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The first thing Gambit had noticed waking up in the infirmary that morning was that the world felt significantly less bright than usual. He could look around the room without squinting, and the usually blinding ceiling lamp didn’t give him a migraine. Uh. Weird.
The second thing he had noticed was, of course, Hank fretting over him.
He'd been hit with some kind of power nullifying during the last mission— one that wouldn't stay in his system for more than a week, their resident doctor assured him.
He immediately tried to blow up the first thing he could get his hands on : Hank's pen, as it happened to be. He might have been pissed about that, if it had worked. Instead of the usual purple glow, the pen had stayed desperately unexploded and the scientist desperately calm.
That was the third thing he noticed : How everything was so still. Everything had kinetic energy — sometimes so low it felt like it didn't, but still there. Like a slight vibration in everything he could touch, ever present. Now, there was nothing.
Not a prickle of energy at his fingertip, not the usual buzz of atoms and energy calling out to him from every object that he'd grown so accustomed to. Nothing. Stillness. He hated it. It felt unfamiliar, in a way he couldn't quite place.
-o-
Weird. That was how this all felt— decidedly and irremediably weird, he'd decided that morning.
Most of the X-Men had done a double take at breakfast this morning; polite surprise in their eyes, a bit of awkwardness, and that had been it. Perks of living in a house with at least two blue furry residents, he supposed. A nice hum of acknowledgement from Storm, a very surprised face from Jubilee, a raised eyebrow from Logan, but no comments.
That was, until his favorite Southern spitfire came barreling into the kitchen, past the island to go straight to the coffee machine.
With a mumbled "Mornin', sugah", she turned towards him— and immediately dropped her mug.
He caught it halfway through the air— nice to know that not all of his reflexes were gone with his mutation. Eyes wide and mouth wide open, she looked at him like she'd just seen a demon. Rather ironic, if anyone cared to ask him.
"You okay dere chérie ? Y'look like you've just seen a ghost."
"What the fuck happened to you ?"
He shrugged, trying to shake off the weight of the answer.
"Gambit got hit with a lil' anti mutant serum. Shouldn’t last more than a week. Ain't nothing to be worried about."
"Ah know that, swamp rat. Ah was there." She answered, annoyance and surprise still clear in her voice. God, he loved getting on her nerves. Maybe a bit too much, actually— but that was a thought to be explored later. "What Ah mean is why did it touch your eyes too ? The other stuff— the power dampening collars, they never changed them."
"No clue. Beast probably has a theory ready for you, if you feelin' like listening to a few hours of sciency rambles."
She grunted, turning back to grab a plate and start arranging her food of choice into it. Breakfast continued almost as usual, as if the last field mission hadn't happened. He noticed she'd stayed fixated on his face, a cross look on hers. He tried not to think too much of it. He failed miserably, of course, because that woman could not be anything other than the center of his thoughts, but he did try.
When the conversation settled into an easy silence, she piped up again.
"Ah hate them."
The others shared a nervous look around the table.
"Quoi ? "
"The brown eyes. They look weird on you. Don't like them one bit." She insisted, looking straight ahead at him like the brown pupils offended her personally.
"You sure know how to make a guy feel appreciated, chère."
She rolled her eyes— beautiful, green, and perfectly human eyes. "C’mon swamp rat, you know what Ah mean. Those just look wrong on you."
He'd had the same reaction when he'd gotten ready, looking into the mirror, seeing unfamiliar brown pupils staring into him. Didn’t mean he had to tell her, though.
"What, you don't think they add to the rugged charm ? 'M wounded, chérie. Thought you'd like the hazel touch."
"Those ain't hazel, sugah. Just regular ol’ brown. And they don't fit you." She answered with a laugh— God, he loved her laugh.
The conversation eased into light teasing, as well as a very animated debate between Kurt, Hank, Logan and Rogue on what "hazel" eyes looked like. It almost felt normal. Almost like he could close his eyes and forget the lack of the tingling sensation at his fingertips, the odd absence of energy in everything around him.
After breakfast, he opened the fridge to put the milk back only to notice they were lacking several key ingredients for lunch. He'd have to go grocery shopping, then. After all, if he was out of the field for a week, that was the least he could do.
He drove all the way to the store in silence, wondering if the world always looked like this, a mix of light hues and soft colours mixing together — was this how it was supposed to be ?
Stepping out of the car, he gestured to grab his sunglasses out of habit, hand stopping at the last moment. He didn't need them, did he ? Guess I get to play at bein’ normal for a bit.
He wasn't surprised to find the usually blinding lights of the store were, in fact, dim enough for him to shop. He'd always thought of his light sensitivity as a rather useful perk for a thief— he might not see well in the light, but could navigate around a pitch black room without issues. Now, he was starting to think the luxury of shopping without a headache might make him reconsider.
Let's see— lunch's settled, but what about dinner tomorrow ? Maybe lobster and pasta ? Been a while since we had dat. But this shop ain't the right one for seafood.
As he mused the possibility of making yet another stop in town, he felt something bump into his leg.
"Sorry mister !"
