They're probably too long to be True Drabbles, but too short to be a fic. Still, maybe they're worth giving a read? (Had to get back in the habit somehow, neh?) Author's Notes at the end.

Sprinkles:

A Rogue/Remy Drabble Collection

Eileen Blazer
January 2006

I. The Confession
II. On a Mission
III. Just Once
IV. Reaching Out
V. First Time

I.

"So here's the deal. Ah like you. A lot." She watched his face after she'd spoken, trying to measure his reaction the way she'd measure a cup of sugar: with a little bit of squinting, a dash of confidence, and a healthy dose of 'Oh God, don't let me have guessed wrong'. That being said, he wasn't an easy read, far from it. There was a small lift to his eyebrows, the slightest widening of his eyes, and a bend in his lips that could've, might've, better-not-have been a smirk. He took a long drink from his coffee cup and nodded.

"Okay."

She tilted back in her chair, bracing a foot on the side of the table. "Okay?" A tiny laugh burst through her lips. "What does that mean?"

He narrowed his eyes into an indistinguishable look and said, "Chere. It means okay."

Her features hardened as she closed herself off. "Ya really are a jerk, ain't ya?"

"A jerk dat y' like a lot, oui?"

"My opinion is rapidly bein' revised."

"As fast as y' face is turnin' red?" He reached out to pat her cheek, but her hand slapped him away before he got close. He shrugged and sighed. "Look, girl, don't be takin' it personal. Fact is, if I tried t' fall truly, madly, deeply for every fille dat wants me, I'd have t' bring along m' own harem every place I went. Yo' admiration is duly noted, though, all right?" She glanced at her straw, wondering who'd notice if she shoved it through his eye and deep, deep into his esophagus. But she was wearing brand new gloves.

"This was such a mistake."

He took up her mug and swallowed a drink. "Dis espresso wasn't."

"Ah hate you."

"It's a thin line, Chere."

She dropped her head onto the table and sighed. After a moment of silence, her coffee companion reached across and tapped her on the shoulder, once, then twice. "Hey, Rogue. Don't worry so much. You said worse case scenario, remember? It's not gonna happen that way." Scott Summers grinned into his own mug as he swallowed another gulp of coffee. "But the accent... it was good, right?"

II.

"Yo' a wonderful dancer," Remy sighed into Rogue's ear, as he led her across the dance floor. Her dress swished pleasantly, as if it were relieved to finally be doing the thing it had been created for. Remy's hand pushed into the fabric, pulling her closer.

"We're supposed ta be searchin' for a suspicious persons," Rogue reminded him. They were at the Annual Bayville Policeman's Ball for a reason -to hunt down and find a deadly, dangerous killer who'd been striking out at the city's elite. Still, the young Cajun, so newly an X-man, was having trouble focusing. Not that he'd admit it.

"I am searchin' for suspicious persons."

"Ya ain't gonna find 'em down my dress, Mr. LeBeau."

"If it's such a futile search, how come y' haven't stopped me, hmm?"

"Ah'm tryin' ta be discreet." But her tone was weak. Even she wasn't sure she believed it. Not that she gave it much thought. She was better occupied looking for the psychotic killer and smelling Remy's… no. Just looking for the psychotic killer. Nothing else. She was focused. Centered. In complete control of her- "Where do ya buy that aftershave at, anyway?"

"Maine." He grinned.

"It smells nice. Like the ocean, but don't let that go ta your head." She spun out of his embrace and came around full circle to land right where she'd been. He shrugged, and then dipped her.

"If I'm da ocean," he started, and his tone was just low enough, soft enough for her to know that some kind of obscene, inappropriate comment was going to meander out of his lips (because that's what those words did –they didn't just jump out, they wandered, slowly, carelessly), "Can I lap-"

"Um, are you guys working?"

Both paused to see Kitty watching them with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

"We're workin'." Rogue verified, straightening her position.

"Are you sure?"

"Are ya Scott?" Rogue eyed her brunette teammate.

"Dat's her!" Remy said suddenly, interrupted the exchange. He linked arms with Rogue and threw a hand on Kitty's shoulder, turning them both to face a party of older women. The group of ladies was standing around in a small circle; martini glasses in their hands, a mild haze of alcohol tinting their eyes, and long fur wraps draped over their shoulders.

"How can ya be sure?" Rogue whispered.

"I'm not. Just wanted m' girlsl t' cool off 'fore y' exploded." He smirked.

