Hey, everybody!

I just want to thank everyone for the constant reviews. And for voting. I'm glad so many of you have stuck with me through all of my stories. You all are the best and I appreciate you. Don't forget that.


This was supposed to be a one-shot. But I think now, it's gonna be a short little chapter story. Just for fun. And right after this is finished, I'll probably go right into the next, big chapter story. The one y'all voted for. Remember that?

Oh. I guess you wanna know the winner, huh?

Oh. Okay. Drum roll please.

*drum roll*

Thigh High Boots.

Yes, yes. Not all that shocking. But the people who voted for the other two stories, fear not! For after Thigh High Boots is finished, I will be doing the other stories too. So everyone wins, some just priority over others.

I guess I can reveal a little bit about Thigh High Boots? A teaser of sorts?

The first hint I will give you is….Rogue has a problem with superheroines who wear thigh high boots.

That'll make sense later.

Well, I guess we should start with the insanity. Hope you enjoy. I'm just writing this for silly, useless fun.


On this particular day, Remy LeBeau was a man on a mission.

It was not his usual kind of mission. But when he was asked to take it, he did so with no reluctance. Admittedly, there was fear in his heart. But surely his steely determination and combative skills would be enough to see him through.


His old enemy. And by enemy, he meant the man who he paid off to not fight. The man who put him one thousand dollars in the hole. The nutcase. The Merc with a Mouth. The man who Remy LeBeau wanted to rematch.

Even if the other X-Men didn't know about how he paid off crazypants. They thought Remy had somehow saved the day, due to his ability to be awesome in general. He let them think that. But now it was his personal dignity on the line.

He had to take on Deadpool. And he had to win.

When reports of a man, armed to the teeth and wearing a red and black mask, came in, it didn't take long to realize it was Wade Wilson. No one was quite sure why Wade Wilson was terrorizing a Mexican restaurant in upstate New York, but it didn't matter. The X-Men looked to the man who had "defeated" Wilson before.

Obviously, Remy accepted. Attempted to kiss his kind-of-sort-of girlfriend, which she refused to let him do. Said a little prayer. Grabbed his supplies and was off.

Now, Remy LeBeau's eyes narrowed behind his motorcycle helmet.

He had arrived.

It was a Friday night and typically, the little Mexican restaurant was packed and busy. But on this night, the parking lot was empty, save for a handful of cars. According to Charlie, Deadpool had let almost everyone who had been there rush out the door unharmed, save for one unlucky waitress and a few cooks in the kitchen. Again, no one understood his motives. But Remy wasn't sent in to understand. He was sent in to save the hostages and defeat crazypants.

He dismounted his beloved bike, then removed his helmet. The X-Man was so consumed with his mission, he did not even take a moment to fix his hair. Instead, he pulled out his bo-staff and approached what could possibly be his death.

Never, in his life, did he think a little Mexican restaurant would fill him with such dread.

He lifted his chin. It didn't matter.

He could do this. He was Remy LeBeau. He was Le Diable Blanc. He was the Prince of Theives. He was Gambit.

He could do this.

He pulled out his prized cards. Queen of Hearts. Ace of Spades. The Joker.

His lucky lady. His calling card. His personal favorite.

Remy LeBeau drew in a deep breath. Wished he had kissed Rogue. Decided he would have to win this fight so that he could see the day when she could control her powers . Said one more prayer, even though he wasn't particularly religious.

Then he kicked the door open and marched in.


Logan was mad.

He was mad and, if he was going to be honest, he was a little worried.

Gumbo had been missing for awhile. A very long while. It shouldn't have taken this long. A fight with Wade Wilson was never an easy one but it wasn't one that shouldn't have lasted hours. But LeBeau had been missing for hours. Hadn't checked in for hours.

Logan knew that he should have taken this mission. He knew he shouldn't have let the Gumbo take this one on. Logan was the one who was familiar with Wilson. Had fought and worked with the mercenary enough times to know what to expect.

Now the Cajun was missing. The X-Men were worried. Rogue was frantic.

Not good. No good.

Logan had come to care for the Cajun in a sick, annoying but well-meaning son-in-law-so-he-had-to-deal-with-him kind of way. He didn't want the X-Men to worry. And he most certainly did not want Rogue to be upset.

He liked Rogue. Rogue liked the Cajun. Therefore, Logan had to go save the Cajun.

He just hoped it wasn't too late.

As he pulled up to the restaurant, he saw Gumbo's red and black Harley still in the parking lot, among a few other cars. The door had been kicked in. He could hear voices. What those voices were saying exactly, he wasn't sure.

