A/N: Yes, a fourth chapter. I don't know if that blows anyone away, but it sorta does me. Anyways, the reason this one took so long was that I had no idea anyone liked it. I was a little proud of it, then I made a huge mistake and introduced an original character.
But that's neither here nor there. This is the fourth chapter, but please let me know it you like it! I don't want to wait another year before I get some inspiration.
Instead of heading down to the rec room to watch the Michael Myers movie marathon with the other students like he told Scott he would, Bobby headed down to the kitchen with the sole intention of recreating his mom's award winning chewy chocolate fudge brownies. It had been difficult to weasel the recipe out of her over the phone, but Bobby had a lifetime of getting things he would be otherwise denied by means of guilt trips. His mother was an easy mark, and he was rarely declined. The ingredients and procedure was scribbled on a piece of graph paper he had ripped from his physics notebook, after giving up on the homework Hank had attempted to help him understand.
Lucky for Bobby, the kitchen was empty at nine o'clock at night. The cinema goers had already raided the cupboards for all the best stuff, and wouldn't be back for at least another two movies. Although with teenage girls, one could never be certain. He would have to tread lightly, otherwise Bobby risked having to share his creation, and he wasn't quite prepared to do that. At least, not with just anyone. These brownies had a target; an intended recipient and Bobby didn't plan on veering from that destiny. He started by gathering the things he would need. A large, wooden bowl, spatula, stick of butter, chocolate chips, and various other supplies until the marble topped island was covered with materials. Jean came in at that point, doing the responsible teacher/guardian thing. She asked what he was doing, if he knew how to properly use the oven, if he would clean up after himself. He responded cryptically to the first, and yes to the last two. Apparently satisfied, she moved on to check the other rooms of her assigned wing of the mansion.
Two hours and three batches later, Bobby was finally satisfied with his work. It had taken an hour and forty minutes longer than he had planned, but it was finished and he was pleased. There was brownie batter on the ceiling that he didn't remember getting there, and hadn't been able to clean. But that was okay; people rarely looked up at the ceiling anyways. By the time someone did, his brownie adventure would be long forgotten. He scraped the fudgey mess out of the pan, and cut them into neat squares. His mother had always said that presentation was key, so he climbed up on the counter and pulled down the daisy plate from on top of the fridge. He wasn't sure if it was going to be appreciated, but like his mother also said, it was the thought that counted. So he piled his little brownies onto the plate, and covered it with plastic wrap, because you could never really be sure about these things.
A full two hours after he had decided to go through with his idea, he stopped to survey the kitchen on his way out the door. He was anything but a housekeeper, but his cleaning up job was adequate, and he doubted even Scott could find fault with it. So he carried his batch of brownies to the main floor elevator, because he was admittedly a little clumsy and didn't trust himself on three flights of stairs. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but only two residents of the Xavier mansion lived on the third floor. His search, even if it could be called that, wouldn't be very difficult.
The elevator opened up onto the third floor, identical in design and decoration to the first two. Hardwood floors, paneled mahogany walls, recessed pot lighting gave the whole hallway the feel of a museum. The illusion was made complete by sporadically placed artwork hanging on the walls, lit from above by small spotlights. Bobby stepped off the elevator, and onto the polished hardwood floor. A nervous stirring had developed in the pit of his stomach. His room was not only on another floor, it was in another wing. It would be difficult to explain his presence here, with a plate of brownies in his hands. And he wasn't sure he wanted anyone to know why he was on the third floor of the mansion, looking for a man who preferred to remain hidden.
"Drake!"
Bobby froze mid-stride, and by some divine miracle managed to hang on to his plate of brownies. He turned around slowly, all the while ordering his heart to slow its erratic tempo. Quite possibly the last person he would've hoped to run into on the third floor was striding purposefully towards him. The old wife beater smeared with oil and ripped jeans made Logan seem even more intimidating.
"Uh, hi, Logan. What's going on?"
Logan's left eyebrow nearly disappeared beneath his hairline. He ignored Bobby's question, sniffed delicately at the brownies.
"Didn't know you were a baker, Drake. What's the occasion?"
Bobby shrugged. He wasn't really sure what he should say; if at all possible Logan was as difficult to read as Gambit. "There's no occasion. It's my mom's recipe. You want one?"
