PI LOG: Vigil Ending -- Remy and Rogue
Remy takes solace from bad dreams in seeing Rogue is alive and well, if only sleeping. He doesn't manage to make his great escape before she wakes, however, and there are a few awkward moments of explantion that seguey neatly into breakfast.
Pryde and Wisdom's House -- School House Road
It's a morning so much like every other morning; calm and warm, with spring trickling in around the edges of the curtains and birds beating the air with their frantic songs. Even this close to the university, everything is sleepy and peaceful for the moment, everything in its right place.
Well, maybe not everything.
For Rogue, there will be at least one thing out of place in this tranquil scene will be a certain Cajun. He's kneeling at the side of her bed as if he's been waiting for her to wake in a pair of jeans and his Ace of Spades t-shirt, boots still on his feet and head cradled against his bare arms. He seems to be sleeping peacefully, his back rising and falling with breathing, a placid expression over what parts of his face can be seen that erases years' worth of lines.
It's nice, waking up on a morning like this, with noplace to be and no hurry to get up. Rogue stirs a little, drawing in a deep breath and rolling onto her back before she fially opens her eyes. Seeing Remy there, though, wakes her up quite a bit, and she sits up, reaching automatically for her gloves, to peer at him. "...what *are* you up to."
Remy appears to be up to dreaming. Good dreaming, if his expression is anything to go by. Rogue's movements on the beds only lead the Cajun to shift a little, burrowing his head deeper into the protection of his arms and away from the light. No, don't want to wake up yet.
Rogue can't help but smile, a little, and it's with markedly more careful movements that she eases herself out from between the covers and off the other side of the bed onto her feet. Provided Remy doesn't wake, she'll steal barefoot across the room to gather up a fresh change of clothes, and duck into the bathroom to dress.
Part of him is trying to wake up, and the other part is struggling valiantly with the idea of staying asleep. It's with a distinctly puzzled air that Remy finally pulls awake, straightening a little from where he's been leaning against the bed and staring at the sheets in confusing for a few moments. The more he looks at them, the more Gambit is convinced he's going to turn around right into an awkward situation.
He'll be able to hear water running in the bathroom sink, briefly. It's a minute or two more before Rogue emerges, dressed and with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, face washed, and gloves on. "Well," she drawls, "good mornin', sunshine."
Remy turns slowly to face Rogue, as if he expects her to be angry, his hair spilled across his face and making his expression hard to determine. That is, beyond the guilty, broad grin he's offering her as he settles with his back against the mattress, legs out in front of him. "Mornin'." Maybe if he pretends he belongs here she won't say another word.
He's not quite *that* fortunate, but Rogue at least seems more amused than annoyed. "An' just what is it you're up to, sugah?" she wonders, pausing most of the way across the room from him and propping a hand casually against her hip.
Remy looks around a moment as if something in the room might save him before he tries, cheekily, "Sittin'?" He pauses, but it's clear that isn't going to work, so he takes a deep breath and pushes his fingers through his hair. "Jus' bad dreams. You know me an' my track record wit' dem. Leas' dis time I didn' do not'in' dumbass." He was good, even if a little creepy?
A little sympathy sofftens Rogue's grin, and she lets that hand drop, wandering a few steps across the carpet towards where Remy's sitting. "Yeah," she says. "Feelin' better now?" When she reaches him, she offers down a gloved hand to help him up.
"Yeah," Remy affirms. He doesn't need Rogue's hand to help him up, but he takes it anyway just because the contact is nice. "Didn' mean t'be here when you woke up. Jus' needed t'know you was okay, an' I guess I was more tired dan I realized. Desole."
"S'all right." Rogue dismisses the apology with a little shake of her head, not much concerned. "Why didn't you wake me up?"
The Cajun shrugs a little, pushing his fingers through his hair again. "Didn' need to. You didn' look like you needed wakin'." Remy is loathe to admit that watching Rogue sleep has been something he's done in his occasional moments of upset since long before Beacon Harbor started to mess with his head, long before he even knew what 'Beacon Harbor' was, mostly because when he really confronts the habit is seems disturbing.