Only one way to find out.

All six claws out and ready, he walked into the little restaurant.

What he found inside, he was not ready for. Without thinking, he dropped his "ready" stance, making him vulnerable.

He was not expecting this.


Scott didn't know what anyone expected of him.

Logan and Remy were two of the best men they had on their team. Logan, from decades of experience. Remy, from years of being up to no good. In fact, Scott thought if they could be in the same room together without Logan trying to decapitate him, they could probably be a good team.

But that was irrelevant.

What mattered, was that Scott didn't know what they wanted from him.

He also didn't know why the Professor kept sending them on solo missions when two X-Men had disappeared after trying to detain the mercenary Wade Wilson, aka Deadpool. But after both Gambit and Wolverine didn't return, Scott was the next one to try and save the day.

It wasn't that Scott didn't think highly of himself. It wasn't that he didn't think he was a skilled fighter. It was just that it was Deadpool.

How the hell did they think this was going to turn out?

When he pulled up to the Mexican restaurant, both of the X-Men's motorcycles were parked there. The door was kicked in. A window had been shattered from the inside. Outside of it, there was an overturned plate with the remains of a…taco? The remains of some sort of taco spilled out from under it.

What the hell was going on?

Apparently, there was only one way to find out. Scott straightened his shoulders and stepped through the ruined door.

And there was Deadpool. At a table that could seat six. His legs were propped up on the table, a very tall bottle of Jack Daniels in hand. The bottom part of his mask was pulled back, revealing his mouth and the scarred skin surrounding it.

And there was Logan and Remy, also sitting quite comfortably around the table. Remy had a beer in front of him and Logan was also holding a Jack Daniels. Behind the men, a pretty red head stood there, a tray clutched to her chest like a shield. She looked as skittish as she did confused.

And…was that Pyro? Like…Magneto's Pyro?

Scott did not understand.

The four men sat around the table, laughing and having a good time. Like they were old college buddies who had been reunited.

"Uhh…what's going on?"

All four men looked over at him. The waitress rolled her eyes. When Remy saw him, he raised his beer good naturedly, smiling broadly.

"Scooter! What brings you here, monsieur?"

Was he joking?

"I'm here to save you," Scott answered. But it came out as more of a question. Was he really here to rescue his fellow X-Men or break up what appeared to be a drinking game? "I think."

"Save us from what?" Remy asked, sounding genuinely confused by Scott's statement.


A gunshot rang through the air. The waitress lifted her tray up in front of her like a shield, squeaking in a mix of fear and surprise. Scott instantly took a fighting stance, his hand raised to the side of his visor. He was ready to fight.

He waited for Deadpool to attack. But he didn't. He hadn't even taken his feet off the table. One of his many, many guns was pointed toward the ceiling. Scott saw a bullet hole had appeared there.

So he shot a whole through the ceiling. Why?

"I am so sick of people making the wild assumption that I'm doing someone harm!" Wilson lamented, spinning his scary looking gun around his index finger. "Why do you think your friends need saving? Do they look like they need saving?"


"Christine!" Wilson yelled, cutting Scott off. He pointed the gun at the waitress as casually as he would point a finger. She jumped, lifting her tray up a little higher. "Do you think my friends need to be saved?"

She shook her head rapidly. "No, sir."

"Do you think you need to be saved?"

She gulped. "No, sir."

Wilson threw his gun in the air so he could spread his arms out wide in an exasperated manner. "Then what's the problem?"

The gun landed on the table. When it did, it went off. Christine screamed and threw herself to the ground. Wilson, Remy, and Pyro (what the hell was Pyro doing here?) did not even bat an eyelash when the bullet tore clean through Logan's shoulder. All Wilson did was smile sheepishly with a little shrug.

"Sorry, Logan," he said.

Logan grunted, then took a swig from his Jack Daniels. The wound had already stopped bleeding.

Christine was still on the floor, her tray held over her head. Poor girl.

Scott looked from the girl to his teammates to the pyromaniac and finally the mercenary.

"So, you guys don't need to be rescued?"



"What the hell are ya talkin' 'bout, fella?"

Scott looked at Wilson. "So…you aren't terrorizing this Mexican restaurant?"

"I just wanted a chimichanga," he said with all the genuine, childlike innocence in the world. "But for some reason, when I walked in the door, everyone ran out. Is it the guns? I bet it's the guns. Maybe the katana?" He smiled. "Luckily, Christine here decided to stick around to wait on me. Isn't that right Christine?"

She whimpered.

