Whispers

"Ah swear befo' God an' country, Remy, if ya evah get me pregnant again, ya bettah run fo' the high hills 'cause Ah'm gonna kill ya!" Rogue backed all of this up with a harsh glare, gritted teeth, and a numbingly painful grip on Remy's hand.

Remy bravely smiled at her through the pain and nuzzled a kiss on the top of her head. "I'll remember dat, chère."

"Don't ya 'chère'—" But her exclamation was cut off by another sharp scream as a contraction hit her.

Remy glanced at Hank for reassurance.

"She's doing fine," Hank replied. But he didn't really look up from his task of trying to get the baby out of Rogue, which was fine by Remy.

Remy may not have had a lot of experiences with childbirth (and certainly not in the delivery room), but he knew enough to know that he was to be moral support for his wife, as unannoying as possible (considering said wife's hormones were still at godzilla response levels), and generally out of the way. This meant he had to allow Rogue to cut off all blood flow to his fingers, yell at him if she so pleased, and try to not to distract the doctor. In other words, bloody torture.

Another shriek from Rogue and he cringed.

He had a new respect for mothers. After all the pain and grief required to bring a new child into the world, they certainly had the right to exact a little in spankings and rolling pins later. (Not that Tante Mattie had given birth to him, but the concept remained.)

He had a new respect for fathers too (at least any that had been corralled into delivery room moral support service). Surviving such an experience without allowing any misplaced protectiveness to attack the doctor and tell him to get his wife out of pain was incredibly more difficult than he had expected.

Of course, Logan didn't think so. He was mutely laughing at Remy's expense from the other side of Rogue's bed. Remy cursed the healing factor (and heartlessness).

In every book that Remy had run across during the last nine months (under the bed, in the bathroom drawer, in a linen closet, once in the refrigerator—his femme needed to stop stressing, he decided when he found that one) about pregnancy and raising kids and birth itself (no one ever said his chère was anything less than thorough either), it said that new mothers could experience panic, pain, shock, and breathless wonder (among plenty of other things he tried to quickly forget) before, during, and after the whole process of bringing a new life into the world.

None of them said much about new fathers.

He was rapidly discovering they should have.

Jubilee really could not figure it out.

Remy was hot. Oh yeah, she got that. I mean, who could miss that sculpted upper body when he stripped off his shirt in the Danger Room after a major workout or that sexy smile or those gorgeous red and black eyes that actually glowed and throbbed and darkened with his moods. Seriously. Rogue lucked out on that front. Totally. And in that regard, Jubilee envied her.

But now that Rogue was as big as a whale—and about as sociable—being pregnant, the looks wasn't exactly the deciding factor. No, no. He just had to be so sweet!

He cooked for her, did the laundry—oh! what would Jubilee give for a guy to do her laundry!—tucked her in with blankets, books, pillows, anything she wanted. Remy LeBeau, Guild Thief and dangerous guy extraordinaire ran about as a gopher and a butler doing anything that might make his 'chère' more comfortable or happy.

Where did Rogue find these guys?

Hot. Sweet. Dangerous. The typical bad boy that is so totally awesomely good. Jubilee could not figure it out. She couldn't seem to land even one of those qualities.

Rogue caught her staring at them, her and Remy all curled up on the couch in front of the TV with one of their never-ending quarts of black cherry frozen yogurt—Rogue never had explained what was up with the yogurt, talk about some serious cravings—looking so incredibly sweet it was just sickening.

Jubilee sighed and looked back down at her book. Jane Eyre. This girl had two guys after her. Mysterious, dark, intriguing, with a fabulous sense of humor. That was Rochester for you. Why did everyone else get the good stuff?

Finally, she tossed the book across the couch in disgust, got up off the couch, and stomped out of the room. She could hear Remy's voice behind her.

"Y' t'ink she's okay?"

Of course, he'd ask about her. So sweet.

Jubilee went back in her bedroom, slammed the door, cranked the music. Was it so much to ask for her own hot, sweet, dangerous? She'd never even met an attractive guy here that interested her. With a huge sigh almost too big for her body, she flopped out across the bed.

"Why me?" she whined.

