"Goob-bye an' unwelcob to de Hobe Shopping Network," Remy replied to the perky, platinum-blond woman on the television set. (He wondered briefly if she was a mutant - her hair occupied half of the screen, and her lips the rest - but decided that it was more plastic than genetic.) He might have been sick, his entire head might have felt as if it had contained more gunge than the bayou, but he would have had to be in a coma to enjoy their fine, quality advertainment. Even then, he might have still been painfully bored.

He stretched a foot out for the remote, that was lying on the armrest at the other end of the sofa from him, but succeeded only in knocking it onto the floor out of his reach. He sighed, snuggling back into his nest of blankets and deciding the Home Shopping Network did have its unusual charms. At the moment, they seemed to be trying to sell a tool that opened bottles, cleaned drains and played "Oh Susanna". He wondered grimly if it would have any luck unclogging his nose, because he was out of tissues and the nearest box was miles away on the sideboard.

"Merd . . . ci Dieu", he smiled as he heard Rogue's footsteps on the staircase. Any moment, she would come around the corner to bestow sympathy and clean tissues in equal proportion. She might even be wearing a nurse's cap, if he were lucky.

"Salut, ba cherie."

"Hey," she greeted him, lifting her hand, "You didn't come to bed last night." vHe frowned as he saw her. Normally, he loved it when she dressed in her colours. It wasn't that she didn't look good in all her clothes, apart from an unfortunate shirt that she had bought on sale, but spandex was the next best thing to her being naked. Nonetheless, in her red-and-black uniform, she was dressed like she was going up to the mansion. Still, he thought magnanimously, she did not know he was sick and she could always change into a nurse's cap. He would just have to give her a little prompting.

"Oui, I was feeling sick, an' didn't hab de energy t'go up stairs," he croaked in his most pathetic tones, shaking the empty tissue-dispenser, "An' I'm out ob tissues."

In his experience, it was a plea no rightminded woman could resist. They were all nurses at heart. Combined with his puppy-dog expression, he knew she would be fussing around him, plumping up his pillows and bringing him endless cups of cool lemonade within minutes.

"Shame. Ah'll be back for lunch, sugah," she told him, tossing the box of Kleenex on the table in his direction, "This morning, I'm helping Kitty flight-test her new sim. It's set in Shi'ar, y'know."

"Ya're going t'de mansion?" he asked suspiciously. He knew that people with fevers often suffered from hallucinations. They saw and heard things that were not really there, things that were frankly impossible in reality. Like his beloved wife abandoning him to suffer through his sickness by himself.

"Uh huh."

"Aren't ya going t'nurse me back to health an' soothe my fevered brow wit' damp cloths an' make me chicken soup?"

She wrinkled her nose in distaste, snagging her jacket from the coatrack and slipping it over her uniform, "It's just a little cold, Cajun. Somehow, Ah think you'll manage to survive by yourself."

"But I'b ya poor, sick husband. Wibes have t'nurse deir sick husbands back t 'health."

He was aware that a whiny note had crept into his voice somewhere along the line, but he did not care.

"Oh, Ah'm your wife. Of course," her voice held a note of mock surprise, "For a moment, Ah thought you were mah poor, sick baby," she shook her head, "Men. They get a stuffy nose, and they act like they're dyin' of pneumonia."

"I coub be," he suggested cheerfully, "Den how woub ya feel?"

"Ah'm sure Ah can live with the guilt," she said, grabbing her duffel bag from the table and making rapidly for the door, "Bye, sugah. Feel better soon."

"What happened to in sickness and in healb?" he called after her retreating back.

"Gawd, I knew I mishead that priest," she tossed over her shoulder, "Ah said 'in spandex and in health'. You're hot in spandex."

With that rejoinder, Rogue clicked the door shut behind her, and Remy sank sulkily back into his pile of blankets and pillows. On the television, a big-haired, red-lipped woman was trying to sell a Bigmouth Bass that sang seventeen, charming shanties and would make an attractive feature in any office, study or lounge. His head must have been more clogged than he had thought, because they all sounded like a low, electronic whine to him. Bitterly, he noted that it would make a perfect present for your loved one. He had been wondering what to get his wife for her birthday.

"Salut, poppa!" a ridiculously cheerful voice knifed through his throbbing head, "Ca va?"

Wincing, he turned to see Luc standing by the kitchen door. His son was almost completely hidden by a too-long apron that bunched on the floor at his feet. It had once been white, but was as covered with spatters of every cover as any artist's smock. He also had a bright red tray in his hands, on which was arranged a rectangle of charcoal (which he guessed had once been toast) topped by a yellow-and-white mess (which he hoped was egg), and a glass of virulently orange liquid with red strands in it (which turned his stomach by making him think of nothing so much as a food-processed internal organ). By the grin on his son's face, he was a) very proud of it and b) expected his daddy to eat every bite with relish.

"I thought ya had classes wit' Hank today, petit," he said weakly.

"Nope," Luc said happily, "Uncl' Henri is at a confrince today. Aren't you happy, poppa? I can be your doctor all day now!"

Plastering a sickly smile on his face, "Dat's great, petit. Dat's just . . . great."