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Steam curled into the dusky air from the long table set up in the Haven house backyard, winding upward with the rich scent of Old Bay and garlic, sausage and shellfish. The evening heat clung soft and thick around them, the kind that stuck to skin and coaxed everyone into moving slower, talking longer. A watercolor sky of orange and rose bled behind the trees as the crawfish boil hit full swing.
Rogue leaned against the railing, watching it all. Her hands held a cold bottle of root beer, condensation dripping onto the wood. Laughter rolled through the yard like a living thing—bright, rowdy, alive. Jubilee was bent over with giggles as Remy demonstrated the fine art of shelling crawfish with unnecessary flair, complete with sound effects and dramatic flourishes.
“Remy, sugah,” Rogue called out, just loud enough to carry. “You keep showboatin’, and those kids’ll never eat.”
“Patience, chère,” Remy replied, eyes glinting as he cracked a tail clean in one practiced motion. “Crawfish ain’t just food—it’s ceremony.”
“Yeah, a ceremony in starvation,” Jubilee muttered, but her grin gave her away.
Next to her, Nightcrawler was trying to follow along, claws fumbling with the slick shell. On his other side, Jitter watched with wide, determined eyes. “Zis is not food. Zis is combat,” Kurt muttered, finally prying a stubborn tail loose and holding it up like a trophy. “Victory!” When she finally got it right and tasted her first crawfish, her face lit up with unfiltered joy. “It’s delicious, Mr. Gambit!”
“Told ya,” Remy said, pride and home woven thick in his voice. “Louisiana knows what it’s doin’.”
Jitter turned toward Rogue, chin propped in her hand. “Did you grow up here too, Mrs. LeBeau?”
The title caught Rogue off guard. She blinked, startled, but her expression quickly softened. “Just Rogue, darlin’. And nah—I’m a Mississippi girl. Not too far, but a world away all the same.”
“Can we visit sometime?” Jitter asked, bouncing slightly in her seat. “It sounds amazing.”
Rogue hesitated, her smile hitching for half a breath. The past tugged at her like river mud—sticky, clinging, harder to clean off than anyone expected. “It’s… different,” she said finally. “Pretty, in its own way. But it don’t hold a candle to here.”
Remy didn’t miss the flicker behind her eyes. “Aha!” he broke in, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “Finally admittin’ it—Louisiana’s the crown jewel!”
“Boy, you better hush,” she warned, but there was no heat behind it. “Just ‘cause y’all got better food don’t mean my roots don’t have their own kinda charm.”
“Charm?” Logan rumbled from down the table. “That what y’all call the bugs and swamp stink?”
“You’re just jealous, sugah,” Rogue said sweetly. “Swamp stink beats snow rot any day.”
The teasing cracked the tension like a shell under thumb, and the table dissolved into overlapping voices. Nightcrawler shared stories of Bavarian fall festivals. Jubilee jumped in with tales of food markets and firecrackers in California. Calico, perfectly poised and barely touched by the humidity, chimed in about oyster roasts and garden parties back home—“the kind with too many forks and not enough real food,” she added dryly. Even Ransom leaned in with a grin, recounting the time his cousin set off illegal fireworks over a packed street during Carnival in São Paulo.
Jitter perked up suddenly. “Back home, we used to go to karaoke every weekend. Me, my cousins, my mum—there was this tiny place in a mall near Orchard Road, and the speakers always crackled if you got too loud, but no one cared.” She smiled to herself. “We’d sing so bad the staff gave us free drinks just to stop.”
“Oh hell yes,” Jubilee said, practically vibrating. “Kurt. Karaoke. We have to.”
Nightcrawler sat up straighter, blue tail twitching with anticipation. “It has been too long since my last encore.”
“Leave me out of it,” Logan grumbled.
“C’mon, Logan,” Jubilee whined. “You know you’re gonna end up singing. You always cave.”
Deathdream, who had been methodically tearing apart a crawfish with clinical focus, finally spoke. “Karaoke is a public declaration of vulnerability. I respect that.” He paused. “I will attend. But I will not sing. The dead have enough reasons to stay that way.”
Calico blinked. “What—what does that mean?”
