Even studying the blueprints and grounds plans of the place for the last week didn’t really prepare Gambit for just how large the Xavier property would be. It reminds him of the old plantations back home. Acres and acres of trees, gardens, pastures, and space no one man could possibly use enough to justify. All enclosed by an old brick wall topped with wrought-iron fence, every rod capped by a sharp spire, “X”s hammered into all the prominent design.
Gambit snorts and keeps walking up the long, winding road that leads to the actual mansion.
“We more like to steal from this place than find your friends here, eh?”
“We shall do no such thing,” Storm says. Despite her usual regal air of confidence and competence, there’s a lightness to her step. A faint smile at the edge of her mouth. Gambit reminds himself that she’s truly excited. She’s going home. More than that, she’s going home to people who care about her and love her.
“Sure thing,” Gambit mutters. He doesn’t want to kill her mood.
The school finally comes into view, though to call it a “school” seems pretty generous, even by rich boy boarding school standards. It was done in a pretty New England style, not quite Gambit’s taste, but it’s bigger than a lot of the Southern plantation homes he’s seen. This couldn’t have been done with “new” American money. Place like this could only have been built by someone who was too stupidly rich for the small, old world and had to cross a whole ocean to flaunt his wealth properly.
The front gate is wide open to another long, winding path that leads up to the house.
Fools , Gambit thinks. Even Bobby could get in here .
Storm doesn’t even pause at the gate. She strides straight up the lane, not bothering to see if Gambit is keeping up. He shifts his bag further up on his shoulder, stuffs one hand in his pocket with a few decks of cards, and strolls after her.
Turns out Stormy’s X-Men thought she was dead.
Explains why they never came looking, but it seems like a hollow excuse to Gambit. He rescued her from the Shadow King months ago and it’s been almost a year since she “died” in the first place.
Some family.
But Storm—or Ororo —is happy. Doesn’t seem to care that they left her to fend for herself when she was reduced to the body and memories of a child. She just warmly embraces the bald old telepath—who apparently didn’t sense that she was alive—and leans against the soft-spoken redhead while a giant blue furball, a stuffy douche wearing sunglasses inside, and a talkative shapeshifter hover in her orbit and celebrate her return.
Then there’s the glowering little man in flannel who watches it all, but mostly glares in Gambit’s direction.
“Guess the prof’ll just let anyone in here,” he grumbles when he passes Gambit to leave the room.
“Speak fo’ yourself, mon ami ,” Gambit tells him with a smile.
The man pauses and turns around, fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Wanna run that by me again?”
“If you t’ink dat’ll help it sink in better, sure.” And, because this seems like the kind of guy who gets worked up by people who aren’t threatened by him, Gambit takes a step closer to him and claps a hand on his shoulder. It makes the near-foot height difference between them more obvious. “Ain't nobody in this room not got some dirt on ‘em.”
The gruff man knocks his hand aside and honest to Dieu growls. “Better watch yourself, Cajun. Chuck and the lady might fall for the bad boy with a heart of gold act, but you don’t fool me. You still smell like swamp. You can’t get rid of that stink no matter what you do.”
Pronouncement made, he marches off out of the house.
Gambit turns his attention back to Storm and the rest of the X-Men.
Wolverine doesn’t know the half of it.
Sunglasses shows him to his room, and only part of Gambit’s surprise is for the benefit of the pretty boy when he sees the size of it.
The ceiling is high, the windows are tall, the wood floor looks real, the rug under the queen bed looks imported, and Gambit can smell the polish on the furniture from the doorway. Maybe once, before hurricanes and economy crashes and the Thieves’ regular humiliation over the course of the last few tithes, the Guild hall might once have looked half as nice as all this. No rats, no lizards, no mosquitoes, no mildew, silent air conditioning, and what look like cotton sheets that have never seen a moth before.
Gambit lets out a low whistle. “Classy,” he comments, following Sunglasses into the room. “Y’all really don’ skimp out on nothin’, huh? And look at dat! Bet that chandelier’s real chrystal, too.”
Sunglasses looks perturbed by the observation. There’s a fine divot between his eyebrows from furrowing, though, so Gambit would be willing to bet the guy gets perturbed by a lot.
“Feel free to move things around or decorate if you want,” he says in an impressively business-casual voice. “The room’s yours.” He pauses. Seems to try to iron out the wrinkle between his eyebrows. Fails. “Make yourself at home. Remy, was it?”
“Just call me Gambit, mon ami .” The boy scout frowns minutely. Gambit makes note of this for later use. “‘S catchier, non ? Adds a bit of mystery t’ ladies like.”
“Alright. Gambit.” Sunglasses says the name like a Yankee. Takes all the romance and mystery right out of it and replaces it with the same divot that lives between his eyebrows. Gambit winces. “Dinner is at six. Everyone else will be there. Feel free to settle in before then. Can I help you with anything else?”
Business-professional. A curt request to leave if ever Gambit’s heard one. This man was among the first students to attend this stuffy, unreasonably large, real-chrystal-chanedelier boarding school, and it shows. Gambit knows for sure he’s not going to like this guy because Sunglasses clearly has a log lodged quite firmly up his ass and he’s already making assumptions. About the sun-bleached leather of Gambit’s jacket, the fraying black of his gloves, the Saints logo on his old duffle bag, the steel plating of his boots, and maybe even the unrepentant drawl in his accent.
At least Wolverine had the balls to tell Gambit to his face what he thought about him. This guy, Scott Summers, is sure to pass silent judgment on everything Gambit does without telling him what he could do better, then shove it all back in Gambit’s face when he’s mad to make a point about how much better he is.
“Naw, I tink I got it from here. Thanks for the tour.” He considers throwing in a bit of flirting for the hell of it, but something makes him think Sunglasses might actually believe he means it, which thoroughly kills the amusem*nt value. He’ll have to save it for the next time he runs into Wolverine.
“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything.”
Pretty boy closes the door on his way out. Very polite.
“Jackass,” Gambit mutters and throws his bag on the bed.
“You changed the locks on your doors,” Storm says with distinct disapproval. She stands in his doorway with hands on hips, mouth pursed, and a single arched eyebrow daring him to correct her. “And you replaced the screws in the hinges.”
