Stories in this series
Soon after the birth of Rogue and Gambit's son Luc, Gambit's adoptive father Jean-Luc reveals to Remy the truth of Remy's origins.
"The Cherry Cookie Incident"
Luc and Remy both learn a lesson when Luc steals a batch of Storm's fresh-baked cookies.
"The Sphinx's Question"
Remy bristles with fear when Rogue asks him The Question Which Has No Right Answer.
"Gotta Learn Them All"
Remy tries to familiarize himself with his son's interests by learning the names of all the Pokemon.
On their fifth anniversary, Rogue and Gambit try to break their anniversary celebration curse.
Gambit comes down with a cold and hopes for a little extra TLC.
"Saturday Morning in Salem Center"
Gambit takes his son Luc shopping so that a pregnant (and morning-sickness-plagued) Rogue home with some peace and quiet for the morning.
"The Cabbage Patch"
Jealous of all the attention his new baby sister is getting, Luc tries to send her back to the Cabbage Patch, where his playmate Ainet says all babies come from.
DISCLAIMER: Characters are Marvel's,
except for Luc who belongs to his parents. Seriously, would you
want to fight with Rogue over him? I know wouldn't! Comments to
Apart from that, this story is probably a PG for a few single entendres
and for multiple references to Gambit's tush. :D
The Sim Salem Project
The Sphinx's Question
Luc LeBeau, world-famous adventurer and explorer, was in search
of the fabled Idol of Lost Lemuria. Accompanied only by his brave
if less renowned companion, Ainet Munroe, and sustained only by
several hefty portions of chocolate cake, he had trekked many miles
and overcome many dangers on his quest. He had escaped the attention
of dangerous tribesmen having a ritual feast (who had looked uncannily
like Jean and Logan on a picnic), made his way through a crocodile-infested
swamp (which had been a particularly interesting mud-puddle), and
had just crossed the Misty Mountains (whose step-like formation
had astounded both him and his friend). Despite all these setbacks,
his faithful, indefatigable friend and he continued undaunted on
their journey, despite exhaustion, heat and...
"Can we stop, Luc? I'm tiiiiiiired," the defatigable Ainet whined
from a few feet behind him, where she was perched on the summit
of the Misty Mountains, "It's almost tea-time too and your dad said
he was making bay-a-nets."
"Sure, de game's messed up now, anyway," he sighed, then added
with the gloomy air of a sage foretelling bad news, "Maman will
make me bath, ya know. Bet Indiana Jones' maman never made him bath."
Her chubby face screwed up in a grimace, "You don't think she'll
make me bath?"
"Prob'ly," he came to sit beside her on the mansion's steps, removing
his backpack from his shoulders and placing it carefully beside
him. It contained such valuable treasures as the latest Superman
comic, an admirable plastic spade that was perfect for finding beetles,
the beetles found with said admirable plastic spade and a box of
"She might be up here at the mansion," Ainet suggested hopefully.
With natural French pessimism, Luc replied: "Maman's always where
you don't want her to be. She's like ... Batman, 'cept we're not
evil. Dieu, Ain, I don't know why all Mamans t'ink dirt is evil.
So, de real question is whether you think Poppa's beignets are worth
bein' washed for..."
Humming to himself, Remy set aside another batch of golden beignets
for Rogue to dip in honey and put on the serving platter. Between
them was what he fondly imagined to be a comfortable silence where
both parties were so in tune with each other that they did not need
words to communicate. He glanced across at her, unable to repress
a slight, proud smile for all the six years of marriage that had
passed between them.
Today, she had braided her hair, white streak snaking down her
thick, chestnut plait, and had clipped a few vagrant strands back
with twin, glittery clips. A green waistcoat, resplendent with a
lizard-pattern that was obviously inspired by Escher, set off a
white blouse and black jeans. As a final touch, she was wearing
her favorite pair of well-scuffed boots. He was not sure which was
cuter on her - the clothes, the smudge of flour on her nose or the
tiny, perplexed crease in her forehead - and gave up trying to decide.
She was the most perfect woman he had ever met, he thought, and
he was the luckiest man alive to have her as his wife.
"Honey?" the object of his undivided adoration, the love of his
life and heart of his heart, turned to him with a speculative look
in her eyes. He felt his silly grin become sillier, as, mentally,
he swept the mixing bowls and ingredients off the table, consigned
the beignets to burn and calculated the odds of their son walking
in on them.
Her lips parted, "Do y'think Ah'm getting fat?"
