her face – but the quizzical expression Remy wore couldn’t be missed, even if it only graced his features a moment. Finally, with a chuckle, Remy cooed tenderly, “Tante, y’ jealous! Awe, y’ know y’ de only femme f’ me, Tante Mattie.”

Dropping backwards he pressed a warm kiss to her cheek, all the while looking at Rogue with the plate of food balanced neatly in one hand.

Rogue sniffed indignantly, but Tante merely chuckled, patting the top of his head with motherly affection. “Sure, chile. Whatever y’ say.”

“Y’ gonna get ready, Roguey? Or y’ gonna keep m’ waiting all night?” he asked, popping a hush puppy into his mouth.

“Yo’ gonna be waiting a whole lot longer than that,” she muttered to herself.

Rogue pulled back a sheaf of black tissue paper apprehensively, nearly sighing at the comfort of seeing dark shades at the bottom. She tugged out a pair of Dickies, made out of stretchy black cotton, a studded belt with a heavy buckle, and a light, long-sleeved shirt in a deep shade of charcoal. There were socks in another bag, a few more dark-colored tee-shirts, denims and at the very bottom of the third bag, when Rogue had nearly grinned in relief at the convenient lack of anything brightly colored, her bare fingers touched something silky, something lace-trimmed, and something that couldn’t have been anything more than a piece of dental floss.

Remy was whistling at the counter, casually watching her and picking at his dinner while Tante busied herself with the washing up.

“Ya couldn’t resist, could ya?” she glowered, brandishing the lingerie in her fists.

“Vous etes tellement belle when y’ blush like dat, chérie.”

Rogue stared, horrified, at the green satin monstrosity in her hand. “How’s this supposed ta cover my butt, Cajun?”

“Personally, I prefer if y’ didn’t cover up at all, chére. Dem’s a nice set o’ legs.” He leered. “De butt’s not too bad either,” he conceded with some solemnity.

Rogue looked down at herself, at the pale skin of her thighs, the enormous long-sleeved tee shirt that was nearly hanging off her shoulders and then back to Remy. With a snarl, she snatched up the clothing, including the matching green bra and panties, and stormed into the bathroom.

The door slammed behind her, and with some amusement, Tante Mattie turned to Remy and shook her head.

He shrugged lazily, rubbing the stubble over his jaw. “Mebbe I shoulda gotten her de black ones.”

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