|At the Bachelor Pad
Author: Paradoxically PM
What happened when Colossus, Gambit, and Pyro all moved into Magneto's base together? Chaos, that's what. CH 3 now up. What does squirrelfishing have to do with anything?Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Humor/Friendship - Pyro & Gambit/Remy L. - Chapters: 3 - Words: 4,519 - Reviews: 27 - Favs: 9 - Follows: 15 - Updated: 11-20-07 - Published: 03-11-07 - id: 3436283
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N:I'm a bad person. Those of you who follow my Twilight fanfics probably have every right to beat me senseless for writing this instead of updating. It started out as a fun, help-break-writer's-block exercise(you can probably tell this from the tone), then turned into 4 and a half pages. Anyways, so now that I've admitted that my brain hasn't been working right lately (thanks to a two week bout with the flu and then the avalanche of midterms that had me living in the library), on with this story!
Premise-- You know some pretty amusing things have to happen when you leave Pyro, Gambit, and Colossus together in one house. Let's assume that this story takes place in the X-Men Evolution universe soon after Magneto's collected his little posse. And, if I happen to be way off on some fact or something, don't skewer me, tell me, as this is my first X related fic and I've been deprived of watching the cartoons lately(Ok, so more like the past year and a half). I don't know if there's more of this story waiting in the wings or not. If you guys can tolerate it, tell me and I'll search the recesses of my mind for another chapter.
The unholy screech of laughter echoed through the Acolyte base, waking the few remaining inhabitants—luckily, the most volatile of Magneto's employees were gone, leaving only three young men behind. Or perhaps it was rather unlucky…. After all, Piotr Rasputin, Remy LeBeau, and St. John Allerdyce could hardly be trusted to do anything without supervision. At the moment, two of the three were considering reducing their numbers by one—maybe then they'd get a full night of sleep.
Remy glared at the alarm clock—what idiot got out of bed at 3:30 in the morning and ran around the base cackling? Oh yes, that was right—John, always Johnny-boy. Stupid Aussie. Must've had his brains baked to crispy little remnants in that horrid desert-land of his. His face fell back in the pillow as he wondered exactly how hard it would be to smother himself…it might just be worth it. Might require less effort than asphyxiating the Aussie.
Meanwhile, the Russian, always the pacifist, pulled a pillow over his head, too weary to even consider the possibility of beginning yet another day with St. John. The thought was just too unattractive and too conducive to misery. The base was nearly out of fire-extinguishers and it seemed that no matter how many lighters and books of matches he confiscated from John, the boy always seemed to find replacements. And yet, his conscience nagged him—he always had to be the responsible one, making sure that nothing irreplaceable caught on fire. He lay in bed a moment longer, considering the options. There was choice number one, which involved staying in bed while John pranced about the base, setting everything in sight on fire. Perhaps his mutant powers would save him from being burned alive while he slept….Option two involved getting out of bed, beating John to a pulp and hoping that that settled the matter. That probably wouldn't work, as the Australian seemed to be incredibly resilient…How unfortunate. Option three—let Remy deal with it. That one sounded good. Of course, it probably also would result in death…the Ragin' Cajun could sleep through nearly anything. He proved that the last time the Sabertooth and John had a spat.
An unexpected knocking resulted in Piotr jerking the pillow from off of his face with a groan. "Go 'way, John," he muttered, not even bothering to think that Pyro never knocked. "Remy ain't da stupid Aussie," he heard, "but we ain't gonna have a place t'live if Johnny-boy burns dis one down, and Remy ain't about t' try t' stop 'im on 'is own."
If there was one thing that Piotr didn't understand, it was why the Cajun sometimes reverted to third person speech—these Americans were so…what was that word? Oh, yes, weird! Still, he clambered out of his bed and across the room, grabbing one of the emergency fire-extinguisher—it wasn't a question of if they would need it, but of when.
He eased the door open, expecting to see a rampaging John in the hallway. Instead, he was greeted by a pajama-clad Remy, yawning and scratching his head tiredly. The Cajun had his own fire extinguisher: apparently, survival instincts were universal, no matter what country you originated from.
Remy gestured down the hall with one hand: "Da screechin' came from dat way." Piotr nodded, suppressing a yawn of his own. The last thing that either of them needed was to fall asleep there in the hallway, exposed to John's capricious acts. He followed as Remy took the lead, fire-extinguisher at the ready. As the Acolyte known as Gambit crept down the hall, he was rather surprised at the near silence: the only noise that he could discern was the faint noise of dialogue, presumably from the television. Was the idiot watching cartoons again? That would make it the third time this week… Remy just fervently hoped that he wasn't adding his own special effects again this time. No one was ever going to be able to get the smell of singed leather off of that couch, ever. A shame really—the furniture had been nice, matching, caramel-colored leather before the advent of John. Magneto had stopped replacing damaged pieces of the living room about a month ago: in Remy's opinion, it had taken the man, their supposedly brilliant leader, just a little long to figure that that would be the best approach. He peeked around the corner, expecting to see John enraptured by the TV. Instead, a peculiar sight greeted him: John was sprawled across the floor of the common room, busily muttering to himself and tapping away at an antique type writer. In front of him, two of his fire creations—people this time, they were usually animals—kissed passionately in a scene straight from a soap opera.
"Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger," St John murmured, pulling a sheet of paper from the typewriter and wadding it up. Piotr poked Remy in the back, causing him to jerk his head back into the hallway.
"De maniac is….writin'. I didn' even know 'e could read."
"Are you sure that he is not…disassembling the….machine?" Piotr whispered, searching carefully for the right words.
"Nothin' looks broken…. But dem fire-creations o' his…'e's got 'em makin' out in de livin' room."
