Hello to all the faithful readers and reviewers. Thank you for your patience. The group is back with a new chapter and some new members. This chapter was written by Merr2. Please note that none of us own the X-men or anything X-men related.

He told himself he was doing this because she was putting her neck on the line to try and help them out. And he needed help—a lot of help. He'd gotten in pickles before thanks to his skittishness and paranoia, but he'd always managed to solve all of his problems in the end. But now? He wasn't so sure. Messing up a small, insignificant heist was one thing, but when the Assassins Guild and the possibility of getting exiled was involved…it was quite a different story. A horrific, nightmarish story.

Tying his apron tighter around his waist and taking a deep, cleansing breath, Etienne forced all thoughts of guilds, death, and exile from his mind and went back to looking at the recipe in front him. He'd had Remy bring him a laptop a few days prior, and in his boredom, he'd gone online to find one of Tante Mattie's old recipes. He was sure the online version wouldn't even begin to compare to Tante's random and erratic style of cooking, but he was going to try nonetheless.

Especially since Rogue would be grateful for southern food after her long stay up north—no matter how amateurish the meal happened to be. Not that he was just making it for Rogue of course. It was for himself, too. And maybe Remy.

But he was extremely appreciative. After all, she'd spared him what he guessed would've been an awful beating, she was helping in ultimately saving his life, and there was just something about her. Something graceful and mysterious and heartbreaking. He wanted to know more about her.

Blushing furiously, Etienne chided himself for his wandering thoughts and added more cayenne to the boiling pot of soup.

Even if he was interested in the green-eyed beauty—which he definitely was not—it wouldn't matter because Remy got every fille he wanted, and even some he didn't want. Whether his cousin himself knew it or not didn't matter. Etienne could see the subtle changes in Remy's smile when Rogue got frustrated or even the interest he showed whenever Rogue spoke. It wasn't something a non-family member would notice, but Etienne had been around long enough to notice such minute differences. For him, seeing Remy treat Rogue so differently compared to all the other femmes was a huge, glaring sign. There was, however, hope that maybe Rogue would stay as uninterested in Remy as she had been earlier, but he'd seen Remy work his mojo too many times before to get his hopes up simply because Rogue acted like she detested Remy.

Etienne glowered and leaned against the oven, wooden spoon in hand. What was it about his cousin that made women drop their panties on sight? Remy was handsome and suave—but so what? Etienne wasn't one to boast, but he'd had many a femme tell him how handsome he was! And so what if those femmes included his mother, Tante, and Mercy? They wouldn't lie to him.

He ground his teeth even more harshly; thinking about his cousin getting Rogue was downright infuriating. In fact, thinking of Remy in general was really starting to tick him off for some reason: all the times Remy and Theo had left the bar with women on their arms and smirked at him over their shoulders, all the times Remy had pranked him, and not to mention, all the virgin jokes and homosexual jabs he'd gotten over the years came back to him all at once. He was different. He didn't want his first time to be with a stripper just as drunk, or drunker, than he like Theo, and he certainly hadn't wanted to go out and pay une fille de joie before the hair had even appeared on his chin, like Remy and Henri had.

He wanted to spend his nights with someone sweet, caring, and intelligent. Someone like— well, someone like Rogue. Hypothetically speaking.

Giving the most pitiful sigh he'd ever heard, and admonishing himself for the fact, Etienne leaned further back against the oven and toed the wooden floor. Minutes later, his head snapped up and his nostrils flared.

In a panic, he realized suddenly that what he was smelling was his burning meal, not thick, depressing angst like he'd originally thought. He whipped around to salvage what he could, only to realize too late that the strings of his apron had somehow wriggled their way beneath the stainless steal pot.

The pot clamored to the floor, spitting up torrents of red sauce, carrots, and ground meat as it did so.

"Merde!" he growled, absolutely fed up with his infamous clumsiness, and lifted the pot, starting the lengthy process of wiping off the cabinet doors as he did so.

