Luc LeBeau, world-famous adventurer and explorer, was in search of the fabled Idol of Lost Lemuria. Accompanied only by his brave if less renowned companion, Ainet Munroe, and sustained only by several hefty portions of chocolate cake, he had trekked many miles and overcome many dangers on his quest. He had escaped the attention of dangerous tribesmen having a ritual feast (who had looked uncannily like Jean and Logan on a picnic), made his way through a crocodile-infested swamp (which had been a particularly interesting mud-puddle), and had just crossed the Misty Mountains (whose step-like formation had astounded both him and his friend). Despite all these setbacks, his faithful, indefatigable friend and he continued undaunted on their journey, despite exhaustion, heat and . . .

"Can we stop, Luc? I'm tiiiiiiired," the defatigable Ainet whined from a few feet behind him, where she was perched on the summit of the Misty Mountains, "It's almost tea-time too and your dad said he was making bay-a-nets."

"Sure, de game's messed up now, anyway," he sighed, then added with the gloomy air of a sage foretelling bad news, "Maman will make me bath, ya know. Bet Indiana Jones' maman never made him bath."

Her chubby face screwed up in a grimace, "You don't think she'll make me bath?"

"Prob'ly," he came to sit beside her on the mansion's steps, removing his backpack from his shoulders and placing it carefully beside him. It contained such valuable treasures as the latest Superman comic, an admirable plastic spade that was perfect for finding beetles, the beetles found with said admirable plastic spade and a box of snap-cards.

"She might be up here at the mansion," Ainet suggested hopefully.

With natural French pessimism, Luc replied: "Maman's always where you don't want her to be. She's like . . . Batman, 'cept we're not evil. Dieu, Ain, I don't know why all Mamans t'ink dirt is evil. So, de real question is whether you think Poppa's beignets are worth bein' washed for. . . . "

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Humming to himself, Remy set aside another batch of golden beignets for Rogue to dip in honey and put on the serving platter. Between them was what he fondly imagined to be a comfortable silence where both parties were so in tune with each other that they did not need words to communicate. He glanced across at her, unable to repress a slight, proud smile for all the six years of marriage that had passed between them.

Today, she had braided her hair, white streak snaking down her thick, chestnut plait, and had clipped a few vagrant strands back with twin, glittery clips. A green waistcoat, resplendent with a lizard-pattern that was obviously inspired by Escher, set off a white blouse and black jeans. As a final touch, she was wearing her favorite pair of well-scuffed boots. He was not sure which was cuter on her - the clothes, the smudge of flour on her nose or the tiny, perplexed crease in her forehead - and gave up trying to decide. She was the most perfect woman he had ever met, he thought, and he was the luckiest man alive to have her as his wife.

"Honey?" the object of his undivided adoration, the love of his life and heart of his heart, turned to him with a speculative look in her eyes. He felt his silly grin become sillier, as, mentally, he swept the mixing bowls and ingredients off the table, consigned the beignets to burn and calculated the odds of their son walking in on them.

"Oui, cherie?"

Her lips parted, "Do y'think Ah'm getting fat?"

The words were more effective than the coldest of showers. Remy felt his heart sink into his expensive sneakers, knowing that he probably wouldn't leave the kitchen in one piece now. He would be lucky if he did not need major surgery. He had always known that the time would come when Rogue would ask him the Question. He had thought he would prepare himself for it, going so far to read books and magazines with titles like "Bridget Jones' Diary" and "Sassy" as research. However, although he was now all too familiar with how to wax his legs and get that special guy to phone him, he was none the wiser as to how the Question could be answered with minimal pain on his part. Indeed, he had just become more aware of what his beloved wife would do to him when he made a hash of the answer.

Swallowing convulsively, he ventured: "I t'ink you're perfect jus' de way ya are."

Her eyes narrowed and he knew he had said the wrong thing - not that there was a right response to the Question, "Just th' way Ah am? So you're sayin' that Ah *am*, LeBeau?"

He glanced around the room in desperation, working how long it would take him to reach the door and whether he would manage to do so before Rogue threw the boiling oil after him. There was no question of her missing him. She had the eye of a trained sniper and the arm of a terrorist who was far too accustomed to hurling grenades and molotov cocktails for his comfort. For all Rogue had left her illegal past behind her more decisively than he had or ever could, she still retained Mystique's teachings and her attitude towards the proper way to manage a man. Raven probably strongly approved of regular doses of boiling oil to keep a husband in line! He decided it would be wise not to risk first-degree burns on his ability to break the land-speed record. Perhaps it was not too late for flattery, after all. . . .

"Cherie, when le Bon Dieu made ya, He wept because He knew dat nothin' else in His entire creation could match up t'ya," he said sincerely as he assumed his most charming, lopsided grin. That smile alone usually answered any pressing questions that women might have had, like "Your place or mine?" and "Can I buy you a drink?", but, unfortunately, his wife seemed to have grown immune to it. If anything, it seemed to infuriate her further. Her eyebrows contracted. Her lips tightened. Her hands went to her hips. He could see her eyes scanning the room for a small, breakable object to hurl at his head.

"Gawd, LeBeau, now you're avoidin' th' question," she tossed at him, her voice rising by the syllable, "It ain't that hard t'answer. Am Ah fat? Yes or no?"

He held up his hands, thinking desperately about what answer would result in less pain on his part. If he said 'no', which was the logical answer, Rogue would accuse him of lying to appease her, would come to the stunning conclusion that she was a hippo and would proceed to make him sleep in the dog-kennel for a month. (The fact that they had neither a dog nor a kennel in which to put it would not deter her in the least.) If he said 'yes', the net result would be the same, although it would possibly be reached a little quicker. . . .

"Told ya Maman would be home," his son piped from behind the door, and Remy thought that Luc had never sounded sweeter to him or been more welcome than at that moment. He was like a life-buoy thrown to a drowning man; a call from the governor while a prisoner was being strapped into an electric chair; a pair of earmuffs at an O-Town concert. He could use Luc as a pretext to escape the kitchen, then return in a few hours time dripping chocolates, flowers and profound apologies.

"Can I get back t'ya on dat one, cherie?", he threw over his shoulder as he sprinted for the door, "Luc needs . . . uh . . . Luc needs shoes an' I said I'd take him t'de mall."

He scooped up his surprised son and dashed for the car, leaving Rogue to yell behind him that 'Mystique was right. Ah should have dumped yo' ass long ago, especially as it's also startin' to look a little flabby.' That said, she slammed the door with enough force to splinter the wood and he heard the crash and chime of glasses breaking in the kitchen.

Remy sighed and added diamonds to his list.

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"I'm prepared t'go along, Madame Darkholme, but only f'r de sake of research, ya understand."

"Perfectly," she laughed, "Now turn off th' lights . . . ."