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He could slip in through the gaps in the school’s security system and be waiting inside the Danger Room when the X-Men arrive for their six AM training session.
The looks on their faces would be worth it. Rogue’s especially.
But he’s exhausted. And he doesn’t want to risk getting tossed out before he’s even gotten a foot in the door.
Which is why, at six in the morning, Remy LeBeau is sitting in one of the chairs in Charles Xavier’s study, playing with a Montblanc pen he found on the man’s desk. (Inside the desk, technically. But the drawer wasn’t locked, which is the same as leaving it sitting out.)
He knows the professor can sense him. His powers can interfere with telepaths directly reading his mind, but he can’t entirely hide his presence. So he’s not surprised when the study door opens and Xavier enters with nothing more than a simple, “Good morning, Gambit.”
He twirls the pen - deliberately showy, wanting the professor to see it and recognize it - and turns his head just enough to track the man’s progress across the room. “Bonjour, Professor.”
Xavier’s brought a mug of tea with him; he takes a sip from it now before setting it down on his desk, steepling his hands, and meeting Remy’s eyes. “How can I help you?”
He goes for insouciance. It’s an old friend, and a fine way to deflect. He smirks and says, “Thought I might join your team.”
One of Xavier’s eyebrows lifts, but other than that, his expression doesn’t change. “I see.”
Silence settles over the study - but not the restful kind. More like a showdown.
Who’ll say more first? Who’ll give away information?
Xavier sips at his tea and contemplates Remy. Remy twirls the pen around his finger and contemplates his exit paths.
Except - merde. He needs to be here.
He tucks the pen into his coat sleeve with one deft flick and shifts in his seat. Feet flat on the floor, leaning forward slightly. Meeting the man’s eyes. Trying to look sincere. “Long story short, I can’t keep doin’ what I was doing.”
The professor’s no fool. “Are you in trouble?”
The reply Always springs to mind, but what he says is, “I got in a little over my head with my last employer.”
Now Xavier is frowning. He picks up his tea, then sets it down without drinking. “Magneto?”
If only his problems were as simple as Magneto, who’d paid well and whose goals were straightforward. “Non. No.” Another flick of the wrist and the pen’s out again - this time, as a distraction for both of them. “After that. You don’t know him.”
The professor is giving him a narrow, evaluative look, and Remy wonders if the man picked up on any of the memories he’s shoving down. “If we should accept you, will we need to worry about reprisals?”
He mentally crosses his fingers. “No.”
Silence descends once more. In the eternity that follows, the professor finishes his damn tea. Remy returns the pen to his sleeve and resorts to fiddling with a deck of cards instead.
He does a one-handed shuffle for the heck of it, not manipulating the cards’ order. When he turns the top card to reveal the Jack of Spades, he quits looking.
Finally, Xavier says, “I’d like to put it to a vote before making a decision.”
Reasonable. But a wave of fatigue crashes into him nonetheless. He just needs this to be over, either way. “Who’s voting?”
“Storm, Wolverine, and Beast. The older students, too, I think. They’ve fought against you; they have a right to share their opinion now.”
He takes shelter in insouciance once more. “Knew I should’ve gone easy on ‘em.”
“For what it’s worth, Rogue has already vouched for you.” The professor’s voice turns wry as he adds, “Although she would like her book returned.”
He fights the urge to smile. Nothing to smile about, in this situation. Instead he shrugs. “Haven’t read it yet.”
Xavier makes a noncommittal hmm, then asks, as polite as you please, “In the meantime, may I offer you some breakfast?”
.
.
.
Surprising the X-Men in the Danger Room would’ve been funny. Them walking into the kitchen, freshly showered and in civvies, to find him sitting at the table, eating a bagel and drinking coffee with their beloved professor?
The shocked faces are a balm to Remy’s soul. So’s the growling from Wolverine. Most of all - ah, yes. Rogue, whose surprise is swiftly fading into a blush.
He grins. “Mornin’, all. Chère.”
“Good morning,” Xavier says to them, as though nothing out of the ordinary is happening.
“What’s he doing here?” Summers demands. He has one hand on his shades, but lets go when Rogue elbows past him to drop into the empty seat beside Remy.
Beside him - and, he notices, between him and her teammates.
He does a quick headcount: Summers, Grey, Wagner, Pryde, as expected. And Worthington, who’s become an X-Man since the big fais do-do with Apocalypse. Just part-time, though. Must be a busy schedule, keeping that silver spoon in his mouth.
