Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Another shirt on the bed. and another. and a small pile of pants all around on the floor. The things that fit, he doesn't like. Or, they don't fit well. Not like the way they should, anyway. Like how they used to.

So, here's another pair of pants, the need for a shirt currently put aside it would seem. These he used to love, strange that he's forgotten where they were for so long. They feel so restrictive coming up- but that's alright, they was always tight in the thigh. "Skinny jeans" and all that. Then with just a little more effort then he remembers needing, they're over the ass and...

They won't close.

But...? No, no. No, if he just pulls real hard and squeezes just right and sucks it in a little, maybe the lips of each hem will at least kiss. Right? They don't even have to button- he'd be happy just to have this... This one, little thing. So he gives one more good, solid pull.

He gives up soon after.

A kiss? Pah- more like a restraining order.

Gambit's arms, thick with muscle, drop to his side. They're far too tired from wrestling with garment after garment in the mirror. He used to love this pair, that he remembers well. Would wear them near everyday, as a mater of fact- Now it feels like he's lucky just to have gotten them up to his ass.

Where oh where has it all gone wrong... Things were so fine, so perfect when you two finally made it. After all the hardships and the differences and the figuring out, you finally made it. You were ready. He was ready. Ready for the long road. Ready for the big commitment.

More then ready- for one girl. Forever.

He can remember every detail from your wedding together- from your flowers to your makeup and hair and dress. The weather the time the songs the food they served the name of the venue- He's still got the suit he wore, you know. Anyone but you would've called it an eyesore, but it was far too him for you to have complained- perfect enough for your perfect day, on that merit alone. It's somewhere in this house, packed away in all this mess...

But he wouldn't dare try to look for it now.

Wouldn't look at it, wouldn't hold it up, and God forbid- wouldn't try it on.

No, he's far too terrified of what he'll be faced with for that. For the reality. The situation he's put himself into. The disappointment. It's a pain he cannot bear- Not lately.
Especially not when it's such a dear memory so closely tied to you.

All that was years ago... Your wedding day. Sure you've gotten a little older. A little different here and there. But to him, you are always just the same. Just as gorgeous. Just as perfect. It's so unfair- You're the same now as when he first saw you, on that hot and humid day down in New Orleans. And when he went on that first, fancy date with you after weeks and weeks of trying to convince you. And when he proposed. And when you said yes. And when you got your first house together, and-

But him? Oh, he's changed alright. Just not nearly as gracefully. He used to be so lean and hard when you were dating. Always the same. Always handsome and fit. He was thief, a street rat. What was he if not limber and agile and tight? It was an achievement. A prize that had him winning in the game of life. He had something back then that every man wanted.

Wolverine was a little too bulky.

Cyclops and Kurt way too skinny.

But him? He was always perfect. The right amount of everything- They all knew it, the ladies too. Deep down, he always knew. It was obvious. Obvious enough that he didn't have to pretend to be so confident. So self assured and self absorbed.

Not like the way he has to now.

And wouldn't you know... It worked. Of course it did. He had so much attention. So many women. He could get anyone he wanted, because when all it was down to was his body versus another's- he was every bit the superior.

For a long time, he figured that was just what he'd won you over with. He had looks in the face and a body he knew you wanted to touch, and well... The rest is history. Sure, you would try to tell him it wasn't about that, but that's just how things were between you two. Always kidding. Always teasing, playfully taking the other down a peg.

He knew you didn't mean it when you said that.

It was the same thing when you'd tell him he wasn't taking care of himself. That he didn't eat well, or enough. "A cigarette isn't breakfast", you say. "A glass of whiskey isn't dinner", you say. But he'd only do those things once in a while- So it was fine, wasn't it? Like he said, all jokes. Just teasing.

Until... You got married. Then it was out with the old, in with the new. A new life. New habits. A new him.

Hell, he was so happy... He'd have brought you the moon, if only you'd ask. He still would, too.

Anything to make you happy. Anything that would earn him just a little more of your favor. He'd eat around you, just to keep you appeased. The both of you were living together now, there soon became no excuse to not eat what you'd give him. No excuse to live like a bachelor, and eat like shit- if at all. Not even an excuse to eat lean and calculated protein diets, like the damn X-Men wanted him to. That life was over, and all he remembers is... You were so, so happy. Just to be with him. Just to see him. Just to wake up each morning to these black and red eyes that landed him in the streets, and to go to bed each night listening to the amplified snores out of this big, proud, French nose.

