Chapter Text
The day Ororo brings him home, she tells herself she's skipping the commotion.
Mostly.
She still watches his arrival from the balcony, hip hitched along the edge, sipping from a Mike's Hard Lemonade. Curious, like everyone is curious, about the man that saved their Stormy and won her allegiance, her friendship, and her –
Heart?
Are things like that between them?
The crowd below surges around Ororo’s car as it pulls up, buzzing, excited...
...and has it really been that dull, that everyone is so worked up by a new recruit? Maybe it's just the way the stories have built up, tales layering like bricks to create a wall of impenetrable mystery around the so-called Gambit, Prince of Thieves. Con man, ladies man, man's man.
Mailman?
Really, though. As far as Rogue's been able to parse, he's just another sweet-talking womanizer with a penchant for playing cards. She has done her time in seedy bars and card houses, thanks very much - and known his like a dozen times over. She can wait for the buzz to die down before shaking his hand.
Instead she watches, interested but barely, as the passenger door swings wide, and suddenly he's stepping out in a flourish – dark boots and pink shirt, the swish of a trench coat, arms extended wide like he might personally hug each person there, like a damn celebrity–
And isn't this all a bit much?
Several of the younger girls are swooning around him, because yeah, he's good looking. She can tell from the angle of his jaw and the crest of his hair and the way even Betsey sort of titters when he bows her way and doffs an invisible hat. Jean laughs at something he says, high and bright, and the sound carries. He coerces Scott into a handshake that's stiff as the stick up Summer's ass.
In another life, maybe she'd be down there too, teeing herself up. Color rising in her skin. Hope percolating under the surface of a smile. Instead she drains the last of her lemonade and settles her elbows against the balustrade, pitching forward a little to get a better view.
Ororo comes around and finds the crook of his arm, folding herself in like she belongs. Her hand touches his chest. Rogue wonders if they'll kiss, easy and familiar and practiced. The way other people always do.
...Surprisingly, no.
Instead, Gambit bows his head against her and she ruffles his hair like an indulgent auntie, before pushing him away.
A twist in the plotline, maybe. Maybe they're just private. It's not for Rogue to care.
(She wouldn't be private, probably; she's thought about this a long while. She'd lavish in someone's touch. Roll in it, happy and shameless as a pig in the mud. One degree of carelessness for every ten degrees of present caution, and it could still fill a sea.)
Logan and the Professor are waiting at the top of the steps, the Canadian working at a cheap cigar. He's probably the only one as annoyed by the spectacle, as befuddled as she is. He doesn't like people, period, and a new man? Let alone one who came riding in on Storm's four-wheeled chariot. The Cajun might as well skewer himself and be done with it.
Still, the man approaches.
First he clasps his hands around Xavier's, shoulders stretching the brown fabric of his coat as he leans to meet Charles on even ground.
Then he pulls up and offers Logan some words she can't make out. Probably asking for directions to Storm's room, if she had to guess - he seems the type. Logan turns half a step away, shakes his head and then-
What, he's brandishing a second cigar? Slipping it begrudgingly into the air between them?
Gambit takes it with a quick hand and bows a little in thanks. He turns back to Storm and she nods. Maybe they practiced this. Everyone knows the way to a man's heart is through his carcinogenic pocket sticks.
Storm looks around at the crowd then like she's searching for someone - and after running a quick catalogue of the attendees, Rogue understands hers might be the missing face. Instinctively, she pulls back from the railing an inch or so, trying to become less.
It's such a small shift.
It's nothing.
And still, it must catch Gambit's eye, because he turns his face up as she's looking down and ah, their eyes meet.
This Cajun is-
(Beautiful. His eyes are dark - black sclera and glowy red irises - and they open wide for Rogue, so wide she could fall in, so wide she could swim. He seems surprised at the sight of her, and right away, her fingers itch to ease away the wrinkle of mild confusion from his brow-)
This Cajun is-
(Touchable, she thinks. He's touchable, which is a weird thought because he's not, no one is where she's concerned, but all the same she imagines the warm curve of his shoulder, the scrape of his stubble, the heated press of his lips-
He's not so far away that she can't see his throat work as he swallows down the sight of her, and she wonders, helplessly-
What is he thinking of her?
It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter! He's just another man she can't have, and it doesn't matter. She repeats this mantra as she tries to piece her defenses back together under the unwavering strength of his stare.
It feels like it matters.)
This Cajun is - not for Storm, Rogue decides, blinking a few times before turning away. She can just tell.
Despite her drink, her throat is running dry, so she moves back indoors to find a fridge. Let the commotion outside carry on without her; she has no part to play.