All characters are the copyright of Marvel comics. This story is for non-profit purposes of private entertainment only.
More Than One Way to Skin a Cajun
Eesh, but the kid was hot today. That was the trouble with that damned gumbo-swilling Cajun: like a hyper-active child, you give him a little too much sugar on his cereal at breakfast and he spends the rest of the day bouncing off the walls.
Wolverine had known he was in for a rough morning when Gambit came in from outside, leafing through the daily mail delivery. “Occupant; occupant; occupant; occupant,” he was saying. “Y’know, Wolvie, we’ become such a depersonalized society. We all bin reduce’ t’ a series of digits in a Social Security number—nobody got names no more, no identities.”
He returned to the mail. “Occupant; occupant…tall, skinny, crawfish-eatin’ occupant wit’ demon eyes an’ abandonmen’ issues…” His eyes flicked to Wolverine’s face and he held up the letter, eyebrow cocked. “Yours?”
Logan growled and high-tailed it out of there; when the Cajun started stealing jokes from old Bloom County comic strips, it was time to find another place to hang out.
But even he couldn’t hide forever, and he got his second dose of Cajun comedy later that afternoon.
It was simply indecent for a grown man to have so damn much excess energy, he thought as he watched Gambit play the idiot; racing up and down the tiled halls in his stocking feet to see how far he could slide, whooping like a maniac. He was singing, too, between whoops and gasping breaths. Some stupid song from one of his Three Stooges compilation videos about a girl who was “Bred in ol’ Kentucky, but she’s just a crumb up here.” He had sung what little there was of the song and then when he ran out of the original lyrics he made up his own, and it got pretty raunchy before Cyclops came and asked—strike that, demanded—that he a) stop singing it or b) stop singing it in the hallway of the girl’s dormitory. Not that the girls were complaining. The ones that were in their rooms at that time of day were all huddled in their doorways, watching this performance and giggling like little love-struck loons. Gambit obligingly stopped singing, turned a double-handspring at the end of his last slide for the benefit of the girls, and went downstairs via the unique and heart-stopping method of sliding down the long, narrow banister whilst standing.
He disappeared for a long while after that, and Wolverine had begun to hope that he had crashed out somewhere—again, like a hyper-active child, the Cajun was prone to sleeping where ever he happened to be when he capped out. He was practically narcoleptic.
But no such luck. He had been up in his room, it seemed, tearing through the boxes of stuff stored in his closet until his usually obsessively neat living space looked like a tornado had ripped through it. What he had been looking for would probably never be known, for when he was in this condition his attention span was too short to hold a single thought for long, but what he had found was terror itself. A video camera.
Whether there was actual tape in the camera or not, the recording light was on. Gambit stalked through the mansion like a great white hunter on safari, keeping up a ceaseless commentary in an improbably exact imitation of David Attenboro, replete with emphatic, punctuatively-incorrect pauses. He seemed to be making a nature documentary on the elusive Gulo gulo, or wolverine.
“My oh my,” Beast chuckled when he passed this intent figure in the hallway, “there is a man who likes to live dangerously, all right.”
The camera swung up to film him, and the David Attenboro voice commented, “A rare sighting of the Wakaki tribal shaman. These medicine men dress up in masks made from the skins of blue-throated orangutans and prance around otherwise naked except for festive ribbons tied around their genitalia during the annual tribal Tupperware party.”
“Get that thing out of my face, please,” Dr. McCoy said, amiably enough.
“Such are the words of any number of witnesses to this bizarre and ancient ritual,” Gambit continued, straight-faced, expertly ducking the huge blue paw that swiped out for the camera. “But we must not be sidetracked from our goal, which is to find and document the almost mythical Gulo gulo adamantium uglianus, or two-legged wolverine.”
“Why do you always pick on Logan when you’re in these moods, Gambit?” Beast asked, seriously. “Do you have a death wish?”
His query was ignored. Gambit had just sighted Wolverine in the rec. room, sitting on the couch with Storm watching television, and trying his best to blend in, chameleon-style, with the cream-colored upholstery.
Gambit went into predator mode, stalking up behind the couch with exaggerated caution, never pausing a whit in his commentary, given now in the breathless tones of an excited naturalist.
"And now, after minutes of tireless searching, Gulo gulo adamantium uglianus: the two-legged wolverine. This creature of myth and legend can be easily distinguished even from a distance by its feral, musky…pongid aroma.”
Logan growled. He didn’t have to know precisely what “pongid” meant to know it was not exactly complimentary.
“Up close, one can readily discern the creature’s distinguishing characteristics; an excessively hirsute, lumpy body, of considerably less than average stature, and a most unfortunate hairdo.”
