So, I hope you all enjoyed last chapter! I've gotten some great reviews about it. I thought I might start doing more fantasies, what do you think?

Now, I'd like to talk about the names of some new characters in this chapter. I semi-intentionally nerded out here, but part of it was accidental (or subconscious?). One man is named Javert Marcellin—the hero Inspector Javert from Les Miserables and Marcellin being a French form of Marcello (painter) from La Boheme, who was changed into Mark (movie director) for RENT. There's also Benoit Valjean, Benoit the landlord from La Boheme (Benny the landlord and sellout in RENT) and Valjean from the reformed Jean Valjean in Les Mis. Their daughter Éponine: in Les Mis she loves Marius (here, her brother) but he doesn't return her feelings. Then she dies and he marries Cosette (Valjean's adopted daughter), but yeah, not planning on any of that here.

So, if you weren't already a musical theatre nerd, you shall now become one. Because all three of those are great (I haven't actually seen La Boheme (actually an opera) but it's basically the same as RENT only straighter and with TB instead of AIDS).

Enjoy!

-Forbala-

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: PARIS

Logan pulled his ship into port a short twenty-five days after his trip had begun. He had lost significant ground on Rogue and that mind-boggling, manipulative, girl-snatching Cajun ass; but goddammit, he was a master tracker and he was going to track the shit out of them.

He paused in tying the ship down to look up at Paris. Both Rogue and Gambit were fluent in French, Rogue loved to travel, and it was well within Gambit's character to take her to the City of Love. Logan looked up at the Parisian landscape and thought. Rogue had been there about a month, if he had it right, and he knew they would already have settled in and, unless Gambit was keeping her locked up (which he doubted), they'd have seen all the popular sights. That meant he wouldn't likely find them in tourist areas, but that he'd have to look amongst the citizens of Paris, which would be more difficult.

He put that aside for later and decided to handle his more pressing concerns. He leapt from the ship to the dock and tied it to the cleat, then left the midshipmen with the ship and walked up the deck to the office. He spoke to the man there in broken French. "I land in port. I'd like to stay the boat here."

"Yes, sir, for how long?" the man asked, grimacing only a bit at Logan's choppy French.

"I don't know."

"Okay, please fill out these papers."

Logan looked at the forms and recognized only bits and pieces of it. He asked if the man spoke English. He didn't. "Someone speaks English?" he asked, growing impatient. The man called for a teenage boy who spoke nearly fluent English, and together he and Logan were able to fill out the necessary paperwork. Before long, the midshipmen came into the office, bearing their and Logan's bags.

"The ship's tied down and cleaned out," one told Logan in English.

"I'm almost done here, then we'll go," he replied. Logan finished the paperwork and paid the clerk while the ship hands waited outside, glad to stand on solid ground again. They then caught a cab to a cheap French hotel. The hands would fly back to the States in a few days, and then Logan's search would begin in earnest.

X

It had been six weeks since Marielle and Raoul had settled in their Monaco apartment. They're jobs, while not luxury, paid the bills. They practiced every day and had made some progress in Marielle's control. She was able to touch for short periods of time, but only with her hands or a touch on the arm. Something like kissing would be more difficult—would because she hadn't tried it. She had not kissed or even curled up on the couch since that night two weeks ago. Sometimes Marielle would let Raoul hold her hand, but she still smacked him when he tried to hold or kiss or hug her suddenly. She swore he did it because, more than getting a rise out of her, he liked when she hit him. Perv.

The Picards largely kept to themselves, though they always spoke with their neighbors from directly below whenever they saw them, a family of four: Javert Marcellin and Benoit Valjean with their two children, ten-year-old Marius and four-year-old Éponine Valjean. Marielle loved playing and talking with Éponine and Raoul loved watching her with the little girl. Sometimes, when Marielle was having a good day, she would hold Éponine's for short periods without the worry of absorbing her. Marielle often held the girl's tiny hand in her gloved one, and would chase her or play dolls and dress-up with her—neither of her fathers was any good at playing dolls, so Éponine usually played alone and thus looked forward to her playtimes with Marielle. In fact, Marielle would sometimes babysit Éponine and Marius. Raoul sometimes performed card tricks for the kids, and occasionally Éponine dragged him into playing dolls. Éponine said he played better than her dads, which Marielle thoroughly enjoyed teasing him about.

One night, Marielle was taking out the trash and met Javert at the Dumpster. They stuck up a conversation—how are the kids, what are you up to, et cetera. Javert then asked, "What do you think about going out to dinner tomorrow night? Benoit and I can hire a sitter, there's this place downtown away from all the tourists."