You were finally married. Living together full time. Having every meal together. Every spare moment together. When he was so happy- he forgot all about what he looked like. What he felt like. What did it matter? He was married to the love of his life. He was free at last, never having to worry about ending up alone. So what did he care? He ate a little more- but he could still be the same. He could still wear his clothes and count a few ribs and when you touched his body he had abs to show you and veins and tendons and bones sticking out all over- You like the kind of stuff... right? He always thought so, at least. Why else were you with him, if not?

But somewhere along the way, he started to slip-

He wasn't thinking about what he was and wasn't eating. He wasn't paying attention to when he'd need or receive new or bigger clothes. Maybe here and there it would bother him... But you never treated him any different. Never stopped wanting to be with him or close to him. Never stopped being intimate. Never commented much at all on his looks, save to call him handsome or some such.

Nothing had changed between him and you- and that was all that mattered to him.

For a time, anyway.

Gambit continues to stare blankly at the mirror before him. Palms open, he runs his hand up his torso- from the waistband of his ill fitting pants, over his belly, to just bellow the lumps of his pectorals. The skin tenses as he pulls it up, returning with a gentle bounce when he lets go. He can't even see all the complex, intricate veins and tendons on the back of his hands anymore- His abs are long gone, and all those sinewy, thick veins too.

He's left with a shadow of his collar bone, a blanket over his once sharp, taught jawline and a wealth of pink, itching stretchmarks not quite through with the process of fading to white. They lace up his hips and his stomach and thighs, and if he looks too closely there's even one or two eking out from the sides of pecs-

And all he can think about, is how they never used to be there at all.

Forget the X-Men for a moment- Being a professional thief keeps you in a certain shape all in its own right, especially when you're running with the Guild. Toned but sleek. Streamline but buff. Hell, even when he finally did trade that life for the X-Men, things hardly changed. A little more muscle for the ladies, but not enough to cause him any damage. Quite the opposite, really-

And look at him now, huh?

Gambit turns a little to the side, just enough to get a good look as he flexes his thick arm. All at once as he does so, as though shocked with a stimulating current, the soft fat immediately gives way- Nowhere near as sharp as he'd like, but the entire extremity hardens and shapes. A few shallow lines and dents appear in the flesh, all showing off the magnificently impressive muscles hiding below the surface.

He could split firewood with his bare hands in a body like this- but what use is strength to him at the steep cost of his looks? At the cost of his abs? At the cost of his superhuman agility? At the cost of all the things that he's certain drew you to him to begin with. Those are the things that made him who he was. They defined him, and indeed they still do- They are what allow him to earn your love, after all.

And so without them...

With a deep sigh, Gambit relaxes his arm. Looking back in the mirror and to the long faded stretch marks marring his triceps, he can't help but remember- These were the first. The first, and perhaps the only ones he could tolerate. Who doesn't want bigger biceps, after all? These were but a small toll to pay for that larger goal. Thick muscles to show off all his hard work and training, after all- but Then... Then came all the rest.

He looks back down to his hips and belly. From this angle, he can best see the gentle furrows, the wrinkles, these scars of his carelessness have given him.

Wrinkles... at his age? Who indeed would want that-

"Remy! Are you coming?", you call up, laughing lightly, from somewhere downstairs.

Gambit snaps out of his nightmare, calling back a knee jerk response, "I'm comin'! I'm comin'...", he calls, then sighs.

Even from here, the smell of fresh breakfast wafts through the air. Between the two of you, and with a little training at the start from you to him, this house sees plenty of cooking. He loves to tease that you never make the food spicy enough, and he will all day long if you let him. If anyone else asked, however, he'll be quick to supply the truth- He loves your food. Besides, the simple fact that you'd go through that kind of trouble to make sure he's fed to begin with makes everything taste all the better, he thinks. No ones ever loved him like that before.

Gambit shucks the ill fitting jeans and trades them for whatever it is he was wearing to bed. He doesn't even bother checking the mirror to think about what to match them with- instead he grabs a sweater from the closet beside him. This sweater was his go to back when he was first starting to lose his abs. Just something big and baggy to hide away in- only until he could get his body back and all, of course.