A sliver of a smile crossed Logan's face, but Bobby was sure he would later deny it. "No. But I still gotta ask you what you're doing up here. Most kids stay the hell away."
Bobby kept in the routine protest at being called a kid, and instead said, "um, I was looking for Gambit. I, um, had some questions about a French assignment Ororo gave us, and thought he could help me."
Logan leveled him with a long look, and Bobby was suddenly wondering how it would feel to be tossed out the window headfirst. But then Logan was raising his hand, pointing down the hallway and back the way Bobby had just come. "Last door on the right. He doesn't like visitors though, so watch your head."
With that, he patted Bobby's back heartily, nearly knocking the kid over, and passed him on his way to his own room.
Bobby remained in the middle of the hallway, frowning at Logan's warning. 'Watch your head.' He never would've pegged Gambit as the violent type, but he realized now that that assumption was based only on knowing he was an X-Man. Living in this mansion, he had learned that even though they were essentially superheroes, the X-Men were normal people too. And normal people had proven time and time again that they were capable of violence. So it wouldn't be too far a stretch to think that Gambit would hurt someone if he were in a foul enough mood. It would be a foolish move, and probably get him kicked out, but Bobby could attest most men rarely thought of the consequences of their actions when in the heat of the moment.
He shrugged, and moved down the hallway anyway. Maybe he wasn't giving Gambit enough credit. For all he knew, Logan was pulling his leg. He stood uncomfortably before the aforementioned door, fingers tightening reflexively on the plate. Then a wave of impulsiveness hit him, and he banged against the door with his elbow.
"Gambit? Are you in there? It's Bobby."
Deafening silence greeted him. He raised his hand to knock again, but the door opened seemingly of its own accord. Bobby hesitated on the threshold. Nearly every horror movie ever successful had a scene in it like this very situation. He would've bet money that it would slam shut once he was on the other side. But he had been called a coward enough times to know he wasn't.
Bobby stepped into the room, and his nose immediately wrinkled at the smell. Stale cigarette smoke mixed with the overwhelming stench of gut-rotting alcohol. There were clothes everywhere, littering the floor. Drawers had been pulled out of the dresser, their contents spilling onto the hardwood beneath. The bed was unsurprisingly not made.
"Gambit?" It was unclear how a person could stand to live in a place like this, but it didn't seem to matter at the time, because he wasn't there. The window, however, was standing open, a gentle breeze blowing in from the night beyond. Bobby carefully picked a path through the chaos, and stuck his head out the open space. A trellis was bolted to the brick wall next to the window, one on which a thick climbing vine grew. If he squinted, and cocked his head to the side, he could sort of make out a path of crushed leaves and broken stems where a person might have made there way up. Frowning, he looked down the lawn below. Three stories was a long way to fall on a 'might-have.'
But how many times had Bobby been upset, wishing fervently that someone would take the time to see why, but not knowing how to ask for help? He had his suspicions about Gambit, and if any of them were remotely seated in truth, then the older man was feeling the same way.
His mind made up, Bobby clutched the plate close to his chest and reached one hand out to grab on to the trellis. It felt deceptively strong; the wood beneath his fingers much heavier than it appeared to be. This gave him great comfort as he stepped out onto the window ledge and told himself not to look down. He began climbing, moving slowly and carefully up the trellis.
It wasn't as difficult as he would've assumed, but even as the thought crossed his mind, even as he was reaching for his next handhold, something underneath his left foot snapped, and he was falling. There wasn't time to imagine his head spattered about the patio below like a crushed melon, or even cry out, before something snagged his wrist. Intense, head dizzying pain followed, moving from his shoulder all the way up to his hand. A strangled noise escaped his lips, and then he began to rise, painstaking slow, but rise nonetheless.
Minutes later, he felt the slate tile covered roof beneath his back, even with his sneakered feet still hanging in the dark abyss below. His chest was heaving, both with pain and the exertion of the past minute. He lay like that for quite some time before it occurred to him that he hadn't pulled himself up.
"You don' climb dat many trellis', d'ya, Icecube?"
Bobby instantly recognized the southern accent that went with the fluid voice, but did not have the sense of mind to be afraid. He snorted nervous laughter. "Is it that obvious?"