That brings a little laugh from Rogue. "S'all right," she says again, and reaches up to ruffle Remy's hair once his own fingers have pushed through it. "But now that we're up an' at 'em, Ah s'pose you're prob'ly hungry, huh?"
"If I say yes, will you make me food?" Remy asks, his expression all sly, as if this has all been some sort of clever ruse to get him a free breakfast. As if he would have had to do anything more complicated than asking.
"Well," she answers easily, "if ah don't feed you, Ah'm gonna have t'put up with you makin' sad eyes at me an' snitchin' from my plate while Ah try t'eat breakfast, so Ah guess Ah better make enough for you too, huh?"
Remy grins brightly at Rogue, executing a funny little bow as if allowing her to leave the room in front of him. "See, don' I make decisions so *easy*? Oughta be 'round for alla dem."
Rogue laughs, bright and clear this time, and nudges Remy towards the bedroom door. "Yeah, yeah. Maybe I'll shrink you down an' keep you in my pocket t'be my conscience, like Jiminy Cricket. C'mon, honey, what're you wantin' for breakfast?"
The Cajun pauses, blinking at Rogue in something like playful horror even as he's pushed out the door. "Don' say dat, dis city'll figure out a way to make it happen, an' I ain't got no designs on bein' two inches tall." Remy will gamble down the stairs like a spring colt, however, all legs and noise, as he ponders her question. "I don' know, what're you offerin'?"
Rogue clatters aimiably down after him, hmming. "Well, Ah dunno," she admits. "Gonna have t'see what we got in th'fridge. Pancakes sound all right? Or maybe an omelet..."
"Eit'er or's good f'me, chere." Remy says, brightly, turning at the base of the stairs to grin back at Rogue. "'Dough omlettes ain't fun 'les you got a lotta stuff to put in dem." Gambit's version of 'omlet' bursts at the seams with veggies.
"Well," Rogue answers, and pauses to grin down at Remy before she hops over the railing and drops the last few feet to the ground. "Just gonna have t'see what we got."
Amused, Remy shakes his head as his trajectory changes for the kitchen, that telling light of mischief beginning to fire in the back of his eyes. "How do you *live*, not knowin' what's in de fridge?"
"You'd be amazed, honey." Rogue breezes into the kitchen ahead of Remy, heading straight to the fridge to open it up and lean her head inside. She's humming to herself as she opens up the produce drawer to rummage around in it. "Lessee, we got some peppers here..."
Bending over, Rogue is presenting Remy with the temptation of a lifetime, but for once and for whatever reason the Cajun keeps his hands to himself. Instead, Gambit comes to lean his arms on the top of the open fridge door, peering in over Rogue's head. "What else?"
It's even odds whether Rogue is oblivious to the temptation she's presenting to Remy or whether she's well aware and actually enjoying it in her own perverse way. "There's a tomato, an' - lessee--" She leans in a little more, digging into the back of the drawer. "Got some mushrooms here too."
"Fungus." Remy intones, for no other reason than he can, letting the word reverberate with some sort of doom. "Any cheese? I don' know how dese Passover rules work. Is Passover still happenin', even?"
"Oh, yeah," Rogue answers, straightening up a little bit. "Plenty of cheese. Passover Ah dunno 'bout, bein' as Ah ain't Jewish. Somethin' 'bout flat bread an' herbs - beats me. Anyhow, we got food."
Remy shrugs, gesturing with one hand. "Well, more I mean what dey're 'llowed an' ain't 'llowed to have in de house, but if dere's peppers an' cheese an' tomatoes an' eggs I ain't complainin'." He might have arranged for a little ham or seafood, if it had been all left to him, but Gambit isn't going to be *picky*.
Rogue shrugs. "They ain't been by, so Ah'm figurin' they ain't countin' what's over here. Looks like there's some bacon, too, f'you want somma that in. Or we could do pancakes, considerin' you're better at this shit than Ah am an' Ah don't wanna listen t'you complainin'." A wink tossed over her shoulder lets him know she's teasing.
"If you're gonna grouse about de whole t'ing, I can jus' make breakfast m'self," Remy says, as if it's the biggest possible imposition she could come up with to place across his shoulders. His grin belies the idea, however, that the Cajun could certainly think of worse fates than being stuck in a stocked kitchen with Rogue.
