Author's Notes: Very much thanks to Katya for helping out with the summary and providing me with an amusing alternative to Bobby/Jubilee-ness. And no, you still won't pull me over into your little obsession.

I'm Okay You're Okay

By Eileen Blazer

Mardi Gras 2005

"I'd like to buy the world a home and furnish it with love.Grow apple trees and honey bees and snow white turtle doves."

I.

There are better ways to find out your boyfriend's playing for the other team, so to speak, than opening the closet and finding him lip-locked and dazed with the new male recruit. And doubtless, there are better ways to handle the news than snatching the nearest hanger and using it to beat said boyfriend across the face and torso, ignoring all whiny cries of 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh my God, I think my eye is bleeding!' And really, there must be much, much, infinitely better things to do in the aftermath than say, pilfering someone's motorcycle and driving nonstop until the city is alive and vibrant and pulsing in the night, finding an acceptable nightclub, and sleeping with the first exceptionally hot guy who buys you a drink (and that's assuming, of course, crazy, wild sex can actually be euphemistically labeled 'sleep' –you're justifiably doubtful).

Yes, there's no question about it: a more mature, thoughtful, reasonable person would've dealt with the revelation far, far better than you. But then… that person wouldn't have woken up at nine o' clock in the morning tangled in the sleep heavy limbs of one Remy LeBeau and he's just hot enough that you're thinking… even trade? Other people can have reason and maturity, you'll get musky cologne, blood red sheets, and hot, steady breaths on the back of your neck.

He shifts, tugging you closer, and you snicker. Even trade… ha! What you've got going on, with the Cajun and the sex? Yeah. So much greater than reason.

Funny thing: you were looking for Bobby to tell him the terrific news, about how that whole touch issue isn't so much an issue since your last big breakthrough with the professor. If he hadn't had his tongue crammed down the new guy's throat when you found him, it would've been him with you instead. Interesting thought to pursue. Your Sex Ed teacher swears that intimacy with a partner with whom you've established a serious, meaningful relationship based on the strong structures of friendship and mutual trust is a more powerful experience than a quickie with some guy you barely met. But see… there's this hand pressed into the small of your back, running in small, rhythmic circles that's making that awfully hard to believe.

Come to think of it, your Sex Ed teacher is kind of a hag… maybe she's never been intimate with a beautiful, sensual Cajun and doesn't that just explain a lot?

Your body adjusts to his as he wakes. And is that you gasping as he trails slick, wet kisses on your neck? It seems like the sort of question you should be able to answer, but your brain is functioning about as much as oh, say, the average clock… after it's been smashed in with a hammer, dropkicked across a football field, drowned in a well, and then run over –repeatedly- by a big, shiny SUV.

You think about lowering the seats in your SUV, making room for you and he to… and it's funny. You never used to have a one-track mind.

Hmm.

Mmm.

His mouth really does feel nice and…

Oh wait. What were you thinking about again?

Your hands slip across his chest, marveling in just how smooth and addictive the feel of him is. It's like… silk and chocolate, mixed into a single substance. Like… like that first gulp of soda the day after Lent, when you let the sweet flavor fill every space in your mouth and you wonder how you managed without it for all that time. Like… jeez, it's like touching skin for the first time in ages, only better because you were younger when you lost the ability and the boys weren't like this back then. They just didn't make them like this one in Caldecott.

He laughs, and then you laugh, because –who'd have thought- he's ticklish. Your hands pass over sinuous muscle and he squirms, covering his face with a pillow that muffles the sound of his mirth. Unable to resist… you do it more, until he can't take it, and grabs your wrists, pulling you flush against him and…

Huh.

All of a sudden neither of you are laughing. He tosses the pillow away, revealing sleepy red eyes. They flicker like candles in the windowsill on a windy day before he slides a hand into your hair, covering your mouth with his. Couldn't you just drink him in all-

"Dance your cares away! Worries for another…"

-Day.

Fraggle Rock theme song blares loudly, and it's your cell. He smirks, all cocky like, and snatches it up from the nightstand. Before you can say another word, he's flipped it open and said, "I'm sorry, Roguey can't come to the phone right now. Call back da day after never, oui?"

