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Whistling to himself, Remy descended the stairs tucking the blueprints into his jackets. Stepping back into the night, the fight was still going on the far side of the dock. The sound of metal hitting bone echoed across the marina.
Remy shook his head and took a seat on a wooden crate. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
“You’re not gonna offer to help her?” Julien asked.
He leaned against a weathered piling, twirling a knife between his fingers with the ease of someone who’d practiced the motion a thousand times.
Remy glanced in Rogue’s direction and snorted. “Non, if we take her fun away from her now, she’ll whoop our asses next. Cigarette?” He held out the pack.
“Merci,” Julien sheathed the blade and plucked one out of the carton. Lighting the cigarette, he took a draw off it, still observing the fight. “She ain’t got a lot of finesse, though.”
A loud crunching sound rang out, followed by a muffled yelp and a string of colorful expletives. Rogue must have rebroken Matthew’s nose. That was nice.
Remy shrugged a shoulder, “What can I say? The femme’s more of a brawler.”
Julien hummed in acknowledgment. “Oui, I recall. She flipped me through the door of that jazz club.”
“And to this day, it’s one of my favorite memories of you, homme,” Remy smirked. Julien rolled his eyes.
Another loud ‘thwack’ echoed across the pier, followed by a pained grunt. Rogue stood over the fallen man, chest heaving. Matthews lay groaning at her feet but made no move to get up. Probably the most intelligent decision he’d ever made.
Stomping back towards them, Rogue retracted the bo-staff and tossed it back to him. “Thanks.”
“Any time,” Remy replied.
It’s a miracle Rogue didn’t go full-on villain her first summer
A little (true) story: I have a big extended family and friends circle. And all the little ones are reaching the point where they can run, jump and climb.
But they’re still young enough that they have the self preservation skills of a watermelon. 🍉
So I’ve spend the last two months clearing my property of brush which is, in short, every vine that has the word “poison” in its name or thorns big enough to stick a pig.
This requires neck down coverage and heavy thick gloves. All while slowly steaming to death in this heat, this humidity. So on a very personal note I can attest…
It’s a goddamn miracle Rogue didn’t go full scorched earth in this heat.
Never have I been so angry at life in general.
But since I believe in silver linings, here’s a few things I learned that y’all can use for writing about our gal:
1) Wrist rash. Palms sweat and the skin on your wrist is sensitive. It doesn’t take much for your wrists to turn raw and start to bleed.
2) Blisters. You can get blisters and calluses from sweat damp fabric…especially from the seams of the gloves. Just trust me on this one. 🩹
3) Thirst. Rogue drinks water by the liter. She has an armada of tumblers—Yeti, Stanley, you name it. You step outside in this heat and everything under your clothes start to sweat. You got to replace that somehow.
4) Bathing. You’re showering at least once a day (sometimes more) and changing your clothes every time you’re outside for more than a hour. Cotton, linen, and natural fibers help but it’s not enough.
5) Cold sensitive. Rogue is super cold sensitive. It took less than four weeks of working in this heat for me to become sensitive to AC. I’ve read a lot of stories about Rogue wearing little and less in her own room. I don’t doubt she’s got a lot of pretty, little lacy things, but she keeps a robe or a cardigan nearby.
6) Last one—and the most serious—Heat stroke. It comes up subtle but fast. You don’t know it’s creeping up. One minute you’re just hot and the next you’re dizzy, your heart is going too fast, and you can’t talk. Rogue might be invulnerable, but more than once she’s landed her tail in the Med Bay for over doing it in the heat.
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A little late in the day, but I decided at the last minute this needed art.
Day 5: Maybe We'll Write a Book On It
Gambit had always believed a locked door was less an obstacle and more a polite suggestion.
Professor Xavier’s office door, however, was not locked. In some ways, it suited the man. Instead, the door sat there like it had been expecting him.
Still, he knocked, because Tante Mattie had not raised him to barge into a man’s office in his own house. She’d also have had his hide nailed to the wall if she heard he’d been rude to an elder.
A calm voice called, “Come in,’ and Remy pushed the door open.
“Bonjour,” he greeted.
Three men looked up.
‘SNIKT”
Wolverine’s claw appeared in a flash as Summers’s fingertips rose to his glasses. Professor Xavier sat behind an old mahogany desk stacked with files and ledgers. He raised an eyebrow.
“Professor.” Remy nodded, shutting the door behind him. He set his duffle on the floor. “Hommes.”
Summers glanced at the door, then back at Remy. “Did someone let you in?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Logan pushed off the wall. “That means no.”
“It means your security needs an update.”
