For @littlestartopaz: Rogue/anyone really, with AN (“Have I entered an alternate universe or did you just crack a smile for me?”) from this post
Remy LaBeau, it’s gonna be Remy La-Fucking-Beau, because I am shipper trash and Rogue/Gambit is my hill to die on, y’all. Also, since Rogue’s life sucks PRETTY BAD, I’m going to try to write actual fluff tonight. This could be almost any continuity—I’m kind of visualizing the potential future of the MacAvoy, Fassbender, et. al. movies, because I saw Apocalypse twice in a week and that’ll do stuff to you. I don’t really like writing out accents, so feel free to mentally sub them in—Rogue’s from Mississippi, Remy’s from New Orleans, in case you didn’t know.
“Oh m’God, who’s cooking, that is amazing,” Rogue called as she swept into the mansion and was hit by a wall of smoky-sweet warmth spilling from the kitchen. “Is that jambalaya? Am I gonna have to do extra Danger Room sessions or somethin’ for that?”
“That depends, ma chérie,” the man at the stove said, turning and shooting her a smirk. “What’re you prepared to do?”
Rogue scowled. “Knock y’out and step over you,” she said without missing a beat, flicking a white lock out of her eyes with a long, black-gloved finger. She gave a small hop and landed on the kitchen island, legs crossed and her eyes narrowed.
“You wound me, chére,” Remy said, turning back to the large pot sitting in front of him and giving it a critical look. “Deeply. Here I am, tryin’ to make ma tante’s jambalaya, and ma belle dame sans merci comes in and issues threats to my person. Should report you.”
Rogue’s derisive snort earned her another smirk, this time accompanied by a wink. Remy’s eyes glittered in the bright light of the kitchen, and with his overlong hair scraped neatly back from them into a short ponytail, the black and red was stark. He wore an apron that had probably been crisp and white before he started cooking, but was now liberally splashed with various foods around the black text reading Kiss the Cook.
“You’re ridiculous,” she said, and he chuckled, waving a wooden spoon absently through the air and gaining another few speckles of half-complete jambalaya. “Seriously, why’re you making jambalaya? Poison?”
“I would never,” he said, whipping around with a face full of offense and alarm. “My Tante Mattie taught me how to cook, if I poisoned her food the Brotherhood would never need to worry about Gambit again. She would know.”
“You are a grown adult man, Gambit,” Rogue said, raising her eyebrows at him and fighting the impulse to laugh at his wide-eyed look. “You are twenty-three.”
“I am a grown adult man who knows he doesn’t wanna die for poisoning Tante Mattie’s jambalaya,” he said, rummaging through the closest drawer until he found a spoon. “No age limit on self-preservation, belle. And I told you to call me Remy, ma chérie. Here, taste.” He dipped the spoon into the pot and offered her a bite of beef and tomato. Rogue pressed her lips together and glared at him, and he poked the spoon at her again. “Come on, for Remy, it’s good. Mmmm, jambalaya,” he cooed, waggling the spoon. “Delicious spicy jambalaya.”
Rogue felt her lips quirk up, cheeks twitching as she fought to keep the glower on her face.
Remy made a rumbling noise in his throat, like an airplane coming in to land, as he swooped the spoon at her again, and Rogue’s lips parted, her eyes crinkling in amusement as she giggled.
“Ma chérie,” Remy said, straightening up in shock and grinning. “Have I entered an alternate universe or did you just crack a smile for your Diable Blanc?”
Rogue scowled at him again and grabbed him by the wrist, steering the spoon into her mouth and chewing as pointedly as she could manage. It was hard to look angry as the taste spread over her tongue, though, she had to admit. The jambalaya was, as promised, delicious, rich and hot and spicy, the beef tender and the tomatoes mixed perfectly with the rice. She swallowed and repressed the impulse to hum in satisfaction.
“Did y’put whiskey in that?” she asked, nodding at it. Rogue wasn’t really supposed to know that there was alcohol in the mansion—everyone knew that Logan kept some, but stealing it was bordering on suicidal, so everyone pretended that he didn’t. It was known among the faculty, though, that there was a liquor cabinet hidden in the pantry. Rogue, still a year underage to drink, had acquired this knowledge from Professor Xavier, Ororo, Logan, and Scott’s psyches after absorbing their powers on a handful of occasions. Logan’s psyche, which she considered to be a decent if angry roommate in her cluttered skull, had outright told her and dryly suggested an excursion.
“Un peu,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger close together. “You like it?” She didn’t reply, but reached out and picked up the container of cayenne pepper, holding it out to him silently. “You liked it,” he said in satisfaction, and took the pepper, adding a pinch to the pot. “This’ll be ready in about dix minutes, ma chére. Grab a couple bowls and wash ‘em out, oui?”
“Oui,” she said dryly, intentionally mangling the accent as she slid off the island and grabbed a pair of the dirty bowls stacked by the sink.
“Ma chére Rogue,” Remy groaned, and she snickered.
“Is anyone else gonna want jambalaya?” she asked, eying the bowls. “I can wash more. Y’know,” she added with a frown, “we live in a house with two telekinetics and an industrial dishwasher. Why’re there always dirty dishes stacked around?”
“B’cause teenagers are useless,” he said, and she laughed again. “Your laugh is trés belle, Rogue, you should do it more often.”
“I laugh all the time,” she said, scrubbing the bowls with soap and a long-handled brush to keep her gloves as dry as possible.
“Around me, then. I feel left out.”
“And we wouldn’t want that. Just us, then?”
He grumbled under his breath, then raised his voice to audible levels again. “Anyone else wants, they can wash their own damn bowl. C’mere, ma chérie, give me those.” He scooped one bowl out of her hands with a towel and dried it briskly, and Rogue eyed him as she delicately set the other bowl on the counter, rubbing at the damp spots on the fingertips of her gloves ruefully.
“So why’d you make this?” she asked, nodding to the pot. “Special occasion I don’t know about?”
Remy finished drying the bowls before he spoke, and gave her an uncommonly serious look, black and red eyes fixed on hers. “It’s your birthday next week, Rogue—non, don’t argue with me, I’m a thief, I know everything. I’m gonna be gone on a mission for the professor, so I thought I’d do something now. I know the rest of the school doesn’t know, so…little taste of somewhere close to home, oui? Something nice for you.”
It was lucky that she wasn’t still holding the ceramic bowl, Rogue thought, or she might drop it. “You made this for me?”
“You mentioned you missed real Southern jambalaya,” Remy said with a shrug, turning to scoop a hearty serving into a bowl and holding it out to her.
“I—Remy, that was months ago,” she said, taking the bowl on autopilot. He cocked an eyebrow at her as if he didn’t understand her point, filling a second bowl for himself and turning the heat off on the stove.
“Oui, so? Bon anniversaire, ma chére.”
Rogue stood stock-still for a moment, then sighed and set down her bowl. “A’right,” she said, gesturing to his bowl. He looked bemused and she repeated the wave of her hand. “Set it down so y’don’t drop it.” He did as she said, arching that eyebrow at her again. Rogue stepped forward and pressed her gloved fingers against his mouth, and rocked up onto her toes to kiss her knuckles, directly over his lips. His eyes went wide as she stepped back and lowered her hand, slowly, from his face. “Thanks, Remy,” she said quietly.
The smile that spread across his face was bright and guileless, something she’d never seen from him before. It made her feel almost breathless, like the wind had been knocked out of her with a heavy fall.
“Anytime, ma chérie.”
