"Are we really gonna play 20 questions, Cajun? What is this, high school?"
Rogue spared a glance over her shoulder, her lips pursed and eyebrows pinched together, before hefting a large cardboard box from the floor and gracefully levitating to the top of the nearest bank of shelves.
Gambit stopped taping cardboard for a moment to appreciate the temptation of such a delightfully round derrière.
Apparently she had eyes in the back of her head. He smirked unapologetically at her reprimanding glare. "I'm just sayin', it helps to pass the time, chère. You know you could ask me stuff too, eh? Although there's a much more pleasant way for you ta learn everythin' you wanna know about me..."
He blew her a kiss and winked.
Her scowl deepened to incredulous indignation as she landed with a thump and grabbed the next box of Christmas decorations.
"That would NOT be pleasant for either one of us, you dummy." Ugh. Sometimes it was a real chore not to slap the cockiness off his face. "Besides, Ah already know all I need ta know about you."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Well, let's see," She released the box and squared up, sassily jutting a hip, and made a show of counting off each point on her fingers: "Your favorite color is pink; you'll smoke anything but ya prefer Camel menthol; you got a birthmark that looks like diamond; you spent just as much time growin' up in LaFourche Parish as ya did in New Orleans, which is why you talk like you got a mouth fulla mud; aaand Ah'm pretty sure your parents were actual snakes."
His grin was insufferable, biting the tip of his tongue with a wolfish canine as he chuckled through his teeth. He crossed his arms, his level ruby gaze an amused counterpoint to the standoffishness that often offended lesser men.
"How'd you know 'bout the birthmark?"
Rogue flushed prettily, high spots of pink on each cheek. Her mouth opened and then closed like a fish out of water, yet she stubbornly maintained eye contact.
"I mean, it's pretty far up my thigh. M' own personal Laughing Boy tramp stamp. Kind of ironic dat it's right by the family jewels." With half-closed eyes, he slid his hand to the left of his crotch and rubbed a finger on the spot. "Wanna see it up close?"
Her gaze had involuntarily tracked the motion. She blanched and suddenly snapped around, jerking the box up off the floor and zipping to the top shelf again.
"Keep it to yourself, Gambit!"
He chuckled, savoring the little victory. "Bien, Bien. J'vais comporter."
"Peeshwank." Rogue muttered, which only made him laugh harder.
"I know y' mommas made ya learn a couple languages, yeah?" He resumed taping. "French, German, and anythin' else?"
"Wolvie taught me a couple basic phrases in Japanese, like how ta ask where the bathroom is," she said, returning for another box.
Un-decorating a place as big as the mansion was a mission in itself, one that generally took over a month, yet they'd whittled the massive pile of boxes down to a handful in record time. As much as she hated to admit it, they worked well together as a team.
"My Japanese ain't great but I can carry on most of a conversation. We-" he checked himself with the slightest grimace, "-The Thieves Guild has a branch in Osaka. Got about a dozen others, too, so I had t' learn Russian, German and Spanish. Been tol' my Arabic is terrible but the ladies understan' the language a' love no matter what country they in."
Rogue snorted inelegantly.
"So what's your real name?" He continued nonchalantly.
"Noooope."
"Dat's a funny soundin' one. Got a middle name?"
"Yeah, Noneya."
The lean Cajun tsk'd, undeterred. "Okay. When's y' birthday?"
"Classified information, boy." She made to pluck the last box from his hands but he held fast, his earnest expression giving her pause. She sighed. "I'm serious. Mah birthday is... well, let's just call it a slap in the face. It ain't never been a good time for me since mah power manifested, so Ah simply don't think about it. It's just another day as far as Ah'm concerned."
"Aw. Maybe you jus' never had anybody help ya celebrate properly."
"Mah mother Irene always threw a lil' party for me, that ain't got nothin' to do with it." Rogue gently, if forcefully, tugged the box from his grip and went to put it away. She hesitated and looked back at him, curiosity getting the better of discretion. "Why, when is yours?"
