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III.
Pop. The bullet hits its mark at an upward angle, there, just below the heart, and he falls from his high perch, a ragdoll tumble that lands him in a heap on the ground.
She watches it all, fists clenched and helpless: his startled cry, his tumble, his stillness, his silence.
Her voice, when she finds it, is small, uncertain:
"Remy? Darlin'?"
No response.
I.
She's lingering in a summer dress and boots and her softest gloves, pretending it's not for him, that she didn't coordinate her lipstick to match his eyes, didn't think about where to leave a kiss - on his collar, or the cuff of his sleeve, most like - where it'd be visible and bright, later, later, when he was down the road and she was out of sight.
It's not much of a pretense, though, considering - she's leaned up against his bike.
When he finds her, he stops feet away and stares, and stares, long enough for her to wonder if maybe she's made a mistake. Or at least, missed a tag.
"Well?" she finally demands.
The rascal - the scoundrel - smiles then, a slow thing that flips her insides like carp on the bank.
"Gambit just taking a picture, chère, for all the lonely nights to come."
"Uh huh," she says, but it's playful.
Later, later, there will be time for insecurity and doubt - how lonely can his nights on the road really be, with that face and those hands? - but for now, she welcomes his approach, lets him fit his palms around her waist and pin her firm against the bike, hot and bothered, like he could do anything more.
"Be careful out there," she whispers against his chest.
"For you, chérie, always."
II.
His voice on the line sounds tired and strained.
She grips the phone tight, like it's his own self, winds the cord around her free hand as she listens.
"Job's getting complicated," he confesses. "Got a tail I can't seem to shake."
"Any way I can help, Sugar?"
"You helping plenty already, ma jolie. Man's a superhero, got your voice in his ear."
"I'm serious," she says, and he chuckles low, then sighs.
"Maybe you send Remy the coordinates for that staging house outside of Richland? I think I can take care of it there," Then he hesitates. "I know there's cameras. Don't watch, okay?"
III'.
Of course she watches. The screen is black and white and blurred, but she makes out details well enough.
Remy, in the rafters of the half-built home; his tail skulking in after, cloaked in shadows, gun in hand.
Pop.
She watches all this, fists clenched and helpless: his startled cry, his tumble, his stillness, his silence.
Her hands reach out to brush the screen, brain gone to static. "Remy? Darlin'?"
Of course, he's too far to hear, too far to help. Panic rises in her throat like bile.
The gunman holsters his weapon and kneels down, two fingers at Remy's pulse-
And then, yelps, as the gun on his hip begins to glow and Remy LeBeau sits up and pulls at his shirt to reveal a dented chestplate.
Not dead dead, after all, it seems, just playing at it.
IV.
Her boots are loud, a drum line, against the pavement.
She could fly and it'd be faster, but then it'd be less dramatic, too. No, she wants him to hear her approach, her staccato rage. Let him brace. Anticipate. When she gets her hands around that boy's neck-
Of course, he meets her halfway, anticipating all right, but based on the lazy, warm, insouciant grin he's wearing, all the wrong things. Of all the nerve-
"Mon coeur! Your Remy is-"
Now, she flies. She snatches him right off the ground by his lapels and hauls him up close, close, until she can see the long, brown curl of his individual lashes and the definition of his pores, until she can feel the warmth of his stupid, precious breath against her own lips.
"Don't you ever," she growls, "do that to me again. I thought I lost you out there, Swamp Rat. I thought you died."
He has the decency to look abashed, to furrow his brow. "I was always coming home to you, chère," he offers, gently. "How could Gambit go where you not?"
He rests his gloved hands over hers and gently brushes his thumb across her knuckles. Soothing, even through the layers.
She's not satisfied - won't ever be, least until she can press him back against the wall and kiss the sense right into his insufferable, beautiful face. However long that takes, plus some. For now:
"Not ever again, say it."
"D'accord. Not again," he agrees, softly. "Gambit loves you too much to die twice."
She exhales.
"Though-" he says.
"I swear, Remy Etienne LeBeau-"
"Technically-"
"Do not-"
"I did ask you not to watch."
She drops him.