Work Text:
Gambit had always believed a locked door was less an obstacle and more a polite suggestion.
Professor Xavier’s office door, however, was not locked. In some ways, it suited the man. Instead, the door sat there like it had been expecting him.
Still, he knocked, because Tante Mattie had not raised him to barge into a man’s office in his own house. She’d also have had his hide nailed to the wall if she heard he’d been rude to an elder.
A calm voice called, “Come in,’ and Remy pushed the door open.
“Bonjour,” he greeted.
Three men looked up.
‘SNIKT”
Wolverine’s claw appeared in a flash as Summers’s fingertips rose to his glasses. Professor Xavier sat behind an old mahogany desk stacked with files and ledgers. He raised an eyebrow.
“Professor.” Remy nodded, shutting the door behind him. He set his duffle on the floor. “Hommes.”
Summers glanced at the door, then back at Remy. “Did someone let you in?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Logan pushed off the wall. “That means no.”
“It means your security needs an update.”
“I told ‘Ro we should have put poison gas in the air vents,” Logan growled.
Remy gave him a sympathetic look. “That feels like a ventilation issue waiting to happen.”
“Is there something we can help you with, Gambit?” the Professor asked politely.
Remy faced him again, posture straightening out of habit. Tante Mattie’s voice lived deep in his bones, and it had very specific opinions about manners. Criminals they might be, but there were lines. You did not enter a man’s office and act the fool to his face unless he had earned it. Xavier had not.
“Oui, Professeur, I’d like to join the X-Men.”
“No,” Logan grunted.
Remy turned his head. “Désolé, but I wasn’t asking you.”
“You are now.”
“Must have missed that part.”
Scott stepped up beside Logan. “No.”
Remy looked between them. “Y’all rehearse that? The timin’ was real cute.”
Professor Xavier sighed very softly. “Gambit.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You want to join X-Men.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Remy smiled. “I admire your management style.”
Scott muttered, “For God’s sake.”
Logan said, “Try again.”
“Strong coffee. Beautiful grounds. Charming local hostility.”
“Again,” Scott said.
Remy spread his hands. “Mais, You’re a difficult audience.”
Logan’s jaw tightened. “You broke into the Mansion to ask for a job, Bub.”
“I prefer opportunity.” Remy tipped his head. “A change of pace.”
Logan stared at him. “You expect us to believe Jean-Luc doesn’t have an angle?”
Remy snorted. “Mon Pere wakes up with angles. Has coffee with them. Tucks them into bed at night with more care than he does his sons.”
Professor Xavier tilted his head. “So this is from him.”
“No.”
The words came out too flat. Remy heard it immediately and wished he could snatch it back and wrap it in a smirk and a yat. But the truth had a way of slipping out ugly when you held it too tight. Tante had taught him that too.
Xavier leaned back. “No?”
Remy’s gaze stayed on him. “No, sir.”
Logan crossed his arms. “Convenient.”
“Most true things are inconvenient. This one’s a pleasant exception.”
Scott shook his head. “You’re a Thief.”
“I noticed.”
“You don’t get to separate yourself from that when it suits you.”
“I’m not trying to separate from anything,” Remy said.
“No?” Scott asked. “Then what are you doing?”
Remy let his eyes travel briefly to the bookshelves rather than answer. Old leather spines. Biographies. Histories. Files marked in Xavier’s neat hand. The Mansion had its own kind of ledger, it seemed. Everyone did. Some were written in ink. Some in blood. Some in debts that couldn’t be paid in money.
“I can be useful,” Remy said.
Logan snorted.
Remy looked at him. “You object to usefulness?”
“I object to criminals inserting themselves into my home.”
“The Professor’s home. And you wouldn’t have that problem if your security was better.”
Xavier bridged his hands together. “I don’t oppose you joining the team—”
“Professor—”
“Chuck—”
Xavier raised a hand.
Both men stopped, though neither looked pleased about it.
“But,” Xavier continued, “there is someone else who should be part of this discussion.”
Remy’s stomach tightened. Rogue.
