#rogue fluff

The moment the blackbird’s engines faded into a distant, barely-perceptible hum somewhere over the Westchester county line, Remy Lebeau knew something was wrong.

It wasn’t a logical thing. There was no psychic alarm bell, no precognitive flash. It was just… a feeling. A father’s instinct, though he’d never use that word out loud. He was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee that was more chicory than bean, when he realized the house was too quiet.

Not the good quiet. Not the “everyone’s in the Danger Room” quiet, or the “teenagers are actually doing their homework” quiet. This was the quiet of a missing presence. The absence of a certain soft humming. The lack of footsteps padding down the hallway. The missing warmth of a light-generating mutant who usually greeted him in the mornings with a sleepy smile and a request for “the good creamer, please, Remy, the one you hide from Bobby.”

He looked at the clock. 9:47 AM. You usually came down for breakfast around nine. You were a creature of habit, your internal clock more reliable than atomic time. You liked your morning routine: a glass of water, a bowl of cereal that was probably too sugary, and fifteen minutes of reading whatever thick, tragic novel had captured your heart that week before you started your training.

You weren’t at the table. Your usual spot, the one with the best view of the garden, was empty.

Remy’s brow furrowed. He took a sip of his coffee, his crimson eyes scanning the kitchen as if expecting you to materialize out of thin air. When you didn’t, he set his mug down and made his way toward the residential wing.

He passed Logan in the hallway. The shorter, hairier man was coming from the direction of the garage, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that had seen better decades. He grunted in lieu of a greeting, the way he always did when it was just the two of them and no one else was around to witness even a shred of civility between them.

“Seen de kid?” Remy asked, not breaking stride.

“Which one?” Logan grunted. “We got about twenty of ‘em runnin’ around this place.”

“De kid,” Remy repeated, as if that clarified everything. And it did, because there was only one teenager in this house who had both Remy and Rogue wrapped so thoroughly around her little finger that they didn’t even notice the string. “She ain’t at breakfast.”

Logan paused, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. The faintest flicker of concern crossed his weathered features before he smoothed it away. “She’s probably just sleepin’ in. Kid was up late last night in the library with Kurt, readin’ that bible of hers.”

Remy shook his head. “She don’t sleep in. Not past nine. Somethin’s wrong.”

He picked up his pace, Logan falling into step beside him despite the fact that he was muttering something about “overreactin’ Cajuns” and “not every little thing is a crisis.” But he was there. And he was moving just as quickly.

Your room was at the end of the hall, a corner room with two windows that caught the morning sun. Rogue had helped you decorate it when you first arrived, insisting that every girl deserved a space that felt like her own. There were fairy lights strung along the ceiling, a small bookshelf overflowing with worn paperbacks, and a framed picture of the two of you with Remy at some county fair, your face split in a wide, genuine smile.

The door was closed. That was your first mistake, because you never closed your door. Not all the way. You’d told Rogue once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that you liked knowing people were out there. That the hallway noise was comforting. That a closed door felt too much like the one your father had slammed behind you.

Remy knocked softly. “Chère? You awake?”

Silence. Then, a small, muffled sound that might have been a word or might have been a whimper.

He didn’t wait for permission. He pushed the door open, Logan crowding in behind him, and the sight that greeted them made both men freeze.

You were still in bed, which wasn’t unusual in itself. What was unusual was the mountain of blankets you’d piled on top of yourself. You were buried beneath at least three comforters, Rogue’s oversized cardigan that you’d claimed as your own, and what looked like every hoodie you owned. Only a tuft of your hair was visible, sticking up at an awkward angle, and even from the doorway, Remy could see the fine tremors running through the blanket pile.

“Petite?” Remy crossed the room in three long strides, his earlier coffee forgotten. He reached out, carefully peeling back the top layer of blankets, and the heat that hit him was immediate and alarming. It was like opening an oven door.

You blinked up at him, your eyes glassy and unfocused. Your face was flushed, your cheeks an unnatural, mottled red, and there was a sheen of sweat on your forehead despite the fact that you were shivering violently. Your lips were pale, cracked, and when you tried to smile at him, it came out more like a grimace.

“Remy,” you croaked. Your voice was raw, scraped clean of its usual warmth. “M’okay. Just… cold.”

“You ain’t cold, chère,” he said softly, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. The heat that met his skin made him hiss through his teeth. “You’re burnin’ up.”

