InsaneJournal

Robert Lord, only son of a wildly rich, influential family-- decidedly Irish, and certainly not from Louisiana-- had been stolen away only months after his birth, had changed hands twice, and had ended up on the streets of New Orleans by the time he was four. He'd remained nameless and homeless until he'd pick-pocketed the wrong man and had ended up in a den of thieves. It was the thieves who had given him his name, Remy LeBeau, and his new profession. He'd been the best at what he did, the messy jobs that no one else had dared to do, but the ones that came with the most pay out. He hadn't bothered to count the people he'd killed, or the lives he'd ruined. After an arranged marriage and an unintentional murder, he'd fled and become Gambit. He still hadn't bothered to count the people who's lives he'd touched by snatching their wallets, or breaking their hearts. It didn't matter to him. None of it did. They weren't important, they were no one. They were nothing. He didn't care about anyone but himself, he didn't care about anything but where his next meal was coming from.

So why was he trodding through the gentle rain, soaked to the bone as he had been since early that morning, carrying a sparkling tiara and a flower he'd plucked from one of those strange trees out in the forest? Why was he steadily making his way closer to the museum, hoping to find Rose Tyler there once again? He'd never counted the lives he'd ruined before. Why was he starting now?

Two.

Soggy boots came to a slow stop at the bottom of the several stairs that led up to the entrance of the museum. He really didn't want to go inside, so his heart left up when he saw the object of his hunt sitting there under the over hang on the steps. Okay, Cajun. You'd done this before, when it hadn't meant anything at all. So why were you having so much trouble now that it did? Apologize to the girl and make sure you're pathetic enough that she accepts. Well, that wouldn't be too hard, hopefully, because he was feeling just as pathetic as he hoped to look. Silly mutant. Just walk away while you can.

But instead of listening, and walking away as he should have, he came up a few of those soggy steps and paused about six stairs down from Rose, shifting to get down on his knees on the concrete and he lifted up the colorful, but wet flower, letting out a slow breath as he did. "M' sorry, Rose. I been a asshole uh lon' time, bu' I'm tryin', an' sometime I dunno when t' shu' my mou't. Je suis désolé. Didn' mean t' hur' ya. Didn' mean t' scare ya. Didn' mean t' confuse ya. I'm kin'a in uh ba' spo' righ' now, ain' been myself 'de las' two days. 'Dat experimen' kin'a mess wit' my hea'. Désolé. I ain' as ba' as I seem, promise. Jus' kin'a stupi'." He let out a slow breath as he said those words, slowly lowering the flower and extending up the tiara instead. "Make uh flower ain' 'nuff? S'il vous plaît, didn' mean t' hur' ya. Lemme make i' up t' you. Feel real ba'." There you go, Rose. His best attempt at making a proper apology. But would you accept it, or turn around and go inside? Get your Doctor? You can bet that he'd come out here and send that Cajun packing, if you wanted him to.