This fic is all fluff, with the barest semblance of a plot. It's meant to be a bridge between Krakoa and the August run of Uncanny. However, I am sure it will soon become obvious how little I care about and have kept up with Fall of the House of X. (Did Rogue and Gambit ever get off that plane that was their equivalent of Gendry's boat? I don't know!)

After this, I am going to post an equally plotless contribution to the Rogue and Gambit fail to have dinner as friends genre (though not here, because it is very MA), and then get back to Two Queens. I just wanted to write some mostly happy Rogue and Gambit for a bit.

Chez Nous

Even after all these years, coming home feels like a minor miracle to Gambit, an act of grace that he hasn't quite earned after he left the city with Julien's blood on his hands and a death sentence over his head if he returned. Before, he had to sneak in under cover of night, riding his bike with headlights off across Lake Pontchartrain, ditching it before he arrived and walking the rest of the way by foot. Now, he sits next to Rogue in their rented vehicle, as they pull out of Louis Armstrong Airport and into the snarl of buses, taxis, and ride-share cars that surround it.

The airport recedes behind them and the car picks up pace. Rogue's singing along to Dolly and Beyonce and Loretta Lynn, and he's glad she has rolled down the windows so he can mostly hear only the rush of white noise. Remy adores almost everything about his wife, but her singing voice is an exception. He plays with a card, making it dance over his knuckles and into his palm, practicing sleight of hand to keep his mind occupied. Neither of them wants to talk about the last few weeks, about the battles they have just waged. They'll unpack it one night over a bottle of bourbon, weep, hold each other. For now, they want to pretend that none of it happened.

Remy was the one who had the idea for the trip. They were lying in bed together in a New York Thieves' Guild safehouse, limbs still tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin. The cats prowled restlessly, ears cocked, flicking skittish tails.

"You remember how you said that this thing between us isn't less important than whatever other thing is happening?"

"Mmmhmm," Rogue replied sleepily, "I also remember what we did after that. Glad we figured out how to do that electricity thing with your powers."

"How about we focus on us for a while? A couple of weeks, before we help the others pick up the pieces?"

He braced himself, expecting her to counter with one of her infamous speeches about duty and responsibility. He'd heard a lot of them in the last few months: when she'd been asked to join the X-Men, when she'd rejoined the unity squad. I know it'll mean more time apart, but they need me. I'll make it up to you when we are together, Remy. He'd agreed. What else could he do? They'd never been codependent, and she'd vowed she'd always come back to him.

This time, though, he was going to insist. Rogue had lost weight, developed purple circles under her eyes, had nightmares that she refused to tell him about in the morning. He lined up his own arguments in response: neither of them were anywhere near their best, physically or mentally. They would be more effective after they had time to heal, prepare for the long war ahead of them. There was nothing either of them could do that would make an immediate difference to the vast and painful devastation that mutantkind had experienced.

Instead, she replied, "Mind if I pick where we go?"

"I'll follow you anywhere, chere."

He expected her to choose Valle Soleada. Orchis had mostly overlooked the small, mutant-friendly town in California. Old hippies and beach bums were apparently not high on the list of mutant threats. He could think of worse ideas than lazy days in the sun, fresh seafood with cheap beer, his wife in teeny-tiny bikinis. Maybe Rogue would teach him to fish as she'd always threatened to do. She liked to tease him about being the only Cajun who bought his fish at Greenpoint.

Instead, she surprised him by presenting him with two first class tickets to Louis Armstrong.

"I reckon it's a downgrade from flying Air Rogue, but we need to keep our heads down."

Now, they're driving down I-10 through tangles of interchanges, past nondescript office blocks and dark green trees. It's a drive he's made a thousand times before, often on his motorbike, sometimes in cars whose owners did not know they were missing them. When he'd been 15, he and Lapin had hotwired a truck and gone for a joyride down the interstate, blasting the owner's Grateful Dead CD loud enough that their ears hurt. They hadn't made it far before they'd seen the lights of a police cruiser in their rear mirror. Fortunately, he'd not been one of New Orleans finest, and had let them go in exchange for a …consideration from Jean-Luc. They hadn't been able to sit for a week after his father found out, but it had been worth it.

"Here, sugar," Rogue pulls the silk scarf off from around her head and thrusts it at him. It's daffodil yellow and flaps in the wind, "Put this on."

"Chere, I love trying new things with you, but maybe we should choose between the blindfold and road head."

"Says the man who hitchhiked halfway across the country blind," she laughs, "No, I want to surprise you, and you know this city too dang well. Though … that other use of the blindfold's an interesting idea that we should return to later."

Smiling to himself, Remy ties the scarf over his eyes. It smells of her, of her favorite coconut shampoo (co-wash, he remembers her correcting him sharply, but he doesn't quite get the difference). The silk's thin enough that he can still see his surroundings, tinted yellow.

"No cheating."

He sighs and bunches up it, so that everything is a dim and gauzy blur. He doesn't tell her that it makes no difference. He knows every inch of New Orleans. Even dead, he could make it from the Riverwalk to the Fly in time to watch the sun set.

Right now, they're off the interstate and heading down St Charles Avenue into the Garden District. They must be heading towards the mansion that Destiny left Rogue. He would have given her some credit for not repossessing it when she came back to life, but he suspects she doesn't want to share a town with him. The feeling is very mutual. However, Rogue passes the street she should have taken, and they head deeper into the district, past Lafayette Cemetery and the Commander's Palace.