Ransom cackled. “That means he’s coming, and it’s gonna be weird, and I’m into it.”
Remy leaned toward Rogue, voice low and teasing. “Think we should spare the world and keep you off the mic, chère? Don’t wanna start a riot.”
“Oh, please,” Rogue scoffed, flicking a crawfish shell his way. “This comin’ from the man who once cleared out a bar mid-Bon Jovi.”
Remy clutched his heart with a wounded gasp. “Now that’s just mean.”
“Truth hurts,” she said, but she was smiling as she said it.
He pushed up from his chair, stretching slightly, eyes gleaming. “Alright, alright. Y’all keep talkin’. I got just the place.”
“Oh no,” Rogue said, narrowing her eyes. “What place?”
Remy smirked. “Karaoke. Deep in the city. Old haunt. Sticky floors, cheap beer, no shame allowed.”
Jubilee squealed. “YES.”
Logan groaned.
Someone clinked a bottle in agreement.
And Rogue... Rogue just leaned into Remy’s side as he sat back down beside her, his arm brushing hers, his warmth anchoring her in place. She looked around the table—Jitter still glowing from her story, Calico trying not to smile too hard, Kurt already humming something theatrical under his breath, murmuring about whether he should bring his own fog machine for 'ambience', and even Deathdream staring blankly at the stars like he might be communing with them.
The night hummed with them—cicadas in the trees, the soft splash of the bayou in the distance, and the echo of laughter that felt like it might never run out.
And when Remy stood again, offering a half-bow and a crooked grin as he said, “Come on, mes amis—stage awaits,” no one hesitated.
They set out just as the last traces of daylight melted behind the trees, the Louisiana night settling in warm and thick around them. Once they got into the city, the group spilled out onto the sidewalk in a loosely formed parade of laughter and leftover spice, Remy leading the way like a man escorting royalty to a dive bar.
Jubilee linked arms with Jitter and Calico, still buzzing from the boil, pointing out random street signs and declaring them “future band names.”
“Should we have brought the cooler?” Ransom asked, glancing back wistfully.
“Do you want Logan to break your hand?” Calico replied sweetly.
Behind them, Deathdream walked at an even, unhurried pace, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded like he might be listening to something no one else could hear.
“We’re heading toward concentrated joy,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “It’s... jarring. The living are so loud.”
Jitter turned her head. “Is that a complaint?”
“No,” he said mildly. “It’s an observation. I’m adjusting.”
“Your version of adjusting gives me chills,” Ransom muttered.
“Good,” Deathdream replied.
Rogue snorted and bumped Remy with her hip. “Y’all sure this place isn’t haunted?”
“Oh, it’s definitely haunted,” Remy said, eyes glittering. “By the ghosts of bad cover songs and regrettable hookups.”
“Comforting.”
“Don’t worry, chère.” He grinned. “We’ll make new memories. Loud ones.”
And with that, he turned the corner and gestured grandly to a flickering neon sign above a peeling door. Half-lit, half-unhinged.
Rogue stared up at it, dubious. “This place?”
Remy just grinned and pushed the door open with the kind of swagger that made her instantly suspicious.
Inside, the bar was dim, vaguely sticky, and smelled like a mix of stale beer, fryer grease, and something sweet and synthetic—like someone had tried to cover the years of spilled liquor with half a bottle of coconut air freshener. A warped disco ball spun lazily overhead, scattering light over mismatched tables, duct-taped booths, and a karaoke stage that looked like it had hosted more disasters than performances. Half the speakers were blown out. The mic cable was held together with electrical tape and blind hope. The bartender didn’t even glance up when they entered—just kept drying a glass that looked older than some of the team members.
Rogue blinked once. Then again.
She leaned toward Jubilee and whispered, “Man could sniff out the sleaziest karaoke dive in a ten-mile radius.”
Jubilee laughed. “It’s like a superpower.”
At the bar, Remy was already deep in conversation with the owner—a short, broad man in a grease-stained tank top with a Saints tattoo on his bicep and a cigarette tucked behind one ear. The two exchanged a complicated handshake, half a hug, and a few low words. The man let out a loud laugh, clapped Remy on the shoulder, and handed over a tarnished ring of keys like he was bestowing sacred treasure.
