Consolation Prize

Summary: John wants Bobby, and Gambit wants Rogue. But as long as Bobby and Rogue are together, they have to settle for what they can get SLASH
Fandom: X-men
Pairings: Bobby/Rogue, John/Bobby (One-sided), Remy/Rogue (One-sided), Remy/John
Warnings: Slash
Disclaimer: They all belong to people with expensive lawyers. I'm just screwing with them for my own twisted amusement.

Author's Note: Yes, I know my French is bad. It's close enough for the purposes of this fic

Huggles and kisses to my wonderful reviewers. I love you all.

Chapter3 - Convention Sucks

When John awoke the next morning, the first thing he did was run a mental inventory - all appendages present and correct, slight headache, and a distinct lack of clothing. However, other than this he was warm and comfortable, so he decided against moving. Or opening his eyes, which experience told him would be painful. In fact he didn't stir at all until his pillow - which had previously been extremely comfortable - moved, and he realised it was alive. There was a familiar moment of panic, in the best tradition of drunken one night stands, in which he tried to work out what had happened the previous night. He remembered the party, and then getting drunk with…Remy? He finally summoned the courage to open his eyes, and looked up into a familiar red-on-black gaze.

"Bon matin, chéri."
"Ugh. No French, please. I can barely cope with English right now."
"Ah, chéri pauvre. Je voudrais dire je sympathisant, mais tu serais je menté."
"Was I meant to understand any of that?"
"No' really, chéri."
"That's okay then."

John squinted at the clock on the bedside table, wincing as the bright sunlight streaming in through the window stung his eyes. As far as he could make out, they didn't need to get out of bed for an hour yet. Which idiot decided that Wednesday was a good night for a party anyway? But at that moment class seemed a very distant prospect. In the meantime, John was quite happy to continue using Remy's chest as a pillow, and get another hour's sleep.

All in all, this seemed like a very good plan. And it continued to seem like a good plan until an hour later, when Remy's alarm clock started shrieking at them. John, nursing an alcohol-induced headache, winced. Remy groped blearily on the bedside table, trying to find the clock and turn it off. When a closer inspection revealed that it was actually on the desk at the other side of the room, he finally gave up and rolled out of bed, John giving a sleepy mumble of protest as he was deprived of his pillow. This was succeeded by an indignant yelp as a towel hit him in the face.

"Chéri won' 'ave time for a shower if he doesn' get up now."

He finally managed to get his head together enough to sit up as Remy disappeared into the bathroom. John picked his shirt up off of the floor and sniffed it…it'd do for one more day. Shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, he staggered out of bed. He eyed himself in the mirror and ran his hands through his hair to try and get it into some semblance of order.

The sounds of running water stopped, and John retrieved his towel from the bed. Remy stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hair, unselfconsciously naked. Not that he has anything to be self-conscious about, John thought appreciatively. Convention dictated that one night stands should be awkward and embarrassing afterwards, but John had never been one to follow the conventions on any subject. As far as he could see, a good drink and some no-strings-attached sex was nothing to be regretted.

They received a few strange looks when they turned up late for breakfast together, but no-one commented. They went their separate ways, John taking his usual seat at the same table as Bobby and Rogue.

"What were you doing last night?" Bobby asked, "You never came back to our room."
John suppressed a smirk at the vivid mental replay of the previous night that had just run through his head; "Got drunk," he said indifferently, "An' can you keep it down a bit? I'm hung-over here."
"Serves you right," Bobby replied. John, attention firmly on his toast, flipped him off without looking up.

The day passed uneventfully enough until combat class, which they had immediately before lunch. Sweaty and exhausted, they headed back to the changing rooms, bitching about what a slave-driver Professor Summers was. John gratefully peeled off his shirt and shorts; both of which were dirty and soaked in sweat.

"Holy shit, John!"

John looked up, nonplussed, to see that the entire class was staring at him. Suddenly self-conscious, he looked down at himself. Oh yeah… Thinking of nothing more than a shower, he had completely forgotten that he was covered in an assortment of scratches, bruises and bite-marks.

"Did Jubilee finally have her wicked way with you?" Bobby asked, smirking.
John snorted; "Yeah, right. I'd rather die."
"Who was it, then?" John didn't dignify that with an answer. Deciding he'd had enough of this conversation, he went on the offensive.
"Why you so bothered, Drake?" he asked with a wicked grin; "Jealous?"
"No!" Bobby said vehemently, glowering at their sniggering audience. John's grin widened – he was in control, and he knew it; "I don't…I'd never…"
"You are such a closet case," John said, "Don't even try and deny it." A triumphant smirk hovered on his lips as he turned and headed towards the showers, taking a twisted delight in Bobby's furious blush and the mocking laughter of their classmates.

Not really paying attention on the way to get his lunch, John almost walked straight into someone. He started to apologise, then fell silent as he realised who it was.

"Bonjour," Remy said lazily. John waited to see if more was forthcoming. When the silence drew out, he felt obliged to say something.
"I don't know where you get the drink, but thanks for sharing."
"Chéri enjoyed 'imself, den?"
"Yeah."
"Well in dat case…dere's plenty more where dat came from." Remy grinned and walked away. It would have sounded to anyone listening that he was talking about the drink, but John new for a fact that there was none left…

He blinked at the receding figure. Unless he had spectacularly misinterpreted their conversation, Remy had just said that he had really rather enjoyed the previous night, and wouldn't be averse to a repeat performance. By definition a one-night stand was only supposed to happen once. But once more, John decided that convention could just go on and do its thing without him.

"And why not?" he murmured, a sly grin spreading across his face. Maybe this time he could even avoid the hangover.

Translation:
Ah, chéri pauvre. Je voudrais dire je sympathisant, mais tu serais je menté – Ah, poor dear. I would like to say I sympathise, but you would know I was lying.

(More or less…I know the roots are right, but I have a feeling I've conjugated mentir wrongly)