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In her dreams, Kimiko and Serge are always dancing.
It’s safer in her head. Just like in the old musicals, they waltz down the quiet, empty streets, only the glow of the street lamps lighting their way. In real life, they never stop running—from Supes trying to kill them before the Boys can get to them first, from Butcher’s iron tight grasp around their necks, from herself and her own powers. The powers that feel more like a curse than a gift.
“You’re a miracle,” Serge had once told her as her bones snapped back into place, muscles and tendons reforming into the shape of a girl. But these destructive abilities, this monstrous body, do not feel like a miracle. Not to her. Kimiko knows with her whole heart that he is the miracle. The gentle criminal, always looking out for her, a murderous machine of a woman.
Judy Garland’s smooth alto blares from the laptop, drowning out the beeps of hospital machines. Kimiko turns to him nestled next to her in the bed, and it dawns on her that this is not a dream. This is so real, and he’s here with her, watching Girl Crazy on a laptop in a Brooklyn hospital, and not even the eyesore of the fluorescent lights reflecting off of the linoleum floors can make him look any less beautiful.
Serge feels her eyes on him. He turns to face her, the tips of their noses so close they nearly touch. So close, like they always are, dancing around one another.
“Mon coeur?” he asks, flashing her a small, curious smile. “Ca va?”
A beat of silence. Her eyelashes flutter closed, brushing his cheekbone, before her lips press against his.
She can feel how stunned he is. It only makes her lean in more, kissing him softly, because finally, finally. Kimiko had not been ready to receive Serge’s love when Kenji died, not in this way. Now it’s all she wants, all she can think about until it drives her mad with desire in the late hours of the night. His mouth on hers is enough to soothe the dull ache in her gut from where Soldier Boy attacked her, all sweetness and the lightness and warmth blooming in her chest like a garden.
Kimiko pulls away. Serge can’t meet her eyes, looking up into the corner of the room, mouth twisted in an adorably confused way.
“I think I need café,” he blurts. “You want café?”
She shakes her head and smiles, reaching her hands up to frame his face. The soft scratch of his stubble, the curve of his cheeks under her thumbs. He freezes again, this time finally looking into her eyes. Serge’s are moony and cartoonish, so wide she feels like she could fall into them and never reach the bottom.
Kimiko pulls back to sign, “Stay here. Please.”
He exhales shakily, warm on her face. “Oui,” he whispers. She reaches down for his hands, framing them between her palms as though to keep him warm.
“You’re trembling,” she signs. “Are you okay?”
Serge's laugh is breathless. “Oui. That’s…”
He pauses, turns over his palm, and picks up her hand, holding it to his chest. His heart beats furiously, a Jack Rabbit bounding through a field. “That’s what you do to me, mon coeur.”
Pink colours her cheeks. “Was that okay? Did you not want me to-”
“No no no, mon coeur!” Serge frantically interjects, clutching her free hand in his. “I…pardonne-moi, Kimiko. I just didn’t expect it. My mind got away from me for a second. But I always, always want you.”
A smile stretches across her face, and a match strikes behind her eyes. “Really?”
“Bien sur,” he affirms, heart still pounding beneath her palm. “I wanted you to come to me first. But it’s always been you. Je t’ai-”
He halts himself, and the words get stuck in his throat. But it’s too late, because he’s taught her enough French for her to know what he was going to say. His cheeks flush a flustered red, but she simply smiles and watches his face light up as she lifts her hand, curls down her middle and ring fingers into a sign. I love you.
“Je t’aime, mon belle coeur,” he beams, brighter than any light some Supe could cast. “De tout mon être.”
This time, they meet in the middle. Serge’s hand cups her face, tender as he strokes his thumb across her skin. Hands that have held an arsenal of weapons, been stained red with the blood of enemies—just like hers—now soft and pliant against her, communicating to her with his touch that everything was going to be alright.
She may have lost her powers, maybe just for a short while, maybe forever. But here, in the blue and white hospital bed with Serge’s hands and lips on her, she’s the strongest she’s ever been.