“I told ‘Ro we should have put poison gas in the air vents,” Logan growled.
Remy gave him a sympathetic look. “That feels like a ventilation issue waiting to happen.”
“Is there something we can help you with, Gambit?” the Professor asked politely.
Remy faced him again, posture straightening out of habit. Tante Mattie’s voice lived deep in his bones, and it had very specific opinions about manners. Criminals they might be, but there were lines. You did not enter a man’s office and act the fool to his face unless he had earned it. Xavier had not.
“Oui, Professeur, I’d like to join the X-Men.”
“No,” Logan grunted.
Remy turned his head. “Désolé, but I wasn’t asking you.”
“You are now.”
“Must have missed that part.”
Scott stepped up beside Logan. “No.”
Remy looked between them. “Y’all rehearse that? The timin’ was real cute.”
Professor Xavier sighed very softly. “Gambit.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You want to join X-Men.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Remy smiled. “I admire your management style.”
Scott muttered, “For God’s sake.”
Logan said, “Try again.”
“Strong coffee. Beautiful grounds. Charming local hostility.”
“Again,” Scott said.
Remy spread his hands. “Mais, You’re a difficult audience.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. “You broke into the Mansion to ask for a job, Bub.”
“I prefer opportunity.” Remy tipped his head. “A change of pace.”
Logan stared at him. “You expect us to believe Jean-Luc doesn’t have an angle?”
Remy snorted. “Mon Pere wakes up with angles. Has coffee with them. Tucks them into bed at night with more care than he does his sons.”
Professor Xavier tilted his head. “So this is from him.”
“No.”
The words came out too flat. Remy heard it immediately and wished he could snatch it back and wrap it in a smirk and a yat. But the truth had a way of slipping out ugly when you held it too tight. Tante had taught him that too.
Xavier leaned back. “No?”
Remy’s gaze stayed on him. “No, sir.”
Logan crossed his arms. “Convenient.”
“Most true things are inconvenient. This one’s a pleasant exception.”
Scott shook his head. “You’re a Thief.”
“I noticed.”
“You don’t get to separate yourself from that when it suits you.”
“I’m not trying to separate from anything,” Remy said.
“No?” Scott asked. “Then what are you doing?”
Remy let his eyes travel briefly to the bookshelves rather than answer. Old leather spines. Biographies. Histories. Files marked in Xavier’s neat hand. The Mansion had its own kind of ledger, it seemed. Everyone did. Some were written in ink. Some in blood. Some in debts that couldn’t be paid in money.
“I can be useful,” Remy said.
Logan snorted.
Remy looked at him. “You object to usefulness?”
“I object to criminals inserting themselves into my home.”
“The Professor’s home. And you wouldn’t have that problem if your security was better.”
Xavier bridged his hands together. “I don’t oppose you joining the team—”
“Professor—”
“Chuck—”
Xavier raised a hand.
Both men stopped, though neither looked pleased about it.
“But,” Xavier continued, “there is someone else who should be part of this discussion.”
Remy’s stomach tightened. Rogue.
Xavier raised his hand to his temple and called her to his office. Remy slid his hands into his pockets and tried to look unaffected, but he doubted he managed it.
Rogue had every reason to want to see the back of him. Wouldn’t surprise him one bit if she let that Papa Bear of hers slice him up and dump his sorry carcass back in the bayou. New Orleans sat between them like an uncrossable river. He had made choices there. Necessary choices, maybe. But not honest ones.
The office door opened.
Remy turned before he could stop himself.
Rogue stood in the doorway. She was wearing her uniform, boots planted like she had walked in ready for a fight. Surprise flew across her face as she spotted him. Then she leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.
“Well, now.” Her gaze flicked from Remy to Xavier, then to Logan and Scott. “What’s all this?”
“Rogue, Remy has asked to join the team,” Xavier replied.
Rogue arched a brow. “You want to join the X-Men”
Remy forced a smile. “That is the rumor currently damaging my reputation.”
Logan immediately shifted toward her. “Rogue, we don’t have to—”
“Why?” she asked, ignoring Logan.
She pushed off the doorframe and crossed the office. Remy swallowed as she stopped just in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch. He didn’t dare.
He almost smiled wider and gave her something slippery. It would be expected. But Rogue was staring at him with those quiet eyes, the same ones that had watched him from across the boat as they made their way through a swamp full of killers.
Remy slid his hands into his pockets and looked down at the worn pattern in Xavier’s rug.
“Jean-Luc,” his mouth twisted. “He wants something from me that I can’t give.”
Merde, he wished he wasn’t having this conversation in front of an audience. Hell, he barely wanted it in front of Rogue, and she was the only person in the room he owed anything close to the truth.