Was it only three weeks ago that she barely came up to his elbow? That they were breaking into the FOH New Orleans chapter buildings and causing chaos in the mutant-haters’ ranks? Had it only been eighteen days since she was curled under his arm while they watched a movie at four AM to avoid nightmares?
“It doesn’t mean nothin’, Stormy. Gambit do that everywhere he go. You know that.”
“Let me relieve you of the notion that my return to my proper age made me any more tolerant to that f*ckless moniker, Gambit.” Her voice is a lot deeper than before. She grew into the high cheekbones and stocky shoulders. She was a striking child when Gambit saved her. She’s a stunning woman now.
Gambit . . . really doesn’t know what to think about that.
“Let me also remind you that we are in a safe home, filled with friends. And my family. There is no need for the precautions and suspicions of our time together. Things are different here.”
He wants to tell her it’s a nice sentiment, but a naive one. Or that this is the way he’s done “things” his whole life and it’s kept him alive. Or that she should know him better after they spent seven months avoiding his pack hounds and hers. How did she think they managed that?
She should know better.
But she was a child, then. And he made sure she didn’t know just how much danger they were in. (Or that the danger was mostly because of him.)
And she’s a woman, now. Older than him by a little. This is her world, now, not his.
What is he still doing here, anyway? She’s a grown woman, she doesn’t need him. Sure, she’s asked him to stay, but this isn’t his world . He shouldn’t bring his world anywhere near this version of Storm and her family. He still cares about her that much, whether she needs a guardian anymore or not. Even though she already had a real home before he met her. He still cares about her and their time together, even if some of the best seven months of his life amount to nothing to the little girl who made them worthwhile.
“Sorry, Storm,” Gambit says, turning away from the solitaire on his desk so he can address her fully. “Old habits die hard, non ? And it’s hard to teach an ol’ dog new tricks, even one as smart as dis one.”
Her expression softens. It makes her look younger. Not as young as three weeks ago, though.
“I understand this is new to you, my friend.” She walks into his room and perches on his desk the way she used to perch on the counter when he cooked. “When I first arrived here, I had my own misgivings. It is no small feat to overcome a life of experience being betrayed and hurt. I do not expect you to do so overnight. But, please,” she sets a hand on his, her large eyes pleading, “give it a chance, Gambit. Let me do for you what you did for me. You can make a home here, too.”
It’s the damn eyes. The rest of her has changed but her eyes, which are just as earnest, insightful, and cutting as when he pulled her free of the Shadow King’s grasp. The way she looks at him is like . . . Like she actually has faith in him. Like she trusts him.
“Wouldn’t you like to stop running?” Ororo asks.
Damn her eyes. Damn the fact that even though she’s grown, Gambit can still only see the girl. Damn how much he still can’t stand to disappoint her.
(Even though he will. He’s sure of it.)
“Alright, alright, put away those puppy dog eyes, will you? It’s unbecoming of a lady and it don’t work on dis Thief anymore.” He gives her hand a squeeze before collecting his cards. “How’s about we go see what these Yankees keep in the fridge an’ see if we can’t scrape together somethin’ good, huh?”
Storm smiles. Just a soft upward tilt on either side of her mouth, no teeth, like she had when he bought her a colorful scarf at the market for her birthday, or when he put on her favorite movie even though he suffered through The Sword in the Stone a thousand times, or when he took her to her first ever Mardi Gras parade and she collected so many beaded necklaces her neck was completely covered.
Damn her .
“I must admit, something with some real flavor would be nice,” Ororo says. “I love Jean, but she never cooks with enough spice.”
There’s a loud, shapely, and most definitely Southern woman wrapped tightly around Ororo. She apologizes over and over for not looking, for not believing, for not coming home immediately.
Gambit isn’t embarrassed to stare and appreciate the view. She’s gorgeous in that way country girls so often are. Faint freckles splatter across her creamy skin, just a little pink on her cheeks from the sun. She wears a longsleeved dress that hugs every generous curve and the shape of her arms tells him she’s no stranger to hard work. Then there are her long, sturdy legs accentuated by the heels on a pair of worn old cowgirl boots. Wild brown hair struck through with white flies about her head as if she made the trip home going well over the speed limit with the windows rolled down the entire way and her hair hasn’t quite figured out the ride’s over yet.
She also wears a curious pair of gloves up to her elbows, an interesting choice for any country gal outside of the Sunday best.
“An’ who’s this tall, dark, ‘n handsome stranger over here?” asks the thickest, honey-sweet drawl he’s heard since he left home. Or maybe even longer than that. “Honey, didn't anyone ever tell ya it's rude t’ stare?”
Gambit shows her his co*ckiest and most dashing grin. He takes a sweeping bow and says, “ Monsieur Gambit, at your service, chèrie . You’ll forgive dis fool his manners, he too busy wishin’ he knew the name of the most charmin’ belle he ever seen.”
Despite her bravado, she blushes and smiles broadly. “Well, durn, I ‘spose I gotta forgive ya, now. You southern boys ain’t exactly known for your subtlety.” She holds out a gloved hand. “Name’s Rogue. Nice’ta meetcha, Gambit.”
He takes her hand and bows again to press a kiss to her knuckles, making sure to look her right in the eye as he does so.
“The pleasure is all mine, Rogue,” he says. Her grin is brighter than anything he’s seen in a long time.
There’s a reason 3 AM is the witching hour. The practicing night owls are winding down and the earliest birds are uncafeinated. Graveyard shift watches are well into their crossword puzzles and anyone actively working doesn’t get paid enough to pay attention to anything outside their job.
The witching hour isn’t for the supernatural, which need witnesses. It’s for the sinners, like the Thieves’ Guild, who need an unimpeded path to the score.
3 AM is for Gambit as he pushes open his door, silent on well-oiled hinges, and walks out into the hall, rolling on the balls of his feet and into his heels with every step, avoiding the loudest floorboards. Everyone but the Beast and perhaps the professor should be asleep, Cyclops’s ungodly alarm shouldn’t sound until four thirty, and the X-Men don’t keep a night watch.
Gambit passes pricey vases and paintings. The rugs that run through the halls are foreign and well-kept. Some of the books in the library are worth a fortune for their texts alone, much less hand-binding or first-print editions. When he looks into the “living” room, he sees dollar signs decorating the mantle and hanging from the walls. Even the upholstery on antique furniture speaks of wealth and worth. There are sculptures around the property that are worth killing for, where Gambit comes from.
