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"Well, I've got the shotgun," Kitty proclaims.
There's a nerf gun braced on her shoulder and a piece of pink string tied around her forehead in a bad imitation of Rambo.
"I've got the bride," Jean adds, even though she technically doesn't:
Rogue is still standing outside of the little chapel, chewing the corner of her lip, toes lined up at the entrance. "This is stupid," she calls.
"Where's the groom?"
"Here," Scott answers. He's wearing a nice suit and his hair is parted clean on the side. Dressy, though he has foregone a tie.
"Is there a job interview I forgot about?" Kitty wonders.
"Dress for the job you want," Scott shrugs.
"Aw, I didn't know you wanted to be a middle management accountant."
"The groom?" Jean repeats, before things spiral. They only have the chapel booked for so long.
Scott looks at her, softens, and then steps aside to reveal Remy slumped in a pew. He's also wearing a suit, but his is crumpled, pushed up at the elbows to reveal a sleeve of tattoos.
"Didn't know I was joining the circus," he sighs, "when I agreed to wear the X."
"You can still run," Rogue suggests.
"You can't," Jean assures them and gives a little mental tug that drags the girl into the chapel at last.
Rogue looks every bit the part of blushing bride in a short, white dress and a long ivory overcoat, her hair pinned up with little butterfly clips from Kitty's drawer of impractical haircare. Her current gloves are downright dainty: white and frill-edged at the wrist, like she's headed to tea. Her fists are tight though, ready for a fight.
"My hatred for you all is a powerful glow that won't be dimmed with time," she warns.
"Save it for the vows," Kitty insists, and gestures towards the altar with the end of her nerf gun.
"Where's our priest?" Scott asks.
"Kurt?"
The young blue man bamfs into the chapel, his robes fluttering. "Married in a hurry, married in a hurry."
"Whose got the camera?" Kitty asks, and Jean produces a small disposable from her pocket.
"Okay then," Scott straightens his shoulders."Let's make this look romantic."
"And real," Kitty emphasizes.
"Now that I can do." Remy stands up and shakes off the wrinkles. He grins at Rogue as they both take their place at the altar. "Maybe we just skip to the good part?"
Rogue leans in towards him and smiles, softly. "I'm going to destroy you when this mission is over. I'll crush you like an ant."
Remy bites his lip. "Words that sweet, chere? Best save 'em for the honeymoon."
FLASH!
Someone takes a picture.
_____
Now that she's most of an adult, more is expected of her. That's how Scott phrases it anyway, when he tells her about the mission.
More is expected of us now, Rogue, and it's almost funny how us actually just means Rogue herself.
More, in this instance, translates to undercover work. There's a little town where young newlyweds are disappearing and it's not exactly the X-Men's usual forte, is it, but there's reason to believe a wayward mutant is behind the disappearances. They have to find out if, and then stop the attacks, before word leaks and it becomes another flagship case against homo superior. Another day in the life, or whatever.
It's not a bad gig, Rogue is fine with the assignment, but then they tap new recruit Remy LeBeau to shore up Team Newlywed and, well.
Rogue has feelings about that.
_____
"Honey, I'm home," Remy says stepping across the threshold of their little studio.
They're living out of boxes still - maybe both of them hoping this mission will go quick - but there's furniture, too, to keep them comfortable: a fold out couch and TV, a small, square dining table with two little chairs, a thin, wicker bookshelf they found at a nearby Goodwill. And of course, their framed wedding photo hung high on the wall for visitors to view, Remy with his hand at Rogue's back while he dips her like he's going to kiss her.
Like he could.
Rogue is sitting at the table when he enters, and she doesn't look up to see him. Though she does set the pencil in her hand down, and ask, "Meet anyone suspicious?"
"An old woman asked me for a quarter today," Remy volunteers, tugging at the blue checkered tie that is part of his costume (and they've got him in earth-toned slacks and button downs, costume is definitively the word). "A single quarter. In this economy?"
Rogue rolls her eyes and leans back, tilting the chair onto two legs. "You've cracked the case wide open, then."