Xavier raised his hand to his temple and called her to his office. Remy slid his hands into his pockets and tried to look unaffected, but he doubted he managed it.
Rogue had every reason to want to see the back of him. Wouldn’t surprise him one bit if she let that Papa Bear of hers slice him up and dump his sorry carcass back in the bayou. New Orleans sat between them like an uncrossable river. He had made choices there. Necessary choices, maybe. But not honest ones.
The office door opened.
Remy turned before he could stop himself.
Rogue stood in the doorway. She was wearing her uniform, boots planted like she had walked in ready for a fight. Surprise flew across her face as she spotted him. Then she leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.
“Well, now.” Her gaze flicked from Remy to Xavier, then to Logan and Scott. “What’s all this?”
“Rogue, Remy has asked to join the team,” Xavier replied.
Rogue arched a brow. “You want to join the X-Men”
Remy forced a smile. “That is the rumor currently damaging my reputation.”
Logan immediately shifted toward her. “Rogue, we don’t have to—”
“Why?” she asked, ignoring Logan.
She pushed off the doorframe and crossed the office. Remy swallowed as she stopped just in front of him, close enough to reach out and touch. He didn’t dare.
He almost smiled wider and gave her something slippery. It would be expected. But Rogue was staring at him with those quiet eyes, the same ones that had watched him from across the boat as they made their way through a swamp full of killers.
Remy slid his hands into his pockets and looked down at the worn pattern in Xavier’s rug.
“Jean-Luc,” his mouth twisted. “He wants something from me that I can’t give.”
Merde, he wished he wasn’t having this conversation in front of an audience. Hell, he barely wanted it in front of Rogue, and she was the only person in the room he owed anything close to the truth.
But he did owe her.
After New Orleans, after Blood Moon, and after every half-answer and polished lie he’d handed her with a smile, he owed her something better than smoke.
The problem was that answer barely scratched the surface. It was the truth, but not enough. It was less than she deserved. Less than he owed her. He looked up, already bracing for the disappointment. Hoping, maybe, that she’d take pity on him and give him a quick send-off before Logan decided the bayou needed feeding.
But when he met her eyes, there was a new light there. Almost warm, but for the life of him, Remy didn’t know what it meant.
Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked steadily. Rogue glanced away, gaze drifting to the window. Remy waited on pins and needles—a man awaiting sentencing.
“Seems like we're still walking those same paths,” she murmured, finally.
Remy’s jaw nearly dropped. Traitorous hope welled up in his chest so fast it was almost embarrassing.
He nodded solemnly. “Been down a few of the same roads.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Maybe one of these days we can write a book on it.”
His breath punched out of him, nearly a laugh. “Deal me in.”
“Pfft,” Rogue rolled her eyes. “Okay, Swamp Rat, enough of the card puns. You’re in.”
He’s stolen more things than he cared to count, but seeing that smile stretch across her face was worth more than any jewel in the world.
Logan crossed his arms, looking between them. “I feel like I missed a conversation.”
“You did,” Rogue replied.
She glanced down and spotted the duffle Remy had set beside the door. Before he could stop her, she stooped and slung it over her shoulder like she had every right in the world to carry his things.
She looked at the Professor. “I’m assuming the empty room in the men’s wing?”
“If you would,” Professor Xavier said, smiled knowingly.
Remy took one step after her, then paused and looked back at Xavier.
“Merci, Monsieur.”
The Professor’s expression softened by a fraction. “You can thank me by knocking next time.”
Rogue waved him toward the hall. “Come on. And just so you know, you’re cooking tonight.”
Remy trotted after her out, warmth spreading through his chest. He wondered if he could convince her to give him a private tour. Or better yet, a one-on-one sparring session. He bit down hard on the grin trying to crawl across his face, but apparently his face was a traitorous son of a bitch.
Behind him, Logan muttered, “I already regret this.”
He turned back and smiled innocently.
“Get in line,” replied Scott.
XOXOXOXOX
"So, how 'bout that private tour, Chere?"