Everybody had someone. Kitty had Piotr—hot, sweet, dangerous, yuppers. Lorna had Bobby—cute, sweet, and...well, um...yeah. Lorna had Bobby. Moira had Hank. Ororo had Logan—hot, dangerous, not sweet, but catching a trend here? Allison had Warren, that sweet in and out hunk whose father developed the Cure and who also fit the general bill.

Jubilee had...

No one.

Ouch.

Another loud, huffy teenager-like sigh.

Somebody knocked.

"Go away!" she shouted, careless of whoever was disturbing her pity party.

They knocked louder.

"What!" She threw up her hands. "Can't a girl have a decent sulk anymore?" But she got herself up off the bed and stormed over to the door to yank it open. And met...roses?

She blinked.

"Uh..."

Dozens of red roses in a big bowery bouquet and a vase. There was obviously some female behind them, but Jubilee wasn't really certain who.

Not until a very grumpy voice ordered her, "Back up already so I can bring them in!"

Jubilee backed up. "Lorna. Are those yours?"

"Mmph!" The flowers deposited on the dresser and she could finally see the frazzled green hair and harried expression of her friend. "Of course not," Lorna snapped. "They're yours. I picked them up from this rude flower boy that absolutely refused to come inside the mansion. Something about getting injured last time he delivered flowers here." Lorna eyed the bunch critically. "They look expensive."

Jubilee was still staring in shock.

"Well," Lorna prodded. "Card?"

"Oh. Yeah." Jubilee stepped forward and hunted in the roses—wow, they smelled good—for a little card and read the inscription. She wrinkled her nose. "Can't guys just tell you who they are anymore?"

Lorna hung her head over Jubilee's shoulder. "Secret admirer, huh?" She shrugged. "Well, count yourself lucky, girl, but I'm not lugging up any more flowers, got it? Nearly strained my back there."

"Sure." Jubilee grinned at the overstatement. "See you."

"Later."

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Sam snagged Lorna out of the hall as she went by and dragged her into the kitchen.

"What the—"

"Well?" He looked at her expectantly, ultra-nervous.

The magnetic mistress glared at him. "Well, what?"

"Did she like them? Jubilee?"

Lorna stared at him. "You sent those roses? Where in the world did you get the money?"

Sam forgot that talking to Lorna was not the same as talking to Kitty or Rogue, but he just shrugged, giving the most innocent expression he could muster. "Did she like them?"

"Boys!" Lorna sighed. "Yeah. She liked them. Now, if you don't mind, I have a standing appointment with my pillow I gotta keep." With that, she whisked away.

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Hot. Sweet. Dangerous.

Well, this was definitely sweet. Jubilee eyed the flowers critically. One out of three not bad.

"Sugah?" Rogue shook her sleeping husband's shoulder to wake him.

His arms tightened around her, making her gasp. Before, when he would hold her like this, she could breathe. Now, of course, there was this little—big—passenger that kept getting in the way.

"Remy!"

"Sapriste!" Remy sprung up, looking around wildly. Always so overprotective now. "Quoi? Vous—"

"English, sugah." She huffed a little and repositioned herself to a more comfortable position. Being eight months along was just a little...constraining. She shook her head. "Ya weren't wakin' up an' then ya decided ta get all grabby, which Ah told ya ain't too comfy."

"Oh." His hand dropped to her stomach, and she had to smile at all the love shining in his glowing red eyes.

She reached up and kissed him.

He cocked his head, halfway smiling. "An' what was dat for?"

"For bein' ya."

Then he got that dangerous look in his eyes, the one that said just how he wanted to express said love for her, and she lifted one hand to his chest.

"Nuh-uh. Don't even think about it. That would not be comfortable at all raght now."

He chuckled and lifted the restraining hand to kiss her fingers. "I'll behave. Promise." But he did still settle in beside her, leaning back against the headboard, and wrap his arm around her, holding her close.

She snuggled in with a soft sigh.

"What'd y' wake m' for, chère?"

"Oh. That?" Rogue blinked, trying to dispel the contented haze she had fallen into. "Oh. Wanted to say sorry, sugah, for bippin' ya ovah the yogurt."

"Dat?" He waved a hand dismissively. "Old news."