A shout on the other end so loud you wince, and then snatch back your property, taking a deep breath before raising the phone up to your ear. "Hello?" You speak uncertainly, wondering what you'll answer when they ask where you are. What? In bed with a stranger? No, never. He's just the delivery boy. What's he delivering? Certainly not orgasmic pleasure. Nope. More like… peas. Yes, that's it. You got a sudden craving for peas and the delivery boy had just stepped inside when the phone rang, and… oh. Bobby's been talking.

"You just ran," he says, sounding sort of desperate. You remember him backed against a set of coats; lips bruised red, and only half-aware. What had he said then… it's not what it looks like. Right. Northstar wasn't breathing, damn it, and Bobby was only trying to jumpstart his heart. And well… other things, too. You roll your eyes at the thought, but then remember that he can't see your expression.

"Didn't think you'd notice," You answer back, frowning as Remy steals your free hand and begins tracing little patterns out with the tip of his tongue. Wet, smooth, and why are you still on the phone again?

"Didn't think I'd- Rogue, of course I-" He stops as you giggle. "Rogue, who answered your cell?"

"Does it matter, Bobby?" You could tell him the name, but you don't think you will. At least not right away. For the moment, you've got this amazingly terrific secret and you've never been very good at sharing.

"Don't do this…" He whispers, as if he hadn't already done it himself, and there's really no good way to tell him that you've already done it, too. Three times, if your memory holds up as good as you think it does. In case you're feeling forgetful, Remy's moved his mouth to your collarbone, pressing light reminders into needy skin. The phone slips in your fingers, but you manage to hold on. For now.

"Bobby, we both know it isn't workin' out."

"Rogue!" His shout is cut off, as you snap your phone shut and toss it to the floor.

You grin. It's a slow, teasing grin and… God, you've never felt this sexy. Is it him bringing out this quality in you? And is it possible to bottle the feeling, because you could make a fortune. "Come here," You command, jerking him closer. He's just about to pounce when-

"Open this damn door right now."

-a knock interrupts you. You sigh, reaching for the courtesy robe. It's terrycloth and heavy on your shoulders and Remy leans forward to tug it tight around you waist. Fading into the background, just for a second, you watch him move to the door, where a very familiar face is red like Dorothy's slippers. Which is to say, not red at all, more shiny silver, like guns and bullets and impending death, but wouldn't it look much better if it were just red?

"Where is she?"

It's strange… he hadn't been this protective back when Jean was still around. Extended claws toss back the light.

"She…?" Remy blinks, like he has no idea what Logan's talking about.

"Rogue. I know she was in here. I can smell her."

Lazy smile that's going to get him decapitated. "Anyone ever tell you dat's a little stalker-ish?"

"No. They get halfway through and I cut off their tongues before they can finish." You like Remy's tongue. Logan better not take it. For this reason, among others, you clear your throat and draw attention to yourself. There's this one second, when both men are looking at you, one with lust, the other with murder, and you wonder what the hell you were thinking in willfully pulling those gazes to you. Blame the alcohol. Hangovers and such. Never mind that you only had half a drink, just enough to trade a few sentences with LeBeau before he'd nodded towards the door and suggested the both of you find somewhere more comfortable to talk.

You know, some place with quiet, with fresh air, a little privacy, and a king sized bed…

"We're leaving," Logan orders, arms crossed like his word is law.

And you never used to be this defiant, either, but whatever latent personality has been lurking beneath your skin is finally getting her day in the sun. You tilt up your chin and tell him –almost nicely- that you're an adult and you'll home when you damn well please. And by the way, doesn't he knows it's rude to come crashing into people's hotel rooms in the morning? He'll be lucky if no one presses charges.

Logan glances back to Remy. Ah, the testosterone. You can feel it, taste it, hear it in their silence. Me Logan, this my charge. I take her now. Interfere, and I flay you alive, delighting in your inhuman squeals as your skin is ripped away from bleeding, raw flesh before your very own tear streaked eyes.

Or, you know. However cavemen speak.

"I don't think she wants t' go, mon ami."

"Stay outta this."

"O' what?"

"Or what!"

"If you don't even know, how am I s'pposed to?"

"Ah'm a big girl," You say, interrupting the volley. Partly because you don't want anyone hurt and the exchange is rapidly escalating towards physical violence; and, partly because they're awful close to each other, what with all that posturing, and even though you're pretty damn sure Remy LeBeau doesn't swing that way, you just… don't want to take any chances. You like this one, and the memory of Bobby is just a little too strong. You level your gaze to Logan's and sigh. "Ah'll go home when Ah'm ready."