Nowadays it clings to him far more then he would like.

Remy takes a deep breath, sucking it in as he straightens down the front of his top. Whatever you've got prepared, he's not sure he's willing to wait any longer- His stomach growls gruffly at the distant promise of food after a night of being empty.

Either hand already bracing his torso, Gambit clicks his tongue, muttering at the organ, "Now you hush"

With a huff, he lets go of his body and turns to take the long trek downstairs. The felted fabric rubs against his skin with each trot down the steps, itching uncomfortably against his scars, newer and older, and the trail of hair down below. It itches and jostles- and it makes him sick, just at the thought of himself.

They cloud his head all the way down, until he turns the corner... and the refreshing surprise of your lips on his clear the noise away. Caught off guard, a blissful groan escapes from him to you and the wash of peace is almost enough to distract him from your hands resting on his stomach. In your defense, he knows it's not your fault- It's only for balance on account of having to lean up and now over, too, to reach him.

Gambit sighs again, only this time without the joy of the first one. He remembers a time when your hands went to his chest when you kissed- He could pull you flat against his abs, get that little rush when you'd reach up on the tips of your toes to kiss him. Now he has no choice but to lean forward or be pulled in to meet you half way if he wants just one of said kisses.

You give his waist a welcoming few scratches and steal another kiss. Gambit takes your hands in his, holding them gently but firmly enough to ensure you cease such ministrations. He massages the back of your hands instead and anoints you with a kiss for forgiveness. There's something about your nails on the thin skin of his scars, even through his clothes, that scratch those old itches so, deliciously right.

He wonders if you know what it does to him. The relief. The comfort. The intimacy- He figures you must. After all, you're too sharp for him. Too attuned to his moods. To his subtle sounds and gestures and looks. Besides, he's none to proud of the noises that little move has gotten from him whenever he was too tired to know better. If that wasn't a give away, he's not sure what would've been.

Looking up with nothing but that sweet, sweet smile you let him hold your hands between the two of you.

"Mornin' ta you too, Cher"

You laugh, "I was starting to think you weren't coming"

"Aw, you know Gambit never miss a meal a' yours darlin", he squeezes your hands once more and nuzzles you with a playful growl- if only to disguise the petulant rumbling of his stomach.

The eggs and all are still warm when at last you both sit. You eat in a comfortable silence, a small but essential detail to married life. Strange, he never thought about the comforts of something as small as having someone to eat each meal with would offer... but he now knows it's one he wouldn't want to live without.

As always, the food is tasty and satisfying. He scarfs it down a little faster then he wants to, just to get his guts to be silent. You return his play of events with a curious glance, "Would you slow down? No one's going to take it from you, baby"

Your attempt at lighthearted teasing is far too overshadowed by the notes of concern within your own voice. In truth, it's not the speed that concerns you- no, you're used to him being a good, strong eater. It's the subtle things. The way he stabs the food a little too aggressively. The way he continues to huff bitterly through his nose.

It's not that he's not enjoying his meal- the satisfied little sighs after every other mouthful or so tells you that. It's more like... like he just wants to get this out of the way.

Odd... That's not like him.

As soon as you speak up, the strange mood seems to lift. He tries to smile and blow a compulsory huff of laughter and apology. He slows down, but that's not the change you were looking to help with. Still, it'll do you suppose. You shake the interaction out of your head and go back to your meal. When you've cut all that needs cutting upon your plate, you reach out to hold his hand while you eat- as you always do. You both enjoy quietly, with the occasional small talk around mouthfuls of food, as you always do. And when he's finished fighting with his meal, you offer him the remainder of what you couldn't finish from yours, just as you always do.

Gambit looks from his plate to yours, a guilty twinge coming over his thoughts. He makes a habit to never get enough food for himself- it feels far too incriminating to just outright take the amount he'd really like to have. It's an odd habit you think. And indeed, you know he does it- but still, one you've come to adapt to anyway. To compensate, you always take a little more for yourself then you know you can eat and give the intentional leftovers to him. He's never complained before- and after a while, it's now simply become habit.

The uncomfortable gnaw of a not quite satisfied stomach aches at him. It's almost like a pain. A wound. He can feel it, and the temptation to patch it up is so, so obtainable... He leans forward no more then a hair, just barely into the commitment of accepting your offer, only...