"Not if you're gonna be a big whiner 'bout it!" Rogue sing-songs, bending back into the fridge to pull out the carton of eggs and set it on the countertop. The entire produce drawer follows, and then a package of bacon.
Remy grins, slyly, and hops up to sit on the counter next to the fridge, ostensibly away from where Rogue will be doing the preperation. "Works out for me, den, I get to sit an' supervise wit'out riskin' choppin' my own fingers off. *You* ain't gotta worry 'bout sharp knives."
"Okay then." Rogue nudges the fridge closed with a foot and goes to the stovetop to turn on a burner and start heating up a skillet for the bacon. "You wanna keep an eye on this for me, honey? Or's that too dangerous for you?"
"Oh, I don' know," Remy eyes the skillet warily, as if it might just be too dangerous. "Can I figh' back if it starts spittin' hot oil at me?" He snaps his fingers with a little burst of magenta between them for emphasis.
Rogue pauses in the act of pulling a knife out of the knife block to roll her eyes at Remy. "You may *not* blow any more holes in Kitty's kitchen, boy."
Remy almost looks insulted--almost--his eyes skittering to the hole in question briefly. "So, what, you wan' me to go into dis battle unarmed? Dat's *real* sweet of you, chere."
Rogue snorts inelegantly, looking away from Remy to set about slicing peppers on the cutting board with careless disregard for the sharpness of the knife. "An' since when d'you need t'be armed t'handle a hot skillet, honey? You gettin' sloppy in your old age."
"Aw, now I'm really insulted. Dere's a diff'rence b'tween sloppy in m'old age, an' lazy in de mornin'. You least gonna give me a fork so I don' havta burn my fingers turnin' dis stuff over?" Remy leans over a little to peer in the skillet before looking back up to Rogue, just a hint of envy at the way she wields the knife.
Rogue lays down the knife long enough to tug a long-handled, two-pronged fork out of a drawer and offer it over to Remy, handle-first. "This good enough, your highness?" she teases.
Reaching out to take the fork from Rogue, Remy draws it close, giving the thing an impossibly complete once-over. Once he's done, he 'snf's quietly, tilting his head up a little so that he can look down his nose at the bacon even as he arranges it for better cooking. "It'll havta do."
Shaking her head, Rogue returns her attention to chopping the peppers. "Picky, picky. Ah dunno how you ever get anything done, you gotta be such a perfectionist. Wanna turn on th'radio, darlin'?"
Having flipped the bacon over to make sure the other side cooks as well, Remy looks from the skillet to the boombox. And then stretches, pronged fork in hand, trying to hit the radio's power button without doing anything drastic like getting up.
Rogue finishes chopping the pepper before she looks up again and sees what Remy is up to. And rolls her eyes. "Well, sugah," she says, laughing, "if you're gonna try t'fall over on th'stove, *Ah'll* get it."
"I was not gonna fall over on de stove, neit'er." Remy protests. But he stops reaching for the stereo, instead turning back to the skillet to prod at the bacon. He is being very lazy this morning.
Rogue uses the knife to scoot chopped pepper over to the end of the chopping block, and scoots herself past where Remy's sitting to lean over the counter and switch on the radio. "There."
Remy grins--not the least of which for the view he's afforded--propping the fork by its butt on one knee. From here, in this position, it's almost like he's the King of the Kitchen. His smile betrays his line of thought.
Rogue catches a look at Remy's expression as she pushes away from the counter, and she heaves a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes. "Don't you *ever* think 'bout anything else?" she wonders, grinning in spite of herself. It's kind of endearing. Annoying, but endearing.
"Not when you're 'round." Remy claims, all sly amusement, before poking at the bacon with the fork again. It's almost done. "An' you'd start t'inkin' I was sick if I went de ot'er way an' never t'ought 'bout it ever."
Rogue laughs, suddenly and brightly. "Yeah," she has to agree, "yeah, Ah would." She heads back to the chopping block, this time to start in on the tomato. "How's th'bacon comin'? Don't let it get too crunchy f'y'want it in your omelet."
