Hi Everyone! Boy, I haven't written an X-Men Evo fic in a long time! I'm a bit rusty, so tell me if the characters are OOC (and sorry about the accents, Soy gringa… I'm a white girl Tee-Hee.)
Note: Remy has joined the X-Men and after a few (ok, ok, millions) of aggravating banters- to Rogue, that is- Gambit and Rogue decided to call it a truce and become "friends" (meaning that it was basically the same way before- I mean, who doesn't love the "chats" between Rogue and Remy?- but Rogue now actually considers him someone she can put some trust in.)
Summary: Rogue has absolutely no friends or family back in Mississippi, right? Wrong! When Rogue gets a blast from the past telling her to come home, what will she do? Rogue/Remy
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men Evo.
"C'mon, chere," he says, his red on black eyes glowing with its usual excitement, "Remy guarantees dat dis will be th' greatest gumbo y' ever tasted. Trust me."
I smirk in reply, "Cajun, I trust ya about as far as Ah can throw ya. An' it ain't far, trust meh."
We were in the kitchen obviously. Remy was trying to talk me into eating his "infamous gumbo" as I sat at the kitchen island and watched him gather ingredients and utensils for the Cajun food. He walked so he could be opposite from me, placed his elbows on the countertop, and let his hand prop his head up. He leaned towards me with that damn cocky grin of his and said, "But y' can still t'row Remy, non?"
I lean in also and said with a grin of my own, "Jus' far enough so ya'd land in a ditch full o' poisonous reptiles."
His smile grew wider. His hand slapped the counter with enthusiasm and said, "Dat's good 'nough fo' me, chere!" And off he went to begin his "masterpiece." (A/N: I know that talking in third person is one of Remy's strong qualities, but I don't think he'd use it all the time, ok?)
It was still hard for me to just sit back and do nothing. Watching Remy cook on his own made me want to get up and help him, though I know I would just get in the way. I know this isn't a big deal- what gal wouldn't want to just lay back and relax?- but I'm so used to just getting up and helping with something or just getting up and making myself busy so I won't be bored. I guess I've always been the girl who has to do something just to keep her sane. It was something I was raised to be. "If yoh so bored, git up an' make yohself useful. Heah, ya can start with the dishes. It'll be an extra load since Earl ain't heah yet," was the saying I drank down with every meal.
But living at the mansion certainly does change one's upbringings fast. I still remember the day when I threw a shirt on the bedroom floor and waited for a yell: "Girl, you best pick up that rag ya call a shirt, else Ah'll take all them rags an' give'em to the kids that really need'em." But it never came. I giggled and rejoiced, knowing that I might actually live free and easy now that I lived at Xavier's Boarding House for Gifted Youngsters.
It was then that I missed home.
Logan stalked into the kitchen, fortunately breaking my reverie before I could decide to go back to Caldecott.
Logan's nose was high in the air, and the sight made me smile. "Is that gumbo I smell?" he asked gruffly.
"Why, yes, m'ssieu Claws," Remy answered with a charming smile, "It's Remy's very own recipe. Would y' like some?"
Logan gave Remy a stern look, "I dunno. I don't want ter be one o' them people who end up in the hospital." Wolverine cracked a few kinks in his neck, ignoring the hurt expression on Gambit's face. I covered a smile by walking to the fridge and pulling out a carton of orange juice. Logan went on, "Never did like needles."
I take out a glass from a cupboard and sit back down on a stool at the island.
"Why does everyone t'ink dat Gambit can't cook?" he asked himself disbelievingly.
"Oh, now cheer up, Gambit," Ororo said, walking into the kitchen with a hand full of mail, "If it makes you feel any better, I think you can cook."
I pour myself some orange juice and sip contentedly.
Gone was Remy's woeful expression, replaced with his usual damn cocky grin, "T'ank y', Stormy." He went back to stirring.
Storm started to shuffle through the mail. She muttered as she looked at some, "Bills… bills… letter… bills… letter- hmm." She paused at a light blue envelope. She blinked, "Odd, I've never seen this name before." She looked at Remy with a curious expression, "This looks French. Perhaps it is for you."
Gambit gives a slight frown, something that's as rare as Jamie making it through a danger room session with no bruises. Remy strides over to Storm's side and peers at the envelope. His brows furrow in confusion as he says, "Non, dis is not fo' Remy. It's for Quiterie Caresse, whoever she is, though it's a belle name, non?"
I choke on my orange juice. Did he really just read that name?
Logan comes over and pats me on the back, doing more bad than good. I wave him off and try to calm myself down.
"Y' alright, chere?" Gambit asks, his eyes more mesmerizing than ever.
"Yeah," I blanch at how weak my own voice sounds, "Peachy keen, jelly bean." (A/N: ten bucks for whoever can name which musical that's from!)
Storm analyzes me severely for any indication that I might not be peachy keen. But she seems satisfied, because she says, "Well, then, since I don't think we have a student with… this name… it seems only fair to send it back to the sender. Poor things probably got the address wrong."
And with that, Storm walks out of the kitchen to the mailbox with my letter.
I make sure no one's up as I make my way towards the mail box. I look inside and see that the letter is still there, thanking whoever that can hear me for Storm not going to the post office. I take the letter and make my way to the roof, praying to the same whoever that the Swamp Rat is not up there playing his nightly game of Solitaire.
Someone must really love me, because the Cajun is not there, I sigh with relief and sit down on one of the folding chairs.
I read the name on the front: Quiterie Caresse. Yep, Remy was right.
I rip open the envelope, but I don't take out the letter. What if it's something bad? What if they tell me to take my "evil" things away from their house? What if they found out about the shirt I deliberately threw on the floor?
"Jus' open it already, chere."
Aw, damn it. Just my luck.
The stupid Cajun was behind me. I could feel the heat radiating from him as he peered over my shoulder.
"Stop breathin' ovah my shoulda," I tell him, "I can't read when ya do that."
Gambit chuckled and sat down in the folding chair next to mine, "So the letter was fo' y'? Never woulda t'ought dat."
He looks at me, scrutinizing my red face, my angry and embarrassed expression, "Yep, y' definitely ain't quiterie, chere."
"Shut up," I growl.
It's now or never, I tell myself.
With out thinking twice, I take out the letter and read out loud so Gambit could hear:
"You are cordially invited to the wedding of
Miss Stella Fields
Mr. Robert Baker
On the Twenty-Second of July, 2005
Caldecott County's Presbyterian Church, Mississippi
The reception is at
Diana's Restaurant of All Things Classical
You are allowed to bring the guest of your choice
Please RSVP by May 22, 2005
I stop reading. There feels like there's something caught in my throat and I can't say anything, I can't breathe-
I think I finally understand the expression "Lump in your throat."
Remy's voice snaps me out of my trance, "Boy, chere, y' better hurry an' respond. It's already July tenth."
What ya think? Good or sucky? Tell me please!