Gambit turns a corner and hears his shadow following behind him.
He rolls his eyes and continues down the halls soundlessly, the moon casting long shadows over all the edges of the world at night. This is his realm. This is where he grew up. Before he could effortlessly navigate his way around the bayou, he could creep through the shadows of a rich man’s house without leaving a trace. His shadow is good, but he is no Thief. He is no Gambit.
He takes another turn around a curious block of the house that runs back into itself. He walks it halfway a second time, steps into a closet that was locked when Gambit arrived on the property, and uses the old servants’ door plastered over poorly in the wall to reach the staircase that leads to the roof. He closes the door behind him and mentally begins the countdown for his shadow as he ascends the steps, skipping the loudest of the boards without thinking about it.
Gambit is already settled under the domed patio on the roof with the very beginnings of his cigarette spent when his shadow finally catches up. He’s getting better since this little dance of theirs started, but Wolverine is still no Thief. More than that, he’s no urban hunter. Like his namesake, he’s much better suited to the wilderness than the mansion.
Still, this is more Wolverine’s home than Gambit's, and the brutish man continues to make sure Gambit knows it.
Gambit smiles at him and salutes with his cigarette. “Evenin’, Wolvie. Come to join Gambit fo’ a little moonlight stroll, eh? You more romantic than I give you credit for.”
Hands fist, jaw clenches, eyes narrow.
“Not a lotta people can trick my nose like that,” Wolverine growls. “And most’a them don’t have any holy reason to try it.”
“Forgive me for ever leavin’ y’all wit’ the impression I’m holy,” Gambit says, dropping the smile. For the first few weeks, this little game was a good challenge and a good distraction from his play at the side of the angels. Now, it’s getting old. The whole thing is wearing thin. He belongs in the most ungodly hours of night, far away from naive bleeding hearts who make his job far too easy.
He brings the cigarette to his mouth again and blows the smoke out into the night.
“Well, you gonna join me, or are you gonna make good on da countless threats on my life? I don’ got all night.”
Wolverine’s silence is aggressive. With aggressive footsteps no longer attempting to be silent, he stomps closer. Aggressively, he throws himself down a pointed distance away from Gambit. With a grunt, he digs a hand into his jacket pocket for a cigar. He thrusts it aggressively toward Gambit.
Gambit can’t help a snort of amusem*nt. He reaches out and charges the tip of his finger. The light makes all the hard edges in Wolverine’s face even harder. The edge of the cigar lights with a whining pop and a flash of magenta energy. Some of the sparks flare out onto the roof and die out just as fast. Wolverine grunts again in something he probably believes passes as thanks and then returns to his obnoxious silence.
Gambit settles back against the cold stone behind him and waits for his shadow to just spit it out already.
He’s on his second cigarette by the time Wolverine says, “Rumor is you’re leaving.”
“Who tell you that?”
“Is it true?”
Gambit looks at the ring of heat at the end of the cigarette. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel the potential energy in it. If he focuses harder than that, he might be able to ignite it without charging it from the end between his fingers.
“‘S what you want and you not the only one. Dis no place for a t’ief, right?” Gambit drops the roll of paper between his feet and digs into it with the heel of his boot. “Gambit don’ never go where he ain’t wanted.”
“Bullsh*t,” Wolverine snarls. “You’re a lying, mutant, thief from one’a the scummiest cities in this country. If you don’t go where folks don’t wantcha, you don’t go nowhere or steal nothin’. Overstaying your welcome is whatcha do for a living, Cajun.”
Gambit gives him an incredulous look. “What you tryin’a say?”
Wolverine chews on his cigar. “You’re the thief, ain’t ya? If you can tell me straight that there ain’t anything of real value here worth stickin’ around for, I’ll pack your bags myself ‘cause then you ain’t the man I thought you were.”
Gambit forces his surprise down and says, “Well, that fiery Southern gal of yours—”
“Cut the crap, LeBeau,” Wolverine snaps. He digs his cigar into the roof and sticks a finger into Gambit’s personal space. “Your bullsh*t words ain’t gonna work on me, pal. You can bullsh*t to the prof, to Storm, to the others, you can bullsh*t to yourself, but never me. So go ahead. Tell me you’re gonna leave this place without givin’ a f*ck and lookin’ back.”
Gambit stares. Wolverine stares back.
Gambit grinds his teeth together and looks away. He sees Wolverine nod from the corner of his eye.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Wolverine stands, his shadow stretching out down the roof. “Get your head outta your ass and figure it out, Cajun. I don’t give a sh*t if you leave, but I know a couple’a nice ladies who would. Don’t make this any harder on them than it has to be.” He pauses. Lets his words sit. Adds, without any menace, voice nearing kind and sincere, “Or else I really will have to kill ya, bub. Ain’t nobody messing with these people long as I’m around, you got that?”
“Sure, mon ami ,” Gambit mutters.
“Well, you better remember it.”
And then Wolverine is gone. It’s the most stealthy he’s been yet. Gambit didn’t even hear the roof hatch closing.
“I knew it!” Rogue grins from ear to ear, jumping into the air at the doorway and flying to his side. “I just knew you weren't leavin’ me alone here with all these northerners.”
“Ah,” Gambit says, flipping a crepe. “So you be da one spreadin’ rumors. What, couldn’t stand the thought of losin’ dis pretty face, eh?”
She punches him lightly, not even enough to jar his hand as he frees the spatula from the soft dough. “Watch who ya talkin’ to, ya charmer. You know I only like you for your good ol’ Southern cookin’. Who else is gonna make me some real damn food when I’m sick of boiled meat?”
“Careful, now. There a telepath somewhere ‘round here who resent that.”
“Let ‘er,” Rogue says. She leans in front of him, barely more than an inch of space between them, to pull a crepe off the top of the plate where a perfect stack is growing. “She don’t feed me right. Girl’s gotta eat to stay healthy, ya know.”
This woman .
Gambit grins. “Keep talkin’ dat way, chère. Gambit cook you all the food you want, just ask.”
“Careful, sugar.” Rogue hovers back out of his space. “Don’t make promises like that if’n you ain’t sure you can deliver.”
“I’m sure.”