But he did owe her.
After New Orleans, after Blood Moon, and after every half-answer and polished lie he’d handed her with a smile, he owed her something better than smoke.
The problem was that answer barely scratched the surface. It was the truth, but not enough. It was less than she deserved. Less than he owed her. He looked up, already bracing for the disappointment. Hoping, maybe, that she’d take pity on him and give him a quick send-off before Logan decided the bayou needed feeding.
But when he met her eyes, there was a new light there. Almost warm, but for the life of him, Remy didn’t know what it meant.
Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked steadily. Rogue glanced away, gaze drifting to the window. Remy waited on pins and needles—a man awaiting sentencing.
“Seems like we're still walking those same paths,” she murmured, finally.
Remy’s jaw nearly dropped. Traitorous hope welled up in his chest so fast it was almost embarrassing.
He nodded solemnly. “Been down a few of the same roads.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Maybe one of these days we can write a book on it.”
His breath punched out of him, nearly a laugh. “Deal me in.”
“Pfft,” Rogue rolled her eyes. “Okay, Swamp Rat, enough of the card puns. You’re in.”
He’s stolen more things than he cared to count, but seeing that smile stretch across her face was worth more than any jewel in the world.
Logan crossed his arms, looking between them. “I feel like I missed a conversation.”
“You did,” Rogue replied.
She glanced down and spotted the duffle Remy had set beside the door. Before he could stop her, she stooped and slung it over her shoulder like she had every right in the world to carry his things.
She looked at the Professor. “I’m assuming the empty room in the men’s wing?”
“If you would,” Professor Xavier said, smiled knowingly.
Remy took one step after her, then paused and looked back at Xavier.
“Merci, Monsieur.”
The Professor’s expression softened by a fraction. “You can thank me by knocking next time.”
Rogue waved him toward the hall. “Come on. And just so you know, you’re cooking tonight.”
Remy trotted after her out, warmth spreading through his chest. He wondered if he could convince her to give him a private tour. Or better yet, a one-on-one sparring session. He bit down hard on the grin trying to crawl across his face, but apparently his face was a traitorous son of a bitch.
Kitty Pryde, ya'll: President and Founder of the Remy + Rogue 4ever Fanclub. In every timeline, she's out here doing the Lord's work.
Day 2: When's the Honeymoon, Ms. LeBeau?
Rogue leaned against the kitchen counter and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, mentally ticking through all the places she’d been in the last twenty-four hours.
Library.
Gazebo.
Danger room.
Rec. Room.
She wasn’t panicking. She wasn’t.
There was absolutely no reason to panic. She’d simply misplaced a stupid playing card. A stupid playing card that Gambit had slipped into her hand as she’d turned to leave New Orleans, still shivering from her impromptu swim courtesy of Julien Boudreaux.
The Queen of Hearts. His lucky lady.
Honestly, she should have thrown the damn thing in the trash. Everyone had expected her to. Except it made a perfectly good bookmark.
“Where are you?” she muttered.
“Whoa.” Scott appeared in the doorway, eyebrows climbing. “Rogue. You okay?”
Rogue pushed off the counter and shouldered her way past him.
“Peachy.”
The problem was she couldn’t exactly go around asking if anyone had seen it. Sweet Jesus, she already knew exactly how that conversation would go.
Has anyone seen Gambit’s lucky card?
The room would go silent. Kurt’s tail would lash. Logan would mutter something about Stockholm Syndrome. Jubilee would never let her live it down. She’d have to move to another country…maybe another continent.
Maybe Antarctica, she thought. Bet there’s no Thieves in Antarctica.
She pushed the door to her room open and made a beeline for the nightstand, yanking the drawer out. Maybe the fifth time was the charm.
She was about to dump the whole drawer out on her bed when a throat cleared. Rogue turned. Kitty stood by the door, grinning, with the Queen of Hearts between her fingers.
Rogue stopped breathing. “Oh hell.”
Kitty’s smile widened. “Oh yes.”
Rogue held out her hand. “Give me that.”
Kitty ignored the demand completely. “So, like, when’s the honeymoon, Ms. LeBeau?”
Rogue lunged. Kitty squealed and darted sideways, slipping around the foot of the bed.
“Kit.”
“Rogue.”
“Give me the card.”
“But inquiring minds want to know,” Kitty laughed.
“Kitty,” Rogue warned. “How’d you even get that in the first place?”
Kitty dodged again. “I found it when I was doing the sheets. It was buried under your pillow.”
Rogue’s soul left her body. “If you tell anyone, I will drain you until you forget your own name.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I might.”