Logan appeared at his shoulder, his gruff demeanor evaporating the instant he got a look at you. “When’d this start?” he asked, his voice low and serious.

You shook your head weakly, the movement clearly costing you. “Last night. After Kurt and I… after the library. I was reading and I got really cold and I couldn’t get warm and…” A violent shiver wracked your small frame, cutting off your words.

“Why didn’t you call someone?” Remy asked, and there was something raw in his voice. Something that sounded almost like fear.

Your eyes, usually so bright and full of light, were dull with exhaustion. “Didn’t want to bother anyone. The girls are gone. You were up late. I thought… I thought I’d just sleep it off.”

Logan made a sound in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a sigh. He’d already pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen. “I’m callin’ the Professor. Or Jean. One of ‘em can turn this thing around.”

“Non,” Remy said sharply, the word cutting through the room.

Logan looked up, one eyebrow raised. “You got a better idea, Gumbo? Kid’s got a fever that could fry an egg.”

“I got it,” Remy said, already moving. He was peeling blankets away, not all of them, just enough to get to you. “She don’t need de whole team comin’ back. She needs rest, fluids, medicine. We can handle dis.”

“Handle it?” Logan’s voice was incredulous. “She’s sick, Remy. This ain’t a card game you can charm your way out of.”

“I know what it is,” Remy shot back, gently scooping you up despite your weak protests. You weighed practically nothing in his arms, a fact that made something in his chest tighten painfully. “And I ain’t gonna be de one to call Rogue in de middle of a mission to tell her de kid got a fever. She’d be back here faster dan you can say ‘Southern Comfort’ and den de whole operation is compromised. We got dis.”

He was already carrying you out of the room, your head lolling against his shoulder, the borrowed cardigan wrapped around you like a cocoon. You made a small, pitiful sound, your fingers weakly clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and Remy’s heart clenched.

Logan stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the Cajun disappear down the hallway with his bundle of feverish teenager. He was already pulling up his mental list of things to do: temperature, medicine, fluids, something light to eat. He was already cataloging the contents of the medicine cabinet, the fridge, the pantry.

He was also, despite his grumbling, already moving.

The next three hours were, in Remy’s words, “a goddamn disaster.”

They’d set you up in the main living room, on the large sectional couch that faced the fireplace. Remy had declared that your room was “too isolated” and that you needed to be somewhere they could keep an eye on you. Logan had grumbled but hadn’t argued, mostly because he’d been too busy building a fire that would actually stay lit and not fill the room with smoke.

You were currently curled up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in what Logan had dubbed “the blanket burrito.” It consisted of the three comforters from your room, two wool blankets from the hall closet, and one incredibly ugly crocheted afghan that had been a gift to the school from a well-meaning local grandmother. Only your face was visible, and it was still that worrying shade of mottled red.

Remy had taken your temperature three times in the last hour, not because he didn’t trust the thermometer but because he didn’t trust the numbers it was giving him. 101.3. 101.8. 102.1. Each reading made his jaw tighten a little more.

“Medicine,” Logan said for the fifth time, coming back from the kitchen with a glass of water and a small white packet. “Kid needs to take somethin’ to bring that fever down.”

Remy took the packet, examining it like it was a bomb he was about to defuse. “Dis de stuff Hank made? De ‘kiddie-friendly’ formula?”

“S’what it says.” Logan pointed to the label. “‘Coke flavor. Easy to take. Suitable for adolescents.’”

You made a small sound of protest from the couch, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Don’ want it,” you mumbled. “Tastes bad.”

“It can’t taste that bad, chère,” Remy said, already moving toward the kitchen to mix it. “It’s supposed to be Coke. You like Coke.”

“It lies,” you said, with the kind of absolute certainty only a feverish teenager could muster. “It’s a liar. It tastes like poison.”

Logan snorted. “Dramatic, ain’t she?”

“She gets it from Rogue,” Remy called from the kitchen, and Logan could hear him rummaging through the cabinets, probably looking for a cup that wasn’t chipped. “You shoulda seen Anna Marie last time she had de flu. Told me she was dyin’ for three days straight. Demanded I read her de will she’d written in her journal.”

“She wrote a will?”

“Four pages. Left me her leather jacket, left de kid her collection of vintage vinyl, and left you a note dat said ‘stop leaving your cigar butts in my potted plants, you absolute animal.’”