He's still looking at the bacon when he speaks, so quietly it's almost as if he didn't say a thing at all. "B'sides. It keeps me goin' when I ain't got much else." Then Remy's picking up the skillet by its handle, and saying at conversational lever--right on top of his previous statement, "Jus' 'bout ready. Where y'wan' me to put it?"
"Just--oh, shit." The problem of hot bacon and noplace to put it is enough to keep Rogue from thinking much about whatever else Remy might have said. "Hang on a sec." Hastily she fetches a plate from a cabinet and, once she's set it down, starts tearing off sheets of paper towel to lay over it. "Here, put it on this."
It's probably just as well, because the things Remy says at the edge of his voice are rarely things that really need much dwelling on. He holds the skillet off of the heat--in fact, turns the burner off entirely--while he waits, ignoring the spitting bacon grease for all his joshing earlier. Once Rogue has the plate all arranged, Gambit puts the bacon on it to let the grease drain off, and sets the skillet to a cool burner in the back. And then idly goes to sucking on a spot just behind the second knuckle of his thumb where the bacon really got him, still holding the fork like some sort of scepter.
Rather than go back to the chopping block immediately, Rogue frowns at Remy, brows drawing together in vague concern. "It get you?" she asks, and moves in as though to try to get a look at the finger he's nursing.
Remy peels his hand from his mouth to answer, very solemnly, "It was a brief but fierce battle in which I well an' duly los'. I'm gravely wounded, but I t'ink mebbe dis once I'll pull t'rough. Got a girl waitin' for me back 'way from de wars." Despite the laughter in his eyes, he holds the hand out for Rogue's perusal where, beneath a ring of wetness, there is a small but distinct red welt. It really isn't anything to worry about.
Rogue smothers a laugh, looking down at Remy's hand and then up to his face. "Helluva story, there. You want a band-aid for that, soldier? Maybe a li'l Neosporin? Ah'd kiss it better, but then you'd miss out on breakfast."
The big, red eyes Remy turns to Rogue imply that he might be about to beg for a kiss anyway--but he doesn't, choosing to behave for a turn of events. Instead, he tilts his head, considering the spot on his hand, before he gives it a shake and put it back to his mouth. "Guess I'll jus' suffer t'rough. T'ings I do, f'dis girl."
Finis!
Pryde and Wisdom's House -- School House Road
It's a morning so much like every other morning; calm and warm, with spring trickling in around the edges of the curtains and birds beating the air with their frantic songs. Even this close to the university, everything is sleepy and peaceful for the moment, everything in its right place.
Well, maybe not everything.
For Rogue, there will be at least one thing out of place in this tranquil scene will be a certain Cajun. He's kneeling at the side of her bed as if he's been waiting for her to wake in a pair of jeans and his Ace of Spades t-shirt, boots still on his feet and head cradled against his bare arms. He seems to be sleeping peacefully, his back rising and falling with breathing, a placid expression over what parts of his face can be seen that erases years' worth of lines.
It's nice, waking up on a morning like this, with noplace to be and no hurry to get up. Rogue stirs a little, drawing in a deep breath and rolling onto her back before she fially opens her eyes. Seeing Remy there, though, wakes her up quite a bit, and she sits up, reaching automatically for her gloves, to peer at him. "...what *are* you up to."
Remy appears to be up to dreaming. Good dreaming, if his expression is anything to go by. Rogue's movements on the beds only lead the Cajun to shift a little, burrowing his head deeper into the protection of his arms and away from the light. No, don't want to wake up yet.
Rogue can't help but smile, a little, and it's with markedly more careful movements that she eases herself out from between the covers and off the other side of the bed onto her feet. Provided Remy doesn't wake, she'll steal barefoot across the room to gather up a fresh change of clothes, and duck into the bathroom to dress.
Part of him is trying to wake up, and the other part is struggling valiantly with the idea of staying asleep. It's with a distinctly puzzled air that Remy finally pulls awake, straightening a little from where he's been leaning against the bed and staring at the sheets in confusing for a few moments. The more he looks at them, the more Gambit is convinced he's going to turn around right into an awkward situation.
He'll be able to hear water running in the bathroom sink, briefly. It's a minute or two more before Rogue emerges, dressed and with her hair pulled back into a ponytail, face washed, and gloves on. "Well," she drawls, "good mornin', sunshine."