"Making out? What is this 'making out'? Are they 'making out' with our stuff?"
"Non, Piotr, that's "making off." Makin' out is, uh, like kissin', but….jus' look for yaself."
Piotr stuck his head around the corner, made curious by Remy's inability to explain the phrase to him. He quickly jerked back, cheeks flushed heavily. Remy chuckled as his bewildered teammate commented, "It seems as if they are trying to eat each other's faces."
"Ya know, dat's a pretty good way t'put it." Remy's grin turned into a full-fledged smirk: embarrassing the Russian was just too easy.
"At least he has yet to set anything on fire," the Russian whispered, eager to change the subject. Remy's smirk grew mischievous, considering the possibility of just how very much more uncomfortable he could make Colossus…. But at the moment, there was still the problem of John. What in the world was he writing? The Pyromaniac Cookbook? Was it even possible that Johnny-boy was writing what his fire-characters were acting out? That would make it…a romance? Was St. John Allerdyce, enemy of all things flammable, actually writing a romance novel? The very idea was ludicrous—and since it was St. John, plausible. Even reasonable. Still, Remy LeBeau had learned enough about the Aussie to know not to trust to appearances. He took one careful step out into the open, fire extinguisher discreetly at his side. John didn't notice a thing: Remy took another step. Piotr followed behind, rather timidly. He'd been on the receiving end of John's fiery outbursts one too many times.
"Lessee….an' then the sheila says…says….what does the sheila say?" John muttered underneath his breath, totally unaware of his two new companions. A wide smirk crossed Remy's face: he clasped his hands in front of him, put a pout on his lips, batted his lashes, and assumed a high falsetto that was nothing more than truly ridiculous—"Oh, Charlie, darling! Don't leave me! I love you! I adore you! I wanna have your babies!" he squealed.
"That has potential. Hmm….." Pyro muttered, not even fazed by Remy's presence. In fact, it seemed rather likely that he didn't even realize the presence of his mocking audience. In all honesty, the Cajun was a bit miffed: being ignored was not something that he was used. Colossus could only watch as the Cajun, obviously acting out of sleep-deprived idiocy, began harassing John—first it was just a matter of poking and prodding. Within thirty seconds of being further ignored, Gambit did something very, very stupid—he brought his fire extinguisher out into the open. The slight snick the release pin made as Remy pulled it had John on his feet in an instant, eyes gleaming malevolently.
Piotr smacked his own forehead with one hand.
What was that emergency number again? Oh, yes—911. He had the distinct feeling that this was going to end badly. Oh dear…Colossus wasn't very good with the sight of blood.
Pyro's flame creations flickered, then coalesced to form a swirling ball of fire in his hand. He watched the tongues of the volatile substance reach out to caress his skin for a moment, then smiled wickedly. "You know, mate, I woulda thought you had it all figgered out by now—I hate them things. Fire-killers. Dumbest thing I ever heard of," he murmured as, with a deceptively gentle gesture, he set the hems of Remy's pajamas on fire. The Cajun swore fiercely, turning the extinguisher on himself. Then, in a foamy fit of rage, he charged the canister and deliberately chucked it at Allerdyce's head. John ducked just as it exploded, sending foam and shrapnel everywhere. He sat on the floor a moment, dumbfounded at the sight of the destruction…. And then, in a worshipping tone of voice, exclaimed "That was the COOLEST, mate! Do it again!"
Remy stared, completely nonplussed. Hadn't he just tried to kill him… and he was asking him to do it again?
Piotr could only shake his head in puzzlement. There could be no rules of psychology to explain these two…Shrapnel was embedded in the walls, in the couch…thankfully it had missed the TV. Without that, this next week would not be survivable—nothing else could hold John's attention for long. But it was an absolute mess—and the common room now smelled of the foam, exploded metal, burnt cotton, and burnt leg hair. Yummy. Even thinking of all the work that it would take to get the room clean again made Piotr feel tired—without further ado, he crossed the room and collapsed on the couch with a loud thump. Remy spared him a glance, envying the ease with which he was already losing consciousness. Some things just weren't fair. Here he was, covered in foam with burnt pajamas and legs with a crazed Australian staring up at him from the floor while the Russian was already snoring on the couch. Through the haze in his head, he finally remembered why they were out there—"John, what in de world are you doin'?"
"Writing, mate," he responded, rolling his eyes at Remy as if her were an idiot and it were perfectly natural for writers to work their craft in the wee hours of the morning. Of course, St John has a point, as all writers know that the inspirational and all-powerful Muse is a night owl… but Remy doesn't know that.
"What're you writin' for?"
"A book. I'm an author."
"Dat so? What kinda book?"
"Romance novel. They're big sellers."
"Wha? Romance? Ain't dat da kinda t'ing dat only a femme writes?"
"Nah, the men just write under a pseudonym. Get with the times, mate."
Remy's brain wasn't working correctly—this information was just not processing. "Ya write…romance novels? Under t'is pseudo-t'ingy?"
"Pseudonym. Yeah, and you just ruined my latest manuscript. And I know interpretative dance. Wanna see?"
The Cajun sank down to the floor, totally bewildered, muttering "Non, I…I t'ink I'm good." This was just too crazy, even at this base. Maybe if he just went to sleep it would all make sense…within seconds, Gambit was out like a light and snoring.
St John stared at the limp, sleep bound forms of his comrades a moment before turning back to his typewriter. Really, with the way that they carried on, turning fire extinguishers on him for no reason, skulking around the base at this hour, then falling asleep like narcoleptics, he could easily believe they were crazy, insane even.
Oh well, what else was a guy from Australia supposed to expect in a place like America? Crazy Yanks.
Review, pretty please? Even if it's to tell me that this is an abomination (at least then I'll know not to write any more trash!)