Logan’s lip twitched, almost a smile. “That sounds about right.”

He busied himself with the fire, adding another log, adjusting the screen. He was acutely aware of you on the couch, the way your breathing was just a little too fast, the way you kept shivering despite the heat radiating off you. He’d seen you in the field, calm and competent, using your light to shield civilians, to guide them to safety. You were brave. You were strong. But right now, you looked so small.

Remy came back with a small glass. The liquid inside was a murky brown, and even from across the room, Logan could smell it. It was… not Coke. It smelled like artificial cherry, burnt plastic, and something vaguely chemical that made his nose wrinkle.

“Here we go, petite,” Remy said, his voice pitching into something soft and coaxing. He sat on the edge of the couch, gently easing you upright against his side. “Just a little sip. Get dat fever down.”

You looked at the glass like it had personally offended you. Your nose wrinkled. “No.”

“It’s medicine, chère. You gotta take it.”

“It tastes like butts,” you said, and Logan choked on air, a surprised laugh escaping him despite himself. “Like someone melted a tire and poured it into a Coke can.”

“It can’t be that bad,” Remy said, though he was eyeing the glass with considerably less confidence than before. “It’s medicine. Dey make it so kids can take it.”

You shook your head weakly, burrowing back into your blanket pile. “You try it.”

“What?”

“You try it,” you repeated, your voice muffled by fabric. “If it’s not that bad, I’ll drink it.”

Remy looked at Logan. Logan looked at Remy. There was a long, loaded silence.

“She’s got a point,” Logan said finally, crossing his arms. “You wanna make her drink it, you gotta prove it ain’t poison.”

“It ain’t poison,” Remy said, but his voice lacked conviction. He looked at the glass, then at you, then back at the glass. “Fine. Watch dis. Dis is how a grown man handles his medicine.”

He brought the glass to his lips. He took a sip.

The next ten seconds were some of the most satisfying of Logan’s life.

Remy’s face went through approximately seventeen different expressions in the span of a breath. There was confidence, then confusion, then dawning horror, then a full-body shudder that rattled his teeth. His throat worked, visibly struggling to swallow. His eyes watered. His nostrils flared.

He made a sound. It wasn’t quite a gag, but it was close. It was the sound of a man who had just tasted something that should not exist in any civilized society.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est que cette merde,” he wheezed, shoving the glass onto the side table like it was radioactive. “What the fuck.”

Logan’s grin was wide and entirely without mercy. “Told you.”

“Dis—dis—” Remy was coughing now, actually coughing, one hand pressed to his chest like he was trying to keep his soul from escaping. “Dis is de worst t’ing I ever put in my mouth. And I once ate a live crawfish on a dare in de Bayou. What de hell, Hank.”

“It tastes like butts,” you said from the couch, your voice small but vindicated.

“It tastes like butts,” Remy agreed fervently. “It tastes like someone set a tire fire in a chemical plant and den bottled de runoff. I’m so sorry, chère. I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you.”

Logan was laughing now, a real laugh, deep and rough. “Goddamn scientists,” he said, shaking his head. “Got all that fancy technology and they can’t make medicine taste like anythin’ but hot garbage.”

“We ain’t givin’ her dat,” Remy declared, pushing the glass as far away from you as possible. “I don’t care if de fever hits 105. She ain’t drinkin’ dat. We’ll find somethin’ else. We’ll call Hank. We’ll—we’ll crush up some Tylenol in apple sauce or somethin’.”

“Already thought of that,” Logan said, and there was a note of genuine regret in his voice. “Checked the cabinet. All we got is this stuff and the adult capsules. Can’t give her those.”

“Den we go to de store.”

“We got a sick kid on the couch and no one else to watch her.”

“Den you go to de store.”

“Why do I gotta go?”

“‘Cause I’m de one takin’ care of her,” Remy said, gesturing to where you were already starting to drift off again, your eyes half-lidded, your breathing evening out. “I’m de one she trusts to hold her. I’m de comfort parent.”

Logan’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re the comfort parent?”

“Oui. I’m de fun one. De one she comes to when she wants to hear stories about de Guild, or when she wants someone to read her poetry in a French accent. You’re de—de other one.”

“The other one.”

“De scary one. De one who growls at people who look at her wrong. De one who’s good for threats and teachin’ her how to throw a punch.”