And Wolverine.
If it comes to a fight, he’s the only one Remy’s worried about; the others will heel when Xavier tells them to. But the old man, even at his angriest, won’t risk hurting Rogue to get to Remy.
Smart girl, his cherie.
“I can’t believe you were crazy enough to actually show up,” she says to Remy, disdainful. She also grabs his cup of coffee, which he barely touched, and eyes the contents. “What’s in this?”
She’s wearing that purple top that leaves her shoulders bare. He likes that one. And she used some kind of scented soap or shampoo or something. Something darkly floral. He likes that, too. “Just coffee,” he says, settling back in his seat instead of acting like a dumb kid with a crush and leaning forward to get a better sniff of her hair. “Black as any goth could want.”
She snorts at that.
“Wait,” Summers says, at the same moment Wagner exclaims, “You knew about this?”
Rogue takes a big gulp of coffee and doesn’t answer.
Wolverine stops growling long enough to snarl, “He was here last night. I knew I smelled ‘em.”
Several eyes turn to Rogue, who’s very preoccupied with his coffee. Though Remy guesses it’s her coffee, now.
“Gambit has expressed an interest in joining the team,” Xavier says mildly, forestalling any further conversation. “I’d like your input on the matter. Think it over while you eat breakfast. We’ll meet in the library in thirty minutes.”
“Yes sir,” Summers says, begrudgingly. The others look like they agree with the begrudging part - except Grey, who’s giving Remy the same kind of evaluating once-over that Xavier did.
Telepaths.
Remy focuses. Fuzzes up his thoughts a little more.
Grey blinks, frowns, and looks away.
Wolverine growls again, then stalks off, presumably to stab something. As long as it’s not him, Remy doesn’t really care.
He stretches his arms (for show) and pushes his chair back noisily (likewise). “I’ll follow you, Professor, if you don’t mind. Don’t want to unduly influence anyone’s vote with my charm and charisma.”
Lots of disbelieving expressions from that one. And Rogue nearly chokes on her coffee.
He waits a beat, until she looks up at him, and then he winks at her. The nice thing about all that pale, pale skin - it shows her blushes beautifully.
The other X-Men are already beginning to interrogate Rogue before he strolls out of the kitchen. He should feel bad about that; mostly he enjoys it. Besides, she’ll shut them down quick enough.
In the hallway, Xavier gives him a look and says, “I trust you can find the library on your own? I have a few matters to take care of first.”
“Of course. I got the floorplans memorized,” Remy says, being, for once, completely truthful.
Xavier shakes his head - but doesn’t quite hide his amusement. “Try not to wander. Logan is… unhappy.”
“I’m not looking for a fight,” he says. Honest again.
The professor makes another of those noncommittal noises and heads for his study. Remy stays where he is for a moment, half-listening to the raised voices coming from the kitchen. A lively discussion, it seems.
How many will vote in his favor? Might be a tougher sell than he thought.
The professor’s “suggestion” is a test, and he’s not dumb enough to fail it, so he goes straight to the library. The morning is warm, but there’s still a fire going in the big fireplace. Adds to the old-money feel of the place.
Speaking of silver spoons.
He drops onto the couch, even though it puts him sideways to the door, and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table. The pose is for anyone watching through the hidden security cameras, which he clocked as soon as he entered the room.
God, he’s tired. He should’ve had more of that coffee.
He should’ve stayed in the kitchen.
He should’ve stayed out of that old theater in Seattle.
Remy rubs a hand across his eyes, harder than he needs to, and retrieves the book he stole from Rogue last night from one of his inner coat pockets. He hasn’t read a book in… a while. He’s not going to read this one today, either.
It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy reading, only that it requires a focus he can’t spare right this moment. But, again: it looks good for the cameras. And Rogue will be spitting mad when she comes in and sees him.
He skims the first chapter or so. The rich pretty-boy noble gets taken hostage by a young woman disguised as a highwayman, and ends up tied to a bed. Not a bad outcome, and he appreciates a man who can admire a dangerous woman. No other kind worth noticing, c’est vrais?
That makes him think of Rogue, who barely comes up to his chin, charging around Blood Moon Bayou. Barking orders at the King of Thieves without doubting she’d be obeyed. Laying out Julien Boudreaux, a vicious killer, with a single touch.
Laid him out with a single touch, too. A shame, that. He’d been hoping for another kiss at least.
