The Extensive Symbolism Found In Outerwear

To say Rogue loved her new X-Men costume would be a horrible understatement. With no more need to be covered up from neck to toe now that she could control her absorbing, she'd designed something low-cut with spaghetti strapped sleeves leaving, her arms and hands bare. The other girls had gone more risqué with their costuming as they aged and now that she could be on par with the likes of Boom Boom, who fought the good fight in leather pants and a handkerchief or Kitty and her bare midriff, Rogue was certainly going to. For the most part, the team had been nothing but supportive. They understood what being completely covered meant to Rogue, what being free enough to bare some skin meant to her.

Gambit's reaction had come as a surprise though. Rogue thought, he, of all people, would appreciate the change. If not just for the cleavage, but for all the times she'd railed against him or ranted to him about her powers; for all the times she'd wanted to touch him and turned away, for all the times she'd been unable to turn away and injured him. He knew better than any of the others, except maybe Xavier himself, what her powers meant, what her mastery over them meant. Yet still…the day she'd debuted her new uniform, he glared at her. Looked around the whole room at all the smiling faces of the full-fledged X-Men and the trainees. In the end, he didn't even say a thing, just turned away and stalked out of the briefing room, leaving everyone rather bewildered.

He returned only a few minutes later, with his old trench coat slung over an arm. He'd stopped wearing it when he joined the X-Men years back. Gambit had been angry about being left out of the last show down with Apocalypse and signed right up with the team once he'd heard about. Leaving the trench coat off his uniform had been a symbolic gesture on his part. He'd wanted to give up his thieving ways—the Guild knew that all too well, unfortunately—and surrendering all that pocket room seemed a good way to start.

Like a gentleman on a cold night, Gambit draped the coat over Rogue's shoulders. It had been large on him; on her, the hem nearly reached the ground and the sleeves swallowed up her hands, with only her pale fingers peeking out. He clasped his arms around her waist from where he stood behind her, holding her back to his chest and his chin at her shoulder. "Now why y' wanna be giving de bad boys de wrong idea?"

"Only one gettin' any ideas is you," she countered. "Can't help but notice ya'll lookin' down mah shirt, Cajun."

For good measure, she slugged him once she'd twisted out of his grip.

Kept the coat, though.