“I ain’t.” She winks at him and folds the stolen crepe into a triangle before swiping it across the top of the butter on the island beside the rest of the breakfast accouterments. “Good luck explainin’ to Jean that you reorganized her baking cupboard again. She won’t let you near here for a month.”
“She welcome to try.”
Rogue tosses her head back to laugh. “I’ll remember you said that.” She takes a bite of the buttered crepe. “ Mmm ,” she moans, closing her eyes. “An’ this don’t even got sugar on it yet.”
She’s killing him, she really is. She makes this way too easy.
“If you want some sugar—”
“Getch your mind outta the gutter, ya overgrown swamp rat,” she snaps around another mouthful. “Don’t you even think about finishing that sentence.”
“Little late fo’ dat.”
“Just finish those crepes already,” Rogue says. Her cheeks are red, her smile is easy, and there’s a bit of butter on her bottom lip. “The rest’ll be here faster’n you can say ‘breakfast is ready’.”
“Breakfast is ready.”
“Smartass.”
Gambit studies his cards carefully, reviewing the cards already on the table, and glancing at his opponent.
“Remind me again why you couldn’t play dis with anyone else?”
The redhead is looking at him with narrowed eyes, her own hand of cards held close to her chest, fingertips drumming on top of the table. “No one plays cards with a telepath,” she says again, her voice tight with impatience. “I assumed that as both a man who enjoys card games and who prides himself on his ability to resist telepathic abilities, you’d be a little more open to playing.”
“Normally, you’d be right,” Gambit says, leaning back in his chair, trying to read her. “But dis? This isn’t a game. This is a bloodbath. ‘S no fun.”
The corner of her mouth ticks up. “Now you know why everyone thinks I cheat, even though I don’t.” She frowns again and looks pointedly at his cards. “It’s still your turn, Gambit. Make your move.”
“Alright, alright,” Gambit sighs. “Do ya got any t’rees, you cold, unfeelin’ bully?”
Jean’s grin is frigid. “Go. Fish.”
“Merde,” Gambit spits, leaning forward to get another card.
“You have a queen,” she says smugly, holding out her hand.
Gambit reluctantly picks out his lucky lady, who hasn’t been bringing him much luck in this rigged game. He presses a kiss to the queen of hearts and hands it over. “Goodbye, mon chère,” he laments. “We had a good run.”
Jean sets yet another match, and her last card, down on the table among the carnage of their fourth game of Go Fish. “I win.”
“Gambit never say dis before, but,” Gambit ignites and dissolves the rest of the cards in his hand. “He not wanna play no more.”
Jean chuckles. “And here I thought I’d finally found a worthy opponent.”
“Pick anotha’ game. Pick any otha’ game an’ we see who’s really better, eh?” He drops the ashes on the table and crosses his arms. “Gambit startin’ to think you got some kinda Go Fish gris gris hidin’ ‘round here. There jus’ no other explanation for dis.”
“There’s one.” Jean swipes the now useless deck of cards to the side and picks up another that’s in a stack at the other side of the table. “You’re just not as good as you think you are.”
“Like I said, pick anyt’ing else.”
“Fine. If you think that’ll help.”
Jean starts to shuffle the new deck, but Gambit leans forward and takes the cards from her. He starts to shuffle them much more theatrically, over his head, arcing between his hands, and bridging back together only to fly around again.
Jean enjoys the show with a smile, picking up her orange soda to sip. “How about Liar?”
“Liar?” Gambit fans the cards out on the table and swipes them back up. “You mean Bullsh*t?”
Jean rolls her eyes. “Please, Remy. We’re in a school.”
“My bad.” Gambit starts dealing all the cards between the two of them. “‘Liar’ it is.”
Morph says, “Gambit don’t use no personal pronouns, you dumb poutaines . Fo’ some reason, women like a man who talk dumb, slow, an’ French.”
“It’s the cajun,” Logan says.
“This game is vraiment stupide ,” Gambit mutters into his beer.
How did they convince him to play an impression game with Morph , again?
“ Absolument correct, mon ami .” Morph takes a bow wearing Gambit’s face. “T’ank’u, t’ank’u, Gambit be here all week.”
Logan chuckles. Morph giggles, except he uses Gambit’s voice to do it. Gambit cringes.
“Well, yer up, Cajun.” Logan sticks the cowboy hat full of names on paper slips into Gambit’s face.
Gambit mutters more French curses under his breath as he digs in the hat.
He never wants to join game night with Logan and Morph again.
Gambit sinks low into his chair, foot tapping, arms crossed. He never went to high school, but he bets he looks like a teenage delinquent to the professor who has an impressively controlled poker face of kindness.
“And do you have any family?” the prof asks.
Gambit’s fingers dig into his coat and his arms. “Sho. If you could call ‘em dat.”
“Would you please explain?”
“Does it matter? Ain’t nobody else in dis house seem t’ have family callin’.”
The professor folds his hands on his lap. Patient as rocks. Earnest as a child. Prying as a federal agent. “It’s true, most of my X-Men have sadly either lost or been removed from their families. But for those with living relatives, I like to have names on file in case we need to get in contact with those members.”
“Believe me, profeseur, you don’ wanna get in contact wit’ my family. Or anyone Gambit know, fo’ that matter.”
“There’s no one who should be alerted if you are injured?” The prof pushes. “Or if you were to pass away while taking up residence here?”
Gambit has to focus to keep the static under his skin from making an appearance. Especially because, given his current posture, the first thing to ignite would be his coat. He doesn’t feel like blowing himself up. Not over this. “Good riddance to dem if I did,” he grumbles between his teeth, slouching still lower down the chair. Much farther and his ass will be completely off the chair. “If you really need somethin’ , I’ll give you an address. If it’ll make you feel comfy.”
“I would appreciate that, Mr. LeBeau, thank you,” the prof says.
“It’s just Gambit,” Gambit protests immediately. Then he rattles off the address of the Guild hall, trying not to think about the corroding mansion in the bayou where he grew up. Trying not to think about how this little office of Xavier’s was exactly the kind of thing Jean Luc always wanted for the Thieves. “You can’t never go there,” Gambit says. “Not even if Gambit kicks it. Just send a postcard ‘r somethin’. ‘S not worth riskin’ trouble wit’ the Guilds.”
