TITLE: Low Holidays
ARCHIVE: Please ask.
DISCLAIMER: Disclaimer: All characters belong to someone else. No pants were hurt in the making of this story and as far as I know chocolate menorahs do not exist. But they really should.
It was really all Mel Gibson’s fault.
There was not getting away from that fact. If he hadn’t made fun of Cajun food, Remy would not have boycotted Braveheart and the entire sad saga could have been avoided. Nipped in the bud. Prevented. Forestalled.
Ces’t la vie, as the Chinese say.
Hank was the first to notice that something was amiss. He squinted and watched from underneath the bushy eyebrows as Remy’s long legged gait took him from one end of the hall to another. And then back.
McCoy pondered the situation for a moment, his finely trained mind cataloguing and assessing the signs. True Gambit’s stride appeared to be less sure than usual and there was a strange, lost expression on his face. And yes, he was talking to the walls in a fast and furious whisper, French and English stumbling over each other. And yes he kept stopping in the middle of the sentence as if hit in the face, bringing the piece of paper in his hand closer upward and peering at it with an increasingly flabbergasted look in his eyes.
All of these were familiar and somewhat alarming signs.
On the other hand, he wasn’t on the roof.
So really it all evened out.
After watching his teammate make the 4th circuit of the vestibule, Hank hesitantly cleared his throat. ”Ah, Remy? Is there perchance something amiss?”
Gambit stopped in his tracks and turned around with painfully controlled effort. His red-black eyes fixed McCoy for a long moment before the Cajun X-Man stalked toward the doctor and thrust a piece of paper into his hands, without as much as a word of explanation.
The Beast smiled warily and placatingly at the clearly distraught man and cautiously straightened the paper, reaching for his glasses in a practiced movement.
“Oh.” He said and sat heavily on the stairs. “Oh my.”
Gambit smiled sardonically. Or more accurately grimaced.
“Not now!” Kitty screamed out, pitching her voice carefully in order to overcome the piercing whine of the Danger Room’s mainframe. Not an easy task, considering that the latter currently was doing a pretty good imitation of an air raid siren.
McCoy winced at the noise and eyed the smoke coming out of the computer with a certain amount of respectful unease. “Katherine this is somewhat urgent…”
One of the monitors lit up with an animated graphic of Bishop doing unprintable and unconsensual things to an affronted-looking camel. Then it exploded.
Hank blanched and glanced at Gambit who was looking dangerously calm and increasingly detached.
“Uhhh… We’ll come back later.”
“Seriously?’ Bobby asked again.
“You’re absolutely, positively sure about this?’
“Listen to me very carefully.”
“Remy. Is. Jewish.”
As the next month unfolded Hank would come to blame many things for the havoc that ensued. Primarily, of course it was Mel Gibson, that much was clear. But he also could not shake off the suspicion that he’d just paid attention to the wide and toothy smile that lit up Bobby’s face as soon as he grasped the situation….
“I didn’t know Bobby was Jewish.” Scott said from his post outside Drake’s door. Gambit disappeared behind that door two days ago and after Hank has spread the news, Scott immediately amended the duty roster, including the corner outside Bobby’s room to be the second most important watch-station of the mansion.
“They’ve been in there two days.” Logan mused, lazily trimming the tips of his claws. “What the hell could they be doing in there?”
“Did you know Bobby was Jewish?”
“He's a shifty little runt with a low sense of humor and no hand-eye coordination. And he is an accountant” Logan pointed out. “Yeah, I had an inkling.”
“You can’t say that!”
Scott sputtered. “Because… beca…”
And then the door opened and Scott felt something behind his left eye snap with an audible crunching noise.
“But I don’t understand…” Warren said plaintively, rubbing his temples with somewhat excessive force.
Logan who rather unwisely chose that particular moment to walk into the kitchen, stopped dead in his tracks and bit down on his cigar, his eyes flicking from Warren, Betsy and Bishop huddling somewhat fearfully around the stove to Bobby talking animatedly with Gambit by the fridge.