A half empty stomach may feel bad- but not quite as terrible as the way this shirt feels clinging around the paunch in his lap.

Gambit sniffs, twitching his aquiline nose sharply- a quick and clever disguise over the flash of a sneer he makes at himself, "Uh, no t'anks mama- Gambit not hungry"

He leaves you no room to question his choice- instead, he rises taking his and your plates with him to the sink. Any suspicions you would pose, are shut down with a grateful kiss to your forehead before he walks off. With an unreadable expression, you watch him scrape the food off your plate and down the sink.

Strange, you've never seen him turn you down before...

But you give your head a little shake to clear it. Perhaps he really is just full. No need to think too hard- You sigh to yourself and get up to help. On your way to clear the stove, you lay a hand across his back as thanks. After all, if there were an issue, you're sure he would tell you.

Right?

Breakfast passes and the dishes are done. The dissatisfaction of his stomach turns from mere annoyance, back to hunger, in a matter of hardly an hour. He tells himself he isn't hungry over and over and over again... but the success rate is low indeed. So instead, there he stands before the washer and dryer- burying himself in chores to distract from his woes.

In a set of real clothes at last, Gambit pulls out a shirt of his and gives it a snap before finding a hanger to put it on. He grumbles and hikes up his jeans yet again before leaning back down for the next article. Really, he grows weary of this room. Of this chore- This is just the place when he started to really take notice of how bad things were getting for himself, after all.

Now, he'll never forget.

Doing his own laundry. Hanging up his own jeans. Only to think to himself... There was no way these could be his. He'd always had a boxy waist, true enough. But only proportionately. Only in that it never cut in much from the width of his ribs. Even so- he was always slim. Slim enough that he's certain he'd never see pants of his that could be this wide.

But, they had to be- They were all like that, after all. Every single one in the wash, all roughly the same size as the last. Even now, he wishes he could choose not to believe it. He snaps the pants out and holds them aloft, inspecting them until he can no longer stand to look at them in full. He holds them closer and rolls apart the front and back of the waistband. On the back tag, he has only to read the inches starting with "4" before he winces.

He remembers when all his pants started with a low 3-somethng. Even just that difference was far more preferable to the 40s he's holding now.

Once, a while ago, the idea had entered his head that perhaps he was merely remembering wrong. He'd always been boxy, was he ever really that small in the waist? After all, he still had old clothes stored up somewhere... Where were those? He just wanted to see... Call it peace of mind, if you will.

Maybe he was remembering wrong- Surely that was all.

He remembers cutting out from the laundry room that day, the perfect time to do this without your notice. He remembers scuttling up to the attic, digging through all the boxes and boxes of old shit that he always told you he'd get around to getting rid of, but never did- He remembers he was so determined to be right. So sure that he hadn't let things get all too bad. He just needed to see that things hadn't changed as much as he thought.

Yes... That would do. That would appease him. It would soothe his ego enough for now before he made work towards shedding the weight. Towards getting back on track.

And when he finally found that box he was looking for... All he remembered, was how his blood ran cold.

Not quite a pair of pants, but there was that shirt- The one he'd wear under his armor, for compression and a tad of extra protection. It was a special weave, meant to supplement the suit he wore on the outside. And when he held it up, all those months ago...

It felt like a garment for a child.

It hadn't been washed. Hadn't shrunk. It was perfectly preserved up here with all the rest, and yet... What more was there to say? After such a crushing blow as that- He hadn't the heart to keep digging through the old clothes. No, his next move was to package it up in defeat and let you give it all away. He didn't even want the possibility of a reminder.

To this day, he still doesn't quite remember what those old pants of his used to measure. And further still- He's not sure he wants to.

That was about 4 months ago.

Tonight, Gambit braces his hands on the bathroom sink, leaning in close to the mirror before him. He clears a circle in the residual steam from his shower to take a good long look at his face. A swath of stubble has overtaken his jaw and chin. Normally this is admittedly of little interest to him- After all, the women always loved a little scruff, who cared if it wasn't perfectly shaped up all the time?

But, that was back when he couldn't see the underside of his jaw while looking straight on. Back when he didn't have this ghost of a double chin- Back when he actually had a nice jawline to give the hair some shape. Now? He feels like just another disheveled slob.