"Maybe, but Ah still overreacted and ya were exceptionally sweet about it." Then she said the words she didn't realize she was going to regret. "Wanted to see if Ah could make it up ta ya."

"Oh?"

The sharp interest in his tone clued her in. She looked up at him, that mischievous smirk...

"Oh no. We've been ovah this. Not happenin'."

He moved to cover her body with his and she squeaked at the sudden nearness.

"Aw, chère," he murmured, eyes drinking her in, one finger sliding down her cheek in a soft caress. "Can I help it if y're so scrumptious I jus' want t' taste y'?"

He was so close, kissing her softly, hands smoothing down her sides, resting on the child growing inside her.

"Remy." Rogue tried to scooch just a bit from beneath him.

His eyes glimmered with amusement.

She caught her breath. "Ah'm really not in the mood for..." She blushed. "That."

He chuckled, as always, at her shyness. One finger traced her collarbone. "Never did figure how such a naughty fille"—his eyes sparked with mischief as she blushed again—"can be so..." He seemed to debate on the word. "Coy."

Rogue wasn't Rogue for nothing and she shoved him off. Hard.

He laughed.

She glared at him. "Ah do not play the coquette!"

Remy was still laughing. "Never said y' did, chère."

"Don't ya 'chère' me, lahke that's all ya gotta do ta stay out of trouble."

He shook his head and reached over to draw her into his arms despite her heated protests. Then he kissed her, on the mouth this time, and she could have kicked herself for melting so easily, but he was just so warm and good.

"Ah hate ya," she muttered between his kisses.

"Y' don't," he whispered back as fervently.

And she didn't. She really didn't. As if how passionately she was responding to him didn't prove that. She rolled her eyes and managed to get her hand between them again and get him off of that spot that was just so uncomfortable.

"Ah hate bein' pregnant," she said with a pout.

"Non!" His protest this time was as heated as hers. "Dis our petite fille." His hands slid around her belly.

She groaned and sat back up, then shot Remy a glare. "Boy."

"D'accord. Boy." Remy had never given in so easily and she raised one eyebrow. "Mais y' ain't allowed t' regret dis."

"Regret...?" Suddenly, Rogue burst out laughing.

Remy gave her an injured look.

"Remy, sugah." She shook her head ruefully. "Ah don't regret havin' our baby. Ah want our baby. Ah'd jus' lahke ta go straight from the makin' ta the havin', that's all."

He blinked at her. "Oh." He eyed her skeptically.

"Oh, Remy." She leaned over and kissed him. Hard.

Naturally, he responded enthusiastically. He cradled her in his embrace, careful not to cut off her oxygen—something she was grateful for—and she pressed up against him. Finally, she pulled away, eyes sparkling.

"Ah think that about makes it up." She grinned at him.

"Are y' sure, Rogue?" He smiled slyly. "'Cause I bought y' a lot of frozen yogurt."

Rogue leaned in laughing, gave him one last kiss. "But ya ate mah last servin'. An' ya always claimed ya could see in the dark."

"I can, chère," Remy answered with just a tad bit of irritation.

"Mm-hmm." She slid out of bed and walked—waddled, it was terrible—to the bathroom, then tossed over her shoulder. "Blasted that myth." Then she went in and shut the door and giggled at the loud sighs that followed her.

"Chérie?" Remy shook his sleeping wife's shoulder gently.

She thwacked him with a pillow. Hard.

"Chère!"

Rogue moved the pillow out of her face and glared at him darkly. "Since ya hadn't noticed, swamp rat, Ah'm pregnant, tahred, and tryin' ta sleep at three o'clock in the mornin'!"

Remy sighed, rubbing one hand tiredly down his own face. Rogue had been about as pleasant as a housecat woken by a cold drenching since she'd gotten pregnant and now that she had self-proclaimed herself a beached whale, broken down, and bought maternity clothes, her mood had taken another decided dip southward. But heaven help him if he wasn't attentive and present and helpful. Even if being all those things got him plenty of glares and harsh words, what he got if he wasn't was much, much worse.

"Y' need anyt'in'?" he asked cautiously.

Her green eyes narrowed to slits. "Ah know ya didn't wake me up to ask how Ah was doin'." At least he better not have.