Logan followed behind, bypassing the conversation entirely as he leaned over the bar, muttered something, and slapped a bill down. A moment later, he turned around with a dented mini cooler full of longnecks hooked in one arm like a baby. “Emergency provisions,” he said, deadpan, to Rogue as he passed. “Figure I’ll need at least six to survive the screechin’.”
Remy led the team down a narrow hallway that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the Clinton administration. The wallpaper was peeling in spots, and one of the light fixtures flickered ominously overhead. Rogue didn’t even try to hide her grimace.
They reached a door at the end, and Remy unlocked it with a flourish. “Bienvenue, mes amis.”
The private karaoke room was somehow worse. It had threadbare carpet that squished slightly underfoot—no one asked why. The couch sagged in the middle like it had survived a thousand bad breakups. A battered karaoke machine sat on a corner table surrounded by milk crates full of scratched CDs. The TV mounted on the wall was too thick to be flat and hummed like it had a personal vendetta against silence. One of the speakers was zip-tied to a wobbly metal stand and leaned at a threatening angle.
Jubilee gasped. “This is—this is perfect.”
Rogue stared around the room like it might bite. “Y’all are too easily impressed.”
And yet, despite herself, she was already smiling.
“Told ya,” Remy said, dropping onto the couch beside her with a content sigh. “Best kept secret in the Quarter. Sound system’s half-dead, beer’s cheap, and no one judges.”
It took less than five minutes for the room to erupt into complete, glorious chaos.
The karaoke machine wheezed to life with a fuzzy pop, and Nightcrawler claimed the mic like it owed him money. He adjusted his collar like a stage magician about to reveal his final trick. “Prepare yourselves,” he said solemnly, “for drama.”. Without hesitation, he punched in a number—clearly pre-memorized—and launched into Bohemian Rhapsody with the grace of a circus performer and the dramatic flair of a man born to spotlight. His tail swayed with the beat. He executed a spin on the worn carpet and narrowly missed taking out the disco ball with a flying hand gesture.
Jubilee followed with Toxic, practically vibrating with excitement as she bounced from couch cushion to table edge, one foot slipping on the questionable carpet. Her voice wavered between brilliant and chaotic, but she gave it everything she had, flipping her hair like she was headlining a Vegas show. The ancient TV in the corner buzzed louder in protest every time she hit a high note, and none of them were convinced the mic was fully grounded.
Rogue folded her arms and grinned. It was ridiculous. Loud. Off-key. Slightly dangerous. And so very them.
The room around them creaked and groaned like it had been resigned to karaoke-based suffering for decades. The wallpaper peeled at the corners. The carpet squished in unfortunate spots. There was a hole in one couch cushion stuffed with what looked suspiciously like someone’s sock. But no one seemed to care—not with the way the whole room was lit up with laughter and music and the soft glow of being around people who felt like home.
Near the back of the room, Ransom scrolled through the song list with his usual blank expression and selected My Heart Will Go On like he was disarming a bomb. He held the mic out toward Logan without looking at him.
“Duet?” he asked plainly.
Logan raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”
“Dead serious. You do the low parts. I’ll carry the rest.”
“Pass.”
“You sure?” Ransom didn’t raise his voice, didn’t smile, just waited. “It’s for morale.”
Logan stared at him. “Try to guilt-trip me again and I’ll put you through that table.”
Ransom nodded once, calm as ever, and set the mic back down. “Noted. You’re still on standby for the encore.”
And though he didn’t push again, he left the track in the queue—just in case.
Then came the surprise of the night: Calico and Jitter stepping up together.
Rogue raised an eyebrow.
Calico looked picture-perfect as always—blonde hair neatly curled, blue eyes steady, lips touched with gloss. But there was a slight pinkness in her cheeks as she tapped through the song list. Jitter, shorter and all sharp movement and nervous energy, hovered close by with wide brown eyes and a fringe that kept falling into her face.
“Y’all about to drop a ballad?” Jubilee teased. “Or something from High School Musical?”
“We’re doing a duet,” Calico said quickly. “Something fun.”