“Do you truly believe you’re worth so little to the ones who raised you?” The prof might not be able to get all the way in Gambit’s head, but he sure comes a lot closer than any telepath Gambit’s ever run into. He hates it. He hates that this man can see past any of his boundaries, even if he can’t see far.
“Oh, Gambit know exactly what he worth to the Thieves.” The vice grip he has on his arms is really starting to hurt. “Let’s leave it at dat, huh?”
“If you wish,” the professor concedes easily. He’s infuriatingly patient. This is why Gambit has avoided the head of the school since he arrived. Xavier is a damn fool . And a kind and forgiving one at that. “Now, you said you left the guild when you were eighteen. Where were you between then and meeting Ororo?”
“Was a world-class t’ief, homme . It easier to say where Gambit hasn’t been yet.”
“And is it safe to assume you were not making many friends during this time?”
“ Oui, unless you count making real friendly with our presidents.”
“And you believe some of these past associations may put this team at risk?”
“No more’an y’all already riskin’ by housin’ a bunch’a mutants under one roof,” Gambit says.
The prof studies him. Gambit can’t exactly feel the prof rooting around in his head, but he can feel it when something repels off the static he’s protecting his thoughts with. “You think your life is at risk by staying in one place and that the rest of us may suffer the consequences?”
“We put it dis way, alright? Anyone comin’ after Gambit just kill him an’ be done wit’ it, y’all don’ even know they come.” Gambit tries not to think too deeply about the Assassins. Prof can’t get anything, except for what Gambit worries too much about. “An’ the rest? They like to come because of you as much as Gambit.” He also fiercely ignores the memories of the Devil. If he wants a prayer of keeping that one to himself, he can’t afford to think about that monster ever .
“Very well.” The professor nods. Like Gambit’s a kid who just passed a test. Gambit rarely wanted to know what it was like to be a student when he was a kid, but now he’s certain he hates it. Prof leans forward, woven fingers under his chin. “You don’t trust easy, do you, Mr. LeBeau?”
“Don’ trust at all,” Gambit replies sharply. “Ain’t nothin’ kill you faster.”
“And yet you are still here. And Ororo tells me that you protected her for months without any profit for yourself. She speaks very highly of you. And there are others here who think along the same lines.”
Gambit stares at the ceiling. He’s far from a godly man, but God help him , he wants this stupid interview to be over already. “So they all blamed fools. Your point?”
He can feel the prof’s eyes. Feels something bounce off his thoughts. Feels the static burning in his fingers for something to charge with his excess energy. Sitting still is very bad for someone who weaponizes the living energy of motion.
“Welcome to the X-Men, Mr. LeBeau,” the prof says. Gambit’s eyes snap back to him. He’s lucky he doesn’t fall right out of his chair. “We are very fortunate, indeed, to have your gifts and expertise. Perhaps, we may even be able to convince you that we are fortunate to have you .”
The professor holds his hand out to Gambit. Gambit drags himself to his feet and carefully shakes Xavier’s hand, mindful of the energy numbing his hands.
He wants to say he hopes the prof is prepared to be disappointed. He wants to say it’ll be Xavier’s mistake when things go to hell, as things are wont to do where Gambit is concerned.
Gambit mutters, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Xavier.”
Then he lets go of Xavier’s hand and all but flees the room.
“You’re having another headache,” Ororo says when she closes the door behind her.
Gambit doesn’t move from where he’s lying face first on his bed, head buried in his pillow. “What gave it away?” he asks into his pillow.
“Oh, just the pitch-black room, the abandoned breakfast attempt in the kitchen, and the fact that you’re fully dressed but back in bed.” She treads lightly on the floor, bare feet tapping on the old wood boards. The bed shifts when she sits next to him. “Come, now. Drink some water, take some Tylenol, and eat something. Feeling unwell is no excuse to ignore your needs.”
“Then jus’ lemme sleep,” Gambit groans, knowing he sounds petulant. Not caring. There’s a pounding rattling inside his brain, starting right at the base of his skull, and working its way to an all-encompassing migraine. He hasn’t had such a bad one in a while, now, but he knew better than to think they’d be gone.
“You overworked yourself yesterday in battle, didn’t you.” Ororo sets what must be a glass of water down on the bedside table. Gambit doesn’t bother checking for sure. Her hand rests on his shoulder. “This only seems to happen when you exhaust your abilities.”
She’s too observant as always, but Gambit’s long since gotten used to it, even if he doesn’t like it. “It jus’ happen sometimes,” he sighs. “Don’ worry so much, Ro. Little more sleep, and Gambit be ‘is ol’ charming self.”
She squeezes his shoulder. “Simply pushing the limits of your gifts should not cause you such pain,” she murmurs. “It can be exhausting, of course, but not so detrimental.”
“Yeah, well,” Gambit burrows his face deeper into the pillow when she moves away to turn on the light. “Lotta t’ings in this world that shouldn’t be, but are. ‘S jus’ life.”
“You say that as if you believe there is nothing we may do to fix our situations. Or improve them, at least.”
What can he tell her? That this headache is the improvement over the “situation” of before?
“What you want, Ro?”
“I would like—” Ororo sighs. Her hand returns lightly to his shoulder. “Let’s watch a movie,” she says softly. “It’s been a while, after all, hasn’t it? I shall get you something to eat and we’ll watch something in the viewing room.”
Slowly, Gambit removes his face from the pillow. The light beside his bed isn’t much, but it still makes him wince until he gets used to it. Ororo waits until he can look at her properly.
“Alright. Whatchu wanna watch?”
“If you’ll come with me to eat something, I’ll let you pick,” she says. “Otherwise, I haven’t seen The Sword in the Stone since we left New Orleans.”
Gambit groans and drops his head back into his pillow. “ Non ,” he protests loudly. “Anythin’ but that stupid cartoon again.”
“It sounds like you agree to some toast, then,” Ororo chuckles. “In any case, let’s not forget who first introduced me to that movie. You were the one who bought it for me.”
“Biggest mistake of my life,” Gambit says tragically. His head is setting up to kill him, but he smiles. “Fine, I’m comin’. Jus’ gimme a minute so the room stops spinnin’.”
“I’ll go start that toast,” Ororo says. The bed shifts again as she starts to get up, but she settles back down again. “Will you be alright until I can join you in the viewing room?”