“You like him.”
Rogue froze. There it was. The thing she’d been trying not to think about ever since she came back from New Orleans.
Because somewhere between getting chased through New Orleans, fighting beside him, getting shoved into a swamp, and watching him throw himself into danger for his family—Gambit had stopped being just a thief she tolerated and became someone she understood.
And she kinda hated how much she didn’t hate that.
Heat flooded up her neck. Rogue lunged again, feinting left before pivoting right. This time, she managed to catch Kitty off guard and plucked the card from her roommate's fingertips.
“Hey!”
Rogue snatched the card back and took three quick steps away, holding it against her chest.
“Rogue—”
“No.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m going to kill you.”
Rogue grabbed the nearest novel from her nightstand, slid the card safely between the pages, and pointed at Kitty. “If I hear one peep about this, I’ll skin ya alive ya hear?”
Kitty put a hand over her heart. “I would never betray your confidence.”
Rogue narrowed her eyes as Kitty stared back innocently. The silence stretched between them.
“Liar.”
“Absolutely.”
Rogue groaned. Somewhere in the distance, she could already hear her reputation dying.
Snatching the book to her chest, she turned on her heel and fled for the gazebo.
Behind her, she heard Kitty yell. “I better be your maid of honor.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rogue’s Favorite Things Gambit Cooks…(I have a list)
Beignets — The first thing he ever cooked for her, two days after moving in, flirtin’ and smirkin’ like the scoundrel he was.
Roasted chicken with garlic, herbs, and pan gravy — The most domestic thing he makes, and for a long time, that scared her half to death.
Gumbo — Warm and comforting. Like comin’ home after a long trip away.
Fried Catfish and Hushpuppies — The first time he made it was after one of her nastier run-ins with Raven. It tasted like her childhood. The plate came with no comment, no fuss… just a dang good side of remoulade sauce.
A Recreated Kosher Wedding Cake — They didn’t even bother savin’ the top tier. He just remakes it every year, and somehow, it always tastes a little sweeter.
(Bonus: Orange Chocolate Tart - if you know, you know😏)
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Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the infamous Madame Mattie Baptiste.
Since I posted the LeBeau boys I thought I'd also my Evo version of Tante Mattie from my story Reckoning.
Excerpt from Reckoning, Chapter 5
Rogue opened her mouth to greet the men in question when a loud smack echoed through the foyer, followed by a flurry of French. Spinning around, Rogue spotted Remy rubbing the back of his head while the older woman shot him a look that could have stripped paint. Mercy stood beside Remy with a hand over her mouth that didn't quite cover her snickers.
The older woman's eyes landed on Rogue before snapping back towards Remy. Then, to Rogue's utter delight, the woman reached up and twisted his ear, marching him over to her. The Swamp Rat had to stoop considerably to accommodate the woman's much smaller stature or risk losing an ear.
Stopping directly in front of Rogue, the woman let go of Remy's ear and switched back to English.
"Well go on, Honeychild. Introduce us. Properly. Like I taught you," The woman gave the Cajun a hard look. Remy raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Tante, I'd like ya t’ meet Rogue, a friend of mine. Rogue, this is my Tante Mattie." Remy said in an overly Southern genteel manner.
Tante Mattie shot her wayward nephew an unimpressed look but brushed past him anyway. Clasping Rogue by the arms, Tante Mattie pulled her in for a warm hug.
As far as I'm concerned, Tante Mattie stands five-foot-nothing and scares the bejesus out of everyone in the Guilds.
Them LeBeau Boys: Henri, Remy, and Jean-Luc LeBeau
A redraw from my first story, 'Voodoo Blues’ that I’ve been meaning to get around to.
I also used it as a chance to give Henri some hair. I will never understand how Henri ended up looking like the Professor going through a 1910s villain phase when Jean-Luc is always shown with flowing locks in the comics
The day Gambit joined the X-Men. Also the day Dr. McCoy began tracking Rogue’s blood pressure.
Laissez les bons temps rouler, indeed.
To @mynanapost and everyone who asked for shaggy haired Remy LeBeau I hope this is an improvement over the bowl cut.
Rogue glanced around the foyer at Xavier’s. At the risk of sounding cliché, it was quiet…too quiet. And in a school of unchecked mutant powers, that was never a good thing.
Earlier, she could have sworn she’d heard a motorcycle outside, but Logan wasn’t due back for a few days from his latest trip up North.
Padding into the rec room, she spotted Tabby, Jubilee, and Amara, their head bent together in whispered conversation. Their conversation came to a halt as they spotted her. Amara whispered something Rogue couldn’t hear. Jubilee shushed her loudly.