"Let's kiss and celebrate," he says, slumping into the chair across from her.
It's kind of grating that he doesn't even mean it in a particularly flirtatious way, but she still flushes. Stupid, stupid. There's no sly grin or soft tone in the delivery. If anything, he just seems tired from a day of playing pretend in an office. But still.
She flushes.
"I wish we had air conditioning, the way summer is creeping up," Rogue lies, fanning her face before carrying on. "I joined one of those weird local women's club today, Ladies of Infinite Resolution. It's a borefest, but they host a number of couple events. I signed us up for their dance classes and something called Pie Fest. They're on the calendar."
"Look at us," Remy says, fiddling with the top buttons of his shirt. "All domesticated."
Their eyes meet, and this time, at least, Rogue can see the gentle tease there. It doesn't help the tightening of her throat.
(This mission is a nightmare.)
"Who'd a thought?" She says, in a tone she hopes sounds dismissive.
"Me," Remy offers her, casually, reaching across the table to steal her pencil so he can twirl it between his hands. "Just figured it'd take a few more years to achieve."
"Oh, whatever," she groans.
_____
"You and your husband are new to town, right?" The cashier ringing Rogue up is an older woman- gray hair, sharp eyes, thin lips.
Rogue gives her a smile. "Yep. Just arrived."
"You been married long?"
"Not really," Rogue says, as she slips her card down the reader. "We're still newlyweds!"
She says it the way she thinks Kitty would: bright and happy and a little too high-pitched, like the words are trying to rocket straight through her brain.
"Well, enjoy it while you can," the woman says.
Rogue frowns. "You married?"
"Was."
"And how'd that go?"
The woman pushes the brown paper bag of Rogue's groceries towards her and shrugs. "Well I'm not married anymore. So that should tell you."
____
So yeah, the thing about Remy is, Rogue likes him.
She-
(Deep breath)
She likes likes him, you know, in that stupid way that makes her heart race and her face red. If she wasn't gloved up all of the time, her palms would be tacky whenever he saunters into a room, and he is always sauntering, isn't he? Easy and slow like he has so much time, like he isn't beholden to the same constraining twenty four hour clock as the rest of them.
And maybe he's not, because sometimes he looks at her and everything stops, the whole world grinds down to a quiet standstill, and a second lasts-
-And lasts.
And so, yeah, this is it, the stupid kind of way she likes him.
The way she likes likes him.
_____
He's still dumb though. So there's that.
_____
Dance class was a terrible idea for a girl who can't touch anyone, but they don't make activities personally tailored to fake wives with secret mutations in small towns like this one. Rogue has to capitalize where she can.
It's not as bad as it used to be. Well, the mutation is.
As bad, that is.
But the way she handles it, that's changing.
Scott would say, Rogue, you're meeting the moment. But what does he know, he's dumb as the Cajun. (And she liked him, too, once upon a time, which is part of a worrying trend.)
All she's doing is surviving. One proverbial foot in front of the other. She's learning how to cope. How to compartmentalize her fear until it's small enough and boxed away enough that she can focus on a mission.
Don't ask how it goes when she's alone. That's a very different discussion.
Anyway, they are going dancing because that's what young married people do in this town, and she's compartmentalized about it.
Remy waits on the couch in his tan slacks and green oversized, quarter-zip pullover. His hands are braced behind his head and his eyes are closed, like he's deep in relaxation. She watches him for a minute after she's ready, tracking the rise and fall of his chest with each steady breath, because it's honestly a nice view.
The thing is...
She's not dumb.
She understands the problem with a girl like her falling for a boy like him (any boy, really, but especially him). He's got options, and enough experience to want more , and she can't give it. So, that's a wrap. Pack it up, turn out the lights and head on home. Shows over before it ever began.
Simple.
Isn't it?
"I'm ready," she says, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
There aren't many dress clothes in her boxes, but what she's wearing now (a pair of slim fitting black pants and a thin knit black turtleneck sweater) seems all right. It reminds her of Audrey Hepburn, in that old movie with the beatniks, which was described in Kitty's magazines as peak fashion. She feels good, anyway. Pretty.