Gambit heaves himself up onto his elbows, rubbing his eyes. Then he sits up slowly. “Yeah, Ro.” He smiles at her so she can see it. “Go on ahead. I’m fine.”
She still looks doubtful, but she nods once and stands up. She taps the glass of water by the lamp. “Drink this,” she says. “And don’t test my patience. We will watch The Sword in the Stone if you are uncooperative.”
Gambit chuckles and holds his hands up in surrender. “‘A’course. Whatever you say, Ro.”
She strides out of his room as quietly as she entered. Reluctantly, Gambit drinks the water. There’s no way she would know if he dumped it in the sink, but he doesn’t want to take that chance. It takes him another minute to pull himself to his feet and get out of his room.
By the time Ororo joins him, the movie is cued up and Gambit is curled into one corner of the couch, leaning his head into one hand while he wills the stabbing pain to stop. Ororo laughs.
“You put it in any way?” she asks incredulously, setting a plate of cinnamon sugar toast on Gambit’s lap before sinking into the sofa and draping a blanket over her legs. “Will this not add to your headache?”
“Not if we skip the opening orchestra,” Gambit grumbles. She gives him a disbelieving look. “I’m eatin’ this toast and passin’ out. Didn’ wanna start somethin’ Gambit couldn’t finish.”
Ororo rolls her eyes and grabs the remote, fast forwarding past the opening credits until the storybook opens to introduce the story. Gambit picks up the plate and pulls her feet and her blanket over his legs instead. She stretches out further as The Sword in the Stone begins. It’s all so much like it was in New Orleans.
Gambit smiles and picks up his piece of toast. His plate is empty and he’s asleep before Merlin and Wart turn into fish.
Rogue stalks out of the living room with her face glowing red, her shoulders hunched to her ears, and her hands fidgeting at her sides. She’s so flustered she can’t even tell him how ridiculous or hopeless he is.
“I am never quite certain,” Beast says, “if you have an unmatched talent for flattering or infuriating our otherwise unflappable Mississippi beauty.”
“‘Women can resist a man's love, a man's fame, a man's personal appearance, and a man's money, but they cannot resist a man's tongue when he knows how to talk to them’,” Gambit says. “That was one Monsieur Wilkie Collins, right?”
Beast gapes at him. Then he chuckles with a smile, shaking his head, and clapping Gambit on his shoulder.
“Indeed, Monsieur LeBeau, indeed.”
The wound isn’t bleeding as bad as it could, but it hurts like hell. There’s already plenty of red darkening the magenta of his body armor. Gambit laments the action even as he winces out of his trusty coat and balls it up to press against the blood flow.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Gambit!” Morph is curled up in the dirt next to him, already resigning himself to be useless after he kept getting in Gambit’s way of inspecting the damage. “It was just kind of instinct, you know? I didn’t mean to let you get hit instead, I just—”
“Well, now you know for future reference,” Gambit says through gritted teeth. “Water under the bridge, mon ami . Now, would you check t’ comms again?”
“Right, yeah. I can do that.” Morph taps the communication on his belt. “Hey, anybody there? Guys? We kinda need some help, guys!” There’s no answer. Figures. Morph keeps frantically trying anyway.
“ Homme , leave it,” Gambit says. “Leave it, Morph. Somethin’ or someone gettin’ in the way. We jus’ deal wit’ this ourselves, alright?”
“Um, yeah, okay. What do we do? What do I do?” Morph reaches out again as if to try to do something.
Gambit pushes his hands away. “First of all, take a breath , mon ami . World ain’t endin’ yet, huh?”
“Yeah.” Morph sucks in a breath and lets it out too fast. “Yeah, sure. It’s just you bleeding out in an alley, and we can’t contact the others, and I can turn into a thousand doctors, but I don’t know anything. I’m useless.”
“You ain’t—” Gambit tries to push himself up on the wall holding him up. A jolt tears through his abdomen and tells him moving is not a good idea. “You ain’t useless, kid. But if you keep up dis noise, Gambit gonna shoot you .”
“Sorry,” Morph says. “I’m sorry.”
“Already tell you ‘s fine.” Gambit leans his head back against the bricks and closes his eyes. “No trouble. We jus’ wait ‘til the others circle back dis way.”
“Why- Why are you so calm about all this? Those bastards shot you!” Morph moves to sit next to Gambit, right up against his shoulder. “You’re- It’s- It doesn’t look good, Gambit.”
“Gambit had worse,” Gambit says, smiling at Morph. “Dis nothin’ to what folks do when they know you a mutant and a t’ief.”
It doesn’t seem to convey the comfort intended. Morph’s eyes widen and he huddles even closer to Gambit. “Sorry,” he whispers again.
Gambit sighs slowly. “There won’t nothin’ you could do. Besides, it’s not you that shot me, alright? All of us gotta carry our sins, but this one ain’t one’a yours.” Morph draws his knees to his chin and wraps his arms around his legs. “You listenin’ t’ me, Kevin?”
The kid jolts at the sound of his actual name. He looks at Gambit with tears in his eyes.
God, he’s young .
He can’t be much older than twenty-one, if that. At that age, Gambit was already out making a name for himself as one of the world’s top Thieves. He was already responsible for taking lives. He was already desensitized to violence and pain and the constant threats on his life for having eyes like the devil, for having the power to blow up anything he touches, for being a Thief and a murderer, and for being a dirty-blooded orphan with no birth certificate to his name.
Kevin is not Gambit. Kevin still has an open-wound heart and starry eyes. He hero-worships his best friend, the Wolverine. Even if he is older than he looks as he stares at Gambit, he’s too young and full of hope to be out here on the streets with the rest of them. Shouldn’t they be fighting so that mutant kids like Morph don’t end up as f*cked up people like Gambit?
“This is not your fault,” Gambit says firmly. “Say it. It’s not your fault.”
Morph sniffs and looks away.
“Kevin. Say it.”
“It’s not my fault,” Kevin whispers.
Gambit takes a hand away from his jacket and pats Morph’s boot. He doesn’t think it much comforts either of them. “Good,” he mutters. Gambit is tired . “That’s good, kid. Now, you jus’ keep on sayin’ that until you believe that, okay? Or least until the others come back.”
“It’s not my fault,” Kevin mutters. “It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault.”
