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Water vapor fogged the bathroom mirror. Rogue loved a good, hot shower after a night of superhero work. Their place in Tribeca had a spare room with a shower for those long nights that required shaking off the work grime before hitting the hay. From there, she heard Remy come from his morning run, the welcoming chorus of hungry felines demanding wet food, and the bang of skillets hitting the convection stove. Anna Marie emerged from the room with a fluffy bath cloak and her hair tucked into a turban.
“Sunny-side up or scrambled for ya?” Remy asked by way of greeting. He surely saw her work boots next to the closet.
“That depends, Cajun,” Anna Marie replied, taking a load of dry clothes from the wash tower hidden between the doors of the fake closet. “Are you tossin’ biscuits or cornbread wit’ ‘em?”
“Pick your poison,” Remy said, and his words were followed by the sizzling of breakfast links.
“Biscuits and scrambled it is,” Anna Marie said, stepping into a pair of panties fresh out of the dryer.
She picked up the basket and walked toward the kitchen. Remy, towel still around his neck, was busy fluffing the eggs with a fork. Strong arms glistening with sweat, head slightly bent in concentration. Days like these, Anna Marie was sure she had hit the jackpot. With light, happy steps, she came closer and landed a quick kiss on his stubbled cheek.
“Bonjour, Madame LeBeau,” Remy said with the brightest of his smiles.
It was heartbreaking how easy it was to make him happy.
“The same to you, Mister LeBeau.”
“Do you want me to add bacon to this feast?” Remy asked, pouring the beated eggs into the skillet.
“Maybe somethin’ sweet while I sort de laundry?”
“You got it, chère.”
Trying not to trip over the cats, Anna Marie carried a basket full of leisurewear, spandex, and underwear to their room. As she climbed the steps, basket planted on her hip, she smiled at the contents. She had finally trained Remy to put all her lace underthings in a mesh bag to keep them whole. A part of her still believed he did it because he knew the precise value he extracted from those particular toys.
She snickered at the idea as she pushed the bedroom door open with her tush. Warm, furry bodies pressed against her ankles. The sun poured through the slanted window and warmed the bed.
That’s where her eyes landed.
On a messy bed.
The pillows still had the dents of his arms, the hollow of his head. The bottom sheet was still untucked from his restless sleep. If she had pressed her hand to the fabric, she would have surely felt the humid trace of his sweat.
She pressed her lips together and let the basket drop between her feet.
“Remy!”
“Breakfast ready in ten!” he replied from the kitchen, completely oblivious to the anger in her tone.
With a grunt, she kicked the basket inside. She sat under the early sun and held her head. A messy bed shouldn’t make her this angry, but it always did. Aunt Carrie was strict, but she got one thing right: a well-made bed made a bedroom cozy.
She couldn’t care less if Remy squeezed the toothpaste from the middle or made a mess in the kitchen; that was a mess she could live with. But Remy always made a fuss over his food and his personal grooming. Her nose twitched at the scent of his cologne, and she felt that spark of anger again when she realized it was clinging to the sheets.
She extended her hand and picked up the first piece of laundry. She folded it slowly, as if she were trying to bend metal instead of fabric. Restoring order always made her feel better, even when she had to fight the chaos of two cats swatting at her work. Lucifer was downstairs, supervising Remy’s tasks. That orange rascal always knew which side of the toast was buttered.
She made short work of the laundry, put her part in her drawer and, as she extended her hand toward Remy’s, her irritation flared again.
His clothes on top of his mess.
With a huff, she moved to the closet, jumped into a pair of yellow jeans, and picked up a green shirt. She moved to their shared bathroom in search of deodorant. The counter was pristine, every pot and bottle in neat rows. Remy was able to keep things orderly; that only highlighted her irritation.
As she passed the brush over her hair, she looked at Remy’s clothes amid the mess. There was no formal arrangement; usually whoever carried the laundry up put it in the drawers. Remy was fussy about clean clothes out of place; dirty ones, he couldn’t care less. Remy called her for breakfast.
She made a choice. This time, Remy had to look at the unmade bed if he wanted to follow his habits.
“You been awfully quiet, chère,” Remy commented after taking a sip of his milkshake.
They had been hitting the stores. Buying clothes always made her feel better, and she liked to try every piece; it was sad to know many of them would end up in tatters before she could wear them a second time. Remy was there to carry the bags and pepper the fashion show with claps, catcalls, and the occasional off-color comment. There was never a complaint from that man.
They passed by a fast-food joint for a burger and something to drink before reporting to The Treehouse, just in case the world had decided to brew a crisis. They stepped into a headquarters quieter than a library.
“I’m just plain tired from de night shift, and thirstier than a camel in a drought,” Anna Marie said, trying to keep their messy bed from her mind. “I’ll fix us a drink while you go on and check dem records.”
“D’accord,” Remy said after a brief moment of silence.
Anna Marie noticed the way his dark eyes narrowed, but she refused to dwell on the issue. He either saw his clothes on the bed and decided to make the bed, and everything was right in their world, or, as she suspected, he didn’t. As she poured cocktails from a vine, she wished with all her hair to avoid thinking of the second possibility.
“Anythin’ that matters, Sugah?” she said, extending Remy a cup filled with a deep orange liquid that smelled faintly citrusy.
“No notes... but dis ain’t our first rodeo, is it?” Remy replied, standing tall with the most disparate set of Irish handcuffs available in his hands.