The insufferable grin returned in force. "Why, National Gumbo day, o' course!"
She wheezed out a Muttley-esque chuckle. Upon realizing that he was being genuine, she exclaimed, "Oh. You're...serious."
"Well, technically I don' know the exact day. I was taken from de hospital when I was just a week old bébé, and dat was about two weeks before Halloween. M' brother Henri figured dat he needed a day to deliver m' birthday pinches, so Gumbo Day it was." He stilled for a moment, a faraway look in his eye at the mention of his late older brother, then shook his head. "October 12th."
Rogue landed softly before him and haltingly reached toward his face. Thinking better of it, she squeezed his shoulder. "Ah'm sorry I didn't get to spend some time with him. From your crazy stories he seemed like he was a real hoot. When was his birthday?"
Gambit smiled a little at her sweet gesture and rubbed his rough cheek against the back of her gloved hand before she withdrew it. Any time she willingly reached for him was a step in the right direction.
"April first. Fitting day for the big ol' fool."
Her brow furrowed for a moment as a thought occurred, then it was gone just as quickly. Ever observant, Gambit cocked an eyebrow in silent question.
"It's nothin'. Just thought it was funny y'all have birthdays on holidays." She shrugged with one shoulder, but the way she said it piqued his interest—like she'd been about to admit something personal.
He followed her from the storage wing, flipping off the lights and pulling the door closed behind them. In two steps he'd caught up to her.
"Your birthday's on a holiday too, ain't it!"
"Drop it, Gambit." She walked faster, regret punctuating her stomps.
"Was it Christmas?" He persisted, his long strides making it impossible for her to pull away. Just as quickly, he added, "Naw, you love Christmas, dat ain't it. Hmm. New Year's? I bet you hate it 'cause you can't kiss no one at midnight like everyone else."
Disgusted, she slowed to a stop. "Nailed it. Happy now?"
It only took a second for him to call her bluff. He shook his head. "You're a terrible liar, girl. Don' ever take up poker."
"Tell ya what, how 'bout you just pick a day since you're so dang determined to know." She flung her hands up and started walking away again. "Call it carryin' on your brother's tradition."
Gambit let her go, sensing he'd overplayed his hand. "Mebbe I will!" He called after her, turning back to head in the opposite direction—towards the server room where Xavier liked to hide his secret files. He had some research to do.
Weeks passed and so did missions. Life in the X-Men was rarely boring, especially with Gambit's near constant attempts to learn as much as possible about her—when he wasn't dancing on her last nerve, that is. She'd be lying if she said she didn't find the attention flattering. He was surprisingly open whenever she showed an interest in his history, but only to her; to anyone else he either changed the subject or outright lied. Still, there was a limit to how much he'd share. When her questions became too personal he would crank his perverted flirting up a few notches until the innuendo became too much and she'd storm off.
Such had been the case on a wintry Tuesday in early February. Snow fell in clumps of great big flakes, some so big they seemed like clouds of cotton rolling down from on high. The driveway disappeared quickly beneath the onslaught, followed by the grass and hedges.
By the time Rogue took a break from cooking to wander up to the foyer and peek through the front door, the entire Institute was buried beneath a thick blanket of white. She lifted off the ground and rose twenty feet higher than the highest roof peak. Though there was no wind, it was difficult to see much beyond the edge of the property in such whiteout conditions.
Mildly irritated to find no fresh tracks in the snow, she retreated to the garage and shook the flakes from her sweater and hair. Logan's Jeep was still missing from its parking spot.
Gambit had borrowed it the night before under the premise of heading into Salem Center to get supplies after they'd had a little spat over an absurd discussion about her 'ideal' romantic partner. It was a trip that should have taken a few hours at most.
She sighed. Remy had been surprisingly annoyed to find that she was most attracted to blond and buff beefcakes. Which, of course, drove him to push her boundaries too far in a vain attempt at convincing her that tall, dark and lean brunets were the way to go.