Remy turns slowly to face Rogue, as if he expects her to be angry, his hair spilled across his face and making his expression hard to determine. That is, beyond the guilty, broad grin he's offering her as he settles with his back against the mattress, legs out in front of him. "Mornin'." Maybe if he pretends he belongs here she won't say another word.
He's not quite *that* fortunate, but Rogue at least seems more amused than annoyed. "An' just what is it you're up to, sugah?" she wonders, pausing most of the way across the room from him and propping a hand casually against her hip.
Remy looks around a moment as if something in the room might save him before he tries, cheekily, "Sittin'?" He pauses, but it's clear that isn't going to work, so he takes a deep breath and pushes his fingers through his hair. "Jus' bad dreams. You know me an' my track record wit' dem. Leas' dis time I didn' do not'in' dumbass." He was good, even if a little creepy?
A little sympathy sofftens Rogue's grin, and she lets that hand drop, wandering a few steps across the carpet towards where Remy's sitting. "Yeah," she says. "Feelin' better now?" When she reaches him, she offers down a gloved hand to help him up.
"Yeah," Remy affirms. He doesn't need Rogue's hand to help him up, but he takes it anyway just because the contact is nice. "Didn' mean t'be here when you woke up. Jus' needed t'know you was okay, an' I guess I was more tired dan I realized. Desole."
"S'all right." Rogue dismisses the apology with a little shake of her head, not much concerned. "Why didn't you wake me up?"
The Cajun shrugs a little, pushing his fingers through his hair again. "Didn' need to. You didn' look like you needed wakin'." Remy is loathe to admit that watching Rogue sleep has been something he's done in his occasional moments of upset since long before Beacon Harbor started to mess with his head, long before he even knew what 'Beacon Harbor' was, mostly because when he really confronts the habit is seems disturbing.
That brings a little laugh from Rogue. "S'all right," she says again, and reaches up to ruffle Remy's hair once his own fingers have pushed through it. "But now that we're up an' at 'em, Ah s'pose you're prob'ly hungry, huh?"
"If I say yes, will you make me food?" Remy asks, his expression all sly, as if this has all been some sort of clever ruse to get him a free breakfast. As if he would have had to do anything more complicated than asking.
"Well," she answers easily, "if ah don't feed you, Ah'm gonna have t'put up with you makin' sad eyes at me an' snitchin' from my plate while Ah try t'eat breakfast, so Ah guess Ah better make enough for you too, huh?"
Remy grins brightly at Rogue, executing a funny little bow as if allowing her to leave the room in front of him. "See, don' I make decisions so *easy*? Oughta be 'round for alla dem."
Rogue laughs, bright and clear this time, and nudges Remy towards the bedroom door. "Yeah, yeah. Maybe I'll shrink you down an' keep you in my pocket t'be my conscience, like Jiminy Cricket. C'mon, honey, what're you wantin' for breakfast?"
The Cajun pauses, blinking at Rogue in something like playful horror even as he's pushed out the door. "Don' say dat, dis city'll figure out a way to make it happen, an' I ain't got no designs on bein' two inches tall." Remy will gamble down the stairs like a spring colt, however, all legs and noise, as he ponders her question. "I don' know, what're you offerin'?"
Rogue clatters aimiably down after him, hmming. "Well, Ah dunno," she admits. "Gonna have t'see what we got in th'fridge. Pancakes sound all right? Or maybe an omelet..."
"Eit'er or's good f'me, chere." Remy says, brightly, turning at the base of the stairs to grin back at Rogue. "'Dough omlettes ain't fun 'les you got a lotta stuff to put in dem." Gambit's version of 'omlet' bursts at the seams with veggies.
"Well," Rogue answers, and pauses to grin down at Remy before she hops over the railing and drops the last few feet to the ground. "Just gonna have t'see what we got."
Amused, Remy shakes his head as his trajectory changes for the kitchen, that telling light of mischief beginning to fire in the back of his eyes. "How do you *live*, not knowin' what's in de fridge?"
