Fifty-Two Yards of White Satin

Fifty-Two Yards of White Satin

Title: Fifty-Two Yards of White Satin
Author: Lucia de'Medici
Pairing: Rogue/Gambit
Secondary Pairing: Jean/Scott (by mention)
Summary: It's a live or die scenario at the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children when it comes to Jean's wedding dress, but that doesn't stop certain individuals from tempting fate.
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU, totally not situated anywhere within canon, and if it is, its completely coincidental. Fluff. (Gods help me. Fluff.)
Notes: Written for Xenokattz, who requested Rogue/Gambit based on a piece of her own artwork, who I now apologize to for this cloying, sickly-sweet little story. (Excuse me while I go kick a puppy to bring my evil levels back up.)

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Fifty-Two Yards of White Satin
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You would think, given the Professor's immeasurable wealth, and the contacts the X-Men kept, someone would know a dressmaker in the Salem Centre environs.

No.

No, that would be a poor thing to suggest altogether, thought Remy LeBeau as he propped himself in the doorway to the parlour. The women had taken it upon themselves to tend to Jean and her needs, and the men had pretty much left them to their own devices. In fact, they had received explicit orders to "keep out of the parlour on pain of blindness and severe psionically-induced migraine," and for the most part, the boys had steered clear - but Remy?

He pursed his lips, narrowing his eyes at the empty room at large.

Remy didn't understand the phrase, "Keep out."

Part of the language barrier, lost in translation, he reasoned.

With the wedding less than a month off, Cyclops was utterly useless despite his urgent pleas to keep up the level of productivity he usually maintained as preparations continued around him. Like an animal caught in the eye of a hurricane, Scooter was showing the signs of being battered around by the gale known as Jubilee, Psylocke and Storm. No pun.

Accordingly, Remy was avoiding him at all costs. He wasn't about to get swept away with the tempest that had decided to create Jean's dress themselves, and as far as he knew, those harpies were hounding Scott about his tux. Life as an X-Man rarely left time for fittings, as it were.

He tipped his head to the side. "So dis is what all de fuss is about?" he hummed.

All the money in the world to have the task executed by professionals, and yet, there it was: Fifty two yards of white satin spread across the couches and coffee tables to avoid wrinkling, left untouched because the women couldn't decide what would be a more flattering cut to suit an already beautiful Jean Grey.

Remy snorted, appraising all that fabric, gleaming and sheer in the summer sun that spilled from the windows.

So much fuss over something that would just spend the night on the floor anyway.

It piled across the love seat, falling over the back of the divan in a messy rumple. Whoever had left it must have not realized that the smooth, cold material would slide right off the leather upholstery.

If Stormy saw the makings for Jean's dress in that condition… Remy swallowed. Well, let's just say he wouldn't want to be within a five mile radius.

He'd seen what Ororo's ball lightening could do.

"Not pretty," he muttered, peeking over his shoulder and assuring himself that the hall was clear.

Creeping across the room, Remy tracked his way over several boxes of pins and needles, tip-toed neatly around a stack of scattered drawings, tape measures, and a sewing box - and stopped dead.

A sniff; it was barely audible, but a sniff nonetheless.

The fabric falling over the couch moved a fraction of an inch, and Remy strained to hear, rooted to the spot.

There was no way he was going to take the fall for anyone snivelling over the gown in its pre-dress stages. He liked his extremities attached where they were, and frankly, he could live without a week spent in the med bay should Psylocke get a hold of him.

Another sniff, and again, the fabric moved. Remy sprang, vaulting over the back of the couch and toppling over the person on the other side.

"Hey!" The voice had a smoky edge, lilting and choked just the same. Distinctly feminine, and all too familiar.

The satin piled on top of the pair of them, falling over Remy's head and obscuring his vision. In the mounds of white that blotted out the room, infinitely soft and sleek to the touch as he tried to dig through it, gradually, he became aware of the soft warmth of a body spread beneath him.

Suddenly, the threat of something much more dangerous than Storm or Psylocke made itself apparent.

Remy ran the odds: sniffling, Southern drawl, unmade wedding dress belonging to someone else. Ten to one, at best.

Pulling himself to his knees, he tried to peel away some of the covering that obscured Rogue from view, and only managing to get himself more tangled.