He looked down to see a young girl, not looking much older than 5 or 6, who had just barreled down the aisle and ran into him. She looked up, wide blue eyes— innocent, perfect little eyes— catching onto him, as if just realizing he was here.
"You okay petite ?"
She only answered with a slight hum, holding a candy bar he assumed was the reason for her wild run. Weird. Usually, children were more the kind to gawk at his eyes, point, or loudly cry and call their parents. Speaking of which, where the hell were her parents ?
" Lily !"
Ah, there's the mom. Judging by the little one's guilty face and not so discreet attempt at hiding the chocolate, she must have escaped her parents' watch to steal the treat. A lil' thief, den. Not that he could blame her ; he'd done the same plenty of times as a kid, with a bit more finesse.
"I am so so sorry, I swear I looked away for two seconds and she—
"It’s alright, m'am. Glad you found her. Have a nice day."
"You too ! Thanks again."
That was weird, too. He took care that not too many people notice his eyes, a lifetime of guild training teaching him to go unnoticed. But when they did see his eyes, they were uncomfortable, or scared, or plain terrified. They'd shout or go silent, they'd run away or stand frozen. Some would look at him with the fear of someone who's just been convinced that demons are real and remembered they hadn't been to church in a while. Parents usually drew their kids back— save for that one time one of his targets had pushed his son in front of him as a sacrifice. He'd put the fear of God in that one for real.
Point was, he wasn’t the kind of man you greeted at a grocery store. Except he apparently was now, at least for a week. Guess I'll go to that other store, den.
-o-
Nope, the light thing definitely sucks, he’d decided that morning. Usually, he could get dressed in a few seconds in the darkness and put a cohesive outfit together (at least for his fashion style). But now ? Now he had to get up and turn the lights on if he didn’t want to look like a kid who'd raided his mother's closet. And turning the lamp on meant he had to be significantly more awake and functional than he normally was at 7am.
He tried to brush his hair the best he could without looking in the mirror, before giving up and tying it up in his usual ponytail. He didn't want to see the stranger in his reflection today. He used to pray for something like this, for years. From the cold of New Orleans street at night to beds he wouldn't share for long, he'd exhausted every prayer in the good book for those cursed eyes to go away. Fuckin’ joke.
It wasn't that these new eyes were anything ugly, mind you. But they made him look boring. He was handsome as ever, sure, but terribly boring. And boring was the one thing Gambit never should be.
Beyond that, they made him think of exactly who he was— and that wasn't always a nice thought. He was Remy Lebeau, Gambit, le Diable Blanc. The one who bore a curse and a prophecy all at once in his eyes. The one who'd been marked by the devil. The one who'd been taken in by a guild of thieves and scoundrels, because the only place that could ever be his was amongst the sinners. The one who'd fled, the one who'd shed blood, the one they called a demon. And maybe they were right, he thought.
Seeing those dreadful brown eyes— brown, not hazel, Rogue would insist— also reminded him of who he was not. Of what might have been different if his eyes hadn't spelled his doom since birth. Maybe his birth parents, whoever they may be, would have kept him. Maybe he wouldn't have been a mutant and everything would have been easier. Maybe he would have become an accountant, or a locksmith. Maybe he'd have had a wife, 2.5 kids and a white picket fence house. A normal life.
Maybe things would have been different then.
Maybe he wouldn't be a demon.
He tried to shut the thoughts away as he made his way down the stairs. They weren't of any use : he was long past the age of wondering why exactly God had cursed him like this, or what might have been. Avec des “si”, on referait le monde. Besides, he liked his current life. The thrill of a good heist, the exhaustion of a mission well done, the teasing exchanges with Rogue. It was good— far more good than a diable deserves.
He made his way to the breakfast table, holding on to that idea. More than I deserve— so don't go around messin’ it up now, Lebeau.
He barely got out a rough “hello” before getting projected into the island by approximately 155 pounds of southern sugar named Rogue, who was currently hugging with enough enthusiasm to break his ribs. Not that he would ever complain about her body on his.
“They're back !”
“What ?” Not his finest answer. God, he knew how to be suave. Why did that woman have to make him lose half his damn mind every time she threw one of her earnest smiles his way ?
Gloved hands came to grab his face, holding them so close he could swear they were about to kiss. He found he really, really wouldn't mind right now, absorption be damned.
“My favourite eyes are back !”
“Quoi ?” Jesus, I need to get it together. Easier said than done when the most beautiful woman on both sides of the Mississippi was looking at him like he was the sun incarnate.
“Your eyes, sugah. They’ back to normal.” She rolled her eyes a little, though her joyful tone softened the words.
“They.. hol'up” he answered, frantically looking for any surface reflective enough. The shiny steel surface of the coffee machine answered his questions : black sclera, red pupils. Back to normal.
“They're like rubies, you know.” Her hand now caressed the top of his cheek lovingly, and he found that he didn't mind much that he was blushing.
“So, I'm guessing you like the demon eyes better, den ?”
“Ah sure do, dark eyes.” And God, the crinkle in her eyes and the laugh in her voice, and the softness of her touch and her curls framed her face— He was so far gone.
Mutant eyes. Demon eyes. Les yeux du diable. Dark eyes.
He wouldn't have it any other way.