Before. Right. And she didn't know him from this place. Fine. His grip loosened some on the make-shift staff and he planted one end on the ground and curled his fingers around a spot near the top, face remaining serious. For now.
"Gambit." He said simply, by way of introductions. "Y' don' know me, 'den." An easy observation from the Cajun, who was pushing out of his lean on the staff to come a few steps forward, red on black locked onto her. "Suppose 'das good." At least it meant she didn't have a hatred for him, like some people seemed to.