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Where, Oh Where Has My Flatiron Gone?

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"Where is mah flatiron?" a distinctly female southern voice shouted at enough volume to send all the younger residents of the mansion hightailing it out of the interrogation zone. A moment later, "Gambit!"

Jean winced and readied herself to deliver her arguments. Ever since the Cajun thief had showed up at Xavier's, she had found herself doing this far too frequently for her liking.

The expected knock came and she opened the door, putting on the most sincere smile she could under the circumstances. "Sorry, Rogue, mine's missing too."

Rogue fumed, arms crossed and muttered unmentionables about a certain swamp rat. "Straightening gel?"

"Gone."

She cursed.

"Rogue!"

"Save it, Jean. When Ah get mah hands on that—"

Jean held up a hand. "Please. I really don't need to know."

Rogue narrowed her eyes in a glare, then finally gave up, and went back to fuming and storming off down the hallway toward her room. Jean didn't expect to see their implements of hair straightening until another couple days had passed—long enough for Gambit to enjoy the fruits of his heist without dying first.

Rogue's hair was a riot of curls. To Gambit, perhaps, that was totally worth it.