He’s half-smiling at the memory when the X-Men start filing in. As predicted, as soon as she gets close enough to see what he’s reading, Rogue sucks in a short, sharp breath.
It makes him smile wider.
“Gimme that,” she says, knocking his feet from the table and swiping the book from his hands.
He lets her, though he tsks and says, “I was readin’ it.”
She sits herself down at the other end of the couch and sticks the book between her body and the arm of the couch, slouching back and crossing her arms over her chest. Glaring at him. “You’re in a library. Read something else.”
For all the brusque words, she’s - once again - put herself in proximity to him. Lending him protection.
Part of him feels no small amount of satisfaction at that. Part of him also knows he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve anything from her, except maybe scorn at the way he used her.
There aren’t enough seats in the room for everyone. Storm takes one of the remaining chairs, and Pryde takes the other one. Summers, Grey, and Worthington stand in a cluster by some of the bookshelves, looking like the definition of responsible young adults. Wagner hops onto the back of the couch, closer to Rogue’s side than Remy’s, and perches there, tail swishing like a cat’s. Beast ambles over to stand by the professor, who’s put himself smack in the middle of the group.
Wolverine glowers from beside the fireplace.
“All right,” Xavier says. “Shall we vote now, or would you like to discuss the situation first?”
“There’s no need, sir,” Summers says. “Obviously, he’s not welcome.”
As team leader, Summers has nearly as much pull as Xavier. This is bad. Remy sits up straighter.
“That’s not true, Scott,” Grey says, at the same time Rogue says bitingly, “Obvious to who?”
“Anyone with sense,” Wolverine says.
Summers makes an impatient noise. “He was Magneto’s right-hand man, and he kidnapped you. For all we know, this could be another scam.”
It’s fair point, damn him.
“But we don’t know that,” Grey says, before Remy can say anything. “People can change. And the X-Men have always welcomed everyone.”
“Including those of us who are wanted fugitives,” Beast says, adding dryly, “‘His worth is warrant for his welcome’ - no matter how many warrants one may have.”
Rogue huffs. “See? That’s what I told y’all at breakfast.”
Wagner leans down and gestures at Remy, who pretends it doesn’t irritate him. “Come on, meine Schwester. We can’t trust him. He’s one of the bad guys!”
“Okay,” Rogue says, standing up so abruptly, she nearly knocks Wagner off the back of the couch. “Bye.”
“Where are you going?” Wagner asks, bewildered, once he’s done windmilling his arms for balance.
She shrugs. “Since ex-bad guys aren’t allowed, I figured I was gettin’ kicked out too.”
Beast and Storm are very carefully not smiling, and the professor’s expression is neutral, but all the kids look confused. (Wolverine, of course, continues to look angry.)
“What?” Rogue asks. Hands on hips. Looking around. Meeting everyone’s eyes squarely. “Or did y’all forget I was in the Brotherhood?”
Pryde offers up a chagrined, “Um, kinda, yeah?”
“Can’t say I did,” Worthington says, deadpan.
“That was different,” Summer says. He’s really mastered that dismissive and high-handed tone. “You didn’t know-”
“And when I did know,” she says, pointing at Summers, who wisely shuts up under the force of her glare, “I made a better choice. Which it seems like Gambit’s tryin’ to do, too.”
“Seems like,” Wolverine says darkly.
“Scott’s right,” Wagner says to Rogue, the tip of his tail flicking back and forth. “You were never a true believer in Magneto’s cause.”
Remy’s been staying out of the discussion, content to let his cherie make the arguments for him, but at that, he laughs. “Hate to disillusion you, but none of the Acolytes were ‘true believers’. Colossus was bein’ blackmailed. Sabertooth was in it for revenge against that one.” He nods in Wolverine’s direction. “And Pyro just wanted to set things on fire.”
“Why were you there?” Summers demands. Like he’s springing a trap, and Remy’s going to tumble right into it.
Instead, he says, “Money. And the work was challenging, from a professional standpoint.”
Everyone’s staring at him, probably wondering anew why someone with such mercenary motives wants to join a team of self-proclaimed white knights. He looks at Rogue, smirks, and adds, “I always like a challenge.”
“God, it’s Alvers all over again,” Summers grumbles, pushing a hand through his hair. Grey lightly elbows him in the side, while Wagner makes sputtering, choking noises, and Pryde giggles.
Worthington still looks confused.
Rogue doesn’t blush. She does, however, turn her glare on Remy. “Are you here to do somethin’ evil?”