That's why it stings when Remy looks her way and startles.
"Chère, I-" he says, but the words run out. His eyes sweep down to her flats and then back up, like he can't believe she'd wear something like that, like he has to take it in one more time just to accept it's real. "I-"
Rogue frowns. It can't be that bad. Can it?
Disappointment sours her belly.
"Just don't," she tells him with a glare. "I didn't ask."
_____
"Now, hold your partner close," the dance instructor says.
Remy hesitates - he doesn't want to assume it's okay - and Rogue gives him a curt nod. Yes, it's fine. She's fine. She's a professional fake wife.
He wets his lip and nods, slipping a hand around her waist and tugging her close.
Her sweater is, in hindsight, a terrible choice. It's thin enough that she can feel the warmth of his palm and the shape of his fingers as they curl against her. Nothing to be done for it. She'll bear it, like she bears the warm, heady scent of his cologne: with unfortunate pleasure.
They move in time with music - their legs brush - and after a few minutes, she casts a hesitant glance up.
This is also a terrible choice. He's watching her so intently. His pupils are blown wide, leaving just a thin, smoldering iris.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hey," she says back.
"Newlyweds!" the dance instructor coos, materializing beside them, her smile stretched almost impossibly wide.
_____
Later, Remy's cooking while Rogue flips aimlessly through television channels, which are half static.
"So, it's the dance instructor, right?"
Remy shudders. "Thought she was gonna unhinge her jaw, way she looked at us."
"I got goosebumps on my goosebumps."
"Almost reached for my rock salt."
Rogue pauses and glances over to watch him flip a pan of vegetables like Emeril Lagasse. "Wait, you didn't really have rock salt, did you?"
"Chère." Come on, he seems to be imply. "You think my Tantie Mattie sent me away without one single shell of rock salt?"
Rogue considers. "What other secret weapons do you got? What can you defend us from?"
"Everything, girl," he says, and he smiles for her. "Except Cupid's arrow."
_____
"I'm gonna tell Jean to check out the dance instructor on Cerebro," Rogue adds, between bites, as they share dinner on the couch.
"Jean, and not the professor?"
"Ooh," Rogue says, "I forgot to tell you, he's off to that big castle in the sky."
Remy frowns. "What?" He blinks. "Charles is dead?"
"Nah," Rogue says. "He's with Lilandra."
______
Off to work Remy goes again, and off Rogue goes on her daily routine through town.
She stops by the grocery store to grab a coffee on the way, and the same cashier as before slides it across the scanner. "That'll be three dollars," the woman instructs.
As Rogue pulls out the money from her purse, she asks, "do you guys get a lot of people moving into town? It seems pretty small. Like you could know everyone here."
"There's a steady trickle," the cashier shrugs. "They come and go."
"We hope to stay forever," Rogue lies, in her Kitty voice. She's on the first plane out of this hellhole once the mystery is solved. She's, emotionally, already mid-flight. John Denver is playing on the intercom of her soul.
The woman presses a button on her screen and the receipt trails out.
"Sure," she says.
_______
The president of the Ladies of Infinite Resolution runs a flower shop so Rogue decides to pay it a visit. It's not her inclination to do things or go places or meet people so she needs all the help she can get on this front.
The LIR president is an older woman with big hair and pressed nails, the mayor's wife, and a definitional extrovert. The exact right person to ask.
Unfortunately, she's also out of the building when Rogue arrives, or so the woman's daughter announces with a casually dismissive glance.
"Oh," Rogue says. "Do you know when she'll be back?"
"When she's back."
The daughter is maybe Rogue's age or a couple of years older. Tall and thin and pretty, the way that Jean is pretty, the way that girls in magazines are pretty.
Rogue leaves the shop and hopes to never see her again.
_____
She sees her again.
______
But first:
"I have bad news," Remy announces as he pushes through the door, home sweet home once more.
He throws himself into the couch, right next to where Rogue is trying her hand at knitting.
The Ladies of Infinite Resolution have a knitting night. She thinks about that and not how close he is to brushing against her shoulder.