“Very fun,” Jitter added, voice cracking slightly on the word.
They settled on You’re the One That I Want from Grease, and from the moment the beat kicked in, it was clear something was up.
They weren’t looking at the lyrics. They knew them. Cold.
Calico sang the Sandy lines with the poise of a choir girl pretending she wasn’t having the time of her life. Jitter played up every Danny line with dramatic swagger—pacing the tiny floor, flipping her collar up even though she wasn’t wearing one, and sneaking shy glances at Calico every chance she got. Halfway through the second verse, Calico laughed—soft and breathless—and turned a little pinker.
Rogue leaned into Remy’s side and murmured, “How long you think that’s been simmerin’?”
Remy smirked. “Judgin’ by the blushing? Since orientation week.”
By the time the chorus hit, the whole room was singing along, clapping off-beat and laughing, but it was impossible not to notice how Jitter and Calico kept gravitating toward each other—edges brushing, eyes locking, voices tilting just a little softer.
When the final note landed, Calico let out a breathless laugh, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. Jitter beamed at her like she’d just won a medal.
Jubilee raised her eyebrows, smiling as she nudged Deathdream in the ribs. “Well. That was loaded.”
Deathdream snorted. “This feels like the part where someone confesses their love and then dies tragically. I’m disappointed it didn’t escalate.”
Jitter mumbled something about needing a soda and darted toward the door.
“I’ll help,” Calico offered quickly, already following.
The door clicked shut behind them, leaving a beat of silence—then Logan reached for a beer and muttered, “I’m givin’ it a week. Maybe two.”
The room burst into laughter.
As the door creaked open again, Calico and Jitter reappeared—both holding sodas, neither making eye contact. They slipped back to their seats quietly, cheeks still faintly pink.
Before anyone could comment, Remy rose smoothly from the couch and plucked the mic from where Jitter had left it behind.
“Well,” he drawled, pacing lazily in front of the wobbly coffee table, “feel like we’re missin’ a bit of charm in here. Lemme fix that.”
“Oh no,” Jubilee whispered to Rogue, leaning in. “He’s about to weaponize the accent.”
“I’m watchin’ it happen in real time,” Rogue muttered, though she didn’t look away.
The backing track crackled to life—some old Cajun blues number with a slow, sauntering rhythm—and Remy launched into it like he’d been born with a mic in one hand and a crowd in the other. His voice was low, velvet-smooth, and just rough enough at the edges to make the verses curl with heat. He didn’t bother reading the screen. He already knew the words.
He sang like the room belonged to him.
Like he belonged to it.
As he moved, casual and magnetic, the disco ball sent fractured light spinning across his shoulders and the far wall. Even the TV seemed to buzz a little quieter.
Calico, now curled up on the arm of the couch, blinked slowly. “I didn’t know he could sing like that.”
Jitter whispered, “He s-s-sounds like someone in a movie…”
In the background, Ransom saw his chance. While everyone was focused on Remy, he casually reached into the cooler, fingers curling around the neck of a sweating bottle.
He didn’t make it an inch.
Logan’s hand clamped down on his wrist like a vice.
“Nope.”
Ransom jumped. “C’mon—just one?”
Logan didn’t even look at him. “Try again when you’ve got a mortgage.”
Ransom grumbled and slunk back to the couch, empty-handed.
By the end of the song, Remy dipped into a half-bow, still holding the mic like it was an extension of his hand.
The room gave a small, scattered cheer—enough claps and whoops to feed his ego for a week.
He turned and tossed a wink over his shoulder, eyes landing on Rogue. “Beat that, chère.”
Rogue narrowed her eyes slowly. She didn’t move. But she smiled.
“Oh,” Jubilee whispered, seeing the look on her face. “He shouldn’t have said that.”
Rogue slowly rose from the couch like she was preparing for a duel. “Alright, swamp rat. You wanna play?”
Remy grinned, utterly unbothered. “I always wanna play, chère.”
Jubilee clapped her hands. “Yes! Rogue’s turn!”
“Do not expect miracles,” Rogue warned, glaring at the mic like it had insulted her mother. She picked it up with two fingers, like it might be contagious.