"You'd be amazed, honey." Rogue breezes into the kitchen ahead of Remy, heading straight to the fridge to open it up and lean her head inside. She's humming to herself as she opens up the produce drawer to rummage around in it. "Lessee, we got some peppers here..."
Bending over, Rogue is presenting Remy with the temptation of a lifetime, but for once and for whatever reason the Cajun keeps his hands to himself. Instead, Gambit comes to lean his arms on the top of the open fridge door, peering in over Rogue's head. "What else?"
It's even odds whether Rogue is oblivious to the temptation she's presenting to Remy or whether she's well aware and actually enjoying it in her own perverse way. "There's a tomato, an' - lessee--" She leans in a little more, digging into the back of the drawer. "Got some mushrooms here too."
"Fungus." Remy intones, for no other reason than he can, letting the word reverberate with some sort of doom. "Any cheese? I don' know how dese Passover rules work. Is Passover still happenin', even?"
"Oh, yeah," Rogue answers, straightening up a little bit. "Plenty of cheese. Passover Ah dunno 'bout, bein' as Ah ain't Jewish. Somethin' 'bout flat bread an' herbs - beats me. Anyhow, we got food."
Remy shrugs, gesturing with one hand. "Well, more I mean what dey're 'llowed an' ain't 'llowed to have in de house, but if dere's peppers an' cheese an' tomatoes an' eggs I ain't complainin'." He might have arranged for a little ham or seafood, if it had been all left to him, but Gambit isn't going to be *picky*.
Rogue shrugs. "They ain't been by, so Ah'm figurin' they ain't countin' what's over here. Looks like there's some bacon, too, f'you want somma that in. Or we could do pancakes, considerin' you're better at this shit than Ah am an' Ah don't wanna listen t'you complainin'." A wink tossed over her shoulder lets him know she's teasing.
"If you're gonna grouse about de whole t'ing, I can jus' make breakfast m'self," Remy says, as if it's the biggest possible imposition she could come up with to place across his shoulders. His grin belies the idea, however, that the Cajun could certainly think of worse fates than being stuck in a stocked kitchen with Rogue.
"Not if you're gonna be a big whiner 'bout it!" Rogue sing-songs, bending back into the fridge to pull out the carton of eggs and set it on the countertop. The entire produce drawer follows, and then a package of bacon.
Remy grins, slyly, and hops up to sit on the counter next to the fridge, ostensibly away from where Rogue will be doing the preperation. "Works out for me, den, I get to sit an' supervise wit'out riskin' choppin' my own fingers off. *You* ain't gotta worry 'bout sharp knives."
"Okay then." Rogue nudges the fridge closed with a foot and goes to the stovetop to turn on a burner and start heating up a skillet for the bacon. "You wanna keep an eye on this for me, honey? Or's that too dangerous for you?"
"Oh, I don' know," Remy eyes the skillet warily, as if it might just be too dangerous. "Can I figh' back if it starts spittin' hot oil at me?" He snaps his fingers with a little burst of magenta between them for emphasis.
Rogue pauses in the act of pulling a knife out of the knife block to roll her eyes at Remy. "You may *not* blow any more holes in Kitty's kitchen, boy."
Remy almost looks insulted--almost--his eyes skittering to the hole in question briefly. "So, what, you wan' me to go into dis battle unarmed? Dat's *real* sweet of you, chere."
Rogue snorts inelegantly, looking away from Remy to set about slicing peppers on the cutting board with careless disregard for the sharpness of the knife. "An' since when d'you need t'be armed t'handle a hot skillet, honey? You gettin' sloppy in your old age."
"Aw, now I'm really insulted. Dere's a diff'rence b'tween sloppy in m'old age, an' lazy in de mornin'. You least gonna give me a fork so I don' havta burn my fingers turnin' dis stuff over?" Remy leans over a little to peer in the skillet before looking back up to Rogue, just a hint of envy at the way she wields the knife.
Rogue lays down the knife long enough to tug a long-handled, two-pronged fork out of a drawer and offer it over to Remy, handle-first. "This good enough, your highness?" she teases.
Reaching out to take the fork from Rogue, Remy draws it close, giving the thing an impossibly complete once-over. Once he's done, he 'snf's quietly, tilting his head up a little so that he can look down his nose at the bacon even as he arranges it for better cooking. "It'll havta do."