"That sounds fun. I think Raoul is off tomorrow, so I'll talk to him and see."

They said their goodbyes and Marielle went into her apartment. As she closed the door behind her, Raoul jumped out and wrapped his arms tightly around her, holding her close. She screamed and headbutted him, absorbing him slightly in her shock. He staggered backward, dizzy from both the head injury and the loss of energy and self. "Dammit, Raoul! Why do you insist on surprising and attacking me?"

"I just love holding you, chere."

"Whatever," she mumbled, flattered but still annoyed. She pushed past him. "Javert invited us to dinner tomorrow night. You're off, right?"

"Sure. Are they bringing Éponine and Marius?"

"No, just grown-ups."

"Sounds fun. I need to go to work now. See you tonight, chere."

"Not likely," she said to his back. She went into the kitchen and began washing the dishes from dinner. She was still in her uniform, which she took off and put in the washer with the day's dirty clothes when she'd finished the dishes. After that, dressed in basketball shorts and a wifebeater, she went into Raoul's room and vacuumed, dusted, and generally cleaned and tidied up. She had a rotating schedule for cleaning the apartment: her room on day 1, Raoul's room on day 2, and the main rooms day 3.

When at last she had all her cleaning finished for the night, she went to her room and stripped down, turned on the hot water in the shower, and stepped in. She loved showers because the hot water took her to a different place, it relaxed her like nothing else, and it was the one place she didn't have to worry about hurting anyone.

She washed herself slowly and contentedly, thinking about Éponine and how adorable she was. Unbidden, thoughts of Raoul filled her head. His face when he smirked at her, after he'd attacked her earlier, that damn mischievous smile he gave her so often. She hated to admit it, but she liked how his hair sort of fell in his reddish eyes, how he hugged her and doted on her and spoke of her like an angel. Not a single person she'd ever known had treated her even half as well as he did. Sure, she knew Logan loved her and he would do anything to keep her safe and happy, but that was more of a parental love. Raoul loved her romantically and, annoying as he was, she loved that he loved her. If she was able to touch, she might even feel similarly towards him.

Then she remembered that she was learning to touch and she had to reevaluate her opinions of Raoul. She didn't like how their relationship was changing; it scared her. She didn't know what to do now that a physical relationship with anyone was fast becoming a possibility, and Raoul was only further confusing her.

But her subconscious was winning out: His gleeful, teasing face appeared in her mind again. And then it morphed into that rare, soft, genuine smile he sometimes had, when he didn't think she was looking. And just seeing that smile on him made her skin tingle pleasantly, like fairies running lightly over her. And then she smiled because he was smiling and everything just felt perfect for a moment.

Marielle had to admit it to herself, however reluctantly: She liked him. And not just as a human being, but as someone she enjoyed spending time with and someone she might even possibly maybe one day could sort of love a little bit. And she'd be lying is she didn't admit she wanted to have—well, er, let's say Caribbean study with him. Yes. She wanted to study him in a Caribbean way. She knew he had to be toned (he was too vain not to be) and from what she could tell just through his clothes, he was freaking hot.

She sighed, got out of the shower, and pulled on her pajamas. She grabbed a book and went to the couch to watch TV and read herself sleepy.

Well, it worked. In half an hour, she was asleep on the couch, some cop show playing on the TV and the book laying open on her stomach. When Raoul got home—after midnight—she was still asleep, only now she was cuddling the book like a stuffed animal. He smiled mirthfully at the situation and approached her. He gently extricated the book from her arms and scooped her up, bending her over his shoulder, carrying her to her room. His upbringing as a thief insured he made almost no noise and didn't rouse her at all. He pulled back the covers on her perfectly made bed and laid her in it, tucking the blankets around her like a cocoon. He brushed her hair back and kissed her lips, ghostlike.

When he pulled back, there was a soft smile on her face and she whispered, "Rrrmy." That nearly stopped his heart. Had she said his name? Or was it his delusional imagination? Was it possible that she could be caving into his flirting and tricks and touching lessons? Could she be beginning to love him, even a fraction of how he loved her? "Remy," she said again, more clearly this time. He knelt beside the bed, his face inches from her.

"Remy's here, chere. What do you need?"

"Remy…" She rolled towards him and her arm went flopping over the edge of the bed, ungloved and open and inviting. He gingerly wrapped his fingers around hers and just held it, feeling the heat of her hand, and the smallness of it, and the softness of it, and the perfection of it all. He brought it to his lips and kissed it.