It hurt that he treated her with such familiarity and yet had no desire to engage in a dedicated relationship. To be honest she doubted he was even capable of monogamy. They had quite a few conversations after his ex-wife supposedly passed away...and then even more after BellaDonna came back from the dead with a side of amnesia. Gambit admitted that he and Belle had both indulged in clandestine encounters outside of their youthful Romeo and Juliet romance—at least until the engagement had become official.
There was really only one reason Rogue could think of for him to stay in town overnight.
So what if he had shacked up with a random date? It meant he was getting over his loss, she told herself as she drifted down the hall to the library. Dinner wouldn't be ready for a while and there didn't seem to be anyone else to talk to at the moment. She plucked a well-worn copy of Pride and Prejudice from the shelf and plopped down on a comfy old leather recliner.
An hour of Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennett's misunderstandings later, she returned to the stovetop to find a tall, unnervingly handsome pain-in-the-ass stirring the pot with one hand, a shaker of cayenne in the other.
"Don't you dare put that in mah Etouffee!" She barked, alarmed.
Gambit looked her straight in the eye...and upended the bottle twice.
She was on him before he could get in a third shot, bodily lifting him away from the stove and slamming his back into the refrigerator door. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a bear hug, laughing riotously and refusing to let go even as she yelled unladylike threats into his sternum.
"Did you miss me, chère?" He chortled.
"Like a dog misses fleas, swamp rat." She tweaked his nipple hard through his snow-dampened trench coat. Had it been anyone else it would've been just a pinch, but Rogue could and regularly did crush concrete without much effort.
Gambit yelped like a kicked puppy and doubled over defensively.
Rogue hurried back to the pot to fish out a hot spoonful. Blowing on it, she growled, "Y'all better not have messed this up or so help me...!"
"I fixed it," He griped. "Y'know, for a southern gal y' sure don' cook like one. I think you done gone full Yankee." He unbuttoned his jacket and gingerly rubbed his chest, grumbling in an undertone, "Goddamn it, woman. S' a good thing I don't got piercings no more, 'cause I t'ink you broke m' tiddy."
Rogue sipped the concoction and blinked, surprised. There was a pleasant kick to it now that warmed the throat without overwhelming the taste buds. "Huh." She exclaimed.
"Told you! Jus' needed a couple a' bay leaves and a lil' spice is all. De lack of trust here is hurtful, ma fille."
Her nose scrunched unapologetically as she put the lid back on the pot. "Well excuse me for the concern, Mistuh-lava-isn't-hot-enough-for-me."
When he continued to hold his chest, pouting, she rolled her eyes and came back to smack his hand away, muttering, "Git!". Then, to his great surprise, she tugged his black turtleneck up and took a look at her handiwork. Sure enough, the skin around his nipple was an angry red, but there was no bruising or blood.
Satisfied that she hadn't hurt him as badly as he implied, she tilted her head to one side and gave him quite the sarcastic look.
"Kiss it an' make it better?" He asked, fixing her with his best puppy eyes, complete with sad little moue.
She chuffed at the pathetic attempt at intimacy. Pulling his shirt back down, she pretended to kiss him but instead she bit his nipple through the fabric, eliciting a groan and an intense glare full of unspoken promise.
"So mean," he breathed, hooking her belt and pulling her flush against him, his crimson eyes sparkling in the bright kitchen lights.
She wrapped her arms around his waist and casually asked, "So...didja have a good time in town?"
"'Bout as much fun as shoppin' can be, I guess." A healthy sense of self-preservation warned him not to mention the jewelry store clerk with whom he'd spent the night or the fact that doing so awakened an unfamiliar feeling: Guilt. He was quickly growing to hate his inability to reign in the sexual urges invoked by teasing this untouchable southern spitfire, and doubly irritated that he'd resorted to venting them elsewhere like a total amateur. "Got Hank his science project supplies, a new stick for Scooter's butt, maybe picked up a couple'a special things for a special gal..."
"Oh really, now?"
He looked pointedly down at her. "I was hopin' she'd let ol' Gambit take her out for Valentine's Day."