“Where’s Colossus?” Wolverine asked in a slow, careful manner of a demolition expert who’d just heard his partner say ‘oops.’
Bishop gratefully leapt on a pretext to look away from the pair across the room. “He was here.”
“Yeah.” Logan pointed out dryly. “I know.”
“He kept looking at..” Betsy waved uncertainly, “them.”
“… and he kept calling us anti-semites.” Bishop added.
“And kept saying that this was why he and Kitty didn’t work out….”
“…because everybody thinks that all Russians are anti-semites.”
“…and they’re not.”
“Right.” Logan said in a tone implying rapid loss of interest.
“He was very agitated.” Bishop clarified.
“He muttered something about being the only one who understood about cultural support and then ran off.”
“But I don’t understand….” Warren wailed quietly.
Logan chewed on his cigar for a moment. “And Cyclops?”
“He locked himself in Hank’s bathroom and refuses to come out.”
“Jean is trying to talk him into the hall.”
Logan nodded phlegmatically. “Of course. I understand.”
Warren perked up and looked hopeful for a second.
Kitty wandered into the kitchen, “Hey guys, have you seen…” She paused, looking around uncertainly. “Why aren’t Gambit and Bobby wearing any pants?”
“It’s a Jewish thing.” Betsy explained. “A holiday to commemorate a victory of Maccabees over the Greeks.”
Kitty blinked. “I don’t understand…”
Warren suddenly burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen, sobbing wildly.
Everyone looked at his rapidly retreating figure for a second, before turning back to the pantsless duo.
“I really don’t think this is appropriate.“ Bishop said finally and blinked uncertainly. “Does that make me an anti-semite?”
“YES!” Piot’s voice thundered commandingly through the kitchen as he strode in, glaring indiscriminately around him, until he reached somewhat wary Gambit and grasped his shoulder in a comradely and bone-crunching manner. “Remy.”
“You do?” Bobby inquired cautiously.
“Yes.” Piotr said firmly and put his second hand on Bobby’s head. “ And I am here to show my support. We shall stand together against the forces of bigotry and oppression. Solidarity, my brothers.”
“Solidarity!” Bobby cheered. “Right on!”
“If you have to go without pants, I will to!” Piotr swore.
Logan chewed on his cigar and nodded decisevily. “Right. I’ll be at Harry’s drinking heavily if anyone needs me.”
Jean frowned as weeping Warren sprinted past her and raised an eyebrow at Hank. The latter raised his hands defensively at her in gesture that eloquently bespoke his ignorance and his joy of the self-same.
Jean nodded understandingly, shrugged and turned back to the task at hand. “Scott, you’re being childish.”
“Hank thinks you’re being childish.”
“Well it’s is fault in the first place!”
”Is not!” Hank retorted automatically.
“You left him with Bobby!”
Hank opened his mouth to explain… and then closed it slowly, scratching his head with a long claw.
Storm glanced at him and he shrugged. “That’s fair. But really I think he’s missing the role that Mel Gibson played in all of this.”
“Scott…” Jean implored. “You’re over-reacting.”
Betsy poked her head in the room suddenly, “Umm. We have a little problem.”
“Not now.” Jean hissed.
“Piotr has just declared jihad on pants!”
“Hah!” Scott said loudly and with bitter triumph from behind the bathroom door.
Jean felt a definite migraine start somewhere in her spine.
“Why has Piotr declared jihad on the pants?” Ororo asked curiously.
Betsy’s eyes narrowed, in an expression that clearly articulated her resentment at being asked to work out the logic of the events currently taking place in the mansion.
A pair of faded jeans floated past the window, gently smoldering. “Fucking jihad on you!” Bobby’s voice carried faintly but clearly.
“Overreacting.” Scott said, savoring the word with grim joy.
Hank buried his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Rogue.”
“But I can finally control it. Look!”
“That’s very impressive.”
“I want to talk to him right this minute!”
“He says it’s too painful.