It's always a battle choosing. To shave or not to shave? And even then- how much is too much, or too little? He hates the way it grows down to his throat, but so too does he despise the way being perfectly clean shaven highlights that puffy, baby look his cheeks have come to possess. With a practiced flick, Gambit opens his straight edge and decides to get to work. Now that he's thinking about it, he doesn't want to have to look this long at himself for a while...

Maybe shaving down completely is for the best.

With long strokes of the razor, soon enough he falls into habit again. Gambit watches his hand for a little, before growing bored. His eyes flick back up in the mirror, making contact with his own reflection. His eyes, black with all but glowing rings of red, stare back at him. They look so, so tired... To think, these were the very things that got him put out by his own parents. Dumped in the streets and on the fringes of society ever since.

It was different enough to be noticed, but never so much so that it scared off the masses too bad. He was... unique, sure. But he never thought of himself much as a monster. To claim such a title would be laughable at best and distasteful at worst with the likes of Hank and Kurt around, but... Now? Now he thinks about it all the time. What else is there to call himself? Big and ugly and nothing like how he used to be not but a few years back-

Now, he looks more the part. The disgusting creature all those anti mutant mobs want to make people like him, like mutant kind as a whole, out to be. His limbs are thick and muscular, his body heavy set now that it's filled out to it's potential. Like he could cause some real damage if he wanted. Like he could rip through rebar or punch through rocks- like he could be scary. Dangerous, even, only now you can see it with but the assistance of his discolored eyes, instead of getting caught off guard by the surprise and might of his powers.

It doesn't feel good.

It doesn't feel earned or empowering or brag worthy... To be so big. So strong. So intimidating to look at.

It feels like it makes him ugly. Like he doesn't deserve someone as gorgeous and perfectly normal as you. Like he doesn't deserve the food he eats, or the clothes he wears, or the tender affections you lie and bestow upon him.

Gambit turns his head this way and that, inspecting the shave job. He runs a hand from his chin to his throat, feeling the soft little slope of skin disguising the bone beneath it, then eyes the expected outcome- those puffy baby cheeks and that soft jaw on full, glistening display. With that same long gaze, he watches the man in the mirror. His eyes are lost, scanning all over at the imperfections. God, he could stand here all night picking himself apart- Which makes him at least a little thankful to be rescued by your voice.

You call him out of the bathroom, urging him to come to bed at last. Remy sighs, reaching tiredly for one of many vaguely baggy shirts that he's regulated to a pj top.

"Comin", he calls back, pulling the shirt over his mostly dry body and trudging out the door.

The two of you exchange greetings and small talk for a decent while- but it's not until the conversation hits that sweet spot, the one where he knows you're going to lean in to wind down. The part where you're going to reach over to touch him. To try and cuddle. This past week, he's done a masterful job of evading this little part.

Although... Not because he wants to, per say.

It's because he must.

He's done so much to try and hide himself from you. Only he can know how far he's let himself go. Only he can be allowed the sting of being faced with the fact that he is no longer the man you married. The Remy you knew was svelte and trim and the most handsome man around. If you knew how much different he was, how really different- There's not a doubt in his mind that you'd come to hate him. To reject him-

Just as he hates and rejects himself.

What good is he to you like this? An embarrassment- That's what.

You continue on with your sentence, blissfully unaware of the turmoil in his mind, as your hand reaches out to rest on his dense body. Ever the clever mind, Gambit yawns and stretches big. He doesn't interrupt your little speech- but he does turn to his side and lay down. Away from you.

He pulls the blanket up, and hums along to show at least some degree of engagement with the things you say. But even so- it pains him to hear that drop of disappointment in your voice. He thinks again, maybe a little glance over his shoulder to at least look at you while you talk. Not good enough, it would seem.

With a barely disguised frown, you lay down on your own side too, watching his back dejectedly as you finish up your closing thought.

"Are you, uh... tired, then?"

Gambit turns over his shoulder once, then twice, as though your statement surprises him, "Hm? Oh, uh- yeah. Sorry cherie, Gambit have a long day, das' all"

You hum and nod, more to yourself then anything else. Gambit shoots you a small smile, doing wonders to conceal the guilt pounding inside him. With nothing left to be said, you wish him a good night... and click off the light.