"Three times the charm, huh? No thank you. Ah reckon she'd be okay with stayin' in and watchin' a movie instead a' getting kidnaped or beat up again, though."
"Ça c'est bon," he smiled warmly. "I do de cookin' dis time, too. Whatever you like."
"Well, the whole reason Ah was cookin' tonight was 'cause of you."
"Moi? To what do I owe de honor?"
Rogue smiled coyly up at him, obviously savoring the physical contact. "Figured y'all might be feelin' a lil' homesick today. Happy Mardi Gras, sugah."
This must've been what the Grinch felt like when his heart grew three sizes, Gambit mused. Sure, the fairer sex were always quick to throw themselves at him with nothing so much as a wink and a smirk in their direction, but none ever bothered to reach beyond the zipper to his pants. Not her, though. Under all that sassy smartassery was a kind heart who cared far more deeply than she should.
Carefully, he used her fluffy mop of white and auburn curls as a buffer to cup her face in his hands. He leaned down and planted a lingering kiss atop her bangs, savoring the sweet scent of her conditioner and the hot exhale of her breath against his throat.
"You're too good t' me, chère. T'ank you."
Fate—and the alien tyrant Mojo—had other plans. Allison Blaire showed up on the front steps of the mansion the very next day, begging for help to rescue their old teammate Longshot. Two days of being brainwashed into performing for a planet of spineless, vicious beanbags later, it could be said for certain that no one on the Blue Team was ever going to be able to look at The Wizard of Oz in the same way again.
The evening was already well underway by time they were teleported back to the War Room, safe if not entirely sound, courtesy of one of Longshot's rebel alliance compatriots. Cyclops mercifully forwent the post-mission analysis in favor of reporting to his girlfriend, and everyone quickly dispersed before he could change his mind.
Rogue wanted nothing more than a shower after the grit and grime of fighting to free an entire population of oppressed alien slaves—and then she planned to sleep for a week. Gambit, ever the perpetual powerhouse of kinetic energy, had a different idea.
He took a shortcut around her determined march through the hallways and beat her to her room. Just to be an ass, he popped the lock on her door and leaned casually against the wall beside it like some sort of twisted concierge.
Rogue rounded the last corner and halted mid-stride, doing a comical double take. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.
"Lordy, Ah wish I had half your drive sometimes. You're like the dang Energizer Bunny," she groused.
"I can go all night and then some, darlin'," he winked lazily, trademark smirk tugging up the corner of his mouth. "But first I promised you a homemade dinner. What would de lady like?"
For several long moments she silently stared at him with narrowed eyes, considering a handful of dishes that would take a hours and hours of prep work.
At last she caved. "You're sweet, Cajun, but Ah just want ta take a bath and pass out. Rain check, all right?"
"I been listenin' to your stomach growl for the last hour, Rogue," he said sternly, crossing his arms. "A promise is a promise."
As if on cue, her guts rumbled loudly right when she opened her mouth to argue. Gambit lifted a smug eyebrow.
"Honey barbecue chicken wings and potata salad." She stomped past him into her room and paused to poke her head back out. "An' take a shower, boy. Ya stink like week old roadkill."
She shut the door before he could retort.
Gambit was taking a batch of cornbread out of the oven when he heard Rogue's footsteps on the ancient oak steps of the main staircase. He smiled. She might like to envision herself as a graceful southern belle, but in reality those big ol' clodhoppers of hers would never pass for dainty and delicate.
"What's goin' on in that thick skull a' yours, boy? You look like you're up ta somethin'."
"Never," he joked, feigning innocence as he closed the oven door and gave her an appreciative once-over. "Feel better?"
A scalding hot shower had done wonders for her dour attitude. She'd slipped into a fuzzy, midriff-baring gray sweater and black cargo pants that hung low on her hips, and even reapplied her makeup. Not exactly the sexy ensemble he'd hoped for, yet the sheer bodysuit underneath her clothing was tempting in its own right—especially since she only wore it as extra insurance when she was worried he was going to get handsy. He felt a twinge of guilt for grabbing the first long sleeved t-shirt and ripped up jeans he could find after his own shower instead of a more gentlemanly outfit.
