Bonjour! I'm glad to hear how much y'all are enjoying this. I'm also gald that no one has threatened me for not updating regularly. Thank you for that. From here on out, Rogue will be referred to almost exclusively as Marielle, and Gambit as either Raoul or Remy, but mostly Raoul. Just FYI.

Also, English speech written in quotes and italicized ("Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?") means that the words are spoken in French but neither you nor I speak halfway enough French for me to write it. Also, I'm lazy. And I won't be translating chere ever, even if he's speaking French, because it's way cuter in French and I can't bear to translate it. It loses all the Cajun Charm.

Enjoy!

-Forbala-

CHAPTER EIGHT: TRAIN

The Wolverine was in Atlanta. He had, at long last, tracked Rogue to Atlanta. He figured, if they hadn't already, they would have gotten new appearances, and so he went to every salon he could find. Finally, one woman said she had put extensions on a beautiful girl with white highlights who was accompanied by a handsome man. Finally. Wolverine asked after them, but the woman knew nothing else. They had paid in cash and hadn't used real names—just Swamp Rat and chere. Wolverine cursed. "They have to make my job harder."

X

The flight to Paris was long and both Marielle and Raoul had to walk around the plane more than once to keep their ankles from swelling and to keep from going mad. They had no idea what time it was at home, nor what the time was in Paris. They slept sporadically and ate when they were hungry. When, at long last, the captain announced that they were entering Parisian airspace and it was just past nine in the morning, Rogue immediately packed up her backpack and could barely tolerate the next twenty minutes of vectoring and taxiing. She unbuckled her seatbelt the moment the wheels hit the runway. She was one of the first people in the aisle, even though she wasn't on an aisle seat: she had quite literally climbed over Raoul, ignoring the physical and sexual discomfort it caused him.

Raoul was anxious, too, but he hid it quite a bit better than his chere. After he got a heel to the thigh and a perfectly curved rear end briefly brushed against his groin, he unbuckled his seatbelt, pulled on his backpack, and got the duffel out of the overhead storage bin.

"Come on, Raoul!" Marielle called over her shoulder, already several rows down the aisle, which was now crowded with people.

He sighed and smiled. He was glad she was so excited and happy again. She was acting like a little kid. It was adorable.

"Perdonez-moi, perdon, perdonez-moi," he said, pushing through people to catch up with his fille. "Elle est ma éspouse."

He at last pushed enough people out of the way to reach Marielle, taking her gloved hand in his so he wouldn't be separated from her again. And also just to hold her hand. It was a testament to her excitement that she didn't pull away for almost a full minute.

When they had left the plane and gone through customs, they took their bags and boarded a bus. "Where are we staying?" Marielle asked excitedly.

"I think we should keep our conversations in French from now on, ma chere."

"Okay, then where are we staying? Will we be near the Rhine, or the Eiffel Tower, or the Arc de Triumph? Will we see the Louvre? Or will we be further out?" she asked, impatient and almost bouncing in her seat.

"No, we're not staying Paris. We'll come back and tour it, but we have to get to our new place as soon as possible."

Marielle visibly deflated and Raoul laughed. She ignored him by looking out the window, but couldn't refrain from babbling excitedly about what she saw. "Oh my god, look at that! It's so beautiful! Look over there! Wow, it's so old!" Raoul smiled softly at her excitement. He was glad she was so happy, that he'd made her so happy. He put his hand on her knee and she smacked it away without even looking at him, making him chuckle again.

They arrived at the train station and Raoul had to fight Marielle to get her inside. He'd had to slide up close to her, wrap an arm around her waist and his body around hers, and whisper inappropriate things in French. She had been so surprised (and turned on, he told himself) that she had frozen. He threw her over his shoulder and carried her into the station.

Then she kept trying to peek when he bought their tickets. He turned to her. "Marielle, if y' keep peeking it won't be a surprise when we get dere. Y' don't wanna ruin all Raoul's hard word, non?"

"Come on, just tell me! We'll be there soon anyway!"

"No, I'm not telling. We'll be there soon anyway," he retorted, smirking when she flushed angrily. She was acting like a petulant child and Roaul thought it was both adorable and hilarious. Also, a bit sexy. But he always thought she was sexy.