Wilson shrugged. "And there are a few cooks in the back to make my chimichangas. They tried to leave." He pulled a knife out from his boot. "I convinced them to stay."

"So…you came all the way to New York for…tacos?"

The bullet that zoomed past Scott came so close to his face, a lock his hair fell slowly to the floor. He touched his face in shock, looking for signs of damage. No blood. No pain.

Just shock.

The X-Man slowly turned back to Wilson, who had a frightening looking smoking gun pointed at him. His mask was still rolled far enough up for him to see the frown that was decorating his deformed mouth. And the red and black mask was wrinkled, indicating he was frowning. Deeply.

"Chimichangas." He cocked the gun, his gravelly-Demi Moore voice threatening. "Not tacos. Chimi. Changas."

Scott raised his hands defensively. "Whoa. Okay, man. Chimichangas."

Deadpool still did not look satisfied. "Do you see that window?"

"I saw the window."

"Do you see it?"

"I already saw it."


Scott looked at the shattered window. His knees started to shake with fear. Why weren't Wolverine or Gambit trying to help? Bastards.

"I'm looking at the window."

"Do you know why that window is broken?" Wilson asked, his voice eerily calm. He had yet to lower the gun.

"Because you threw a plate through it?"

He nodded. "Do you know why I threw a plate through the window?"


Deadpool glanced at Christine, his gun still pointed on Scott. Seriously. Why weren't the X-Men rushing to his aid?


"Christine. Tell them why I threw a plate through the window."

She cleared her throat, peering at Scott from where she cowered on the floor. "B-because the chimichanga wasn't the best."

"BECAUSE THE CHIMICHANGA WASN'T THE BEST," Wilson repeated, waving the gun dramatically. "And what does your restaurant advertise, my darling Christine?"

"That we have—"

"That you have the best chimichangas in all of New York! That's what you advertise. And that...monstrosity was not the best chimichanga in all of New York. And when Deadpool wants the best, Deadpool gets the god damn best. So when they brought me the grossichanga…that chimi…nastychanga…that…wait. I had something for this…" He trailed off, tapping the gun to his chin thoughtfully. "Logan, do you remember what I had for this?"

He grunted.


Remy adopted a contemplative expression. There was a pregnant silence before the Cajun snapped his fingers, smiling a broad smile. "Chimiwronga."

Deadpool smiled, nodding happily. "Chimiwronga. Thanks, LeBeau."


"We're friends," Deadpool whispered to Scott, as if he were sharing some deep, dark secret. "We bonded over a mutual love of red and black."

Scott nodded slowly, not really understanding. "Uh huh…."

"Anyway, they brought me that chimiwronga—"

Remy chuckled in the background.

"—and I said to Christine 'take it back! Take this disgrace back to the kitchen!' I said. Then what did I do? Christine!"

"Yes, Mr. Deadpool?"

"What did I do?"

"You…you threw the plate through the window before I can take it back."

"I threw the god damn plate through the god damn window and demanded another chimichanga! Because I have standards, bitch."

Everyone but Scott and Christine nodded.

Then Wilson smiled, looking as friendly as a man wearing grenades could look. "Anyway, when Logan and LeBeau came in, I invited them to join me. Of course."

"Of course," Logan repeated, looking bored.

Remy just nodded.

"So, uh, how did Pyro get added into the mix?" Scott asked, because it was one of his questions that had yet to be answered.

And he had so many questions.

Pyro shrugged. "Remy invited me." Then he threw back the last of his beer.

"And why did Remy invite you?"

"I figured this was somethin' John wanted to get involved in," Remy answered. He said it as if it was the most obvious answer in the world and Scott was an idiot for not getting it right away. But then again, Remy always spoke to Scott like he thought he was an idiot. "And since he's my best friend an' all, I decided to call 'em up."

"And Remy's my best mate too. 'Ey! Shelia! Can I get another beer over here?"

Christine nodded and ducked behind the bar.

Scott stared, taking a moment to drink in what he just walked in on. "So…you're telling me that you came in here for..tac..."

Deadpool raised the gun once more.

"…chimichanga, scared half of the restaurant out of the door and held a waitress and some cooks hostage—"

"Hey! Christine is not a hostage! She wants to be here. Right Christine?"

"…yes, Mr. Deadpool…."

"—and when Gambit and Wolverine came in to apprehend you, you invited them to join you for beer and chimichangas?"

"Yes," Deadpool said.


"Yup," Wolverine drawled, sounding bored.

"Oy," Pyro added.

Deadpool took a seat once more, putting his feet back up on the table. Then he looked at Scott, smiling.

"Wanna join us?"