"Much. Smells like you've outdone yourself again." She sniffed the air appreciatively, visibly trying not to drool. "Ah'm surprised you ain't got a crowd down here tryin' to get in on the action."
"Pfft. Dis is the second batch. Had to bribe Wolvie wit' somethin' to get the rec room t' ourselves since I wasn't 'bout t' give up the beer. Everyone else is either out or passed out. T'ank de Lord for small miracles."
He shook his head and motioned for her to follow him into the dining room with a jerk of his chin. The mansion was typically crawling with fellow mutants —literally in Nightcrawler's case— and it was near impossible to have a moment's peace outside of one's own room.
Rogue stopped short in the doorway when she spotted the lit candle and neatly set servingware on the long formal table. He'd even dimmed the lights and made goofy origami hearts out of the napkins, plus he'd dug out the Professor's good crystal goblets for a hillybilly dinner extraordinaire. She grinned.
"This is lookin' awful domestic for a confirmed bachelor. Y'all best watch it or else you're gonna ruin your rep, sugah."
Holding her chair out expectantly, he grinned back. "Doubt it. I talked Hank into doin' a little surgery when we got back from N'Awlins last time—ain't gonna be no unwanted surprises in my future."
She sat down and craned her neck backwards to look up at him with concern in her mossy green eyes.
"You got fixed? But...Ah thought you said you wanted a family someday...?"
"I did. But dat notion's dead and gone now." His good humor floundered, replaced for a moment by a glimpse of something darker; of memories still bathed in mourning for the marriage that had ended in disaster. Just as quickly, the familiar mask of overinflated ego slid back into place. He lightly ran his knuckles down her arm. "Why, you volunteerin'?"
"Oh mah God, the last thing we need is a bunch o' your devil spawn runnin' around blowin' up everything," she spluttered, disgusted, subconsciously rubbing her bicep as though it burned. "I'm pretty sure that's a sign o' the end of days, it's right there in the Bible with plagues o' bugs and bloody water."
"If y' mean the world would collapse from de sheer awesome, then yeah." He cracked open a beer and poured it into her glass before sliding into his own seat across from her. There were already two empty cans and another full cup on his side. Digging hungrily into the potato salad, he paused thoughtfully and added, "It can be undone whenever I want, y'know. Are you into that kinda t'ing...?"
Choking on her drink, Rogue glared at him and sat up straight, all prim and proper. She pulled off her gloves one finger at a time and delicately plucked a wing flat from the pile on her plate. "Ah wouldn't know."
He propped his chin on his palm and watched her with a bemused expression. "I betcha I can guess what y' thinkin', petite. 'Such civilized dinner conversations we have', eh?"
"Not mah fault ya gotta make everything sexual." Taking a bite, she let out an involuntarily moan and quickly covered her mouth in embarrassment. Damn the man, he was one hell of a cook.
Gambit's eyes twinkled at the sound and his lips twitched merrily. "I'M the one makin' everythin' sexual?"
She squinted warningly at him and resumed munching.
The pair of them were so half-starved that there was little else to converse about until they'd filled their bellies. Afterwards, Rogue stubbornly refused to let him clean up since he'd cooked, and none of his sweet words could cajole her into leaving things alone so they could watch a movie.
Finally, he had enough. He reached around her and shut the water off, ignoring her indignant complaint, then squatted down, snaked his arms around her hips and hefted her off the floor with a grunt. She shrieked, trying to squeeze out of his firm grip as he blindly carried her into the den.
Warm, calloused hands slid up under the cutoff edge of her sweater, rasping along the fabric of her body suit as he let her down by the couch. She seized up like a deer in the headlights when his arms stayed loosely locked around her ribs, her chest resting on his forearms. His thumb caressed the underside of her right breast and his breath was hot against her neck, indifferent to the guarantee of an instant coma.
"Hmm. What's dis, no bra tonight? Somebody's feelin' a lil' daring."