He should have known that things would go as bad as they possibly could, and that when he stood up he would slip on the water and sauce, and of course, that he would reach out to grab the counter and stop his fall, thus overturning the plate full of chopped onions and peppers he'd had washed and waiting. The momentum of the flying vegetables hit the bottle of chardonnay he'd picked out solely for this dinner, and it hit the ground with a shattering of glass and a rocketing release of its liquid contents. The fire increased—effectively singing the curtains over the sink beyond repair.

He looked down at the mess on the floor, then the one on the counters, then his ruined pot of soup in the sink, then to the still-burning curtains, and he screamed. He stomped his foot on the bottle, further breaking it, then threw the pot across the room in pure rage.

As good timing would have it, Remy and Rogue just happened to step in right at that moment.

…

They came to a stop in front of her home with a roaring screech, and she felt her hair standing on end. That was the last time she went on a bike ride with Remy LeBeau, whose erratic driving rivaled that of Wolverine himself. The two would get along perfectly if they ever met in another life.

It had been a subconscious reaction—tightening her hold around his waist as he sped through the intersection earlier—and nothing more. His alluring aura and smooth tongue (seconds after, she decided that thinking about the texture of his tongue was not a good thing—the thought of his mouth and where it had been made her slightly nauseas) were distracting, yes, but thinking of Remy as anything more than an enemy filled her with horror. Besides, she'd had her fill of love, lust, and anything else that fell under 'relationship' with Bobby back in Westchester. In fact, she didn't know if she could ever find interest in a man without silently comparing them to Bobby and wondering when and how they would end up hurting her.

And to add to all of that—Remy LeBeau was a conniving, using, rotting bag of flesh, and if he didn't have the means to blackmail her and ruin her reputation she'd make sure to never see him again. And more.

Rogue grinned as her hair whipped across her back. Psyche-Magneto would've been proud of her had he been able to hear the cruel and unusual ways of torture she had mixing around in her mind. Actually, thinking of ways to make it so Remy could never talk again was putting her in a better mood than she'd had all day.

Remy dismounted with a feline grace she could never hope to imitate and held out his partially-gloved hand with a grin.

She raised a delicate eyebrow, begrudgingly impressed with the chivalrous gesture. "Are you this polite all the time? Or am I just special?"

"You're just special, mais sho." He gave her a wink as they headed towards the front gate. "Very special. Special enough to need some 'extra help'."

Smile long gone, the belle's eyes narrowed and she shook her head, completely fed-up. "Every time I let myself believe that you're a nice, possibly even charming individual, you do something like that and remind me why I hate you."

He took a step back and painted his face with hurt. "How could you say that, chère? You know how sensitive Remy is!"

She threw open the screen door impatiently. "No, I have no idea how sensitive 'Remy' is." She shoved her key in the lock of the main door and twisted.

"Would you like to?"

Her face went red, and with a glare and a push, she went through the door— silently admitting to leaving herself open for that one.

"How old are you again?" she spat as they headed down the hall towards the kitchen. "Rogue can't deal with children until she gets some food in her stomach." Her teeth bit down on her lip in annoyance. There was no way she was going to let herself start talking in third person.

"You do know that talking like that is not only annoying, but it also makes you sound like an uneducated twit, too, right?"

He cocked his head to the side, and his brows came together as he sniffed the air. "You smell something burning?"

She guffawed. "Trying to change the subject, hm?" She shook her head. "You don't have to be embarrassed, Remy, really."

He gave her a look, but neglected to continue the discussion. "Mais, we're home now. We get some food and feel better, non?" He yawned and stretched his aching muscles. Following the belle around was the first real action he'd had since becoming Patriarch—and he was exhausted.

She glanced up to question him. "We're home? The last time I checked there was no mention of 'Remy LeBeau' on my aunt's will." The corner of her lips twitched, and she felt herself begin to smile. The idea of sharing a home with Remy was interesting, to say the least.

He sighed wistfully. "You sure are pretty when you're thinking."

"But earlier you said I was pretty when I was mad, and before that you said I was pretty when I was annoyed." She smirked, thinking that she had finally stumped him.

The Cajun shrugged his shoulders and threw his hands up in the air helplessly. "What can I say? Some ladies are just gorgeous no matter what they do."

