PRE-A/N: Jeeze!!! Everybody keeps jumping down our throats about Remy's sexual preferences! Chill yourselves. We're not saying that Remy's going to leave Rogue for some guy (we're very adamant ROMY shippers, you know!), or that he hangs out in gay bars, or that he's a particular fan of The Village People. We're just saying that he's open minded, and he's not averse to experimenting if he feels like it on a certain occasion. That occasion would probably involve at least one female, and/or a lot of booze being consumed.
Sam was just being paranoid, quite frankly. He's still unsure of his own sexuality, so he's taking it out on Remy's over-active sex drive. And, in case you haven't read Eggrolls, Cock & Things, yes, Sam is gay, he's just not out yet. Panther and I have a pet-project of hooking him and Roberto up together. There's not much slash in this fic, though. Barely any. One little minuscule blip, and then nothing. Well, maybe some St. John quips later on, but that's all.
-Sweety: Don't worry. More booze later. Tequila for now.
-Ish: Thank you! You were the only one who was backing us up on this whole "Remy's Preferences" issue. And, of course he's sticking with Rogue. He loves her, he just doesn't know it yet. Neither does she. Little spoiler: They're closer together at the end of this fic than they are at the beginning. It's a slow process, but Panther and I are nudging them. Neither of us believe in that whole "love at first sight" drivel that some folks rely on. It's not plausible, and it's not very fun.
-GothikStrawberry: It would be hilarious to see 'Ro drunk…but not in this fic. Sorry.
-MoonSanctum: The adults aren't gone, they're just in the Prof.'s private apartments at the Institute having their own party while the kids have theirs.
DISCLAIMER: not ours in any way, shape or form. Got that? Don't sue.
CHAPTER 2
The three occupants of the kitchen looked up toward the hallway, where Storm's voice was coming from. Remy was the first to recover from that feeling of "oh shit" and took charge of the situation. He slammed back his shot, then Rogue's, then Sam's, and kept each glass after he had drained it. He then picked up the bottle of tequila, stood up, and headed for the door to the lower levels.
"Meet me in my room," he said as he ducked out.
Sam and Rogue just watched him leave.
"Did he have salt?" Sam asked.
"No," Rogue said, shaking her head. "No lemons, eithah."
When Ororo finally walked in, she saw Rogue and Sam going through the cupboards and pantry. "What are you two looking for?"
"Salt," Sam answered, his speech not even a little slurred yet.
"Oh?" she asked. "What for? The shaker is here on the table, Sam."
"Fries," Rogue said, stepping down from the little ladder that she had been using to look on the top shelves in one of the cabinets.
"You have fries?" Ms. Munroe asked skeptically, seeing that there were no fries in the kitchen.
"Yeah," Rogue said, keeping the lie going. "They'ah out in the Rec. Room. Sam stole 'em an' started sharin' 'em. Once his grubby hands've touched 'em, ya know Ah won't eat 'em. 'Parently, though, they weren't salty enough fo' Sam. Uh…would ya hand me that orange from the table?"
Ororo picked up the orange and handed it to Rogue, a not-quite-convinced expression teasing about her eyes. Rogue thanked her, and the two Southerners left the room.
"An orange?" Sam asked, his face scrunched up at his drinking partner.
"Well, a lemon an' salt woulda been obvious," she said. "'Sides, it's citrus." (A/N: Neither one of us knows if oranges would be a good substitute for lemons or not. Blame Panther!)
Sam, buzzed as he was, was the logic in this, and they continued down the hall in silence. When they were all assembled in Remy's room, the Cajun pulled out the shot glasses and tequila once again.
"What's wit' de orange, chere?"
"It's the only non-obvious piece o' citrus we had that wouldn'a tipped off Ms. Munroe," Rogue explained for the second time while using her fingers to peel said fruit.
"Well den, let's try dis one mo' time," Remy declared.
Sam and Rogue remembered how he had casually shot back the drinks that he had poured for each of them downstairs and traded very impressed looks. They knew they'd never be able to out-drink Remy any more than they could have out-drunk Wolverine, but now they wondered if they'd be passed out and he'd still be only slightly woozy.
Remy caught the feelings behind the looks his drinking comrades were tossing back and forth to each other and couldn't repress a cocky grin. "C'mon, kiddies, what we waitin' for?"
Rogue split the orange slices up amongst the three of them, while Sam readied himself for his first shot by sprinkling salt on the back of his hand. (A/N: I saw that in a movie, so I think it's right.) In very little time they were on their fourth round…or was it their seventh? It was hard to tell at that point. Sam straddled the back of a desk chair that Remy never used—the desk, or the chair—and was, for some reason known only to him, staring up at the ceiling, and feeling kind of dizzy. Rogue was relaxing in an armchair that Remy had snuck into his room from who-know-where, and she was feeling very, verrrrrry good.
"Hey, look," Sam said, pointing up. "Th'rrs a lil' cracks in the ceilin' in the shape of a Chris'mss tree."