Shaking her head, Rogue returns her attention to chopping the peppers. "Picky, picky. Ah dunno how you ever get anything done, you gotta be such a perfectionist. Wanna turn on th'radio, darlin'?"
Having flipped the bacon over to make sure the other side cooks as well, Remy looks from the skillet to the boombox. And then stretches, pronged fork in hand, trying to hit the radio's power button without doing anything drastic like getting up.
Rogue finishes chopping the pepper before she looks up again and sees what Remy is up to. And rolls her eyes. "Well, sugah," she says, laughing, "if you're gonna try t'fall over on th'stove, *Ah'll* get it."
"I was not gonna fall over on de stove, neit'er." Remy protests. But he stops reaching for the stereo, instead turning back to the skillet to prod at the bacon. He is being very lazy this morning.
Rogue uses the knife to scoot chopped pepper over to the end of the chopping block, and scoots herself past where Remy's sitting to lean over the counter and switch on the radio. "There."
Remy grins--not the least of which for the view he's afforded--propping the fork by its butt on one knee. From here, in this position, it's almost like he's the King of the Kitchen. His smile betrays his line of thought.
Rogue catches a look at Remy's expression as she pushes away from the counter, and she heaves a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes. "Don't you *ever* think 'bout anything else?" she wonders, grinning in spite of herself. It's kind of endearing. Annoying, but endearing.
"Not when you're 'round." Remy claims, all sly amusement, before poking at the bacon with the fork again. It's almost done. "An' you'd start t'inkin' I was sick if I went de ot'er way an' never t'ought 'bout it ever."
Rogue laughs, suddenly and brightly. "Yeah," she has to agree, "yeah, Ah would." She heads back to the chopping block, this time to start in on the tomato. "How's th'bacon comin'? Don't let it get too crunchy f'y'want it in your omelet."
He's still looking at the bacon when he speaks, so quietly it's almost as if he didn't say a thing at all. "B'sides. It keeps me goin' when I ain't got much else." Then Remy's picking up the skillet by its handle, and saying at conversational lever--right on top of his previous statement, "Jus' 'bout ready. Where y'wan' me to put it?"
"Just--oh, shit." The problem of hot bacon and noplace to put it is enough to keep Rogue from thinking much about whatever else Remy might have said. "Hang on a sec." Hastily she fetches a plate from a cabinet and, once she's set it down, starts tearing off sheets of paper towel to lay over it. "Here, put it on this."
It's probably just as well, because the things Remy says at the edge of his voice are rarely things that really need much dwelling on. He holds the skillet off of the heat--in fact, turns the burner off entirely--while he waits, ignoring the spitting bacon grease for all his joshing earlier. Once Rogue has the plate all arranged, Gambit puts the bacon on it to let the grease drain off, and sets the skillet to a cool burner in the back. And then idly goes to sucking on a spot just behind the second knuckle of his thumb where the bacon really got him, still holding the fork like some sort of scepter.
Rather than go back to the chopping block immediately, Rogue frowns at Remy, brows drawing together in vague concern. "It get you?" she asks, and moves in as though to try to get a look at the finger he's nursing.
Remy peels his hand from his mouth to answer, very solemnly, "It was a brief but fierce battle in which I well an' duly los'. I'm gravely wounded, but I t'ink mebbe dis once I'll pull t'rough. Got a girl waitin' for me back 'way from de wars." Despite the laughter in his eyes, he holds the hand out for Rogue's perusal where, beneath a ring of wetness, there is a small but distinct red welt. It really isn't anything to worry about.
Rogue smothers a laugh, looking down at Remy's hand and then up to his face. "Helluva story, there. You want a band-aid for that, soldier? Maybe a li'l Neosporin? Ah'd kiss it better, but then you'd miss out on breakfast."
The big, red eyes Remy turns to Rogue imply that he might be about to beg for a kiss anyway--but he doesn't, choosing to behave for a turn of events. Instead, he tilts his head, considering the spot on his hand, before he gives it a shake and put it back to his mouth. "Guess I'll jus' suffer t'rough. T'ings I do, f'dis girl."
Finis!