She began to stir at that. "Nnn…" But as she began to wake, her grip tightened on his hand. Her eyes tightened and then opened slowly. "Raoul? The hell are you doing?" And yet she still held his hand tightly.

"You fell asleep on the couch, chere. I was just bringing you to bed."

"Oh." She seemed to accept this answer. She also seemed to be only partially awake. Then she noticed their hands and released him, pulling her hand close to her body, and it was difficult to tell in the darkness, but he thought she was blushing.

"Goodnight, ma belle fille," he said, standing and walking to the door.

"Goodnight," he heard her say as he closed the door.

X

The next day, Raoul didn't have work, so Marielle left him a list of chores and errands, taped to the fridge:

Raoul, since you've got a whole day of freedom,

maybe you could get a couple of things done.

Don't dirty the apartment!

Go to the grocery (list and money on the

counter; I expect change!)

Fix the faucet (toolbox under the sink)

Fold the clean clothes from the dryer, nicely!

Have a good day! ;)

—Marielle

He smiled somewhat ruefully and began the day by ignoring the list and making breakfast. After that, he sat on the patio and played solitaire. Then, shortly before lunch, he went in and folded the laundry, tossing his clothes on his bed and taking Marielle's into her room and putting them away. He took a moment to look at her panties, but it was a short moment. Then he went to the grocery and had a very rough time of it: he didn't know where anything was, or what brand he was supposed to get, so he got the cheapest of everything, plus a few extras…like beer. He was very glad when it was over and he could do something he sort of understood: fix the sink.

He pulled the toolbox out from under the sink and stared at the pipes beneath the sink for a moment. How hard could it be? The sink was dripping, so something was probably loose. He'd just tighten one thing at a time, test the faucet, then keep messing with things until it worked.

Well, his plan sort of worked. He ended up under a spray of high-pressure water from the u-bend pipe under the sink. He pushed through the fountain and was able to turn the wrench and stop the spray. Raoul did finally fix the sink, though it took longer than it should have and made quite a mess. He packed up the toolbox, then went to the hall closet and got the mop. Fortunately, the water was only sprayed into the kitchen area and he didn't have too much to mop up. Unfortunately, he'd left some of the groceries in the floor and had to wash and dry them before putting them away. By then it was about time for lunch and Marielle would be home soon. He set to making a simply lunch, which he knew Marielle much preferred over the fancier meals he so enjoyed making. He fixed up macaroni and cheese, cole slaw—good old-fashioned comfort food. He made toast, which he crushed and sprinkled over the macaroni, along with a little pepper. As he was pouring a Coke for Marielle and a getting a beer for himself, his "wife" walked in the door.

"Hey, chere, how was work?" he asked, going to greet her. She looked run down and like she just wanted to sleep for a few days.

"Exhausting. We had three girls gone so the rest of us had to double up."

"Poor petite fille. I got some beer today, if you want any."

"No, thanks. Did you make lunch?" she asked, approaching the kitchen table.

"Yeah, comfort food. Glad I did."

Marielle went gratefully to the table and ate. Raoul sat and ate too, but his eyes didn't stray from her once. She felt his gaze and shifted uncomfortably, glaring up at him occasionally. He didn't care; by this point her anger barely registered with him—and honestly, it was a habit for her more than actual anger. They had grown used to and comfortable with one another.

As they finished eating, Raoul said, "Would you like me to give you a foot massage?"

"No." Marielle shot him down automatically.

"You could wear socks, or I could wear gloves. I'm very good." Marielle looked at him and he could see her resolve crumbling in favor of her exhaustion. "There's a lot of things, you know," he said, voice low and attractive, "that we can do without our naked skin touching."

Marielle's face pinkened, just slightly, and she said, "Fine. I guess a foot massage would be okay."

Raoul grinned, somewhere between sweet and predatory, and Marielle wondered how much she would regret this.

They cleaned up their dinner and then Raoul went and sat on the couch, where Marielle nervously joined him. He reached for her hand and moved in to kiss her. She gave him her cheek but let him keep her hand. He smiled and said, "Lay back, chere." She leaned back against the armrest and Raoul lifted her legs, bringing them into his lap. She had left her shoes at the door and her socks on, but he was wearing gloves so he slowly peeled off her white cotton socks, rolled his thumbs over the balls of her left foot, over her arch, digging into the sore muscles. Her tense body melted underneath his expert hands. He worked his way down the pad of her heel, back up on the outside of her foot, and dug into each toe. He looked up at Marielle and saw that she'd laid her head back on the armrest and she was smiling softly, almost as if in rapture.