The other two looked up—Rogue from her chair, and Remy from his seat at the head of his bed, leaning against his pillows, propped up against the headboard—and lo, there was a Christmas tree on Remy's ceiling.
"But there's no star on top," Rogue pointed out.
Sam stood up, a little wobbly, and positioned himself under the top of the "tree," near the end of Remy's bed. He lifted his arm up, extended his index finger, and, using a little bit of his power, he jumped. Plaster came fluttering down around him as he landed, and got in his mouth, making him spit and sputter, which caused Rogue and Remy to break out in laughter.
Rogue looked up at the ceiling at the now starred tree above Remy's bed.
"How'm I gonna explain dat t' administration?" Remy asked, meaning the small crater on his ceiling.
There were a few moments of quiet speculation while some of the thoughts that ran through their minds were of how to explain the ceiling damage. Most of their thoughts were too drunkenly sporadic to classify. One of Rogue's thoughts—part explanation, and part just out-there and dirty—was that the position of the crater, at the end of the bed, looked like Remy had jacked off and his cum had exploded part of the ceiling. (A/N: Are you shocked? You should know by now how down-right vulgar I am!) This thought caused Rogue to start giggling and snorting in her arm chair, drawing the attention of the two males.
"What?" they asked.
Rogue shook her head and used the shaker to apply salt to the one hand she had ungloved. "No way. Ah'm not that drunk yet."
Remy just decided to go with it. He enjoyed watching her loosen up. He always knew that Rogue was way too uptight, and now with the bubbly version to compare the aggressive outcast against, he was sure that his influence was just the thing she needed to relax.
"Hey," Sam said after he finished biting into his slice of the orange. "Why don' we get somethin' besides tequila? Ah bet Logan's got some bettah stuff stashed somewhere 'round here."
Rogue motioned frantically, her mouth full of liquid, while Sam and Remy watched in confusion. After swallowing her shot, she said, "Ah know where it is!"
"Where what is?"
"Logan's stash!"
With that, Remy stood up, Rogue jumped out of her seat, and Sam sort of stumbled out of his chair. Rogue laughed and, in a gesture of inebriated good-will, helped the Kentucky boy right himself.
Once Sam had his legs beneath him, Rogue led the way out to the garden shed. When they were in with the door closed behind them and the little Tap Lite illuminating the inside, she went over to the tool wall. A strategic movement of the #2 screwdriver opened the Batcave-like booze hall that belonged to Logan. Wide grins spread over their faces and they moved to take their choice of contraband. Sam picked up a bottle of Kaluha, despite the fact that he'd be mixing his own damn drinks. A dark brown bottle of bourbon for Remy, and Rogue chose whatever was in the clear bottle with no label.
They all trooped back inside with all possible stealth (please read with sarcasm), and headed for Rogue and Kitty's room, since it was closer to the kitchen door than Remy's room was, and they didn't want to stay in the kitchen and risk another interruption from one of the teachers. Sam paused at the refrigerator and grabbed the entire newly opened plastic gallon of milk upstairs with him.
"Ya know, Sammy, Ah think they'll notice spiked milk," Rogue pointed out after she kicked off her shoes, plopped down on her bed and started struggling to open the bottle she'd claimed.
Sam took a seat at Kitty's vanity. Once he was comfy, he took a drink of his Kaluha, then, without swallowing, he took a drink from the jug of milk and swished the two together in his mouth before he drunk the mixture down. He grinned at Rogue and repeated the process.
Remy chuckled and sat down on the edge of Kitty's bed. He switched his attention to Rogue, who was sitting, like he had been in his room, propped up against the pillows at the head of the bed, with her feet crossed at the toe-socked ankles, still trying to open the top on her drink. Given a few more seconds, he got tired of snickering at her ineffectual bottle opening skills and took it from her hands. After a bit of persuasion, Remy handed rogue back a neckless bottle, much to her amusement.
"Ooooh, the big, strong man couldn' get it open, eithah," she teased him.
"Jes' be careful wit' de sharp edges," he grumbled.
Rogue smirked at him and took a drink. As the liquid slithered down her throat, she did a full-body shudder. Seeing this, Sam started to laugh so hard he fell of the vanity stool and just laid there.
Remy took a swig of his own and winced. Very old whiskey, by the taste. He looked over at Rogue just in time to catch another shudder. He glanced at Sam on the floor, still dazed and really starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.
"Hey, chere? Since he's out of it, wanna play a game?"
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POST-A/N: Dirty, dirty minds, all of you! I know what you're thinking…
Just a little bit of nothing: while typing this out from it's original written form (cerca March 2003) I kept getting very confused about what Panther wrote and what I did. I mean, the handwriting is different, but the lines between her voice and my own got really blurred. There were things I was so sure she wrote that I actually did, and that I thought I wrote that were in her handwriting. Not that I'm complaining. I think it's really cool. Just kinda weird, and yet more evidence that she and I spend way too much time together.
That had nothing to do with anything really. I just felt like sharing.