“Hey, Girl,” Tabby called loudly, waving a hand wildly, even though they were only across the empty room. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Rogue replied slowly, eyeing the trio. She didn’t trust the grin stretching over the blonde bombshell’s face.
“Anything new and exciting going on?”
Rogue narrowed her eyes. “No. Why?”
Tabby’s smile stretched impossibly wide as she hopped up. “Nothing. Have you had lunch yet? We were just going to the kitchen.”
Amara and Jubilee giggled.
Warning bells began ringing in the back of Rogue’s head. Something was definitely up.
“I’m not really hungry—”
“Great! Let’s go!” Tabby grabbed her by the shoulders and started steering her toward the hall.
“What in blue blazes is going on with y’all?” Rogue squawked.
“Nothing. Nothing,” Tabby said lightly, still shoving. “It’s just I know how you Southerners like your down-home cooking.”
Jubilee smothered a noise with her hand.
Tabby’s grin turned wicked. “And I heard we got some Cajun sausage today.”
“Cajun sausage—have y’all lost your mind?” Rogue huffed. Distantly, her mind registered the sound of voices coming from the kitchen. “Why on earth would I care about that?”
Tabby didn’t answer, just gave her one final shove through the swinging kitchen door. Rogue stumbled and cursed, trying to keep her feet under her. Regaining her balance, she glanced up. Half the Team was staring at her with looks ranging from worry to like they’d been waiting for a show.
And there, leaning against the door frame, was Gambit—in a pair of worn, low-rise jeans that probably were illegal in five states. His dark eyes glinted with open amusement.
He looked good. Real good. And Rogue immediately wanted to kick herself for noticing.
A wicked grin unfurled across his face. His eyes slid over her shamelessly from top to bottom and back up again, not caring one bit that the whole room was watching.
Her face burned.
“Chere,” he drawled. “Guess who just joined the X-Men.”
Rogue stared. A small, pathetic sound squeezed out of her throat before she could strangle it.
Five seconds. That was all it took for the Cajun to stroll back into her life and send her blood pressure through the roof.
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Gambit 0.000001 seconds after finding out Rogue didn't remember their kiss in Season 3.
Rogue ground her teeth and stomped across the patio. She squinted in the light. It was too bright out here. It was making her head hurt.
Stupid Swamp Rat. It was all his fault, too…among a growing list of other things.
He’d shown up at the Mansion three weeks ago, and now she was a prisoner in her own home. The fool was everywhere—smiling and flirting and getting too dang close for his own good.
It didn’t help that her heart kept trying to skitter out of her chest every time he leaned near her ear, or his hand brushed the small of her back when he passed.
Kitty called them butterflies.
Personally, Rogue was rooting for an undiagnosed heart condition.
It all came to a head earlier when, somehow, the topic of Mesmero and his mind control came up—a topic at the very bottom of a long list of things she didn’t like discussing.
Rogue stared. “I kissed him?”
Kitty, Kurt, and Logan all went very still.
Gambit, halfway through stealing a biscuit off the counter, slowly turned.
“You don’t remember?” Kitty asked carefully.
“I was under mind control,” Rogue said, crossing her arms. “Wait. How do you know?”
“We saw Magneto’s security footage,” Kurt said.
“There’s footage?” Rogue cried. “And nobody thought to tell me?”
Gambit leaned one hip against the counter, biscuit forgotten as a sly grin stretched across his face. “Hold up, Chere. You don’t remember laying that kiss on me?”
Logan ignored him and folded his arms over his chest. “We didn’t want to add anything else to your plate, Stripes.”
Movement in the corner or her eye caught her attention. Gambit pushed off the counter, eyes locked on her.
“Gambit,” she warned, taking a step back.
He followed, slow as honey sliding off a spoon. “C’mon, Chere. Another kiss won’t hurt. Ain’t ya curious?”
Rogue turned and hightailed it for the hallway. “You could die!”
Over her own pounding feet she heard Gambit laugh. “Worse fates spring to mind!”
She had spent the rest of the day avoiding him, slipping through side doors and peering around corners. The man was as silent as a cat when he wanted to be.
“We didn’t want to add anything else to your plate,” Rogue mimicked at the sky.
Gripping the handle of the back door, she yanked it open with more force than necessary.
As she stepped into the blessedly dim interior, Kitty’s eyes landed on her immediately. Her lips twitched, and Rogue bit back a groan. She didn’t need a mirror to know her eyes were a telltale red-and-black.
Kitty grinned. “So, I take it he got his—”
“Yes! He got his stupid kiss!” Rogue snarled, then stomped out of the room.
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