Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were.
At least one of us is.
Maybe someday you'll see
I need you to save me…
From myself."
As much as she sometimes couldn't stand the Cajun, she could never say she enjoyed his silences.
It didn't happen very often. When it did, though….it seemed as though he would cave in on himself with the weight of the world around him. His well-developed façade would waver, if only for a day or so, and then the Remy that everyone knew would reemerge, cockier and more self-assured then before.
She knew better.
Some part of her would like to revel in that fact. That she, even more than perhaps the Professor and Jean, knew that, in spite of his cavalier disregard for anything that wasn't a little fun, in spite of his ability to turn any confrontation into a battle of smirk-inducing one-liners, in spite of his name….Gambit felt. He lived, loved, and rued, sometimes nearly drowned in self-loathing. He would do anything, it seemed, for those to which he was indebted. Penance for a past that, though forgiven, would never be forgotten.
She understood him, and though it scared her sometimes, she couldn't imagine a life without having known this man. There was a loyalty to commitment imbedded within him, so instilled it surprised her. No matter what, Gambit didn't like foregoing an oath, breaking a vow, casting aside promises. One might be lead to believe quite the opposite. She had been.
And so when she'd sought him out that morning—a breath taking, beautiful Saturday, with clear blue skies and blinding sunlight—she was prepared for what she might find. Or so she thought. Something had happened the day before. Something that caused a strain in his voice, a calculation in his step, a dip in his posture, dryness to his quirks. She could've been exaggerating, but then again…
She found him, of all places, in the professor's office, alone, his back to her as she inched her way in through the slightly ajar door. His head was bowed; feet apart, his body stiff…and it occurred to her that he was reading something. Only a little after eight in the morning, he was already dressed, his usual faded and worn blue jeans abandoned for a pair of gorgeously tailored black pants. He wore a wine-colored silk shirt, and, draped over one arm, a blazer to complete the ensemble. Ever widening green eyes trailed up higher, pale pink lips parting slightly in mild surprise. He'd cut his hair.
Unable to speak with the lump in her throat, and unwilling to sneak up on him, she leaned back against the large mahogany door, forcing her gaping mouth shut as a soft click reverberated throughout the room. Facing him, dressed as he was, looking for all the world like some polished business associate of Warren's, she felt incredibly embarrassed, out of her league. She had abandoned the idea of getting dressed just yet, having only slipped on a light robe with cropped sleeves and her signature silk opera gloves. Her toes wiggled in the confines of her ballerina slippers, wishing she'd thought of pulling her hood up. Her nape felt entirely too exposed with her hair pulled back and piled upon her head.
His head merely canted slightly to the side, acknowledging that he knew she was there. "Mornin', chere."
Again, the forced casualty is his voice was noted. He made no move to turn and face her, to offer up any explanation. She didn't let it get to her. That was just the way he was. To expect anything else would've been too much. She reined her emotions in, now convinced that something was indeed very wrong. Rarely had she seen him dress up, and even then, it was usually a swank tuxedo, his hair barely tamed in a ponytail at his nape, his chiseled countenance sporting a five o'clock shadow. Always a player, black tie or not. Never had she seen him so polished, so conservative, so…tamed.
She bit her lip, splayed hands pushing her away from the door, her silent steps cautious as she approached him. She was scared. Not of him, but for him. She hated herself for it. Just once, she wished she could be as emotionally stalwart as she was physically. Just once, she wished she could be the shoulder to cry on instead of the one to cry. Restless fingers fidgeted at her waist, toying with sash of her robe. She paused just behind his left shoulder, eyes lowering to the intricate paisley design of the Oriental rug beneath her feet. They both stood, motionless before the large window that dominated one wall of the professor's office. She was conjuring up the nerve to ask…well, anything, really. The air between them was thick with tension, and she could feel it building in the silence that surrounded them. She leveled her eyes with the back of his head, and silently admonished herself for her inability to quell her fascination with his new 'do. Forcing her focus elsewhere in the room, she took a breath to speak, but was cut off by the sound of his own voice.
"I have t' go…to N'awlins."
She clamped her mouth shut, so swiftly that she was sure she'd made a sound. He was just full of surprises this morning, wasn't he? Stiffly, she clasped her gloved hands behind her back, bowing her head….when she suddenly realized he was holding something in his hands. She could barely make it out around the bend of his elbow…it was a document, of some sort. Beyond that, she couldn't discern it from a regular piece of folded paper. Inching forward, she rounded him, so that she stood partly between him and the window. His newly styled coif wasn't altogether formal, his bangs still long enough to fall forward and obscure his eyes. She took a moment to look him over, quietly taking in the expensive tie, the close shave. But there was something else. And now she knew why he'd been reluctant to face her.
Tears.
God, how it ached. To be so close to him, yet unable to offer up any comfort. She could tell the concern in the lines of her face made it harder for him to keep the tide under control. He wanted to tell her, she knew. To confide in her, to be held by her. To have her smooth away his pain. But when she moved to console him, one silk-encased hand raising up to perhaps wipe away the wet trails upon his cheeks, he moved, tilting his head back to stare above her head, out the window, blinking rapidly while he took a deep breath. At the same time, he'd placed in her outstretched hand the piece of paper he'd been toying with. Slowly, her brow furrowing with confusion, she took it from him. She didn't unfold it immediately. Her eyes were on him still, searching….waiting for him to say something else. She saw the muscles of his jaw clench, saw the pain suddenly turn into something harder, colder. He refused to look at her. Her stomach churned.
Breathing deeply, she lowered her gaze to the document in her hands. Now she felt his eyes upon her, weighing down upon her, so that she fought not to shrink beneath their gravity. The moment passed, however, as she felt his focus shift, and hers did then as well, back up to his face. He was staring at something nestled in his palm. Something shiny, golden…and before she could make out anything else, he'd closed his fist around it, pivoting on his heel and crossing the office in long, determined strides.
"Remy…" Her voice sounded small and weak, strangled. Under any other circumstance, she would've chased after him, demanded to know why, and when, and how long.
But this wasn't any other circumstance. Not only because of his tears, or his attire. Cautiously, she opened the tri-folded document with itching fingers, the silk scratching over the heavy parchment. Troubled green eyes scanned over the letters and phrases with a growing tightness in her chest, and just then, her hands falling to her sides, she realized what he'd been holding.
A wedding band.