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CHAPTER 10: GOOD MORNING, X-MEN
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Rogue awoke some several hours after the crack of dawn. The sunlight streamed through tiny cracks in the window shade while the smell of bacon, eggs, toast, and Vegetarian Delight wafted up from the kitchen. She sniffed carefully, noting the lack of spice in the scent of the food. It wasn’t the Cajun’s cooking, so he probably wasn’t up yet. Fine by her.
Slipping a robe over her shoulders, she trudged down the hallway, not yet having met her morning requirement of caffine. She crossed the living room, past Davis who was still sleeping on the couch. They had decided not to move him, so as not to upset his injuries further. Until the extra medical equipment Logan had ordered came in, they didn’t want to take any chances with their beaten former member.
Growing accustomed to the daylight, she peaked out the window. A glorious day in the Garden District. The sunlight would do wonders for the plants in the back garden with the passing of the former rains.
“I’m sorry.”
“Ah beg ya pardon?”
It had been Davis. He seemed awake, but the roling of his head seemed to indicate that he wasn’t fully alert.
“Promised I wouldn’t leave. Bloody broke it. Sorry.”
“Actually, if Ah recall rightly, ya promised me ya wouldn’t die, Davey.”†
“Same thing.” he mumbled.
“Nope. Ya got scared an’ ran, but ya lived ta fight another day. When Ah saw how badly ya back got scared up, Ah was concerned that ya wouldn’t make it.”
“Why aren’t ya mad at me? Y’...s’posed to be mad at me.” he seemed to grow more dazed and confused.”
“Why? Do ya want me ta be?”
His head seemed to begin to clear.
“It’d make things a fat lot easier.”
Rogue sighed. It would make things easier, wouldn’t it? Ways back, when she had deserted Remy in Antarctica, he had been quite angry with her. They fought and she had a right to defend herself from his animosity. But once the people you hurt forgave you, how obvious it became that you couldn’t forgive yourself! Without anger to direct towards the X-men, how could Davis avoid how angry he was with himself?
“Ah don’t need ta be mad at ya, Davey; Ah figure ya’ll are doin’ that just fine on your own.”
He averted his eyes, embarrased at having held gazes with her older soul.
“How...How’s Heather?”
“Well, your ‘welcome home’ created quite a stir last night, so Ah couldn’t check ta be sure, but Ah’d guess the usual. Hurt, sad, lonely, an’ confused.” There was not malice in her tone.
“Guess I should talk to her, huh?”
“If ya ready to.”
His stomache growled.
“After breakfast?” He pointed to the kitchen.
“Ah’ll bring it to ya.” And she resumed her original destination.
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Storm had given him his orders, and he was determined to follow them. He crept like a shadown down the hall, his target in sight. He stood before the room. He opened the door with great care, so it did not sqeak. There lay his objective. Several pounds of red-eyed Cajun just laying there in dream-filled sleep, drooling on its pillow, unaware of the potential danger. He attacked.
“Seven o’ clock, Remy! Ms. Storm says it’s time ta get up!”
Remy LeBeau awoke to the sensation of a young boy with blond hair and blue pygamas bouncing on his bed and his person with early-morning enthusiasm. He made a note to himself: As prudent as it was to follow thier leaders on the field, young Richards should be advised not to listen to weather witches when they tell them when to get up. Unfortunately for Remy, it was a bit late to correct that mistake. Franklin was getting heavy, which made it hard to ignore his pouncing, and even harder to get back to sleep.
“Enough! Ok! Remy gettin’ up! REMY GETTIN’ UP! WILL Y’STOP A’READY!”
This seemed to satisfy the child, and he promptly rushed out of the room. Remy fell back into bed.
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It began with a sniff. A simple sniff of morning air. Innocently seeming. But it was immitated. Wolverine sniffed again. Something was in his room that was not supposed to be there. Sniff. Oil. Oil and metal. Logan slowly turned his head.