She twisted his arm, and he inhaled sharply in pain, but said nothing.

Kitty rolled her eyes and jerked away. "Uh, can you say third wheel? I'm going to go search on my own. Contact me if you discover anything." She walked away, mumbling about 'stupid' and 'Russia' and 'Piotr'.

"Ah don't know what that was supposed ta mean." Rogue said. "Third wheel?"

"I don't know either," Remy sighed, looking forlorn. "I'd have been all for a little ménage a toi."

The second time she twisted his arm, he yelped like an injured puppy.

III.

Sitting there, he looks so different from the him of that first meeting. And by that, I mean that day we actually got to know each other, not that time before, when he nearly blew my head off and I swore silent, vicious vengeance. That particular occasion was so long ago, and we've long since sworn to forget it entirely, meaning I've already broken that vow and should not continue on this line of thought.

So…

He does look awfully different from that day, when I opened my eyes and was greeted by a good-looking Cajun thief with eyes too red and smoky. Some people get old and ugly (and I hope I've not fallen into that category, though my uniform does take a little longer to slip into that it used to), but at any rate, Remy LeBeau looks just fine. Maturity suits him. That awful bowl cut thing is gone for good, because he discovered years ago that he likes ponytails, the small, sweeping artistic kind that leaves bangs constantly brushing against his just slightly unshaven face. And his lanky form is better proportioned. I love to tease, because with all those rippling muscles and mussed hair, he fits the description of every romance novel hero. Even the name Remy sounds like it ought to be whispered wistfully by lonely homemakers in the quiet corners of a suburbia kingdom.

Hmmm.

All this consideration, and I forget it's my turn to speak. He's waiting patiently, or as patiently as he gets, because I don't think he can ever fully erase that Meant to Live, Not Linger look from his face. His hands are crossed over the motorcycle, tanned like he lives every day on the beach, and I reach out and steal one for myself. Fingers curl around my palm, as if he hopes to claim a part of me, too.

"Ah hear it's sunny in California this time o' year." I say quietly, using our patented Small Talk Starter.

He nods seriously, like he's actually considered the comment in an insightful and time-consuming way. "I wouldn't doubt it." He tells me. "I hear it's always sunny in California, any time o' da year."

He does doubt a lot of things, though. But usually, only things that center on himself. It's strange; for just about anyone else, going X-Men has meant taking the High Road, and finding it a perfectly peaceful, wonderful path. The dice are thrown in your favor. After all, money's not an issue, there's a great network of friends, and if you can get past the angry protestors who insist you're a hell spawned demon soul sucker, even if you've developed the uncanny ability to make flowers grow faster, and absolutely nothing else, well then it's smooth sailing. Okay, so there have been a few deaths along the way, which were heart wrenching and agonizingly sad, but I'll let you in on a little secret: none of them have lasted. And if you don't believe me, I've got pictures of Scott and Jean literally dancing –the tango, even- over her latest grave.

But I digress, no?

Right, Remy the Doubter.

For him, things have been different. He's always labored under the impression that he wasn't good enough to be here, like he's just waiting for news of his next transgression to get back to us, so we can toss him out on the street like yesterday's garbage. Now, even I don't know all the dirty details of his life before us, and I don't think he'll ever be inclined to share; he hoards secrets, filling all the little cracks and corners of his life with them. But I would never give up on him.

"Y' know, dis conversation will progress a lot faster if y' actually verbalize some, Chere."

I blink. "Sorry. What was Ah tryin' ta say, anyway?"

"Dunno, but I'm guessin' it eventually ended in goodbye."

"Oh." Of course it did. See, that's where things usually end up with for us. It's our routine. Our pattern. Hi, I love you; I hate you, goodbye. Repeat. Rinse, with a glass of exceptionally good cognac. Can't go wrong with that formula. Or rather, you can, and will, but it doesn't matter; consequences are only temporary. Remy's zipping off again to do some soul searching, and we're not saying adieu at a good place, but he'll be back and I'll be waiting. I release his hand, and regret it, because the touch, the warmth, was nice. Sighing louder than I want to, I open my mouth and say-

Goodbye? Is that what I want?

"No." Who said that?

He looks surprised. "No?"

I sigh. "Come inside, Remy." There's reluctance on his face. This isn't part of the routine. Still, I repeat my words, tugging on his sleeve so he'll join me where we can try for once to work things out like normal couples. "Come inside."