Gambit closes his eyes and focuses on breathing.
“Gambit?” Kevin asks after repeating his mantra for a few minutes.
“ Oui, mon ami .”
“Does it get easier?” he asks. “To deal with . . . all of this? All the- the fighting and the hatred and the- and your friends getting hurt?”
Gambit opens his eyes and stares up at the roofs of the buildings overshadowing them. The stars are obscured by the lights of the city. It’s late at night, but the noise of life is still loud all around them, muffled as it is by squatting in an alley.
“ You shouldn’t have t’ deal wit’ any’f it,” Gambit says. It takes more focus than he likes not to slur his words too badly. “None of y’all should.”
“But what about you and Wolverine? Nothing seems to phase you guys. How do you do that?”
Gambit turns his head to look at Morph too fast. The kid’s face swims before his eyes, but it comes into focus with that look . It’s the same damn way Ororo looks at him. The same way all of the others are starting to look at him.
Like they actually trust him. Like there’s anything in him worth valuing.
Gambit shakes his head slowly. “You don- You don’ wanna be like me, kid,” he says. “Or Logan, neither. It don’ get easier, dis kinda t’ing. And it not healthy. ‘S not dealin’ ‘t all. ‘S jus’- ‘S jus’ lonely, keepin’ everybody far ‘way, n’ never stayin’ ‘n one place, never havin’ a home. Jus’ livin’ like- Ugh .” Gambit swallows back a sudden nausea and closes his eyes again. “Can’ be askin’ t’ings when Gambit can’ t’ink straight, a’right?”
“Gambit?” All the worry is right back in Morph’s voice. He puts his hands on Gambit’s arm. “Are you okay? Gambit?”
“This is Beast. I have located our misplaced teammates,” says a voice from the other side of the alley.
“Beast!” Morph calls. “We tried to call, but the comms are down! Gambit got shot!”
Gambit glances down the tilting walkway. Beast seems to be talking into a radio. Gambit wishes he’d thought of that. It’s not too hard to play with a car radio to output a signal. Maybe they could’ve been safe at home already if he thought of it.
Huh .
Morph and Beast are talking, and maybe someone else is, too.
But did he really just think of the mansion as home?
The alley disappears for a second when someone picks him up. Beast is softer and warmer than he looks. Gambit’s gut still burns, though, with every jarring step Beast takes.
Does Gambit think of the mansion as home?
“Worry not, my friend,” Beast says evenly. “The wound is not deep. We’ll have you back on your feet and making mischief in no time.”
Huh , Gambit thinks again.
Then he doesn’t think about much else for a while.
It’s sweet tea, boiled peanuts, bluegrass on the radio, and cards on the little lawn table between them. Grasshoppers and frogs are the evening’s entertainment. There are even a few of her lightning bugs, his fireflies.
It’s hot enough for cutoff shorts and tank tops, even as the sun sets, but she still wears gloves up to her elbows.
It’s awful close to any lazy night back home.
Rogue sighs, eyes closed, hands braced on the edge of her seat as she leans into the breeze.
“Ya know, it’s funny,” she muses quietly. “Ma daddy sure hated me when we found out I’m a mutant, didn’t make a secret of it either, but near as soon as I left, I missed ‘im. Missed home.”
Gambit tips his head back against his seat and looks at the moths dancing around the lightbulb above the deck.
“I haven’t even been back to Caldecott County, now, some ten years? Twelve?” She huffs and some wispy white strays are disturbed above her eyebrows. “Gosh, has it really been that long? Some daughter I am, huh?”
“You jus’ been doin’ what you have to,” Gambit says. “Ain’t no shame in survivin’.”
Rogue scoffs. “Tell that to Logan,” she says. “Or yourself.”
Gambit slides his eyes toward her and grins. “You know Gambit not ashamed’a much, chère. ”
Rogue rolls her eyes. “You’re hopeless,” she tells him, picking up her near-empty red plastic cup of sweet tea, and finishing it off. Then she grabs her other cup of boiled peanuts. “Well, I’m gonna turn in for the night. You comin’?”
“Naw, you go on ahead.” Gambit fixes his eyes on the back of the property, sipping his tea. “I won’t be long.”
“Alright. Goodnight, then, Gambit.”
“G’night, Rogue.”
Despite what he told her, though, Gambit stays outside until the peanuts and the sun are long gone.
He thinks of Jean-Luc.
He thinks of Bobby.
He thinks of Bella Donna.
He thinks of hot, muggy evenings with cicadas, frogs, and fireflies on the bayou. Poker, beer, and cigarettes on the back porch. Mosquitoes and no-see-ums feasting on bare skin. Spanish moss swaying from cypress trees over the green water. Spice burning the air from the potatoes, shrimps, and sausage boiling on the stove, tempered by the sweet scent of cornbread, fresh out of the oven.
Gambit thinks of his long gone home.
“Hey, Gumbo. You still alive out here, or did that little scratch of yours finally do ya in?”
Gambit carefully holds his still very tender side to chuckle. “Alive enough to beat your ass at poker, if dat’s what you here for.”
“Maybe in your next life, pal,” Logan growls. “Now getcher ass in here before I sic the worry worts on ya and ya get stuck in yer room again.”
“Sheesh, Gambit can’t never catch a break ‘round here.” He rises carefully and picks up the rest of the mess on the table. “What we playin’ for dis time? Bathroom duty? Danger Room slots? M&Ms?”
“Nuh-uh. Straight to beddy-bye for you, buddy. I got a worried Mississippi gal in here who thinks you need a babysitter.” Logan waves one fist of claws and smiles. “Guess what happens if ya throw a fit.”
“Aw,” Gambit follows Logan back inside. “Y’all really do care.”
Logan snorts. “Ya think?”
And . . . Yeah, actually. He’s starting to.
“Wait- Hey. Hey! I totally have the freaky weird baby thing!” Jubilee shouts, leaping out of her chair to hold up the plastic baby. “Look! I got the freaky weird baby! Doesn’t that make me, like queen of Mardi Gras, or something?”
“It’s queen of the ball, sweet pea,” Rogue laughs. “And don’t that mean she’s gotta host the party next year?”
“Congratulations, petite. Next year, how you feel ‘bout makin’ the meal, eh?” Remy asks, digging his fork into another bite of his slice of cake covered in purple sugar.