It was then that Rogue became hyperaware of just how close she and Remy were. She felt the brush of his shoulder as they walked down the hall, she felt his cool breath playing with the wisps of her hair every time he spoke, and most importantly, she could hear the machines of his mind churning and clanking. He was thinking about something, albeit secretly, but she learned enough from Logan to know when someone was distracted.

She couldn't blame him for being distracted, and he was impressed—if not envious—of the manner in which he kept the tension from his shoulders and worry from his features. His flashing orbs of crimson, however, were not as easy to calm.

They opened the door just as Etienne threw a large pot against the far wall. It hit with a 'clang', then fell to the ground with a resounding thud. There was sauce, food, and water on the tiled floor and counter tops, and she could smell something alcoholic in the air.

She hadn't lived in the house long, but it was still her house, and she couldn't help but feel a sense of protectiveness. And seeing such blatant disregard of her home was just…infuriating. Especially since she hadn't yet eaten and was ferociously tired from her earlier questioning and argument with Remy.

She snapped, and poor Etienne was the receiver of her pent-up rage. "What. The. Hell?"

She saw that Etienne's mouth was open in both shock and terror, but she made no effort to conceal her disbelief and anger.

"Who do you think you are? You're a guest here, swamp trash, and guests don't ruin their host's kitchen!" She placed her hands saucily on her hips. "Jesus, it's even worse than before you cleaned up!"

"Rogue I—"

"Are those curtains on fire?"

He went ghostly white. "I got bored," Etienne stuttered, "so I thought I'd make—"

"You got bored?" Rogue clipped out, oblivious to Remy's amused chuckle and the fear of the man in front of her. "Getting bored merits destroying a perfectly good kitchen?"

Etienne wanted to salvage the situation, but he didn't have the same communicating skills as his older cousin. "Come on, Rogue. I didn't 'destroy' it, I just made a mess and—" He quickly stopped himself when seeing that her face was getting redder and more strained with every word he spoke.

"I'm sorry—"

Remy saw Rogue's growing fury as his signal and decided to step in. "Come on, chère." He grasped her shoulders and guided her away from the sulking Etienne. "Let's go get some food. And you"—he directed at his flustered cousin—"get this mess cleaned up before we get back, d'accord?"

"Your word is my duty, Patriarch," he spat.

Remy felt the sting of Etienne's tone but paid no mind. Getting Rogue away from the house and putting food in her stomach was the primary issue.

"We'll be back soon, mon cousin."

"Yeah, whatever," he heard Etienne grumble.

…

"Do you think I…overreacted?" she asked after they'd walked in complete silence for some time.

He smirked knowingly. "Just a bit. The boy's in love with you, chère. Mais, after seeing that temper? I'm not so sure you didn't scare him away."

With a bitter snort, Rogue shoved her hands in her pockets. Keeping her hands immobile was a good way to break her habit of picking at them. She'd started the habit years ago when she'd still had to wear gloves, but they had all been burned—with Logan's advice—long ago. But for some reason, after all the years of being cured, her mind still found that particular motion to be comforting.

"In that case, I did him a favor. Loving me ain't worth what it cracks up to be."

He came to a stop in front of a quaint, lighted café and placed his hand on the lower region of her back.

Instead of pushing him away like she'd done to the man at the bar, Rogue felt herself leaning into his touch. It'd been so long since she'd been intimate with a man, since before things went sour between her and Bobby, but she recognized the slow wave of desire creeping up and down her spine.

Damn her hormones and damn Remy LeBeau.

His disheveled hair fell more prominently in his eyes as he turned to regard her, and she ducked her head in horror at seeing the pity in his eyes and around his mouth. She hadn't pegged him as the caring, observing type, but she supposed it was hard for a person not to hear the remorse and aching wounds in her voice.

She was a bitter, hurting woman—and Remy could pick up on that. She wondered if he could tell her ailment was heartbreak, and if he could—what was he thinking? Was he silently gloating and smirking, or was his pity sincere?

"Is there a reason we're standing out here?" She left him on the sidewalk and entered the café. "I'm starving, you know."

"Patience is a virtue," he said all sing-song like.