“I’m here…” The rest of it sticks in his throat; he rubs his hands together and looks away. Blows out a heavy breath. Says quietly, “I got nowhere else to go.”
The X-Men must hear the truth in that answer, because they fall silent. Even Wolverine’s growling stops.
“If the discussion is concluded,” the professor says calmly, “I believe it’s time to cast votes.”
“I vote yes,” Rogue says immediately, scowling at everyone else. Daring them to disagree.
“Me too,” Pryde says. She lifts her hands in a whatcha gonna do motion. “I mean, we let Lance join.”
Wagner heaves a sigh. “I guess I’m voting yes, too.”
“Everyone deserves a second chance, which is why I say yes,” Grey says. She gives Summers a look and, apparently, a telepathic prod, because he frowns under his shades and tells her, “I know, I know. Yes.”
“Good,” she says brightly.
Worthington demurs, saying, “I don’t think I have enough experience to give an opinion here.”
Both Storm and Beast vote yes. Predictably, Wolverine snarls, “No.”
“Logan,” Storm says, a hint of admonishment in her tone.
“It’s fine,” Remy says, hands up, tone placating (mostly because he knows it’s gonna piss off the old man). He stands. “I never expected to be welcomed with open arms. I know I’ll have to prove myself.”
“That’s all we can ask.” Professor Xavier extends a hand, clearly meaning to shake hands. Remy takes a step towards him.
Before he can take a second step, Wolverine has crossed the space between the fireplace and Remy. It’s an aggressive move from a violent man, meant to intimidate. Remy doesn’t flinch, even when Wolverine gets right into his face.
“I'll be watching you, bub.” He raises one fist between them. “You put a toe over the line, and-”
He pops the claws on that hand, letting the metallic snickt finish the sentence.
Remy glances at the claws. It takes some effort to be nonchalant when there are three of the world’s sharpest blades about an inch and a half from your nose, but he manages it. “Noted, old man.”
Wolverine retracts the claws with another low growl.
“Thank you, Logan,” the professor says. It manages to be perfectly polite and a scathing rebuke at the same time. Wolverine narrows his eyes at the other man and steps back again, looking mutinous.
The professor still has his hand out; only once he’s shaking it does Remy allow himself to feel anything like relief.
Thank God.
“Welcome to the X-Men, Gambit,” Xavier says as the handshake ends.
“We hope you survive the experience,” Storm adds, wry, cutting a significant look to Wolverine.
Pryde suddenly gasps and jumps up from her chair, eyes on her watch. “Omigod, we’re about to be so tardy! Who’s driving today?”
Wagner recoils. “Not you!”
“No fair! I hardly ever hit anything anymore!”
Remy’s distracted from the budding argument by a quick, light touch to his sleeve and a whiff of a midnight garden. “C’mon,” Rogue says, nodding towards the library door. “I’ll show you where the guest rooms are.”
He knows exactly where the guest rooms are. He also knows the quickest paths from there to her room, including a route that detours up to the roof. “Lead the way, chère.”
She points out a few key locations as they go - the rec room, the elevator to the lower levels - and he makes appropriate noises of interest even though he’s mostly paying attention to the way her hips move when she walks.
A passel of younger students comes stampeding down the hallway, backpacks slung over shoulders and, in couple of cases, breakfasts jammed into mouths.
They gawk at him as they pass. He grins at them.
Rogue eventually stops at one of the open doors, peers inside, and says, “Okay, this one should work.”
He comes to stand next to her. It’s the same as most of the bedrooms in the school: big windows, high ceilings. The decorations are minimal but tasteful. And the bed… he might be in love. Those sheets are Egyptian cotton with a thread count of eight hundred, at least.
There was a whole year, before he got recruited by the Guild, that he slept in an abandoned house in the Lower 9th Ward. Just him and every cockroach in Louisiana.
“Should do,” he agrees, smiling at her.
She smiles at him. Tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Do you have any clothes or anything?”
He sticks his hands in his pockets instead of reaching for her hair himself, and leans against the doorframe. “Just the ones I’m wearing. I had to travel light.”
She wants to ask him for more of an explanation, he can see it in her face. He hopes she doesn’t, because he’ll have to deflect, and that’ll disappoint her. Ruin the moment.
But she doesn’t ask. “You can probably borrow some stuff from Scott for now. Or maybe Sam.”
“Maybe.” Summers, he suspects, would prefer to burn his clothes rather than loan them to Remy.