“I am so on it. After all this stuff we did this week for today, I’m a master chef.” All the beaded necklaces around her neck and wrists clatter against each other as she throws herself back in her seat with a self-satisfied grin, still holding up the doll for everyone to see.
“You keep telling yourself that, half-pint.” Logan gestures to the plate no one’s touched of failed fried dough covered in powdered sugar. Some of the lumps are burnt and some are still soft and goey. It was the only dish they’d let Jubilee take charge of by herself.
“Hey, I got a whole year between now and then to practice.”
Jean and Remy both cringe. “Not in my kitchen, you don’t,” Jean says.
“Ain’t lettin’ you anywhere close,” Remy adds. Then he turns to Jean, “Your kitchen, huh?”
“Don’t get too excited that I let you have custody today,” Jean says, leaning into Scott who sits next to her. “It’s just for today, Remy. And only because you convinced us to count today as your birthday.”
Remy shrugs. “Pays to t’ have no records of existin’ sometime, eh? Now Gambit got thousands’a people celebratin’ him.”
“As always, your humility is to be admired,” Ororo sighs. She sits in her chair straight-backed, bringing her dessert to her mouth instead of the other way around. She can put on all the airs she likes, she’s still just as covered in beads as Jubilee and her hair is wrapped up in the scarf he bought her three years ago. She’s on her second slice of king cake.
“Humility? Never. Least he’s honest,” Rogue chuckles. She has plenty necklaces of her own along with a deep green dress and tall golden gloves. She tied a purple bandana around her forehead and put on her favorite pair of cowgirl boots and tall yellow socks. The ensemble is garish and bright and hot as hell.
Scott scoffs. “For the sake of your ‘birthday’, Gambit,” he even pulls his arm from around Jean to make the air quotes, “I’ll pretend I believe that.”
“Merci. So kind.”
“I, for one, don’t think it’s so bad an idea to join the celebration of one’s existence with a festival of such joy and excitement,” Beast says. “Especially one with which you share a heritage.”
“Perhaps, a toast, then,” says Xavier, holding up a flute of champagne. “In celebration of our esteemed X-Man, one very unique Remy LeBeau.”
“And thank God for whatever voodoo the cajun worked on Chuck so we can have a real damn drink today,” Logan says, holding up a glass of bourbon.
Half the table scolds, “ Logan .”
“Oh, I wanna toast!” Jubilee grabs her sparkling cider and holds it up. “I’m glad Gambit will actually take me to the mall, unlike the rest of you uptight dweebs.”
They all snicker and raise glasses of various drinks.
“A toast to the man who saved my life,” Ororo says, setting a hand on Remy’s arm and smiling.
“Who’s saved all our bacon more than once,” Rogue says, leaning into his other shoulder.
“To Remy,” they all say and tip back their drinks.
Remy chuckles and shakes his head. “Maybe gettin’ alcohol in dis house makin’ y’all crazy,” he mutters, holding his own bourbon close to his mouth. “Ain’t never been toasted before.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Scott says, but even the furrow that lives between his eyebrows is on vacation for the day. “Training’s back on tomorrow at nine, and I’m not taking it easy on anyone who has a hangover.”
“Sounds like a challenge, to me,” Logan says.
“Shut your mouth, you can’t even get drunk,” Rogue says. “No excuses for you.”
“No excuses for anybody,” Scott says.
“Jean, I’m afraid that means you gotta take one fo’ the team,” Remy says gravely. “Cyclops can’t never yell at you.”
“Hmm. I’ll take it under consideration if you stay out of my kitchen until Easter.”
“Deal. We talk details later.”
“Jean!” Scott protests.
“I’m kidding,” she says, then winks at Remy.
“Well I think that jus’ calls fo’ another round,” Remy says. He grabs the sparkling cider. “ Petite? ”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Jubilee holds out the cup.
Soon everybody has full glasses and empty plates. Jean even whisks the big dishes to the sink with her telepathy to save some of the clean up later. They all move to the backyard and watch Jubilee run out past the pool and closer to the trees with her sunglasses and her king cake prize. She skips and nearly trips once, but hides it with a lopsided cartwheel. Hank brings the living room radio and puts on the local jazz station that’s been running specials all weekend leading up to Mardi Gras.
Remy looks at the little gathering sprawling out in the yard, getting ready to watch Jubilee’s fireworks show. It’s still pretty cold for an outdoor event, far too cold for Remy’s warm southern blood, but the sky is clear and the ground is dry. They all settle into blankets and turn their heads to the stars.
Rogue settles close on the blanket next to him, a long coat pulled over her dress and with extra blankets in her arms to wrap herself and then both of them in. With both of them covered in layers of clothes and blankets and beads, she leans her head on his shoulder as the first of Jubilee’s fireworks light up the property. Remy sticks an arm out of his blanket to wrap her closer, leaning his cheek on her purple bandana.
“How’s this for a birthday party, huh, sugar?” Through the noise of the fireworks, Rogue’s regular volume drawl sounds like a whisper.
“Best damn birthday yet,” he says. Never mind that it’s probably not the anniversary of the actual day he’s born. Or that he’ll probably never know what that day is.
He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t care as much as he used to. It doesn’t matter. This is the best damn birthday he’s ever had. Maybe the best day he’s ever had.
“You said it was funny,” he tells her, eyes on the sky filled with exploding colors, “that when you left somewhere that didn’ treat you right, you still missed it.”
“Did I say that?”
“Yeah. An I didn’ think so then.”
“Well, whadda ya think now, Remy?”
“You right, of course. It is funny to miss a place that ain’t home when you got a perfectly good one sittin’ right underneath your own two feet.”
She takes the hand wrapped around her shoulder and holds it tightly. “Got that right, Swamp Rat.”
They all stay outside even after Jubilee’s show. They all talk and drink until it’s just too damn cold to stay outside. Before Rogue and Remy part ways in the hallway, she leans into the toes of her cowgirl boots, sticks her golden glove over his lips, and plants a kiss right where their mouths would otherwise meet.
“Happy birthday, Remy.”
Remy grins like a bleeding-heart fool. “G’night, Rogue.”
Maybe, he thinks as he pushes open his slightly creaky door, this whole thing might not turn out half bad after all.