"You wish." She smacked his hands away with a huff, shuddering at the goosebumps brought on by the low vibration of his sensual tone. "You're lucky Ah didn't just throw on some pajamas and call it quits already, as late as it is. Behave yourself."
With a chuckle for her no-nonsense reprimand, he murmured, "Yes ma'am!" and moved toward the tv. As soon as he turned his back to put on the movie she let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes, flopping down in the corner of the comfy green sofa. She stretched out her legs, giving him no option but to sit on the opposite end.
"Whatcha decide on?" She asked curiously.
"Return to Oz."
Her eyes went round as saucers. Gambit snort laughed at her horrified expression in the reflection of the Tv.
"Kiddin'. Some sappy rom com dat Jubes insisted was 'Totes fabulous!'," he said, mimicking the teenager's California valley girl accent with an effeminate hand toss that earned a laugh from the Mississippi mutant.
He returned to the couch and frowned at the seating arrangement. With a shrug, he twisted himself sideways and fell into his corner, nonchalantly dropping his legs on either side of Rogue's so that her toes were right up against his crotch. Like hell he was going to let her hog the whole couch. Predictably, she puffed out an irritated noise and relocated her feet to the coffee table.
Forget Paris was enjoyable enough that she eventually ended up snuggled under his arm, her head resting atop a throw pillow on his lap as he idly stroked her hair and laughed at Billy Crystal's antics, interjecting little tidbits about the film's French locations. Rogue sleepily humored him—until he made a smartass comment about how he hoped she was learning to play basketball *properly* from the movie.
"OW!" He exclaimed when she pinched his thigh under the pillow, glaring down at her. "Sore loser!"
She just smiled and closed her eyes. The movie had ended and the credits were scrolling onscreen but she was content just to cuddle a little longer, despite his incessant prattling.
"Hey now, don' you pass out on me yet, chère. You never answered my question, y'know."
Shifting onto her back, she looked up at him from his lap and asked suspiciously, "What question?"
His palm casually slid down the length of her stomach and stopped at her bellybutton. Clawing his hand so that his fingernails snagged lightly on the sheer fabric, he dragged it all the way back up her ribs and stopped just under her the edge of her sweater. He leaned in close and studied her with piercing seriousness, his half-lidded eyes lingering on her mouth. Rogue's heart rate skyrocketed and she held her breath with a mix of fear and anticipation, yet he made no move.
Just as she was about to crack from suspense (and lack of oxygen), he finally purred in a silky, low tone, "So...do you like cream pies?"
Rogue's face turned bright red. "I...I, ahh-"
A lopsided, wicked smirk dimpled his cheek. "'Cause I made dessert, too. Boston Creme—Your fav'rite, I believe."
"YOU JACKASS!" She exclaimed, shoving his face away and flipping back on her side as he cracked up.
"C'mon beautiful, lemmie up." He smacked her ass good naturedly, signaling her to move over so he could head to the kitchen.
After he'd gone, she sat hunched over with her elbows on her knees. With a soft groan she steepled her fingers and rested her forehead on the point. That particular mental image was going to be hard to ignore, although it wouldn't be the first time his insinuations kept her tossing and turning all night.
A soft, musical sound and a sudden glow caught her attention. She looked back over the couch towards the kitchen.
Gambit was humming a familiar tune and carrying a pie, using one hand to block the single lit candle.
"Happy birthday to you, dear Roguey, happy birthday to youu," he sang, setting it on the coffee table before her with a flourish. He put his hands on his hips expectantly, grinning like an absolute shithead.
Rogue smoothed her palms along her pants and just sat there, impassively staring at the melting candle.
At last she blinked and looked at him from under tousled white bangs, smiling wryly. "That was really your best guess, huh? Tch."
"Found the hospital where you was born in Caldecott, sweetheart. Took me a bit t' narrow down de records but man, no wonder ya hate Valentine's Day so much."
She let him hang for a moment, fixing him with a pitying stare. Then her smile turned ruthless.
