Dear you,

I apologize for killing off your favorite character. I do realize that I am a horrible, horrible person. BUT (whoa-ho!) I HAVE A PLAN! My extensively creative (read:…I dunno, something un-flattering about how I should be institutionalized…) mind has come up with an extra-complicated, super-overdone loophole! Are you complaining? I found a way to appease both your and my thirst for happy endings… yayyy! (but that does mean this story just got hella long. Sorry.)

Also- I know nothing about cancer. I've never had cancer, and no one in my family has had cancer (we're more of a heart-disease, brain tumor type of folk) but, I did a lot of research to try and make this work, but if you spot any problems, feel free to tell me.

This story makes me feel funny. :C I mean, I like, in a morbid sort of way, I just wish someone else had written it.

-

Two Weeks Earlier.

Gretchen Mills had worked hard all of her life, deciding at an early age that she wasn't going to allow herself to get by on nothing but her big blue eyes and feminine qualities. She had grown up with the understanding you got what you gave out of each day, and what she strove to give each day was lives. She didn't care what the life was- dog, cat, man, mutant- if it was in danger she was willing to risk all to pull it out of the fire.

Which is why she had become a doctor.

Which is why she was standing in front of the man 'with the demon eyes', as her colleagues had described him upon his entrance into the hospital when they had refused to work with him. But, she would. Whether it was because she a little self-righteous, or because she was a little wet-behind-the-ears, she was standing there, test results in-hand.

"What ya' got f'r me, doc?" The man inquired in a thick accent she couldn't identify, looking up at her with his unique eyes and coughing slightly in his throat.

Gretchen clenched her teeth and clamped the folder in her hand until her knuckles turned white.

She hated giving bad news.

"I'm very sorry, Mr.-." She glanced at the folder in her hand. "Black." She finished as she moved to flick on the light under the X-rays she had put up. "This is the x-ray we took of your chest." She explained.

"Oh."

"You see the problem?"

"I'm assumin' those blobby t'ings aren't supposed to be there."

"No, they aren't." She tried not to wince as he coughed again, hearing it rattle in his chest. "You smoke?"

"Constantly."

"That's probably where this came from." She went back to inspecting the x-ray.

"Where what came from, doc?" He pressed.

Gretchen winced again.

She hated giving bad news.

"You have small cell lung cancer, Mr. Black." Gretchen finished lamely.

"Well," Remy LeBeau couldn't help but be a little stunned. Though he had known it wasn't going to be good news, he hadn't been expecting that. He spared a moment to be thankful he had gone out of his way to create a new identity and go out of state to find out about this. He didn't want any of them to know he was sick. "Hell."

There was a short pause where Gretchen allowed him to reel and recover.

"Is that different from a regular type of lung cancer?" He inquired after a few moments.

"Small cell is less common and much more aggressive than non-small cell. It spreads faster." Gretchen explained in simple terms regretfully. "Unfortunately, you already have fatal amounts of growth in your lungs."

"Ah." He allowed, a deck of cards finding itself between his fingers being shuffled expertly.

"I would advise seeing an expert, someone who can start you on chemo or radiat-." Gretchen started.

"No." Remy was already half-way through shrugging on his coat.

"What?" Gretchen did a double-take.

"No. Non. Nien. Jok. Nut. Ingeno." Remy repeated in several different languages so as not to be misheard again, already stepping out the door. "Don't want it."

Gretchen stood for a moment like a deer in the head lights at his sudden and gruff departure before she set her chin and stomped out after him.

"Mr. Black!" She called.

Remy kept walking.

"Mr. Black!" She forced her way in front of him.

"Que voulez-vous?" Remy demanded. What do you want?

"Pour sauver la vie!" Gretchen snapped right back, thankful all of the sudden she had picked up French in college. "Mais vous font qu'il est extrêmement difficile, Monsieur Black. Je vous serais reconnaissant si vous avez écouté à moi pour une seconde!" I'm trying to save your life! But you make it extremely difficult, Mr. Black. I would appreciate if you listened to me for a second!

Remy glared at her speculatively for a moment before nodding his consent for her to continue.

"Chemotherapy is nothing to be afraid of," Gretchen started on the patented Doctor 'if we work together, you'll pull through' speech.

Remy snorted unprofessionally, interrupting her.

"Me Tante always taught me t' never speak crossly to a lady, so I'll curb my tongue f'r de moment, but I'll have you know that there are a lot of fine ways t' die. Lyin' in bed, singing 'woe is me' ain't the way I plan t' go."

"Going through therapy doesn't make you a weak person!' Gretchen informed him, struggling to keep up as he started making his way out again.

"Turnin' it down doesn't make y' weak neither." He shot back.

"What about your loved ones?" She tried desperately to find something.

"Won't know." He called over his shoulder.

"So you're just going to allow yourself to die? In nearly constant pain just because you're too stubborn to go through therapy?" She demanded working her way in front of him again.

"Tell me," Remy sneered. "What's the success rate of chemotherapy?"