"Is the bad news that you're still here?"
He sticks his tongue out at her. "You're gonna be mad."
"Oh definitely tell me now then, while I'm holding these giant needles."
He shrugs. "My coworkers want to have dinner."
"Oh," she says. That's... Not too surprising. Remy is a butterfly. Hasn't that always been the point? "Cool, have fun."
"Here," he amends.
Rogue frowns. "Here?"
He sighs. "Tomorrow."
_____
Anyway, Rogue sees the girl again.
In her own house, on Remy's arm.
"Thanks," the girl is saying, in a cloying tone, as they step past the threshold. "I must have twisted my ankle on that cobblestone outside."
"Hmm," Remy says, releasing her once she has the wall to hold.
Several people come up behind them then: two men and one woman, who stops in front of their wedding picture. "What a lucky girl," she says, before surveying the studio and catching Rogue at the stove. "And you must be the Mrs."
"That's me," Rogue says, voice tight.
To punish the group for their hubris in suggesting dinner and necessitating a new table and chairs, Rogue is cooking. To make the point stick, she's employing one of Mystique's recipe.
She waves, oven mitt in hand.
"Remy," Flower Shop announces. "You look so amazing in your wedding suit!"
She hasn't even looked at the picture, though.
"Nah," he says, easily. "You're just catching Rogue's reflection in my eyes."
Flower Shop tugs on his hand, his bare hand, once, before he pulls away. "I wish all men were as humble as you."
Rogue drops her gaze to the stove and feels her face burn. She replays it - the simple act of Flower Shop reaching for Remy, the cavalier brush of skin against skin. Her hands curl into fists.
...She can't have him.
She knows that.
But damn it, Flower Shop don't. The nerve to touch Rogue's husband. To learn the texture of his skin. By what right?
Rogue is-
She's-
Really, really mad.
"Darling!" she announces, in her Kitty voice. Or no, this is beyond that. This is her Jubilee gifted a new pack of bubble gum and a trip to the arcade voice.
She marches towards him and throws her arms around his waist, too tight, don't think about the danger tight, burrowing in against his chest until he hopefully cannot breathe. "I missed you so much!"
Flower Shop turns away, uncomfortable.
Remy wraps his arms around her and sucks in a breath. "Rogue," he says, softly, warm against her hair.
And after, he hesitates to let her go, so she lets him hold on, fingers splayed across her waist. She knows it looks intimate.
It feels intimate. The way his thumbs brush against her ribcage.
Her heart pounds.
Her stomach flips.
"You all hungry?" She wonders.
"Famished!" One of the men agrees.
_____
"I think it's Flower Shop," Rogue announces, drying dishes against her apron as Remy washes.
She knows now the girl's name is Shandi. She just doesn't care.
"Maybe we should invite them again," Remy says. "To really investigate."
Rogue will never. It was a long social call, and she spent half of it fuming, braced on Remy's knee just so Flower Shop couldn't drop an errant hand against it. If hosting these dinners becomes imperative to solving the mystery, well, Scott can fly himself down and fold himself into Remy's arms in front of his not-really coworkers, for all she cares - because it sure as hell won't be her.
...Still, it smarts that Remy wants them back.
Did he-
Did she-
Is there something there with Flower Shop that she didn't see? A hidden history playing out that she's not privy too?
Are they having cute moments at the office, where they are both temping?
Does Remy head in to work all excited each day, full of anticipation of her smile?
Oh God.
...Is Rogue the interloper?
____
"Rogue?" Remy asks, later. "Are you feeling sick?"
____
She's laying on the floor when Remy gets home the next day. Studying the ceiling. It has that weird popcorn texture, and if she stares hard enough she can find pictures. A cloud, then a horse, then a hammer, then...
He lays on the floor next to her and looks up too, hands folded at his belly.
God, he's stupid cute in the ugly oversized shirts they gave him.
She wants to find out if there's room inside for two.
"Good day?" She asks.
"Better now."
"Right," she rolls her eyes. "You don't have to keep that up all the time, you know. I'm the one other person in this town who knows the truth about you and me."