Someone yells “Van’s leaving!” from elsewhere in the mansion, and Rogue makes a face. “I gotta go to school, but this afternoon, I could give you the full tour?”
He remembers how happy she’d been to eat in that hole-in-the-wall place in New Orleans. He’d thought then what he thinks now, what he’d thought last night, sitting on the floor of her bedroom: someone needs to take care of this girl. Someone needs to treat her special. Give her some romance.
It shouldn’t be him. “Perfect.”
She starts backing away. “Okay. Great.”
“You were right,” he says, surprising himself. Surprising her, too. She stops. He looks at his feet, then back up at her. “I’m - I am trying to do better.”
She’s so fierce, usually, but this smile is soft and sweet and he wants to steal it. Keep it just for himself.
Faintly, a voice hollers “Move your butts!” Less faintly, there’s a crash and the walls vibrate.
“It’s not easy at first,” she says, huffing a laugh, gesturing at the mansion in general, “but you can trust them.”
“I trust you,” he says.
She goes to reply, and for one heart-stopping split second he thinks she’s going to say I trust you too, and he’ll have to live with that burden. But Wagner teleports into the hallway in a burst of light and sulfur, exclaiming, “We’re so late! Let’s go!” and vanishes with Rogue in tow.
Remy stands in the empty hallway for another minute. Then he yawns, wide enough to nearly crack his jaw off.
C’est tout. Time to see how good that expensive bed works.
.
.
.
There’s a blind spot in the security system adjacent to the greenhouse. Maybe the X-Men simply haven’t noticed. Or maybe Storm kicked up a fuss about having cameras and lasers and missiles and what-all so close to her plants. Regardless, at midnight, that’s where Remy is: standing in the dark, the collar of his coat turned up against the salt-scented wind coming off the ocean, his back to the school, shuffling cards while he waits.
He arranges it so the Queen of Hearts is the top card, because he could use her luck tonight. Then he pulls the King of Hearts and holds it where the moonlight can illuminate the picture. The suicide king, sticking that sword of his straight into his skull.
Pauvre bête. Love makes you do stupid things.
This card, he thinks about charging. Not enough to explode; just enough to turn it to ash and let the wind carry the particles away.
But there’s a sudden, subtle shift in the shadows. A change in the air pressure, a slight rustle where before there was only silence. It raises the hair on the back of his neck and makes his muscles tense, though his face doesn’t betray any of that.
He slips the King of Hearts under the Queen and returns the deck to its pocket.
“I’m in,” he says to the presence in the shadows, unseen even with his heightened night vision. No insouciance now. This is business.
“Excellent,” his employer says in a voice at once mellifluous and grating. And mocking. Always mocking. “I was beginning to worry for your health.”
“The X-Men don’t trust me,” Remy says, ignoring the jibe, although it makes the scar at his hairline itch. “The next step’s gonna take a while.”
The shadows radiate disapproval. “Delays will not be tolerated.”
“It’s not a delay, it’s a fact.” He sticks his hands in his coat pockets and takes on the faintly bored tone Jean-Luc uses with boneheaded clients. “You hired me for my expertise. And as an expert, I’m tellin’ you, this is not the time to rush.”
A low hiss, and then: “Very well. I expect delivery as swiftly as possible.”
He keeps his tone bored. “Grey and Summers. I remember.”
“And, I think… Mystique’s little Rogue. Her powers are… intriguing. A suitable compensation for this delay.”
The wind is cold. So is the sweat slicking his palms, which have curled into fists inside his pockets, and so is the fear looping through his guts. He doesn’t show it.
He nods once, curt. You could read it as impatience.
A flash of blood-red eyes, a gleam of sharp white teeth, and that mocking voice says, “Bonne nuit, Gambit. I look forward to receiving my prizes.”
Remy waits until the shadows feel empty again. Until the nausea isn’t clawing quite so hard at his throat.
Then he spits on the grass at his feet and says, quietly but full of venom, “Over my dead body, couyon.”
He wasn’t going to do it when it was just Summers and Grey. But he’ll be damned if he lets that madman get anywhere near his cherie.
For a moment he thinks he should tell her - confess the entire thing, beg her for her help - but this is his mess. His problem. His arrogance and recklessness and stupidity. He opened pandora’s box, and now he’s got to deal with the results. Without involving Rogue.
Even if it means falling on his sword.
The wind gusts hard, flattening his coat against his legs. He turns and starts the long walk back to the school.