Who: Gambit & Responsible Jim (Holden) What: Some chatting, some shameless flirting. When: After this. Late evening. Where: Around the train and communal areas. Rating: High for Language and Gambit Status: Closed - In-Progess
Gambit had already taken a walk that night, but he wasn't going to give up the chance to have another. Especially if it was with Responsible Jim. He was one of the only people in this place who seemed like they were willing to have anything to do with the Cajun. Ren seemed like he might be willing to not pretend like he didn't exist, Rogue was talking to him again, as was little Rogue.. and he had a later date planned with a lady he hadn't gotten the name of. It was called Networking.
See, most bad guys never figured it out, you had to be just good enough to not put yourself on the Hero radar, or else the heroes came after you. Gambit had done well for himself, jumping from X-Men, to Brotherhood, back to X-Men, to the Guild, the Marauders, the X-Men again, and now he was out on his own, running that Thieves Guild once again. He was happy.
He was utterly alone and entirely miserable.
But he was happy.
Freedom.
It sucked.
And, believe it or not, big-bad Gambit was lonely. Could he have gone out and managed to talk some beautiful woman into random sex? Of course. Would he? Probably not. He'd set aside a beautiful woman in order to go on a walk with Responsible Jim.
Dear God, if he turned into Responsible Remy, he hoped someone shot him.
But the title suited Holden, who had done right by the Cajun thus far, and that seemed to have won some sort of loyalty from the swamp rat, who had done some questionable things since coming here to this place, but who had chosen deliberately not to do any of those questionable things to the man he was going to meet this evening.
And there he was! Gambit could see the shape of the man coming into view as he approached. The moon was full and it made for easier navigation, but they were far enough away from the lights of the train that the moon was all they were going to get. It was good enough for the mutant, who had removed his sunglasses for the first time since arriving here. Hell, he'd even slept in them. He knew better than to go flashing around those red-on-black eyes with people who might not understand.
"R'sponsible Jim." He would greet in that slow French Cajun drawl, a bit choppier than French should have been, a bit gruffer than Southern American should have been. It was a different monster all together, that accent. "Enjoyin' y' evenin', monsieur?" His glasses were poised atop his head, the dark of his eyes concealed mostly by the dark of the night, but Jim would certainly be able to tell that something was off.
Maybe it was just the fact the red-headed man wasn't wearing his sunglasses. Or maybe it was his choice of sleep wear-- purple cotton pants and a simple white t-shirt. It looked out of place on him, after all these silly costumes.