Snikt-snk. Snikt-snk. Logan reflexively popped his claws in and out, in and out. “Watch it, Cajun,” he growled.
“This foul beast is also readily identified by its utterly vile disposition, and a complete lack of even the most rudimentary, sense of humor.”
Wolverine was up over the back of the couch in a flash, one clawed hand raised to the camera lens, the other pressing sharp claw tips against the soft, vulnerable flesh of Gambit’s unprotected throat.
“And by its foot-long, adamantium claws,” the David Attenboro-wannabe continued, never once missing a beat. “When confronted with this situation, it is important to remember that the two-legged wolverine is an exceptionally ill-tempered beast, and it is advisable not to make any sudden moves. Do not run, for the creature will chase you down. And above all, never, ever, do this…to a wolverine.”
The hand the Cajun was not using to steady the camcorder shot out, right for that one sensitive spot on Wolverine’s side. “Coochie coochie coo!”
In the brief second that Logan was incapacitated Gambit dropped the camera and fled, giggling maniacally. Wolverine was in hot pursuit a moment later.
Damn empathy. Leave it to Gumbo to find the one spot where I’m ticklish.
The chase led them past the front doors, where Iceman had just come in from outside. He watched the two of them rip past, the Cajun laughing, exhilarated, and the Canadian growling, enraged, and whipped off his baseball cap. He held it over his heart and soliloquized, “Alas, poor Gambit. We barely knew ye.” Then he went off to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich.
Wolverine finally trapped Gambit in the Danger Room, but it was still a long chase before he finally managed to snag his claws in the Cajun’s shirt and wrestle him to the ground. He straddled his back, using his knees to pin his arms to his sides so he couldn’t fight it. The kid’s mood changed instantly from lunatic glee to irritation. “Ge’ off m’ back, dammit!” he exclaimed. He did not like to be in a position where he was powerless.
Logan leaned down to growl in the Cajun’s ear. “No way, Gumbo. You been particularly annoyin’ all damn day, an’ now yer gonna pay for it.”
“Wha’ you gonna do, Wolverine?” Gambit asked, voice betraying the faintest trace of fear. Logan could smell it on him; a pleasant touch of seasoning in the warm cinnamon smell of all that gorgeous russet hair.
“I’m gonna do…what I wanna do,” he replied, almost purring it.
Gambit tried to sit up, but Logan kept his considerable weight on the young man’s shoulders, pinning him. “Now, wait a minute, Wolverine, I—”
“Shut yer trap, Cajun. That big, everlastin’ mouth a’ yers is what got ya in this mess to begin with. If you can’t put it to good use, keep it closed.”
The kid’s teeth came together with an audible click as he did as he was told. Logan grinned and patted him on the head. “Good boy.”
He sat up and hooked the claws of his right hand under the collar of the Cajun’s expensive shirt. He pulled back all the way to his own crotch, grinning as the quality fabric sliced and fell away from the kid’s lean but muscular back. Then he turned around, still pinning the Cajun beneath him, and did the same to the designer jeans he was wearing.
“Jesus Chris’, homme, what de hell Gambit s’pose t’ do now, huh? Jus’ go trottin’ back t’rough de mansion in de all-toget’er? ‘Hi, Jubes! How’ya doin’?’ ‘Good Lord, Swamp Rat, what are you wearin’ a belt for? Yer nakid!’” he mimicked.
“What did I just say, Gumbo?” Logan reminded him, laying the edge of one cold adamantium claw along the firm, rounded muscle of one of the boy’s thighs. The Cajun clammed up immediately.
Wolverine rolled him over onto his back and sat straddling his stomach. He didn’t bother attempting an actual imitation—Gambit was good at doing impressions, he wasn’t—but he spoke out loud to himself in the same tones of detached interest that a typical nature documentary narrator used. “So we see now the wild Louisiana Swamp Rat, brought to bay. These pesky, disease-riddled vermin, while besieged by an extensive nation-wide extermination campaign, continue to thrive. Surprisingly resistant to mass methods of extermination, the best way to get rid of these resilient, annoying little bastards is to squash them, one…by…one.”
But he didn’t intend to squash the kid. He leaned over and nuzzled his chest, kissed his flat male nipples. Gambit moaned and twined his fingers in Logan’s coarse, unruly hair.
“Y’know, Wolvie,” he commented, “Gambit really shouldn’ hafta go t’rough all dis jus’ t’ get a little lovin’.”
Wolverine looked up from where he was now kissing his way down the Cajun’s flat stomach and grinned like a Cheshire cat. “What can I say, Gumbo? I get off on the thrill of the hunt."