“Piotr I swear if you don’t get out of my way this minute…”
“Rogue, this is a very delicate time for Remy. He simply can’t be involved with a shiksa at this juncture.”
“What happened to your pants?”
“I am sorry, Remy, but I simply don’t…”
“My people suffered for centuries! Centuries! Did you know what Martin Luther said about us?! Do you! And the Crusaders? Oy Vey!”
Kitty stopped outside Nightcrawler’s room, quirking an eyebrow at Bobby. “What’s the matter now?”
Bobby smiled at her fondly. “Just a small matter of reparations. Nothing important.”
“…it scarred our people, Kurt! Scarred them!”
Kitty drew in a deep breath and moved closer to Bobby. “Listen to me very carefully. Drake. I’ve been a good sport about this. I am as willing as a next girl to go with a good joke. Now don’t know how you sold this No Pants Week but kudos. All right? I got to check out Remy’s butt and today’s training session was canceled on account of Scott losing it. Win-Win. But you’re really taking this too…”
Bobby’s face was suddenly less than an inch away from Kitty and his voice took on an ugly undertone. “Don’t fuck this up for me, Pryde. I need this!”
Kitty flinched but before she could reply the door opened and a harassed looking Kurt staggered out, followed closely by Gambit.
“Well?” Bobby asked hopefully.
Remy smiled beatifically, Wagner’s ATM card twirling lazily between his fingers.
“Ice cream!” Bobby sighed dreamily and jerked up his thong with a determined movement. “…ow.”
“Scott, you are not Jewish.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Yes, I do.”
“Yeah, well you said that about Gambit too!”
“I never said Gambit wasn’t Jewish.” Jean pointed out with complete honesty.
“But you would have, if somebody asked!” Scott countered.
“I would not… why are we talking about this! You are most definitely not Jewish!”
“Oh yeah?! And what if those rumors about him being the third Summers are true? Huh?! Huh?! ….oh God has someone warned Alex?”
“Scott! Stop this!”
“I can’t be Jewish. I don’t have the time! Oh God, what if I am…”
“Scott, you are not…”
“The Zionist conspiracy IS real. We are it!”
Magneto always knew that being assassinated in his sleep was a possibility. Such was the life he’d chosen. He had to admit, however, that he expected his assassins to be wearin pants. Or at least no to wear speedos with koala bears on them.
Still if he had to die he would do so with dignity.
“Remy totally gets you now.” The first assassin informed him, rifling through his bag.
“Right.” The Russian-accented voice rumbled through the room. “Perfectly understandable.”
“We got your back, man.”
Magneto quietly resolved never to use that partucular brand of Niquil again. He also desperately wished he had his glasses on. Surely no killer would wear speedos with fornicating koala bears.
That’s just be silly.
“Here,” the first assassin said, shoving a chocolate menorah at him. “Rock on.”
“Hey.” The third figure that with his blurred vision he could have swornr was the Iceman said. “Want some ice cream? It’s mocha.”
By the time Cable descended on the Mansion, accompanied by Gambit and Bobby who seemed to be engaged in a lively scholarly debate of whether or not Apocalypse was responsible for the Egyptian captivity, Bishop retreated into the tree-house, lovingly stroking his guns.
Hank, taking a break from attempting to lure Scott out of his bathroom took a crack at talking him down. Bishop, however, pointed out reasonably that IT was clearly spreading and until IT stopped he was NOT going anywhere.
Hank was pretty sure he could have calmed him given another hour.
It was a real pity, Stryfe chose that moment to show up, screaming that he had enough problems thank you very much and his therapist was already charging him a approximate cost of a well-kept space station and if anyone as much as hinted at the possibility of him being…
Bishop amiably agreed that yes, absolutely, there was room up there for two.
Nate Grey peered at the Hanukkha card in hand and shook his head bemusedly. “But I don’t understand…”
Somewhere in the depth of Westchester Warren shrieked piteously and repeatedly slammed his head into the refrigerator while Magneto took a bite out of his menorah and found it good.