The words were more effective than the coldest of showers. Remy
felt his heart sink into his expensive sneakers, knowing that he
probably wouldn't leave the kitchen in one piece now. He would be
lucky if he did not need major surgery. He had always known that
the time would come when Rogue would ask him the Question. He had
thought he would prepare himself for it, going so far to read books
and magazines with titles like Bridget Jones' Diary and Sassy
as research. However, although he was now all too familiar with
how to wax his legs and get that special guy to phone him, he was
none the wiser as to how the Question could be answered with minimal
pain on his part. Indeed, he had just become more aware of what
his beloved wife would do to him when he made a hash of the answer.
Swallowing convulsively, he ventured: "I t'ink you're perfect jus'
de way ya are."
Her eyes narrowed and he knew he had said the wrong thing - not
that there was a right response to the Question, "Just th' way Ah
am? So you're sayin' that Ah am, LeBeau?"
He glanced around the room in desperation, working how long it
would take him to reach the door and whether he would manage to
do so before Rogue threw the boiling oil after him. There was no
question of her missing him. She had the eye of a trained sniper
and the arm of a terrorist who was far too accustomed to hurling
grenades and molotov cocktails for his comfort. For all Rogue had
left her illegal past behind her more decisively than he had or
ever could, she still retained Mystique's teachings and her attitude
towards the proper way to manage a man. Raven probably strongly
approved of regular doses of boiling oil to keep a husband in line!
He decided it would be wise not to risk first-degree burns on his
ability to break the land-speed record. Perhaps it was not too late
for flattery, after all..."
Cherie, when le Bon Dieu made ya, He wept because He knew dat nothin'
else in His entire creation could match up t'ya," he said sincerely
as he assumed his most charming, lopsided grin. That smile alone
usually answered any pressing questions that women might have had,
like "Your place or mine?" and "Can I buy you a drink?", but, unfortunately,
his wife seemed to have grown immune to it. If anything, it seemed
to infuriate her further. Her eyebrows contracted. Her lips tightened.
Her hands went to her hips. He could see her eyes scanning the room
for a small, breakable object to hurl at his head.
"Gawd, LeBeau, now you're avoidin' th' question," she tossed at
him, her voice rising by the syllable, "It ain't that hard t'answer.
Am Ah fat? Yes or no?"
He held up his hands, thinking desperately about what answer would
result in less pain on his part. If he said 'no,' which was the
logical answer, Rogue would accuse him of lying to appease her,
would come to the stunning conclusion that she was a hippo and would
proceed to make him sleep in the dog-kennel for a month. (The fact
that they had neither a dog nor a kennel in which to put it would
not deter her in the least.) If he said 'yes', the net result would
be the same, although it would possibly be reached a little quicker...
"Told ya Maman would be home," his son piped from behind the door,
and Remy thought that Luc had never sounded sweeter to him or been
more welcome than at that moment. He was like a life-buoy thrown
to a drowning man; a call from the governor while a prisoner was
being strapped into an electric chair; a pair of earmuffs at an
O-Town concert. He could use Luc as a pretext to escape the kitchen,
then return in a few hours time dripping chocolates, flowers and
"Can I get back t'ya on dat one, cherie?", he threw over his shoulder
as he sprinted for the door, "Luc needs ... uh ... Luc needs shoes
an' I said I'd take him t'de mall."
He scooped up his surprised son and dashed for the car, leaving
Rogue to yell behind him that 'Mystique was right. Ah should have
dumped yo' ass long ago, especially as it's also startin' to look
a little flabby.' That said, she slammed the door with enough force
to splinter the wood and he heard the crash and chime of glasses
breaking in the kitchen.
Remy sighed and added diamonds to his list.
Clasping her hand tightly over her mouth to stifle her giggles,
Rogue watched Remy contort in front of the mirror to get a better
view of his tush. He had not seen or heard her enter, so engrossed
was he in checking whether or not it was as flabby as she had said.
It was easily the funniest sight she had seen in years. He had an
intent expression on his face as he twisted from side-to-side and
peered at his reflection. From time to time, he touched his butt
gingerly as if afraid of what he might feel. He even kept up a constant,
murmured monologue in French about having to exercise more and having
eaten too many beignets. He obviously was worried, she thought with
a pang of contrition - she had overheard him earlier asking Luc
if he thought poppa had put on weight. It had been cruel of her
to suggest it, especially as he still had the nicest one she had
ever seen. Wallets of small change would have bounced off it without
"You aren't still worried 'bout what Ah said earlier?" she drawled.
He jumped at the sound of her voice, a guilty flush stealing over
his cheeks at being caught.
"Ya don't t'ink m'derriere is flabby den?" his eyes had something
of a mischievous twinkle as he looked at her.
"Ah never said that, Monsieur LeBeau," she raised an eyebrow, "In
fact, Ah'm so unsure that Ah wouldn't want to give you an answer
without ... uh ... proper examination of the parts in question."
"I'm prepared t'go along, Madame Darkholme, but only f'r de sake
of research, ya understand."
"Perfectly," she laughed, "Now turn off th' lights...
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