Chapter Text

For a long while, you lay awake in the darkness. A few times you check over to your husband as he lays there facing away. You sigh silently, and pull the blankets up around you thoughtfully. He has just been acting so strange lately... You're not sure what to make of it, but it's driving you insane.

All you can do for it is over think and worry. Sudden change in appetite. Gone is his normally boisterous attitude. He doesn't want to be touched... Did you do something wrong?

The freezing cold bites into you- even through the blankets, you can't help but shrivel up and shiver. Normally in a situation like this, you'd work your way under his arm and cuddle up on your own, bu- Then, it strikes you.

Perhaps this is just the opportunity you need to get him talking. He always used to love when you'd curl up with him- Something he said more with his heartbeat and gentle sighs then anything else.

"Remy!", You whisper urgently.

He doesn't respond to your call, but you're not too sure he's asleep either. It's something about the way he's breathing... You think nothing of it, sliding up until you're hugging his back with an arm wrapped over his body. Not ideal, but if you don't get a little closer soon, you're sure to start trembling from the cold.

Gambit grunts and twitches at your touch, almost as though the contact itself stings him. He rolls onto his stomach, just out of your touch. With a sleepy, indignant groan, he at least turns his head to regard you as he mutters, "Whatchu want woman?"

"Sorry, I know you're tired but... Can I get in there? I'm freezing!", you whisper urgently, but before he can respond, you see fit to prove your cause of need. Slipping an ice cold finger up his shirt, a practice you know he hates- you trust this will persuade him.

As can be expected, Gambit hisses and recoils. The deathly chill of your hands doesn't bother nor surprise him nearly as much as it used to- but even so, the shock of it never quite goes away.

Remy swats your hand away, "Merde!", he yelps, "You know, you can just say you's cold and Gambit believe you, huh?"

"Aw, but that's not nearly as fun", you almost pretend to pout, but can't help but laugh.

Gambit rolls his eyes and groans, "Hows about Gambit get you another blanket, den you leave him be-", he ask the question rhetorically, then starts to get up before you can either respond or else torture him further.

"Wait! Wait-", mid rise, you stop him, "I'm sorry, I just... I was just hoping we could talk?"

And just like that... His heart drops. Talk? Oh no... No no, he's too late. You've found him out. He didn't hide it well enough. He didn't lose weight fast enough. You're disgusted with him. He knows. You've had enough. You don't want him anymore. Is that what this is?

Yes or no, it doesn't matter- He's already convinced himself it is.

Gambit drops to a sitting position with a defeated thump, his back perfectly squared off to you. Then, oh so slowly... He turns. Tears stream from black eyes as he sneaks a look at your face.

The tears are what strike you the most- You've known him for so many years, and yet you think you could count on just one hand the amount of times you've seen the cool and tough Remy LeBeau cry.

"Remy...? What's wron-?", confused and a little afraid, you reach out to him. To your surprise, he turns to face you more instead of jerking away.

"Don' try ta' spare Gambit's feelin's cher- Jus' say what you needa say", he looks at you intently, pitifully, as the water streams down his freshly shaven cheeks.

"Wha-? Well I wanted to talk about you-!"

All at once, what little of a façade he's made breaks. This is it- He's sure of it. A shuddering breath and barely choked back sob wracks his body.

Weakly, Gambit slides a callused paw across the sheets, covering your hand with his as he looks you pleadingly in the eye, "L-listen... Please don't", he begs, a shaky breath only interrupted by a gasp of a sob, "Gambit know- alright? But he gon' fix dis, ok? I-it ain't too late, non? Ah' can lose the weight, ah' promise-", he prays and bargains, petitioning for just a little more time before you discard him. And for the life of him, he tries to give that old, confident smile... But as soon as he says those damned, cursed words of acknowledgment- He faulters.

One big hand snaps up to hide his face. A good thing too- he wouldn't want you to see the worst of his disgusting crying on top of it. The mattress itself jolts in unison with his gasps until after just a moment, he's collected himself enough for just one more appeal.

With all the weight of the world on his shoulder. The pain like a life long love lost. A pitiful whine, like his voice itself is set to break. He looks you in the eye once more from his slumped, beaten position, and it's all he can manage just to beg, "Please... don' leave me..."