Gambit lay on the shingles next to Bobby, his pale countenance seeming even paler when contrasted to the dark roof beneath him. He too was panting slightly; even the effort of pulling up the relatively light Bobby Drake had zapped his strength. "Den what de hell are y'doin' up here?"
Bobby noticed then that he was still hugging the plate of brownies tight to his chest. "I was trying to find you." He held out the plate to Gambit, who did nothing more than languidly raise an eyebrow.
"Brownies?" His tone was incredulous, his expression deadpan, like he couldn't believe what was right in front of his eyes. "You made me brownies?"
Bobby closed his eyes again, shifted on the roof in an attempt to lessen the discomfort on his shoulder. "Mom's special recipe. Had to promise her a daughter-in-law and grandkids in the next ten years."
Gambit smirked, took the plate from Bobby's outstretched grasp and laid it down on the copper shingles next to him. He poked at the plastic wrap, now blended thoroughly with the chocolate frosting, and made a face. "Dat's quite a sacrifice. How's y'shoulder?"
Bobby winced dramatically, tried to lift it off the slate tiles. "Well, my arm's still attached. That's a good sign, right?"
Gambit sighed, sat up after a moment's silence. "Hank would kill me if I don' get y'to de med lab. Get yer ass up, Snowball."
Bobby also sat up slowly, and looked towards the edge of the roof with a pained expression. "Is there an easier way down?"
Gambit laughed brokenly as he pushed himself to his feet, and assisted Bobby up as well. "If y'quiet, and promise not t'peek, we can cut t'rough Storm's room."
Bobby's face immediately flushed deep crimson, though if asked about it, he would swear on his mint condition Spiderman #1 graphic novel that it was an effect of the pain. It was no secret to anyone living in the mansion that Bobby harbored a deep, and spiritual love, for the mansion's resident Wind Rider. Being in her bedroom, her most private place would be like…. There was no suitable comparison, and Bobby's mind shut down at the implications.
"Popsicle!"
Bobby regained his focus, and without risking tumbling ass over teakettle down the slanted roof, carefully hurried after the Cajun mutant. Gambit led the way across the slate, around a gable, and onto to the next section of roof before they reached an open window jutting out from the tile. A plain white linen curtain blew from inside the room, flowing gently in the twilight current.
Gambit stood next to the windowsill, and Bobby used the older man's shoulder for balance as he swung onto the bare hardwood floor. And then he froze, as several things occurred to him at once.
The first was that there was more plant life in this room than on the entire grounds. Potted plants hung from the exposed rafters, stood on simple wooden plant stands, and had collected in all the corners of the room. The astonishing thing was they all seemed to be thriving, and in excellent health. Even the hard to reach ones.
The second thing that occurred to Bobby was that this was the most reclusive room on the property. Anything could go on up here, and no one would be the wiser. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that.
The third, and inconceivably last thing he noticed, was that he was not alone in the room, despite the fact that Gambit had yet to follow him. He stood rooted in place, sore shoulder long forgotten but still held protectively against his chest, and stared. Stared at Her. Standing a scant few feet away. Watering a tray of seedlings with a tiny little rain cloud controlled by Her mutation. Wearing a nightgown. A lacy nightgown. A lacy nightgown that might've been found between the pages of Playboy, or Penthouse. It was far too dark to be sure, but Bobby was almost positive it was at least a little bit sheer…
Gambit thumped to the ground next to him, and Bobby jumped at the intrusion. The loud noise distracted him, and he turned away from what could only be explained as a hallucination brought on by intense pain and adrenaline. Gambit caught his eye, and though Bobby could never be sure, he would've sworn at that moment he could see an embarrassed flush rise to the older mutant's cheeks. Like he was ashamed of something…
"Remy, my friend. What is going on?"
Gambit and Bobby both turned at the voice. Gambit's gaze flickered from Bobby, to the plate of brownies that remained in his own hand, back to Bobby, before finally returning to Storm.
"Uh, we sorta had an accident. Snowcone hear didn' want to try de trellis 'gain."
It was then, and only then, that Storm noticed the tight expression on Bobby's face, the way he hugged his arm to his body.