"Which truth is that?" He wonders.
She wraps her arms around herself and forces her tone into something light:
"That there's nothing between us except an X."
He frowns.
His jaw tightens.
"Is that really what you think?"
______
They're sitting on a park bench.
Trying to be seen.
It was Rogue's idea, to try and draw out the culprit, and she doesn't regret it even when the sun is burning her face and her blouse is sticking to her skin, and Remy is-
Well, glowing. Sun-kissed.
(Of course. Even the stars love him.)
She doesn't regret it because the alternative was another day indoors, in the tiny four walls that have been closing in like a trash compactor.
He's been quieter, lately, is the thing. Maybe her too. Both of them careful, like they're stepping through glass. And it's terrible.
She hadn't realized how comfortable things had gotten between them, how easy, until that comfort and ease was stripped away - replaced instead with awkward, polite exchanges.
Even now, there's a clean foot of space between them on the bench and Rogue stares at it, at the weathered wooden slats that betray the distance. "Do you think whoever our person is, that they can tell we ain't real? And that's why they haven't struck yet? Maybe Scott should have sent himself and Jean."
They're in love.
And annoying.
They'd have been attacked the first day.
Remy sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It's shaggy now, curling at the tips. Reddish, where the sun hits. A week ago she would have offered to trim it, but that was before.
"Rogue," he says. Her name is soft in his mouth. She wants to hear it again. She wants to close the gap and rest her head on his shoulder.
She wants, and that's the problem.
She thinks: At least there's fresh air.
(That's what you say when you don't get what you want, right? At least.
You find a poor consolation, and you hold it tight.)
___
Pie Fest is a pie baking competition held in the middle of the little town's Central Park. The winner gets bragging rights and tickets to the county fair. Every baking team has a booth and a portable oven and supplies, and everyone cooks under the hot summer sun.
At their booth, designated by the large 14 taped at its front, Remy stirs the pie filling while Rogue kneads the dough.
"Not too much," Remy reminds her. "Keep a soft touch."
"I know that," she says.
The other contestants - mostly the women of LIR, with their children or friends helping out at the booths - are too deeply focused on their own baking to pay any attention to Rogue and Remy. After a moment, she takes the opportunity to look around and evaluate anyone suspicious. There's plenty of faces that are starting to look familiar, but Rogue hasn't figured out what motive they might have for disappearing young married couples.
"Jean cleared the dance instructor and Flower Shop," Rogue sighs. "We need new suspects."
"The lady from booth six double dipped in booth seven's apple mix," Remy volunteers. "Nefarious."
"Ha." She sets the dough into the pie tin and dusts her hands. "Maybe I should take a walk around?"
______
It's the cashier at booth 2. Her hair is pinned beneath a net and the red print on her shirt says, Kiss Me, I'm the Cook. There's a kiss imprint just below it.
"I didn't realize you were competing," Rogue says.
"Competing?" Someone else - another lady from LIR - laughs, coming up to stand a few feet away from Rogue. "She's dominating. She's won this thing every year for seven years."
Rogue raises an eyebrow. "You didn't seem the type."
The cashier shrugs.
"Last year this couple moved to town - cute kids, just barely married- and the young man was a pastry chef. We all thought that'd be the year that broke her record, but they moved away just days before Pie Fest. Didn't tell anyone, just vanished."
"Oh," Rogue says, realization dawning. She'd had her suspicions, but now... "So it's you."
The cashier stills.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You'd really do anything to win, huh?"
"If you think I've done something," the cashier snaps, defiant now, hands on her hips, "prove it. While you can."
She casts a smug glance over Rogue's shoulder.
There's a scream-
and chaos erupts.
_____
A pie flies through the air.
"Watch out!" Someone cries.
_____
"Remy, look!" Rogue yells.
_____
A river of dark red trickles between two booths, growing sticky and congealed under the sun.
"Is that..." Someone winces. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Yes," a police officer says, solemnly. "Raspberry."
_____
"This is an anticlimactic twist," Rogue groans.