Logan stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, slowly, he looked at the couch, where you were now fully asleep, your face pressed into a pillow, one small hand peeking out of the blanket burrito to clutch at the edge of Remy’s sleeve even in unconsciousness.

“…Fine,” he said, and the word came out gruffer than he intended. “I’ll go to the store. But you gotta keep that fever down. Cool cloths. Fluids. Don’t just sit there lookin’ pretty.”

“I never just sit dere lookin’ pretty,” Remy said, with a wounded dignity that was completely undermined by the fact that he was already reaching for the throw blanket to tuck it more securely around your shoulders. “I’m a man of action.”

Logan was already at the door, grabbing his jacket. “Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Don’t let her get worse.”

He was gone before Remy could reply.

The fifteen minutes became thirty, then forty-five, because the nearest pharmacy was twenty minutes away and Logan had apparently decided to personally test every single brand of children’s fever reducer before making a selection.

In his absence, Remy had settled into his role as “comfort parent” with a dedication that would have been comical if it wasn’t so sincere.

He’d pulled the armchair as close to the couch as physics would allow, close enough that you could keep hold of his sleeve while he ran his free hand through your hair in slow, soothing strokes. He’d found the remote for the television and put on something soft, some black and white movie that was more about the music than the plot. He’d positioned the fire screen to cast the perfect amount of warmth, not too hot, not too cold.

And he’d carried you.

Not just from your room to the couch. Every time you stirred, every time you made that small, pitiful sound that meant you were uncomfortable or cold or just vaguely unhappy, he was there. He’d scoop you up, blankets and all, and carry you to a new spot. The other end of the couch. The armchair, with you curled in his lap like a kitten. The chaise lounge near the window, where the afternoon sun could warm your face.

You never complained. You never fussed. You just let yourself be carried, your feverish weight negligible in his arms, your face buried against his chest, your breathing slowly evening out each time.

At one point, he’d tried to get you to eat something. Toast. Soup. Even just a few crackers. But you’d looked at the food with the same expression you’d given the medicine, your nose wrinkling, your lips pressing together in a line of absolute refusal.

“Not hungry,” you’d mumbled, and when he’d tried to coax you anyway, you’d turned your face into his shoulder and simply… stopped responding.

So he’d given up. For now. He’d try again later. For now, it was enough that you were resting, that the fever hadn’t spiked, that you were safe.

He was in the middle of adjusting your blanket situation for the seventh time when the front door opened and Logan stomped in, a plastic bag dangling from one hand and a scowl on his face.

“Pharmacy was out of the grape,” he announced, dropping the bag on the coffee table with more force than strictly necessary. “Had to get the berry. And they were out of the liquid, so I got the chewables. Hope the kid doesn’t mind chompin’ her medicine like a grown-up.”

Remy peered into the bag. There were three boxes of chewable tablets, a bottle of electrolyte solution that was supposed to be “watermelon splash,” a box of saltine crackers, a can of chicken noodle soup, and a bag of sour gummy worms that he was almost certain Logan had bought for himself.

“Berry flavor,” Remy said, pulling out one of the boxes. “Is it gonna taste like butts too?”

“Only one way to find out.”

They looked at each other. They looked at the box. They looked at you, still sleeping, your face peaceful for the first time all day.

“You try it,” Remy said.

“The hell I will. You’re the one who made her try the other stuff.”

“I didn’t make her. I offered. Dere’s a difference.”

“You’re the comfort parent,” Logan said, and there was a definite edge of mockery in his voice now. “You be the one to taste-test the kid’s medicine.”

Remy opened his mouth to argue, but a small sound from the couch stopped him. You were stirring, your eyes blinking open, glassy and unfocused. You looked from Remy to Logan to the box in Remy’s hand, and a flicker of understanding crossed your face.

“Is that… medicine?” you asked, your voice still rough.

“It is, chère,” Remy said, his tone gentling immediately. “Chewable dis time. Berry flavor.”

“Does it taste like butts?”

Remy looked at the box. He looked at Logan. He looked at you.

“I’m gonna find out,” he said, and before Logan could stop him, he’d popped one of the tablets out of its foil packet and put it in his mouth.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Remy chewed. His expression was carefully neutral. He chewed some more. His brow furrowed slightly. He chewed again, and then he swallowed.

“Well?” Logan demanded.

Remy took a moment to compose himself. “It ain’t… good,” he said slowly. “It’s… medicinal. But it ain’t… butts.”