Anna Marie nodded. This was either a small crisis that they had decided they could manage without help or a mega-catastrophe that demanded all hands on deck without a moment to call for reinforcements. She monitored the signals, but no alert requiring six to eight superpowered mutants surfaced.
“Fancy a trip to Krakoa, Dark Eyes?” Anna Marie said, hooking her arm around Remy’s.
“Wit’ you?” Remy said with a bright smile. “Ta de end of de world and beyond, petite.”
Anna Marie wasn’t in the mood to embroil herself in another of Wanda’s dramas. Once the crisis subsided, they recovered her bags, crossed the gate, and flew home. Remy was shivering in her hands as the cold wind made his shirt flap against the washboard of his belly. As they moved through the sky, a flash of worry for her new sartorial choices crossed her mind. Then she recalled Remy was on duty. Those thieving hands were used to more delicate prizes with less emotional incentive.
By the time they reached their penthouse, Remy was shivering. Stiff with cold, he let go of the shopping bags and rubbed his arms while jumping in place. Anna Marie kissed his cheek and recovered her purchases. She passed happily into the house, greeted by a concert of happy mews and switching tails. Hands full, she looked over her shoulder to check that Remy was in tow and pushed open the bedroom door.
The bed was still unmade.
Remy’s step echoed behind her, as she stepped inside with her eyes fixed on the twisted sheets. His clothes were nowhere in sight; he took care of those. He’d taken a shower a shower, got ready for a shopping spree: he even hung his wet towel to dry.
But he didn’t make the bed.
“Chère?” Remy asked behind her back. Alarm rising in his tone. “Please tell me dat madwoman didn’t leave us another barely-veiled threat...”
“How could you…”
“What?” Remy asked, passing behind her.
Anna Marie waited until he passed his eyes twice over the bed, looking for any indication that he had noticed the mess. His expression showed confusion as he took his sunglasses off his face. By the time he looked at her, he was genuinely lost.
“Cheese Whiz on a cracker, Remy!” Anna Marie exclaimed, finally letting go of the bags to point at the bed. “Don’t you even see it?”
“See what?”
“The bed!” Anna Marie felt like screaming.
“What about de bed?”
“You didn’t make the bed!” Anna Marie complained, and Remy jumped back. “This is my bed too, and you know how I hate seein’ this... this mess!”
“What? Chérie, it’s just our bed. A bit messy, sure, but we’re ready to sleep in it anyway...” Remy’s eyes fixed on her. “I don’t get what de fuss is, moi.”
“What is there to get?” Anna Marie tapped her foot because stomping in frustration would create a problem with the neighbors. Her voice rose in an angry shout. “Beds should be made, Remy! If you have the privilege to sleep in a real bed, you better well take care of it!”
“De important thing is havin’ a bed, Rogue!” Remy shouted back, pointing at the mess now colonized by three furballs. “De privilege is havin’ someone to share it wit’!”
With that, Remy reached for the covers, pulled the blanket and the duvet, and moved toward the door, arms full of fabric among a chorus of indignant mews. Figaro clung to them for a couple of jolts before he fell on the floor with his back bristled.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?”
“To find a place to sleep!” Remy replied, closing the door behind him.
***
The city skyline glowed through the panoramic window.
This was a quiet night, full of stars. Anna Marie lay in bed, fully awake. She had made the bed with their spare set because she couldn’t bear the thought of mismatched pillowcases. The sheets were warm; they smelled clean. She should be comfortable. She should be already asleep, but she could only think of the empty spot where Remy should be. Cats made a poor substitute for her man.
In the silence, the question kept repeating in her mind. Was this neat bed worth the trouble? The smell of fabric softener was one of her favorites, but it failed to bring comfort now. She extended her hand to pet Lucifer and smiled when the cat pressed his head against her palm. She wondered if Remy spent his nights petting the cats while she spent her nights saving the world.
She wondered if this silence had been as loud for him each night she was away.
She couldn’t stay on the bed, waiting for him. She sat up, prodded Oliver off her slippers, and crossed the room. She couldn’t recall if she had heard the door opening after Remy left their room. She had lost her cool too completely to register that. The door swung without a creak and that made her brow furrow. Remy liked creaky doors; they were his early alarm system. But she had complained about it, and he had fixed the noise.
Followed by three curious kittens, she climbed down the stairs. The starlight was enough to identify the furniture. Remy wasn’t stretched across the first sofa, so Anna Marie walked by the window. The discarded duvet was a pile of fabric in her way; she picked it up without thinking. Remy wasn’t on the second sofa either. The only thing that hinted at his presence was the moonlight bouncing on the corner of the sheet.
In the darkest corner of the living room, pressed against the wall, Remy slept with his knees pulled to his chest. A piece of the fabric protected his face from the cold wall. His lips were close to a lipstick stain that refused to fade, no matter how much they had treated the fabric. Anna Marie stood in place, wondering how many times Remy had to sleep in the rough to perfect the technique.
Wondering if that piece of fabric held the smell of her shampoo or her perfume…
Without a word, protecting his rest as the sacred thing he made it, she sat by his side, pulling her legs closer. Then, she used the discarded duvet to wrap them both. The cats understood that this was the place to sleep tonight and soon climbed up, finding a nook or cranny to curl up. Anna Marie sighed as she rested her head on Remy’s shoulder. His comforting aroma and his radiant heat invited her to close her eyes. Once she had understood that Remy made the marital bed, she was ready to drift away.