"My Goddess, Bobby! What happened?"
She started to rush forward, hands reaching out to sooth and comfort, when Gambit cleared his throat quite loudly. He motioned towards Bobby, in particular his glazed over, staring eyes, then pointed to light blue silk robe that hung on the back of her door. Storm nodded without embarrassment, shrugged into the bathrobe, then returned to Bobby's side.
"What happened, Bobby?" she repeated, gently touching his cheek with one hand, laying the other on his uninjured shoulder.
Bobby, to whom the pain was rapidly becoming too much, shrugged the shoulder on which Storm's hand rested. "I was …looking for Gambit…the roof…"
He fell into silence, rocked slowly on his feet before Gambit's hand steadied him. Anger flashed through Storm's eyes, the chocolate brown pupils began disappearing beneath deadly white, and somewhere in the distance thunder boomed.
Gambit's gaze narrowed; he was not a stupid man, and made the connection, but he barely managed to conceal the hurt that twisted his features. "You t'ink I did dis. You t'ink I hurt Drake."
Bobby shook his head, mostly oblivious of the moment passing over his head. "Didn't hurt me. Saved me. Can we…go see Hank?"
The whispered request was enough to break whatever it was passing between the two adults, and Storm carefully ushered Bobby towards the narrow stairs and door leading to the third floor.
Gambit watched them go. His shoulders slowly hunched in towards himself, his chin dropping to his chest. He remained in that sullen, dispirited stance until he heard the door at the bottom of the stairs opening to let them out, then he jumped up to follow.
One flight of stairs, a twenty feet walk, and an elevator ride later, Bobby was being supported carefully between Gambit and Storm. The pain of his shoulder combined with the after-effects of the enormous amount of adrenaline to course through his veins had taken its toll.
They reached the med lab an eternity later, and Storm had barely begun to call out to Hank before he bounded over like an oversized lemur.
"Oh, my stars and garters," he said, running a practiced eye over the pale Bobby Drake. "What happened here?"
Gambit was certain that the majority of the reason why Hank made such a powerful connection with his patients was that he never over-exaggerated the situation. It didn't matter what the injury or sickness was; anybody who was treated by Dr. McCoy believed they would come out of it no worse for wear.
Storm sub-consciously glanced over at Gambit, then said, "there was a bit of an accident."
Gambit knew as soon as the words crossed her lips that he was in trouble. Anybody with two fully fuctioning eyes in their sockets knew that Hank had a soft spot for Bobby. So he can't say he was at all surprised when the doctor left Bobby's side to grab Gambit by the lapels of his jacket, and slam him against the nearest wall. The Cajun's head bounced painfully off the metal lined concrete, and he winced, but otherwise didn't react.
"Hank, no!" Bobby cried, sliding off the exam table Hank had lifted him on. He reached Hank's side at the same time as Ororo, and both laid hands on his shoulders, attempting to calm him.
"He didn't do this," Bobby said emphatically, all traces of his earlier pain long forgotten. "He saved me. I was climbing up to the roof, and the trellis broke. Gambit caught me."
Hank took one eye off the motionless Cajun to stare at Bobby, then, as if horrified by what he had done, gradually lessened his grip until Gambit's boots once again touched the floor.
He was opening his mouth to apologize, even as blood was infusing his face in embarrassment. But Gambit wasn't going to hear it. He shirked his duster out of Hank's grasp, and without looking at any of them, stalked out of the med lab.
The silence that pervaded in his wake was unusually booming. Unsurprisingly, it was Hank who broke it.
"I…I had no idea. I just assumed…"
Ororo sighed. "I believe that, my friend, is the problem."
She reached out and touched his shoulder, to ease any sting her words might've brought. Then she left the med lab, striding determinately after the Cajun.
Hank waited until the lab doors closed behind her, then he turned to his young charge, and said, "oh, Bobby, my dear friend. I do believe I have put my size twelve and a half in as far as it can go."
Bobby winced, for now that the excitement was over, his arm was beginning to throb again. "That's okay, Hank. There's always time to apologize. You wanna gimme a hand now?"
Hank sighed, then turned to help Bobby back over to the exam table. The young man was, of course, right. There would always be time to apologize….Provided the Cajun mutant would listen to him.