Title: The Graveyard Shift
Author: Lucia de’Medici
Fandom: X-Men: Evolution
Pairing: Rogue/Gambit, as observed by one Jean Paul Beaubier (with vague hints at Iceman/Northstar)
Summary: Remy is sneaky. Rogue is suspicious. Jean Paul is... utterly indifferent.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, crack
Word Count: 1,212 words
Notes: Written for Irysangel on livejournal for the music meme that's been circulating lately, and based on “What Do You Do for Money Honey” by AC/DC.

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The Graveyard Shift
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“Ah hafta know.” She made it sound as if there was no room for argument. He couldn’t be sure, but Jean Paul was noticing a trend at the Institute when it came to anyone afflicted with a speech impediment born from living below the Mason-Dixie line. The Southern Belle was just as bull-headed as her creepy Cajun boyfriend – er - or was that last week? He couldn’t keep track of their on again, off again status anymore than he could be certain that Kitty Pryde wouldn’t poison him when it was her night to cook.

“Rogue,” JP said patiently, with the practiced airs of those weaned before the paparazzi – or an underpaid daycare worker speaking to a small child. Whichever. “There is a common phrase used so often amongst the plebian hoards that it pains me to have to repeat it now: oftentimes, ignorance is bliss.”

“Oftentimes, my fist makes a good substitution for the bliss-makin’, sugah,” she fumed. “Particularly, when it involves my man comin’ home at four a.m. smelln’ like the underside of a brothel.”

“What do you intend to do? Hit yourself in the head?”

At Rogue’s dour expression, and more to the point, the immediate threat of her bared fingers that indicated a sure trip to the infirmary and a splitting migraine later for trying to gift her with his sound advice – he sighed, deciding it was a lost cause.

Stubborn as a mule. JP glanced at her as if to gauge the seriousness of the situation: eyeliner smudged, trademark purple ballet top tied haphazardly, knees poking through her jeans. Bad. (Or… un instant, sil-vous-plait… wasn’t that her normal attire?)

“Like a brothel, you say?" Jean Paul chose not to remind her that the Cajun elected to ignore that the mansion was equipped with several showers and two baths... His excuse being something about anything other than swamp water causing an allergic reaction in the nether-regions. In all honesty, JP assumed that part of Remy's charm had to be the stench. It made more than just one woman, currently exhibiting proprietorial ownership, insane:

Rogue squared her shoulders, stiffening to the point of painfulness. She recited, counting the offenses off on her fingers: “Dinner is at six. Training at eight. Remy disappears at ten, just after Stargate: Atlantis –”

Jean Paul raised an eyebrow. Remy’s sort-of-but-not-right-now-girlfriend was racking up the creepy points, he decided. They were practically made for each other, esti!

“ – Curfew at eleven. Henry’s closes at three. Ah wait up as long as Ah can, then when Ah wake up at seven, there’s another stupid playin’ card stuck to my mirror or in my boot or in my underwear drawer or Ah end up pullin’ it outta my –”

She flushed. Jean Paul raised en eyebrow.

“Nevermind.”

She pounded her fist into her palm, the gloves making a dull thwacking noise. (He understood Rogue’s dissatisfaction with her mutation: there was nothing that sounded better than skin slapping against skin, in his opinion – not that he was sharing that particular tidbit with anyone at the Institute… save maybe one individual, and perhaps the psychics. But that was unavoidable, by the by.)

“Didn’t he take you for dinner last weekend?” Jean Paul asked lightly, rocking backwards and looking thoughtfully out across the grounds.

“What’s that got ta do with anything?” she demanded.

“How did he pay for it?”

Rogue paused. “He sad he wasn’t doin’ that no more,” she answered, caution making her assurance a little less certain. Merveilleux: being dialectically challenged didn’t equal to outright stupidity. “He promised me that when he finally signed on with Xavier he wasn’t keepin’ in contact with the Thieves Guild. He swore that his brother Henri was runnin’ the family business, and that he’d reformed. He promised.”

“Hmm,” said Jean Paul, investing his interest in his nails.

“Ruh-formed!” she repeated. “That’s the exact word he used.”

“Two syllables. Impressive.”

“What else could it be, if he ain’t workin’ again? Do you think he’s runnin’ around on me? You think he’s cheatin’?” Her expression darkened. “You don’t think –” she began, and then stopped abruptly. “He’s back,” she hissed.

Sure enough, she’d spotted him: across the snow-dappled grounds, a lone, lank figure skulked around the periphery of the property with the lupine sort of grace that came from years and years of skulking. Years. (JP felt it bore a little repetition.)

Sure, Remy LeBeau was a handsome devil – Jean Paul wasn’t blind, for chrissake – but it’d do Rogue worlds of good for the man to be rid of that god-awful trenchcoat. Remy, not so much: but Rogue’s “little problem” of being attracted to the resident shady bad boy with an equally mottled past wasn’t helped at all when he popped his collar and did that smoldering thing with his eyes.

Tabarnac, sometimes even JP felt the heat of that look. (Pity, he preferred the cold. He gave a mental shrug. Oh well.)

“Screw this!” Rogue declared, standing. “Wait here,” she commanded, marching off across the lawn at a brisk clip.

Jean Paul sighed, shaking his head. “Rogue!” he called after her half-heartedly, knowing it would do no good. The girl, as they say, had enough self-possession when she set her mind to something to plough through concrete walls. (Residual bit of Juggernaut’s psyche hanging about, he figured.)

At the edge of the property, Gambit slithered out into view. Jean Paul tipped his head to the side. The smarm warning seemed to be up high today, it appeared: even yards from each other, the smutty miasma that all but demanded, “Come and gettit!” wafted halfway across the grounds. The pair of Southerners ought to bottle and sell their hormones. They’d blow Lauren, Klein, Gaultier and every other frou frou perfumer straight out of the market with that particular, heady musk. Dieu. Jean Paul almost wanted to pull out a handkerchief and cover his nose by the time they met in front of the ornamental fountain.

“Here we go,” he muttered, watching Rogue jab Remy in the chest accusingly.

She flailed her arms.

“And in five,” Jean Paul hummed.

Remy smirked with his entire body.

“Four.”

She poked him again.

“Three.”

He shook his head, opened his hands in plaintive deference, tried to take her elbows.

“Two.”

She batted at him. Tore off a glove.

“One.”

Remy inclined his head. Rogue skipped her bare hand altogether, gripped his lapels, and laid one on him.

Jean Paul yawned, shutting his eyes momentarily and squinting up at the bright winter sky.

A sharp, French curse rang out in the stillness – delivered by distinctively feminine vocal chords. It was followed by the muffled whump! of a body hitting compacted snow.

“Ah,” said Jean Paul. "Relationship perks."

Blinking, he saw Rogue stalking back across the property alone, a small parcel gripped in her fist. Remy’s toes were two perfectly shined, alloy-tipped nibs sticking up through pristine white.

Jean Paul tracked her with a shrewd gaze as she came abreast of him, glowering. Taking note of the slightly smeared lipstick, the extra pout to her grimace, and the tiny jewelry box she squeezed like a stress ball, he asked lightly, “Well?”

“What day is it today?” she barked.

“The thirteenth,” he replied with a knowing grin. “Of February.”

“Stupid Cajun,” she muttered, stalking off.

“What’s in the box, Rogue?” Jean Paul called after her, springing from his seat on the portico.

“Two paychecks worth of the nightshift at McDonald’s!” she snapped.

Jean Paul flinched, biting back a peal of undignified laughter at the thought of Gambit wearing a hairnet and brandishing a spatula.

Creepy or not, there were just some secrets a man was entitled to keep to himself.

-fin-