And that is your final answer.

Back straightens and Logan's claws are sheathed. Victory! He glares at you, in the kind of way that foretells of long, long talks and after school special moments, but for the present, he's no longer a threat. Frustrated paces out, snap of the door, and you're alone again with Remy.

"So…" he grins slyly. "Where were we?" Cloud nine, you think. Seventh Heaven. Paradise.

"Here," you answer, as you take him in your arms. He's warm, like one of those fluffy blankets you can plug into the wall and heat up. A good kind of hard, like the mattresses that are supposed to be good for your back, or the ground beneath your feet on a summer day. You wish you could just… explore.

Except all of a sudden, there's this blonde woman breaking into your hotel room. She makes no attempt to hide herself, just goes about her business, picking open the lock with a pin. Remy feels so good, you almost decide to ignore her, but…

She pulls the doors back and makes a rather grand entrance, really. Wind dramatically tossing back the heavy blonde braids, head tilted up so the sunlight bounces off her golden skin, violet lips perfectly pursed, and heavy-lidded eyes catch sight of everything. They see you, and move on without the slightest interest. Like she's stepping down from the heavens and can't be bothered with mere mortals like you.

"Remy," she intones. "Where's my money?"

He sighs. "Dunno."

"Remy…"

"Closet," he says, sighing again. His lips fall to your shoulder.

"Sugah…" You begin, not quite how to phrase the question. Why did some woman just enter our room? Why are you giving her money? "Who is that?"

"Umm…" He wrinkles his nose. "Y' don't want t' hear 'bout her."

Actually, you do. "Who is she?"

He casts a stare over his shoulder to spy the woman, who's now counting a shockingly large amount of dollar bills.

"Her?"

"MmmHmm."

"Oh. She's… Bella." Well, that clears it up then! Let's get back to the sex! Apparently, there are two of you trapped within your single body. One wants answers; the other wants a repeat performance of the night before. Who to listen to…

"An' who is Bella?" Damn it! The wrong voice won. You really ought to demand a recount.

"She's…mmfmfm."

"What?"

"She's…mmwwff."

"What?"

"Ugh." Bella says, looking up from the green. "I'm his wife." She gives you a short smile and holds up a hand. One finger supports a glittering ring.

Your eyes fall to the first heavy object you think you can lift. The telephone. Remy blanches. "Y' don't understand, Chere…it's only in name…she doesn't mean anything…our marriage is a sham… we're… tell her, Bella."

The blonde shrugs. "It's a convenience thing."

"Uh huh."

"If you're lookin' for a rival, though, ask him all about Gwen."

"Gwen?" You repeat.

"Cute bubbly type. Thinks she's a t'ief. Y' could take her." A snort. "I have."

"An' dat wasn't very nice." Remy tosses at his wife. W-i-f-e. Ya sure know how to pick 'em.

"I'm not nice." Bella says, all singsong like. She winks at you as she stuffs the money into her pockets. "Have fun, kiddies." And then she escapes the way she came. If 'escapes' can also mean 'saunters leisurely to the window, where she proceeds to toss herself dramatically out, as though believing herself capable of flight'. There's a cord attached to her waist though, and after a minute you see her glide safetly away, supported by a helicopter.

Remy's sprawled out on the bed, now, sheet drawn across his waist, a hand covering his eyes. A reasonable person would've asked questions. Demanded answers. No, scratch that. Demanded divorce papers, before engaging in anything further. A reasonable person might've left, headed for home, and cast away every thought of smooth Cajun skin. But then… you're not reasonable. That's been established.

So instead… you straddle his waist, and lean forward, covering his torso with yours, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "This has been some mornin' after."

"Y' think?"

"We should try it again."

"How?"

"Well…" You stretch out a hand and introduce yourself. "Ah'm Rogue Darkholme. Want t' have a drink?"

"Oui."

"Afterwards we could maybe find somewhere private."

"Wit' fresh air!"

"O' we could skip straight ta the whole bedroom scene."

He grins. "I'm not good wit' mornin' afters."

"We could aim for a night after…"

Remy nods. "Sounds reasonable."

You agree.

And isn't that ironic.

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