"It never occurred ta you that Mystique might'a left a wild goose chase for any fool lookin' to get the dirt on her daughter?"
Though his cocky expression never faltered, she saw his jaw muscle tic and a flash of doubt in his eyes. Now that was something worth savoring all night—catching the Cajun lothario off guard.
"Well, then...it's...a good t'ing I made a pie and not a cake, yeah?"
"A plus for effort, honey," she said, blowing out the nub of a candle. It had all but melted into a pool of wax atop the chocolate topping. Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she added with a smirk, "Especially since you ain't wrong."
Gambit blew out a loud, exasperated breath and his posture sagged. "Oh, you rotten little...! Touché, chère, touché."
In a flash he was on her, nipping her shoulder through her sweater and tickling her sides until she cackled. Once she was curled up in a teary-eyed, giggling ball with him half lying on top of her, he pulled a slim black case out of his back pocket.
"Here, dis is for you, too."
She shook her head and swiped at her misty eyes. "Uh uh! I didn't get you anythin'...! That ain't even fair."
"It's not a Valentine's present, it's a birthday present," he said smoothly, booping her on the nose with the box.
Favoring him with a droll look, Rogue wriggled out from under him and sat Indian-style. She popped the box open—and inhaled sharply at the sight of the ruby pendant within. She lifted necklace out and held it up to the light, admiring the sparkling facets of the little heart. Twin golden points capped the gem's rounded edges with tiny devil horns.
"Remy..." she said softly, "It's beautiful. Thank you."
He took it from her and opened the clasp as she ponytailed her skunk-striped hair out of the way. Leaning forward, he fastened it around her neck, careful not to touch her exposed skin. As he centered it between her collarbones his fingers lingered on the ruby.
Staring down at his hand, his jaw ticced again and he swallowed nervously. "I wasn' lying when I said it was long past time you 'n I got serious, Rogue." Slowly, he lifted his gaze and looked into her eyes. "You already got this devil's heart...what say we make it official?"
Rogue chewed her lower lip. A myriad of scenarios flitted through her mind, born from a lifetime of fear. Most ended in disaster and heartbreak. There was a chance, though; a chance that this crazy, inexplicable bond between them might just weather every storm. The notion filled her with hope. So much so that she was surprised to find she'd be willing to do anything to make it work.
She tilted her head and leaned in as close as she dared, mere inches from his mouth.
"If Ah could seal the deal with a kiss you know Ah would."
His eyes glinted mischievously as he plucked at the neckline of his t-shirt, pulled it up over his nose and wound his free hand in her hair. He kissed her hard through the thin cotton.
"We'll find ways around it, mon couer," he promised.
Breathless, she put her forehead against his, cushioned by their intermingled hair, and closed her eyes happily.
"Best birthday ever, sugah."
THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A STUPID DRABBLE, HOW THE EFF DID IT MUTATE INTO 5,000 WORDS. AUGGHHHH.
So yeah. This was meant to be my contribution for the 2022 Rogue/Gambit week 'headcanon' prompt but I grossly overestimated my ability to bounce back when it comes to not writing for years and years. I toned down my usual, horribly overly detailed style in attempt to keep it simple... which backfired... because why make a simple list with explanations when I could torture myself with a whole damn story...
Anyway, I hope fellow hardcore fans don't mind me using artistic license to place these faux events around X-Men 10-11 (1992), which actually happened before Gambit's first solo series (1994 I think?). I have WAY more headcanons than this but my favorite is their zodiac signs. From what I've seen, most fic writers envision characters as their own signs since we're all trying to write from experience and make things relatable. To me, Libra is the most flirty and balanced sign out of them all and Aquarius is the smart oddball with weird tastes (coffcoffMuchOlderMencoffcoff). Together they make one of the most powerful friendships and can accomplish amazing things when they work as a team, but tend to have major communication issues when it comes to romance. Or so Google says. I waver between Aquarius and Aries for Rogue sometimes, though, simply due to her often passionate, fiery depictions.