Gretchen felt herself flush. In between two and four percent of the patients given chemotherapy actually respond positively. But it was better that zero. And it gave hope. It was her understanding that hope was really the only thing that drove the sick to fight.

"When I die," Remy growled, understanding her silence correctly. "It's gonna be on my terms."

Gretchen didn't like the sound of that.

"Please," She scrambled about for a moment; rooting through the papers on the desk she had stopped him next to for pamphlets. Doctors had two things on their side. Pamphlets and big Latin words. "Just consider it." She held out the papers to him.

Remy hesitated a moment before pocketing the papers.

"I'll think about it." He lied.

Gretchen sighed in relief.

"Thank you." She smiled, moving out of his way.

Remy nodded and walked out the door.

-

He sat outside of the Mansion for a good while, straddling his bike and just watching the old place. It really was a beautiful building. It had character. There was a rhythm to it. Even from the outside you could hear the laughter echoing inside, the music thrumming, the screams and shouts and calls of the Xavier Institute that made the place feel like a home. Warm and welcoming.

This was his home. His family was here.

Sighing a heavy, well worn sigh that ended in a cough, Remy dismounted the motorcycle, another one of those bad habits that should have probably killed him, and stalked on up to the door.

"Gambit!" Jamie saw him first, face lighting up as he dropped everything and sprinted up to Remy.

Remy laughed as he picked up the kid and carried him under his arm into the kitchen before planting him on the counter so that they were eye-level.

"Miss me, petit?" He grinned.

"Yeah!" Jamie threw his arms up in to the air before tackling Remy to the ground in a hug.

"Oof!" Remy coughed and laughed at the same time, thinking about how in not too long Jamie was going to sprout up and be too big to tackle anyone with a hug.

He hated that he was going to miss that.

"Where'd you go?" Jamie asked when he gathered himself together.

"Away." Remy grinned.

"I know that." Jamie huffed.

"I think the better question is where has he not been." Piotr Rasputin smiled as he walked in with St. John Allerdyce, both of whom, along with himself, had 'reformed' when the Acolytes had disbanded.

"Why, Petey," Remy gave him a mock-affronted face, holding back a cough behind his clenched teeth. "Are you implying I have been t' some unsavory places?"

"Imply nothin'!" John cackled. "We've 'eard tha stories you've brought home, mate. You might as well be shakin' hands with the devil himself when it comes around to it."

"I suppose that's somethin' else t' consider." Remy muttered under his breath.

"What?" Jamie asked.

"Nothin'." Remy grinned as he righted Jamie and then himself. "Now, could one of you point me in the direction of ma chere, s'il vous plaît."

"She has retired early for sleep." Piotr explained. "It was my understanding that her head seemed to have been bothering her."

Remy nodded to them and dismissed himself, really wanting nothing more at the moment than to see her.

Climbing the stairs, he had a rare moment of emotional turmoil. The feel of the wood railing under his palm was worn with years of use, nearly soft under his rough skin, the contrast of his heat and the cool state of the wood left him a little stunned and confused. Thoughts of every hand that had graced that rail before assaulted him, causing him to look closer and see the old smudges of finger prints and the specific ware on the varnish where the pad of the thumb would hit the rail. Why hadn't he noticed these things before? Why did they seem so important now?

He wrinkled his nose, displeased that he was having these life changing emotions about stair rails.

"Don't have much of a life left." He chuckled bitterly, scaling the rest of the stairs without touching the rail.

His boots hitting the ground made a heavy sound in his ears as he made his way to Rogue's door, wondering what exactly he was going to say to her. He didn't want to talk. He just wanted to be.

He wrinkled his nose again as he knocked on her door and cut off that train of thought. Now wasn't the time to be having philosophical revelations.

"Chere?" He called after a moment, then, not wanting to wake her if she were that far asleep, let himself in.

It was in a moment of confusion that he looked around her empty room, before grinning with understanding and some of his usual impishness.

-

Rogue looked cute in his bed. It was just a fact. She looked out of place and exactly where she belonged all at once curled up in his deep red sheets. The white of her hair spilled across his pillows, contrasting with the dark feel of the room. Her pale skin glowed in the darkness. Her unconscious smile was blissfully unaware.

He allowed his fingers to run through her hair, brushing it out of her face and tucking the locks behind her ear.

He wished she would open her eyes so that he could see them. Speak so that he could hear her. But, she was asleep, and he wasn't going to stir her for something as trivial as his want for companionship. For now, he was content to just watch her sleep. His hand rubbed soothing circles on her arm and across her back while he mumbled words to her, telling her stories of all the things the great Remy LeBeau wanted to do, the future he wanted to have.

"'M sorry, chere," He mumbled to her, catching a cough between his teeth.

Remy wondered why she squared herself away in his room when she was feeling sick. Maybe because she knew he would take care of her when he found her?

So, who was going to take care of her when he was gone?

Remy growled deeply in his throat and drew his hand away from her at this thought.

Who, indeed.

He eased himself away from the bed, pausing momentarily when she stirred, mumbled something incoherent, and snuggled herself back into his pillows.