"I can't believe it." She felt his warmth against her as he led her to a booth. "A thieving whore is telling me how to be virtuous." She slid into the nearer seat and rested her cheek on her poised hand. "You really do see something different every day."

"Whore?" He grabbed a salt-shaker and faked outrage. "Mon dieu, the slanderous rumors people spread about me! Remy is but a poor, kind-hearted Cajun, who just happens to know the secrets of making femmes melt in the palm of his hand." His grin was devilish. "Literally."

She willed her cheeks to remain cool, and somehow, she succeeded. Her pounding heart, however, had a mind of its own. "Poor thing, you sound so miserable."

He nodded pitifully. "Having the lovemaking skills of a god and the face of an angel is a harsh burden to bear. The femmes—" He tilted his head to the ceiling and closed his eyes dramatically. "I can't go nowhere without them putting their hands all over me!"

She rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose. "Ever heard of something called 'humble pie'? You should buy a few dozen and then come talk to me."

"Don't say that, chère! Just wish I had a femme to treat me right is all." He captured her hand and pressed his lips against her knuckles.

She could see the red of his pulsating behind his shades as he looked at her, and his lips remained on her sensitive flesh much longer than what was necessary.

She pried her hand away, and her legs unconsciously clamped together. She silently thanked the lucky stars when the waiter came to their table.

"Bonjour. I'm Barnard, and it is my plaisir to serve you today. Will you be trying our spéciale this afternoon?"

"Non merci." He scanned over the decorative menu with an air of familiarity. It took him only a few moments to decide. "The lady and I will have the frittata with a side of salade niçoise." He pursed his lips and trailed his finger down a different part of the menu. "I'll have bourbon, and for the lady—"

"I'll have an ice tea." She glared at her companion.

Barnard smiled graciously as he scribbled the order down. "The chief will have your meal ready soon, M'sieu. Meanwhile, I'll bring your drinks and gressins right away." He gave a nod in Rogue's general direction before parting.

She chose then to make her annoyance known. "What was that? I'm not helpless, Remy. I can order my own damn meal—"

He gave her a look so sultry and undressing she paused mid-sentence. "Trust me, chère. Let me choose this one thing." He licked his lips unconsciously. "Just lay back, relax, and let me do all the work. You won't regret it, Je promets."

The double innuendo was so glaringly obvious that Rogue didn't know how to respond. So she changed the subject. "Tell me about your mutation. Can you do anything cool?"

He noted the attempt at switching the topic, as well as her flushed face. He made no comment—yet. "I specialize in energy. I see it, feel it, then wield it. I'm a ticking time bomb just ready to blow."

"Oh for god's sake—"

He grinned, and for the duration of their meal together it was easy to forget. Or pretend, he wasn't sure which one. All he knew was that for a few hours, his mind wasn't wrapped up in thoughts of Belle or the guilds. He felt like pre-Patriarch Remy, before all the stress, and paperwork, and responsibility. She released him, made him laugh, made him carefree. He delighted in her furious blushing and witty comebacks. He enjoyed watching the movement of her plump lips and the sparks within her emerald eyes. He liked listening to her husky voice and eloquent manner of speaking.

He downed the rest of his glass and patted his throbbing gut. "Don't know about you, mais I am absolutely stuffed." He stood up and swayed. "Actually, I don't know if I can hold myself up—" He fell on top of Rogue, who gasped at the sudden pressure of his weight.

"Get off!" She pushed at him desperately, only to feel his head flop back atop her shoulder.

"Can't…move. So…full."

"The only thing you're full of is shit, swamp rat!" Gaining the proper leverage, the belle was finally able to wriggle her way from beneath Remy. He dropped to the chair with a 'clunk.'

"That wasn't very nice."

She was too busy smoothing her blouse and leather pants to take him seriously. "Don't care."

His eyes lazily followed the movement of her hands against the leather, and he decided that he'd very much like her in his bed.

…

ma cousine my cousin

merde shit

de travialle femme prostitute. Literally: the working woman.

mais sho of course. but of course.

d'accord okay. alright.

salade niÇoise main course salad. Includes: tuna fish, tomatoes, etc.

frittata egg-based dish

plasir pleasure

gressins breadsticks