This is also a silent nod to some of my most supportive friends, who happen to have birthdays on Oct. 12th and Feb 14th. Ironically, both have some personality traits in common with canon Remy and Anna. The necklace is a tribute to my late, great, jackass Aquarian boyfriend, who apparently bought me a heart-shaped ruby/devil necklace for Valentine's Day but returned it, presumably due to the fact we'd broken up and he was too hesitant to jump back in with both feet after years of tragic events and bad blood. I didn't find out about it until after he'd passed away unexpectedly and I'm still mad 7 years later because it would've been a total game changer (see previously mentioned communication issues). Plus I legitimately couldn't think of a more perfectly kitschy gift from Gambit.
/Oversharing off. On that happy note, how many headcanons did you count? There are at least 17.
1) Gambit mentioned he finds pink daring in his last solo series but didn't actually say it was his fav.
2) I used to eat boxes of those fake camel candy cigarettes when I was kid. The marketing sticks with ya.
3) A 'Laughing Boy' is the card nonclemature for the Jack of diamonds. Incidentally, his birthmark is the mole that Rogue and Belladonna were talking about in the first Gambit solo series and yes, it is damn close to the family jewels. Also a nod to his 'Sinister' origin.
4) LaFourche is about as Cajun as Cajun gets. I haven't heard any Cajun French accents in my more recent trips to New Orleans, which makes me incredibly sad (although I heard one in Slidell). Something like 70% of the current New Orleans population are transplants from other states thanks to Katrina and all the hurricanes that followed, which have chased away most of the true locals. Gotta go out into the countryside to hear 'em anymore. 'Peeshwank' is a term for 'runt' or 'little idiot'.
5) Rogue confirmed early on that she knows French, and I refuse to believe two worldly terrorists wouldn't teach their daughter several languages. Plus Kurt, Irene and Raven are all German. I'm sure it would've been a point of pride. Sorry Kelly Thompson, but I'm not buying it. There are a lot of her self-inserts in the Rogue Gambit series that continue to upset me: When I push an HC I usually don't do it 'cause it's something I personally like but because it's something that makes sense for the character or has been alluded to previously (this drabble being an exception, obvs).
6) Same for Gambit. Even before he travelled the world once he'd been kicked out of his wedding, a thief has gotta be able to adapt and that means being bi-lingual. Doesn't mean he has to be great at it.
7) National Gumbo Day. C'mon, what could be more perfect?!
8) I have a very Henri-ish friend who was born on April Fool's day.
9) A Valentine's Bday is just total irony for the girl who can't touch.
10) I do honestly think Gambit was still sleeping around until he and Rogue started dating officially, and I imagine the guilt over doing so was a deciding factor for him to fly monogamous air.
11) Pierced nipples definitely seem like something Remy would've done on a bet. And promptly taken them out the first time they caught on something during a mission involving tight quarters. Or magnets!
12) You honestly can't tell me that a man who eats spicy food constantly, smokes cheap cigarettes, and parkours around in a heavy leather coat is going to smell good at the end of the day. I won't believe it, no matter how ungodly sexy he may be.
13) I'm 5'9", Rogue is 5'8". You don't get to be an Amazon and have small feet. Sorry, I don't make the rules.
14) Artists in the 90's wouldn't dare put Rogue in something as provocative as a sheer catsuit, nor would they let her indulge any sexual curiosity like a normal person. Cowards.
15) Okay, seriously now. There is no way —no WAY— a dude who has had sex with literally hundreds of women doesn't have any children. Vasectomies are cheap, reversible and easy to perform, I'm sure Beast could do one with both hands tied behind his back.
16) I'ma be gross here but the creampie thing. I could see it being a Rogue fetish but not for perverted reasons; after 20 years not being able to touch she's just not keen on letting go of her lover.
17) Boston creme anything is the shizz, yo.
Anyhoo, hope y'all got a smile out of this self-indulgent monstrosity! If you ever want to chat about Romy headcanons, feel free to HMU on Tumblr under 'spasticatt' =)