There is was. Standing there all alert. The tail of steel was wagging, making swishing noises in the air. The chrome-colored tongue was hanging out, making the machine appear as a real puppy would. The deadly powerful mutant known as Wolverine of the X-men cringed.
"Awww cripes...Not Again. Ok, nice puppy--good dog...can’t belive I’m flamin’ doin’ this...niiice mut..."
Rrrr--ark!
“ARRRGGHHH!” And to think that the pin-pric holes in his leg had been healing so nicely up to that point...
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The Indian X-man known as Neal Sharra took a big wiff of Vegetarian Delight.
“Bishop, I can now honestly say that your cooking is the reason I get up so early in the morning.”
“Why thank you, Neal.”
Thunderbird paused.
“What is it?”
“I can’t belive it: you didn’t call me ‘rookie’!”
Bishop scratched his goatee in thought.
“No...no I didn’t, did I? Guess you’re really not the main rookie anymore if I think about it. But don’t let it go to your head. You don’t know everything yet.”
“No, sir!” Neal gave him a mock solute. They were interupted by the house’s southern belle.
“Hey, fellas!”
“Hello, Rogue.”
“Ready to take mah order, Lucas?”
“As ready as ever.”
“Two piles o’ eggs, four slices a’ toast, and double the servin’ of meat.”
“On a diet, are we?” Neal joked.
“Very funny--make it on two plates, Bish--so happens,rookie, that half o’ that food is for Davis.”
Sharra grew serious.
“He’s up already?”
“A lil’ groggy an’ a lil’ confused, but awake. But let’s keep it down ta one visitor at a time, alright?”
“Alright. I...supose it’s for the best.”
The three X-men silently agreed. The food was ready shortly, and Rogue carried it out into the living room.
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Remy snuggled against his pillow in a most desperate manner. But try as he might, he couldn’t recall to his sleep-filled mind the wonderful little dream he’d been having about Rogue. The Cajun burried his face in the fabric. As much as he loved the boy, he was quite annoyed with Franklin right now. Bad enough to disturb his sleep, but time on a desserted beach with Rogue in a bikini? Even if it was only in his mind, it was still a dreadfully pleasant thing to interrupt. No, sir. He was not happy with the young Richards at the moment. As if on cue, the boy ran into the room and began resuming jumping on the bed.
“I said I’d be gettin’ up, didn’ I?”
“But Remy, that was forever ago! Ms. Storm says now!”
Remy rolled over. Slowly, painstakingly, he stretched as the coverlets fell from his body. He took his time: putting an arm up, putting an arm down. Putting the other arm up, putting the other arm down. Lifting his head up...
It began to dawn on Franklin that his guardian was going to take a long time with this. Becoming bored, he wandered around the room. A few pictures, dresser drawers, clothing. Boring. Then he spotted it: Remy’s Trenchcoat. Curiousity sprang anew as the boy began digging through the pockets.
An old un-opened pack of cigarrettes; gross. A lighter; cool. Lock picks; usefull. Cards; fun. Wallet; lots of fun. Blue velvet box with a ring inside; pretty....
“DON’ TOUCH DAT!”
Franklin dropped the box.
Remy immediately stopped his stretching rituall to attend the ring, checking for any damages. Franklin grew nervous.
“I...I’m really sorry, Remy! S’just...Mommy wore a ring like that once an’ I thought...”
“S’okay, Franklin. I’m not mad. Y’jus’ scared Remy for a moment dere. But try not t’go rootin’ t’rough m’coat wit’out permission, oui?”
“Uhh...oui?”
“Means ‘yes’, petite...”
The child frowned.
“...Franklin.”
“Dont’ call me...”
“I know, I know, kay? Jus’ don’t tell Rogue ‘bout dis.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause Remy not ready t’give it t’her yet.”
“Ya gonna ask Rogue ta marry you?”
“Oui.”
“When?”
“I don’ know, chile’.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
Remy LeBeau sighed to himself. Yes, indeed. What kind of answer was that?
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