Marielle, meanwhile, was pissed that he was keeping their new location so secret. How much would it hurt to just fricking tell her? And even though she knew he was doing it all on purpose, just to get a rise our of her, she couldn't help it. She wanted to stay in Paris and see the Louvre and all the sights and art and people. She wanted to go driving through the countryside. Logical Rogue told her that wherever they were going would be just as spectacular—Remy had a flare for the dramatic, after all—but Logical Rogue was difficult to hear over Remy-LeBeau-Needs-To-Stop-Being-A-Dick Rogue. That Rogue was a lot louder.

He had gone so far as to trip her to the floor while he whispered their destination to the teller. Dick. By the time she had gotten to her feet again, the train tickets were already tucked safely into his pocket, and there was no way even Rogue could pick a master pickpocket like Gambit.

And so Marielle sat, despondent and angry, at a small restaurant in the station, Raoul opposite her. It was her first taste of French food, and her bad mood was quickly lifted again by her excitement and the marvelous taste of the food. It was simple and cheap, but it was still fantastic and French. After a couple hours, Raoul looked at his watch, which Marielle felt sure she had never seen before, and announced it was time for them to go to the platform.

"Where did you get that watch?" she asked as she threw her trash away.

"Oh, this? It's nothing, chere, just a trinket Raoul picked up," he smiled mischievously. Marielle looked at him suspiciously and he chuckled and put an arm around her, which she promptly slapped away.

"Keep your hands to yourself, you idiot perverted thief," she snapped and, though he saw her cheeks were a little pink and he knew she didn't mean it, he put his hands obediently in his pockets.

They sat in a plush little train car, their bags on a shelf above their heads. As the train pulled out of the station and started through the city, Marielle, sat on her knees on the bench and watched the city fly by through the window, a bright grin on her face. Raoul watched her more than the city, although it was beautiful. It was simply a thing, though, a bunch of buildings and people. Marielle, his Rogue, his belle chere was more beautiful than all the great European cities and countrysides combined.

Raoul looked down at his watch, which he had picked off a French businessman. Rogue always could see through him. It read 11:15. He knew it would be at least seven before they reached their destination. Now, what could he do in eight hours to entertain himself without being thrown off a moving train?

He looked at Marielle again. She was ignoring him and had her face a mere two inches from the window, watching the city turn into country. She wouldn't notice now if he blew up the train itself.

So he got up and sat on the bench with her. As he thought, she was too engrossed in the beauty of France to notice him. He leaned over, curling his body around hers, his lips beside her ear, one hand on her hip, and as much energy as he could muster focused on his lips. He kissed her ear, letting her skin absorb the energy he provided.

She whirled around in shock and smacked her head on the back of the window. He smiled at her. He wasn't as dizzy as he had been the first time he'd tried that—this was less a kiss and more a brushing of lips on skin. He was a bit lightheaded, but not enough to warrant notice.

"Dammit, Re…Raoul! Why are doing that?"

"The way you move ain't fair, you know."

"What?"

"I don't wanna miss a single thing you do tonight."

"Are you quoting that Train song?"

"Oui."

"Well, don't! And don't touch me. You're gonna pass out and I'm gonna have to clean it up!" she snapped, but her voice was shaky and her cheeks were red. Oh, yeah, she loved it.

"Come on, chere, Raoul knows you love it."

"Do not!"

"Do too."

"Do not!"

"Do too."

"No I don't! Ah, god, stop switching! It's confusing me."

"I'll only stop ifyou confess you like it."

"I like nothing you do."

"You like it when I kiss you. You like it when I hold you and whisper in your ear."

Marielle blushed all over her neck and ears and even down her neck and into her shirt. Raoul followed the blush with his eyes, wishing he could see and touch the undoubtedly soft skin beneath that thin cotton shirt, which clung to her body as if it were part of her skin and only accented her finer physical features.

"Raoul! Stop staring!"

He jerked his eyes up to her lips, soft and pink and perfectly kissable. Unconsciously he leaned in, but was stopped when Marielle's gloved hand pushed against his chest. She quickly retracted the hand, and Raoul felt certain he knew why: he was toned and chiseled like a Greek statue with just enough definition to be breathtakingly hot. His pecs, where Marielle's hand had landed, were hard and smooth beneath his shirt. Marielle's blush deepened and she turned back to the window, muttering and stuttering.

"Just…go back to your own bench," she grumbled. Raoul ignored her and opened a book, sitting almost flush beside her.