He does.

IV.

"Ah can hear her in my head," Rogue cringed, sinking down to her knees. "An' she won't shut up!" Rogue slammed her fist into the floor, and it cracked, her fist sinking at least a foot into the concrete.

"Let me help," Remy offered.

"No."

"Roguey…"

"As if Ah wasn't a freak enough before. Now, now Ah'm a murderer, too?" Her voice caught on a sob, and she didn't move when Remy slipped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. Partly because he felt nice; partly because she was afraid if she moved, she'd accidentally kill him.

"You're not a murderer." He insisted in a gentle tone.

"That's not what Carol says."

"Carol can kiss my ass."

Rogue sniffed. "'She says she's seen you move. She thinks maybe she'd want to."

"Tell me how t' drown her out, Chere. Help me help you."

"Carol says that's the corniest line she's ever heard."

"I don't care," Remy sighed, hugging her tighter.

"You're already helping'," Rogue said, and it was sort of true. Carol hurt her head more because of him, out of rage, out of spite. She didn't want Rogue to feel any kind of love. But knowing that he was around, that he cared, that was comforting in a place that blonde psyche's couldn't reach.

V.

They knock a candle over.

But it isn't lit. Hard wax thuds against the floor, unnoticed, as she sticks her fingers into his hair and her tongue into his mouth. He makes a weird sound in the back of his throat that's halfway between laughter and suffocation, so she pulls away briefly, concern returning to her features like a well-work jacket, creased in all the right places; she sees only smoky focus, bright eyes locked onto her face. It's enough. She dives at him again and they continue their tumble through the not-quite-appropriate room.

The living room is a common area for everyone to share. For everyone to share fun, easy going amusement, that is. Not sexual encounters that leave the bottom of her shirt curled up over her abdomen, and the soft, warm metal of his belt buckle clanging against the coffee table, so newly relieved of it's candle-friend. And sure, no one's home, but there are cameras installed, and the chances of her finding, then successfully doctoring them all are not quite good. Oh, but the heat of his skin, like a furnace under her palms, and the sweet words he manages to gush, despite his mouth being so otherwise engaged, and the weight of his body as he propels her back against the wall -they're all oh, so very good that the other things become meaningless facts, easy enough to ignore.

Hips and arms and a very insistent mouth pin her to the wall, igniting an oddity of contrasting sensations. Soft. Hard. Eased. Tense. Gentle. Rough. Want. Need. One leg is curled around his waist and she has to be moving on instinct because there has been no occasion for practice on her part. He laughs out loud, and this time, she feels it acutely in every part of her body.

After, later, when her vision has cleared and there's no strength left in her bones, she says, "This really happened."

"Imagined it so often?" He teases lightly. They're both slumped against the floor, except somehow he's mastered the look. Sleeves rolled up, hair unruly, eyes deep and amused. Like he's waiting to be photographed for an expensive cologne commercial. She thinks she looks frazzled. Skin so red she can see the flush in her arms. She shoots him a glare that says: leave me alone, and for a minute, he does. A short minute.

Then... His head on her shoulder is a shock. His hair still smells like soap and water, and she finds herself leaning towards the circle of warmth where contact is made. "Remy," she says after a minute. "Ah figured it out. How ta touch people." He's the first person she's told.

"Chere? I'd already guessed."

"Good." She looks up. "So...Listen..."

"Hmm?" He's concentrating on her, like she might be proposing.

She looks at the cameras. "How good a thief are you?"

So. I know I've been absolutely horrible about updating and I am sorry. It seems I left the muses behind when I shipped off to Real College. Rest assured, we've now been reuinited, and real updates are on the way. Thoughts on these drabbles. Confession surprised me -I didn't know what was happening in that until it was finished. Go figure (but I knew Remy couldn't be that much of a jerk!). On a Mission was a story scene that never took off like I needed it too. Alas. Just Once...what can I say. I did my best, but I guess my best wasn't good enough :P. Actually, its a songfic and would be much better if I could post the lyrics that go to it. Maybe on my livejournal... Reaching Out is...I don't know. It's like the runt of the family that didn't get any milk. Maybe someone else found it okay? First Time set out to be fun and inventive, and instead wound up weird Romy mush. I think I was losing it -had to end the drabbles there.

Comments, questions, and coconuts can be sent to me in any way you see fit. Except via African swallow. Cheers!