They're back on the park bench.
Alone for now.
Pie Fest is over. Canceled for the foreseeable future after it was discovered that the winner of the past several years was sabotaging competing booths - mixing sugar and salt, changing the temperature on the ovens, slipping yolk into merengues, and so on.
Despite an apparent vendetta against love, the cashier's chicanery had not, however, involved kidnapping or - whatever had happened to the missing couples.
"Back to the drawing board," Remy sighs. His hand is on the bench, on the space between their bodies. There's a touch of flour and raspberry on his cheek and she imagines the taste of it, salted and sweet and chalky under her tongue.
"Sorry you got stuck here," Rogue says. "It's not exactly a thrill ride."
She means: sorry you're stuck with me.
"Rogue," Remy says. His voice is serious now, and a little impatient, too. "I got something I have to say."
Maybe he wants a divorce.
(Isn't she so funny?)
"You know why I joined the X-Men when things went bad with my daddy this last time?"
She's not exactly clear on that, no.
He says, "I promise you, I wasn't looking for a redemption arc or the Great and Powerful Charles Xavier. I know that appeals to some people, but me?" He shakes his head. "I just wanted a friendly face."
She stares down at her own hands now. Her gloves are black today, a Hank manufactured voile that lets the breeze through. "They are a welcoming bunch."
They accepted her, after all.
"Your face," he clarifies quickly. She cuts a glance back his way, and he almost smiles. "Even if it is scowling. Or maybe especially then."
"Oh." Her skin is red from the sun. Only from the sun.
"Look I feel a certain way about you," he goes on-
(She's definitely still breathing.)
-"And I won't say it's love, chère, but it's something."
Her brain yells for words, any words, but nothing comes.
"I don't want to come on too hard, or push if you aren't interested," he sighs. "But I like to think there's a real friendship underneath it all, and if there's never anything else, at least there's that."
If she's not interested-
"There is that," she agrees, quietly. A friendship. Of course that's true. He's already a great friend - sweet and thoughtful and kind, funny and smart.
Leave it there, leave it there.
(No.)
"Remy?" She shuts her eyes so she doesn't have to look at the way he watches her, how his dark gaze drops to her mouth and then back up to match her stare. "There's not... a lack of interest."
"...Huh," he says. His knuckles rap against the wood.
"It's just, I can't control these powers, I can't touch you, and I can't see how that could ever be enough."
The words come out in a rush and after, she peeks her eyes open to catch him tilting his head back, evaluating her. She knows this look. It's his working gaze, a thief's appraisal, like he's deciding the best way to steal.
Steal what?
"You need convincing," he finally says. "You let me work on that, all right?"
She looks within herself and finds... she can do that.
Finally, she breathes. "Yeah, Remy. All right."
"In the meantime," he adds. "Maybe you should get over here, I think I see someone suspicious watching us. Do mind if I just-"
He wraps an arm around her waist, leans in and, god, nuzzles against her high collar:
Runs his face against the crook of her neck, until all she can smell is his scent, cinnamon and praline and a hint of tobacco. The pressure of his body against her, the fierceness of his grip, makes her light-headed and giddy, and a laugh bubbles out.
"Is it working?" she whispers. "Are they watching?"
"Hard to say. Better keep at it."
"Wait a minute." She pulls back and looks around.
The park is still empty.
"No, it's-" he pauses. "I think they're ninjas."
_____
They're headed to the studio at last when they come across an old woman, hunched from age. She studies them both.
"Two lovebirds, what a sight," she notes. "You wouldn't happen to have a quarter to spare."
"I do," Rogue says, and reaches into her purse. She pulls one free from a front pocket and extends it out to the woman.
"Copper and nickel," the woman crows, snatching the coin. "The fates are too fickle. I'll help this love last, preserve it in glass!"
The ground beneath their feet glows green.
"Oh," Rogue says. "Magic."
Remy shrugs. "At least she not a mutant, non?"
"I thought you just needed some change," Rogue sighs as the green glow closes in around them.
"A single quarter?" The old crone says. "In this economy?"