“What song?” Kurt asked, tail coiled around a bag of chips.
“Somethin’ loud,” Rogue muttered. “So y’all can’t hear how bad I am.”
She picked Man! I Feel Like a Woman!, keyed it in, and took center stage—if it could be called that. Really, it was just a square of floor that wasn’t currently sagging or stained. The opening riff kicked in with a warped, tinny guitar.
And then Rogue started to sing.
It was… catastrophic.
Her pitch wobbled like a drunk on stilts. Her timing was two beats behind the music, and her drawl twisted the lyrics into something nearly unrecognizable. She hit a high note and missed it by three counties. The mic squealed in protest. At one point, she seemed to growl a line, and it came out like a chainsaw trying to start in cold weather.
Jubilee was on the floor wheezing.
Kurt was laughing so hard he was curled into himself, slapping his knee and wheezing, “Mein Gott, my ears will never recover.”
Calico looked horrified and delighted in equal measure.
Even Jitter had both hands over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief.
Remy had his head buried in his hands.
Deathdream clutched the arm of the couch like it was keeping him alive. “It’s like a beautiful nightmare,” he whispered.
“Y’all are so rude,” Rogue shouted over the bridge, only slightly winded from her effort. “Some of us weren’t blessed with musical superpowers!”
Remy peeked out from behind his hands, eyes dancing. “You weren’t blessed with any of them, chère.”
Rogue growled the final line with feral commitment, threw her arm in the air, and bowed low as the song ended.
The room erupted into applause, laughter, and various forms of dramatic wailing.
Jubilee leaned into Deathdream. “We’re going to be talking about that for years.”
Deathdream just gave a thumbs up and whispered, “I think I’m traumatized.”
Rogue dropped the mic on the table like it had wronged her.
“Alright, alright, y’all made your point,” she said, cheeks flushed and grinning. “Don’t expect a repeat performance.”
Remy, from his spot on the couch, looked like he was still recovering. “Chère… that was somethin’.”
She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes—and smiled. But there was something dangerous in it.
Too dangerous.
Remy’s laughter faltered.
“Wait a second—Rogue…”
He squinted at her. Something shifted behind his eyes—recognition, and then disbelief. His spine straightened like he’d just touched a live wire.
He pointed at her, scandalized. “You’re cheating.”
Rogue just smiled, sweet as molasses, and stepped up to the mic again with a calm swagger that felt suspiciously familiar.
Then, in flawless, velvet-smooth French, she purred,
“Tu n’avais jamais établi les règles, cher mari.”
The entire room froze.
Jubilee screamed.
“OH MY GOD. SHE REMOTE-ABSORBED HIM! She stole his French!”
Calico’s mouth dropped open. “Wait—what?! Remote what? I thought Rogue just punched things and flew around!”
I d-didn’t even know she could do that!” Jitter gasped, nearly dropping her soda. “ That’s like—like—p-psychic karaoke theft!”
Rogue offered a smug little bow. “Multitaskin’, sugar.”
The music kicked in—something slow and sultry, a haunting old French love song—and she launched into it without hesitation.
And the thing was?
She was good.
Her voice—untrained, but suddenly confident—wrapped around every note with warmth and ease. Her accent was effortless. Her timing was perfect. She didn’t just mimic Remy’s French—she embodied it, slipping into the performance like it was a second skin. The way she moved, the lilt of her phrasing, the half-smile she wore between verses… it was uncanny.
Remy groaned and put his hand in the air.
“This is a violation,” he exclaimed. “Of my soul. Of art. Of all things sacred.”
But he couldn’t stop smiling.
Jubilee was shrieking into a pillow.
Kurt was frozen with a hand over his heart.
Deathdream looked personally attacked.
“She’s possessed,” he whispered. “She’s possessed by Remy LeBeau.”
Jitter was bouncing in place. “She sounds like—like him, but in her voice and it’s so good and I don’t understand anything but I feel things!”
Calico clapped softly at first, then gave up and joined the crowd in awe.
By the time Rogue hit the final verse, her voice tapering into something soft and almost reverent, the room was silent—held there by the strange magic of borrowed skill, bone-deep familiarity, and something else, too. Something closer to pride.