“That’s the most qualified non-answer I ever heard.”

“It tastes like de inside of a medicine cabinet,” Remy admitted. “But it ain’t gonna make her gag. I t’ink. Maybe.”

You were watching them both, a small, exhausted smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You guys are weird,” you said.

“We’re weird?” Logan crossed his arms, fixing you with a glare that had been known to make hardened criminals confess. “We’re not the one who decided to get a fever the one day all the responsible adults are out of the house.”

“Didn’t plan it,” you mumbled, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Just happened.”

“Well, un-happen it,” Logan said, but he was already moving toward the couch, his gruff demeanor softening in a way he would deny to his dying day. “Come on. Time for medicine. You take this, then you drink some of that electrolyte stuff, then you try to eat some soup. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Closest thing you got right now. Open up.”

You made a face, but you let Logan help you sit up, let him press the small purple tablet into your palm. You looked at it with deep suspicion, turning it over in your fingers like it might explode.

“It’s really not that bad,” Remy said, and he was probably lying, but he was lying with such sincerity that you almost believed him. “Just chew it fast and wash it down with de water stuff. You won’t even taste it.”

“That’s a lie,” you said.

“A creative truth,” Remy corrected.

Logan snorted. “Just take the damn medicine, kid.”

You took a deep breath, shoved the tablet in your mouth, and chewed as fast as you could. Your face scrunched up immediately, your nose wrinkling, your eyes squeezing shut. Remy was there with the bottle of electrolyte solution before you could even swallow, pressing it into your hands, helping you take a long drink.

“See?” he said, when you finally lowered the bottle, your face still twisted in disgust. “Wasn’t so bad.”

“It was bad,” you said flatly. “It was really bad.”

“But it wasn’t butts.”

“…It wasn’t butts.”

“Progress,” Remy declared, and Logan actually laughed.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of blankets and bad television and small, quiet moments.

Logan made the soup, opening the can with more violence than necessary and heating it on the stove because he refused to use the microwave for “anything that’s supposed to be nourishing.” He brought it to you in your grandmother’s favorite mug, the one with the faded flowers on the side, because he’d noticed you liked it better than bowls.

You ate three spoonfuls before you started to fade, your eyelids drooping, your head listing to the side. Remy caught you before you could spill, easing you back against the couch cushions, tucking the blankets around you with a gentleness that belied his usual flamboyance.

“She didn’t eat enough,” Logan said, his voice low.

“She ate what she could,” Remy replied, just as quiet. “We’ll try again later. De fever’s comin’ down. It’s workin’.”

Logan grunted, but he couldn’t argue. The flush in your cheeks was fading, the fine tremors that had wracked your body earlier were gone. You were sleeping now, truly sleeping, your breathing deep and even.

They sat in silence for a long while, the fire crackling, the television playing some old western neither of them was watching. Remy had moved back to the armchair, close enough to reach you if you stirred. Logan had taken up residence on the other end of the couch, his feet up on the coffee table, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the flames.

“We did good,” Remy said eventually, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t quite pride but was close.

Logan didn’t answer for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, gruff. “We did alright.”

“Gonna tell Anna Marie we handled it like pros?”

“Hell no,” Logan said, and this time there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice. “You tell her the kid got sick, she’s gonna worry. You tell her the kid got sick and we handled it, she’s gonna ask questions. Next thing you know, she’s gonna want a full report. Temperature readings. Medicine dosages. Soup consumption metrics.”

“She ain’t dat bad.”

“She made you read her will last time she had the flu.”

“She’s… thorough.”

Logan snorted. “She’s a control freak. And she’s gonna know somethin’ was up the minute she walks in and sees the kid’s been moved to the couch.”

Remy considered this. “We tell her de kid wanted to watch movies. Dat we had a… a movie marathon.”

“She’s gonna ask what movies.”

“We tell her we watched… what’s dat one you like? De one with de horses?”

“The Man from Snowy River?”

“Oui. Dat one.”

“You think Rogue’s gonna believe a sixteen-year-old girl who reads poetry about death and hangs out in the chapel with Kurt wanted to watch a thirty-year-old Australian horse movie?”

“We tell her she was sick. Fever made her delirious.”

Logan laughed, a real laugh, deep and warm. “You’re a terrible liar, Gumbo.”

“I’m an excellent liar. I’m just lyin’ to de wrong person.”