That was the moment when he considered not leaving.

But, as it is with most things in this world, that moment ended.

He stripped off his jacket and laid it out over the chair, deciding that what he needed right now was a stiff drink and some blood.

He didn't notice the pamphlets he had stuffed into his coat pocket spill out over the floor as he sealed Rogue in the darkness of his room.

"Where're you goin', Gumbo?" Someone growled from behind him.

"Out f'r a drink," Remy turned to grin at Logan. "Care t' join me?" Remy sincerely hoped the man said no. There were times for drinking with buddies, and there were times for drinking alone. He was just going to assume if there were any time for the former, now was it.

Logan smirked at the kid, Gambit having grown on him since his arrival at the Institute. "Nah, I got a Danger Room session to run tonight with the new recruits."

"Ah," Remy grinned, clenching his teeth around a cough.

Logan's gaze became skeptical at the sound of the wheeze in his breath, which he had noted before, but seemed to be more pronounced today.

"You okay, Gumbo?"

"Peachy, Monsieur Claws." Remy attempted to grin at the man, most of his conversation for the day feeling forced and awkward.

"Hmm." Logan didn't seem convinced, but let the subject drop.

"Well, I'll be on my way then." Remy dismissed himself, feeling rather than knowing that Logan watched him all the way down the hall and out the door.

The cool air brushed against his bare arms as he closed the door behind him and for the first time since he had relocated to New York, he embraced the chill. Enjoyed the goose bumps that rose on his skin.

He wrinkled his nose for the third time that day.

He really wasn't liking the whole new perspective on things cancer was giving him.

Hell, he just didn't like cancer.

He looked down at his hands and was not at all surprised to find a deck of cards in one hand and a carton of cigarettes in the other.

"What did I ever do to you little bastards?" He inquired of the tobacco as he tapped out a stick and put it up to his lips, lighting it with a touch of his skin. Turning to walk to the motorcycle still parked in the driveway, he caught his reflection in one of the windows, smoke from the cigarette billowing away from him.

"What?" He asked his reflection. "Y' thought I was gonna stop just 'cause I'm dyin'?"

He shook his head ruefully as he finished his journey to the bike.

"Non." He sighed. "Wouldn't be my style to quit just 'cause death's comin', now would it?"

The motorcycle tore out of the drive way, destination resolute. The helmet and still smoldering cigarette left on the gravel behind.

-

"Gambit?" Piotr called, knuckles rapping lightly on the door to his friend's room, not wishing to disturb the man if he were sleeping or busy. "Remy?" He tried once more before he put his large hand on the door knob, hesitating another second before following the instructions he had always been given by his friend to just walk in whenever he needed to talk.

"Remy?" He repeated as he took a hesitant step in.

Something crinkled under his foot.

He looked down at the papers he had stepped on.

Rogue stirred from where she was curled on Remy's bed, breathing the first cleansing breath of waking. She had had a beautiful dream. Remy had been in it, but then again, he was in most of her good dreams. He had been telling her about the future. Their future. The concept sounded cheesey to her considering she had barely gained control of her mutation, but the idea- the concept of any future at all with someone else, especially Remy, made her wriggle with happiness.

"Remy?" She called out sleepily as she heard movement around her.

"Uh-." Piotr looked up with wide eyes from where he was crouched on the ground, scrambling to collect the papers there. "No, it is not Gambit." He stood, obviously hiding something behind his back. "I was- I was," He stuttered, forgetting why he had come into the room in the first place.

"It's fine." Rogue dismissed drowsily, too tired to notice the unusual awkwardness of the Russian. "Have you seen Remy?" She yawned, wanting to tell him of her dream.

Piotr thought quickly of the papers behind his back and his best friend.

"No." He lied, the falsehood falling from his tongue with remarkable ease for someone who avoided lying like the plague. "He has not returned yet."

"Hmm." Rogue scrunched up her brow. "It's awful late of him to be out, isn't it?"

"Da." Piotr agreed. "I should be going." He backed out of the room, the papers held between his fingers almost burning him.

-

"Hey, mutie." The man to Remy's left snarled, distracting him, not for the first time, away from the bottle of bourbon in front of him. "I asked you a question, you freak."

Remy sighed, coughing.

"I mustuv missed it when I was busy ignoring you." Remy growled.

"I asked you if you had a death wish, you mutant freak!"

A dark smile stretched across Remy's lips as he finished off the bottle in his hands and crushed out the cigarette that had been perched upon his lips under the heel of his boot.

"Y'know," Remy turned to the man for the first time, expertly flipping the bottle from base to neck around in his fingers. "A death wish just may be exactly what I have."

Her brought his arm up and smashed the base of the bottle one the bar, which he knew would end up being the only motive that the natives of that notoriously anti-mutant bar needed to start some trouble.

-

No, he's not gonna die in a bar fight. Would I do that to you? (The answer is 'No', in case you were questioning my love of Remy...) I have a new plan, I tell you! NEW PLAN!

*sniff* Ima go write something funny now. :C You can just blame Valentine's Day.