The song ended.
Rogue gave a small, graceful nod and set the mic down with care.
“Merci beaucoup,” she said sweetly. “That concludes my redemption arc.”
And then she sauntered back to her seat, leaving behind a trail of stunned silence and absolute chaos.
As the final notes faded, the room was buzzing—full of bad harmonies and good moods. Jackets were tugged on, soda cans kicked aside, someone tried to fish a lost glove from behind the questionable couch.
Ransom lingered by the machine, calmly queuing up the shutdown process with all the energy of someone disarming a small explosive. Logan passed behind him, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Very softly—barely audible—Logan muttered, “Damn song’s been stuck in my head.”
Ransom didn’t turn. “That’s how she gets you.”
Logan grunted. “It’s a plague.”
“Feels like love.”
Logan shot him a look, but Ransom just walked away, deadpan as ever—except for the smallest twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.
They spilled out onto the street just past midnight, the warm Louisiana air wrapping around them like a second skin. The Quarter buzzed quietly in the background—soft jazz from somewhere down the block, a trumpet spilling crooked notes out of an open window, the steady hum of late-night traffic. A breeze carried the scent of fried food, spilled beer, and gardenias.
Jubilee twirled like she was still on stage, arms wide, cheeks flushed from laughing too hard. “We have to do that again. Next weekend. No—tomorrow. Karaoke Fridays, people. It’s a movement.”
“You’re gonna be a movement if you spin again and take me out,” Deathdream muttered, narrowly sidestepping her elbow.
Kurt was still humming harmonies and arguing with Calico about whether his high note in Bohemian Rhapsody qualified as a religious experience. Ransom kept trying to get someone—anyone—to sing with him on the walk back, throwing out increasingly terrible duet ideas. Logan grunted every few minutes, mostly to express displeasure, but he hadn’t actually told them to shut up, which was telling.
Calico and Jitter lagged a few paces ahead, just close enough for their shoulders to brush, just far enough to pretend it was an accident. Jitter giggled into the collar of her jacket. Calico smiled like she didn’t want to stop.
And trailing behind, just barely, were Remy and Rogue.
Rogue leaned her head against his shoulder, letting his warmth and the noise ahead of them settle around her. Their fingers brushed now and then as they walked—almost touching, never quite holding.
She let out a soft breath. “Didn’t think Ah’d be singin’ in public tonight.”
“You didn’t,” Remy said, grinning. “You committed a heist.”
She snorted. “Of your voice, your language… your entire performative soul.”
“I should sue,” he said lightly. “But I’m a little too proud to make a case.”
Rogue glanced up at him then, eyes glinting just a little. “Ah mean, if y’really feel wronged… we could always settle things in private.”
Remy blinked, caught off guard for half a second—then smirked, slow and sharp.
“That so?”
“Mhm.” Her smile curled at the edges. “Ah still got your voice in my head, sugar. Kinda wonderin’ what else Ah could borrow.”
He let out a low chuckle, the sound curling through the night like smoke. “Dangerous talk, chère.”
“That’s what makes it fun,” she said, and rested her head against his shoulder again.
They walked a few more steps in companionable silence, the beat of the street and the sound of their team stretching out ahead of them like a song still playing.
Rogue watched as Jubilee ran ahead to grab Kurt’s hand and spin him into a clumsy sidewalk twirl. Deathdream did not react—he simply walked with hands in his coat pockets and the flat expression of someone enduring a fever dream in silence. Calico and Jitter had slowed just ahead, still walking side by side, shoulders brushing more often than not now.
“Look at ‘em,” Rogue said softly.
Remy followed her gaze. “Mm. Not bad, huh?”
She didn’t answer right away. The hum of the city seemed to fill the pause between them.
“Feels like the kind of night you don’t realize you’ll remember ‘til it’s long gone.”
Remy glanced down at her, eyes fond and unreadable all at once. “Then we should hold onto it, non?”
Rogue tilted her face toward him, her smile small and quiet. “Ah already am.”
Their fingers brushed again—and this time, they didn’t pull away.
Together, they walked beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamps, the sound of laughter and music rising around them, following their family into the heart of the night.