Suddenly, he knows where they're going. He's come here often enough as a pup, following this same sequence of streets, dreaming his foolish dreams that even then he knew couldn't come true. He'd retire from the thieving life, Belle would leave the assassins, and they'd settle down in a quiet corner of the city to raise up a family. He'd bought a house in an attempt to pull that dream down to earth, create a place where it could live.

"Almost there, sugar."

Rogue pulls smoothly into a parking spot, and comes around to open the door for him. He lets her take his hand, not because he needs the help, but because he will never miss a chance to touch her. Her hand is warm and a little sweaty; she's nervous, he realizes.

She reaches up to remove his blindfold. He isn't surprised to find he's standing in front of his garden district residence. Its white boards and columns shine in the morning light, set off by handsome, black wrought iron and green shutters. A sprawling oak shades the front, casting dappled shadows on the sidewalk. He's pleased to see the people he pays have kept up with maintenance in his absence.

"Come on. Let's go inside."

"I didn't bring my keys, chere."

She gives him a flat look.

"It's the best lock on the market," he protests.

"Good thing you're the best thief in the world. Or so you keep telling me," she pauses, touching a finger to her lips, "Guess I could see if Fantomex is out of the World yet."

"You wound me, chere," he clasps his hand over his heart dramatically, "I'm twice as good as that toaster on my worst day."

He removes his lockpicks from his pocket, glad that the thieves are currently ahead in the arms race with airport security. A few moments, a few skilled movements, and the door is open. The lock's not his only security measure, but his biometrics should have automatically bypassed the rest. He makes a mental note to add Rogue to the database.

"And you look much hotter in a trenchcoat," she kisses him as she walks past him into the house, "You coming?"

"I know we aren't much for tradition, but I was hoping…"

Rogue hesitates, clearly thinking about how she isn't the bride he planned to bring to his house.

"You got to do it in Valle Soleada. Only fair I get a turn."

"Yeah, you hated that so much," she rolls her eyes. The first time they had been back to California after their wedding, he'd just unlocked the front door when she had scooped him up in her arms. He had protested - a man had to protest for the sake of his pride - but he had found it hot as fuck. They hadn't made it past the front entryway that time. Had barely thought to shut the door.

"Fine," she yields, walking back onto the porch, and holding up her hands, "But only because I love you."

He picks her up and she puts her arms around his neck. Rogue's a delicious armful with surprisingly soft and lush curves for a woman who could deadlift a tank. He kisses the top of her head, thinks exactly once about how he had used to imagine its chestnut and white curls would be blonde, and then lets that old dream go. He'd choose reality with his wife any day.

"Welcome home, Madame LeBeau," he sets her down on the floor, and she reaches up to kiss him on the lips.

"You're such a cornball, Cajun," she shakes her head, but she sounds pleased.

He looks around the familiar entryway. Nothing much has changed since he had left it behind as an eighteen year-old, brought an unconscious Belladonna to it many years later. The foyer is dusty and silent. The curtains are drawn over the windows, letting in only thin beams of light at each side. Heavy, white cloths cover the grandfather clock, the table, the art on the walls.

"Uh, chere, is the surprise that you didn't do anything?"

"This is why people don't do nice things for you, Remy LeBeau," she shoved him gently, "When you said that we should take time to focus on us, I thought about this place. You told me that you bought it for when you settled down one day."

"And then I said I'd never settle down," he finished.

"Yet here you are, with a wife and three furry cat babies. Seems settled to me, so I thought it was time to get your house in order," she pauses, green eyes growing sad, "Besides, it would be good to build something after all that's happened."

He puts his arms around her, pulls her tight into his chest, "Oui, it would be."

They stand together in silence for a long time, thinking about the fall of Krakoa, the deaths they saw, the actions they and their friends had to take to survive.

At last, Rogue steps away from him, visibly bringing herself back to the present moment, "And I didn't do nothing. I called ahead. Got Mercy and a crew to clean up the most important rooms. The kitchen, a bathroom … the bedroom. I remember you having an interesting idea for the blindfold."

"Thought of some other uses for it on the drive over," he pulls it out his pocket, waves it in the air. She snatches it out his hands.

"Ready to take your bride to bed?"

Without waiting for a reply, she jumps into his arms, wraps her legs around his waist. He cups a hand around her cheek, kisses her deeply. She tastes of mint gum.

"Thought you only agreed to this because you loved me."

" I still love you," she kisses him again, brushing her lips against his, "But I decided you owe me for all the times I toted your bony ass around. It's refreshing to be carried for once. I see why you and that Cleopatra lady were so into it."

"Cleo and I are both royalty, yeah," he admits, as he begins to carry her towards the staircase, "We're used to a higher standard of living. She got her litter; I got Air Rogue."

"Well, sugar, you have my permission to come aboard," she runs her hand down his chest, undoes his top button. It's a terrible cliche of a line, it shouldn't work on him, yet he feels a hard pulse of desire between his legs.

As if to deny it, "Mon dieu, and you say I'm the cheesy one."

" Hush it, Cajun, or I'll figure out another use for this scarf."

He waits a beat, smirks at her, "You promise?"

Notes:

1) Gambit talks about buying a house in Gambit (1993).

2) Gambit's blind crosscountry trip is in Rogue (2004).

3) Fantomex and the World are Giant-Size Fantomex, which is absolutely not a comic I ever thought I would reference.