He hadn't. "'M hungry. Y' mind if I eat some o' dat leftover ice cream?"

"Ice cream?" One eyebrow winged upward. "Ya woke me up for ice cream?"

Remy rolled his eyes. He only had so much patience with playing dumb. "Chère. Y' took me off at de kneecaps las' time I ate somet'in' y'd asked me t' buy."

"Did Ah?" Rogue hummed thoughtfully, then sighed. "Ah suppose Ah did. Sure. Have some." She waved dismissively and rolled back into their generous mound of blankets, hugging the pillow against her rounded stomach.

Remy leaned over and pecked her there.

"Oh, stop," she whined.

"Jus' sayin' 'night t' de little fille." He grinned.

"Boy."

"Fille."

Rogue growled and shot him another glare. "Boy. Now git!"

He laughed but clambered out of the bed and pulled on a shirt without pestering her further. Remy took one last glance at the bed. Rogue had all but disappeared, except for a bit of brown hair fanned out from underneath the comforter. Even for all her grouchiness, he couldn't help but love her and love the idea of their child growing inside her.

He smiled and slipped out of the room.

The mansion was quiet, as expected at this ridiculous hour, but Remy had never needed much sleep and tended toward being a night owl, due to Jean-Luc's long, intense training in the Guild's profession. He was used to walking the empty halls down to the kitchen and helping himself to a nighttime snack. His red and black eyes were actually good for something at night, and he didn't bother turning on a light. He just opened the door to the freezer and pulled down a carton.

"Hmm..." Remy hefted it with one hand. "She been eatin' more dan I t'ought."

There wasn't much left, but it was enough for a good serving. He forewent the bowl and grabbed a spoon to polish it off out of the carton. There were certainly some advantages to being awake when Rogue was asleep.

A few minutes later, Remy stole quietly back into the bedroom, shucking his shirt on the way, and slid back in beside Rogue. She mumbled in her sleep, but she didn't stir as he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

"Love y'," he murmured into her neck before falling back into sleep.

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He was awakened rudely.

The mattress buckled upwards beneath him, and he shouted in surprise as covers and Remy himself went off the bed in an abruptly tangled heap.

"Rogue?" He looked up at her in pure bewilderment.

Rogue was furious. She was livid. He had only rarely seen such fire in her emerald eyes, glowing almost as if she had acquired some charging power of her own. One hand was on her hip, the other swinging about an empty carton. He squinted. The ice cream carton?

"You—you swamp rat!" She could barely get out the words, she was so angry.

He scooted back as much as the tangled mass of blankets and sheets would allow him.

"Ah gladly, willin'ly share mah ice cream with ya, let ya wake me up in the middle of the naght without any retribution,"—the glare intensified—"and ya go and do somethin' lahke this! Ah can't believe ya! It was the last serving. The last!"

"Um...chère," Remy began cautiously, still eyeing the hand on her hip, knowing she was likely to find something to throw at him with it. "At the risk o' soundin' daft, what are y' talkin' about?"

A frustrated growl and the empty carton hit his head. Hard.

"Chère!"

"Look at that!" She pointed accusingly at the cardboard. "Just look at it, ya no-good, blahnd Cajun!"

Confused, Remy glanced over at the fallen carton, picked it up. "Black cherry—"

"Frozen yogurt!" Rogue finished for him at high volume.

He winced.

She crossed her arms. "What do ya have ta say foh yaself?"

He stared at the words. Frozen yogurt. It sure tasted like ice cream. "It was an innocent misunderstandin'?"

Rogue threw up her hands at him. "Ah give up. Ya just never gonna get it." Then she whirled and stormed toward the door, stopping just before she turned the handle. "Ah'm goin' ta finish off the ice cream with Kit. Ya're not invahted." Then she was out the door. It fell shut with a resounding slam.

Remy winced at the sound. "Well, dat went well, didn't it?" It was a struggle to extricate himself from the mangled bedcovers, but after a bit of struggling, he managed to free himself and stand up.

Great. Just great.

He grabbed his keys and yanked on a shirt and some shoes. He better go buy her a peace offering.

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Rogue opened the freezer door the next night and laughed until she had woken everybody in the wing. It was stuffed end to end with quart after quart of black cherry frozen yogurt.