He bent his head because her look of slipping into ecstasy was too much for him and if he didn't turn away he didn't know if he could resist taking her in his arms and holding her and kissing her forever. He'd like to think they'd do more, but he doubted that she'd ever let him, and he was not about to make her.

He rolled her ankle, rubbed his thumb over the heel over her foot—the pad and up to her Achilles tendon—while his other hand massaged her ankle and halfway up her calf.

And God Almighty, she moaned. Just a soft little mewl of happiness and pleasure, "Mmmm."

He froze for half an instant before he resumed the massage. His throat was dry and he tried to swallow but couldn't. He moved to her right foot and dug into the pad, down, around, and back up as he'd done on her left, then up her ankle and calf. Fuck. She moaned again, almost a purr. He had to take a long breath through the nose, but he couldn't resist leaning down and kissing the top of her foot. She didn't shock or absorb him in the least. But she did whip her head upright rather quickly, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. Her face was rosy and her eyes were dark and sparkling. She laid her head back again a moment later.

Raoul decided to finish up her massage quickly before she could torture him any more. He rolled her socks back on and put her feet gently back onto the floor. He gathered himself to stand and sneak off to his room, but she stopped him with, "Raoul! Do you…um, would you hold me?"

His heart tightened momentarily and he settled back into the couch, stretching his arms toward her. She reached out and took his hand and they scooted close together. He put his arm around her shoulder and rested his head on hers, but did not hold her too close; instead, he crossed his leg closest to her over his other leg and shifted, trying to get comfortable.

She moved stiffly, awkwardly, and rested her head on his shoulder. He nuzzled her hair and she began to relax.

"So," she said after several moments. "How did your day go?"

"Just fine. I fixed the sink."

"How much did you break first?"

"There was a bit of a leak."

Marielle laughed and it was high, squeaky, somewhat contained but working to escape. It was a little ridiculous, and he loved it. "Good job, idiot!" she squeaked out. He laughed with her and hugged her tightly and she leaned into him and it was perfect. She settled back into him, closer, more intimate, when their laughter died out. They sat on the couch, talking for close to an hour, before Marielle looked at the clock on the cable box and pulled away, pulling Raoul to stand with her.

They parted with tentative but happy smiles. Marielle went to her room to shower and get ready and, when she left the bathroom with her hair piled atop her head in a towel, another towel wrapped around her body, she went to her closet. She realized she'd left the few dresses she owned at the Institute, and had refused to let Remy buy her any on their emergency shopping trip. Good job, past Rogue, she thought. Now you have nothing to wear.

She cracked open her door and saw Raoul leaning on the table, shuffling cards. He was dressed in khakis and a light blue collared shirt, his hair brushed back as tamely as he could make it, but pieces still hung in his face. He looked fine. "Um, Raoul?" she ventured.

He urned toward her and his eyes widened minutely, still red because he had yet to put in his contacts. "Yes?"

"I don't have anything to wear."

"Well, I'm sure we can find something for you," he said, pushing the door open and walking casually past her into the room. He went straight to the closet and looked in while Marielle stood awkwardly to the side. Raoul looked at each piece of clothing individually and for a full moment. In the back, he found the one skirt he'd made her buy: black, past the knee, and utterly plain. He pulled it out and handed it to her to hold, then flipped back through her clothes again, quickly this time. He pulled out three tops: a red satin v-neck, an off the shoulder top in black, and a green peasant top with long flowy sleeves. "Choose one. I recommend the red," he said with a smile and a wink. She hit his arm and grabbed the green one. He sighed, hung the rejects up, and bent down to examine her shoes, quickly choosing the black pumps, and went to her dresser.

"What are you doing?" Marielle asked, setting the clothes on her bed.

"Finishing your outfit."

"God, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were gay—hey!" She ran over and slammed her underwear drawer shut, nearly catching his fingers. "Out!"

He left with that devilish smile that made her heart pound in more ways than one, and closed the door behind him. She glared at the door for a moment before dressing.

When she emerged, Raoul looked up immediately and smiled smugly. "I am good. I should have been a fashion designer."

"Shut up, dumbass, and let's go meet Javert and Ben before they think we blew them off."

"It's okay. They'd know we were having crazy sex."

"Pervert!" she shrieked, walking quickly toward the door and leaving it wide open. He closed and locked it with a smirk, then followed her down to the street.

WHAT THE FUCK? This was like eight pages. I know it took a while and I'm sorry, but it's longer and I'm really trying to work on that. Is this better? Give me feedback, please.

So next chapter I think it's going to be dinner, obviously, and then maybe another fantasy. Or two ;)