All you can do is sit in stunned silence- Gambit picks up your hand with his great paw, rubbing your knuckles against his smooth cheek comfortingly as he weeps. And you?

You haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about.

"...Leave you? What gave you that idea?", you ask a little more indignantly then you meant to.

Gambit clicks his tongue and jerks his head, "Like you gotta ask- Ah' just said!", he sniffs, and tries to pull himself together for a little while more, "You can't say dis da Gambit you marry- Why'd you wanna be wit me, lookin' like dis, when skinny Gambit were the one you love first?"

His words hang in the air for a long quiet while... Truly, you don't mean to make him wait. It's only that you need the time even to hope to make sense of what he's saying.

"You think that matters to me?", this time, you ask it softly, returning your hand to his cheek with a gentle caress. Your thumb glides over the skin, pulling and pushing, driving a small divot into the pillowy flesh with each stroke. It didn't use to do that. There was a time once where you swear you could nearly feel the difference between each tooth behind those once shallow, taught cheeks...

But this is just one of many tiny, subtle changes you've come to love on him.

Before he can whip up a response, you tilt his head straight- prime for a kiss.

His lips have always been soft and full, but you must admit, you've come to adore the pouty tilt these cheeks give them. There's such a way about them- so much more then something as paltry as being sultry or merely attractive.

It's the way they embrace you and yours. The feeling like fabric as they contact any other patches of your skin. Warm and enveloping and gentle, like they were made just to clothe you in adoration. It's the texture. Not quite callused, but not perfectly smooth either- For when they kiss you this deeply, you can feel the little dents and chafes inside from where he bites and chews them.

It's the color and the shape, that perfect blush of pink and the sharp cupid's bow on top. They're tanned that same, reddish sunburn as the rest of him- but it's the little points where the skin pinches that gives them such an enticing contrast as this from the rest of his face. Like a magnet. Like a siren's song. It draws you to them and to him like an irresistible, forbidden art.

When you kiss those lips, it's as though they alone could wash all the world away. You get lost in the connection. The rapturing pull of this magnificent man- just as so many before you have too. Your thumbs stroke his puffy cheeks and you dare push into him just a little bit more... And with closed eyes and senses full, even still, you can't help but grapple with the confusion of it all.

Why on earth would he think such things as you leaving? As having lost your love for him? How- when every time you're together, after all you've seen and been through with one another? When after all these years... he has the power still to make you feel like this.

And as you think these thoughts.

And feel these things.

Gambit sits across from you- Eyes open. Heart calm. And feels... nothing.

He watches you kiss him, merely receiving, until you're finished. This is all an act... A performance, from you for him. He knows a con when he sees one- You think you can fool the master himself? No, he knows the truth.

You want only to cushion the blow. To stave off his suspicions a little longer. Just one long kiss and an even longer 'I love you' to convince him that you're not overcome with disgust. That you can't stand the sight of him. That you hate the changes his body has taken. The wrinkles, the scars, the rounded curves, the weight of it-

Two disheveled tears streak down from either black eye as you pull away. He sniffs and shakes his head deftly, words reflecting his thoughts, "No..."

"-No?", your voice overlaps his, nearly defeating his efforts to drown out the memory of just how must he delights in your token affections.

Gambit shakes a little harder and pulls away. He dare not let himself believe- How is he supposed to be ready for things to end, when he's so easily swayed as this by your touch and kiss?

"No", he insists.

The cold light of your bedside lamp reflects tiredly off of his dark eyes. All the time, as the seconds slip by, you can see him shutting you out. He looks away, setting a vice grip to your chest- a panic over your heart. How long has he been feeling these thoughts, you wonder. Worse yet, what can you possibly say to combat and dispel the words he seems so bent on believing?

Slowly, you take a breath. And you slide your hand across the sheets. Your fingers lace over and between his own, and you thank above that it's enough to grab his attention.

The desperation for reassurance proves too great. His commitment to believing you'd abandon him too weak. One more chance... He lets his gaze drift back to you.

You give his hand a squeeze. One more chance.

"Do you remember... way way back, when we first met?", you start off slowly, checking to see if he'll follow. For now, he does, "We could barely stand to be in the same room together, things were so rough", you huff a laugh, but make sure to keep going. "I thought you were so coarse and full of yourself- though I'm sure you felt some type of way about me too. We all thought that was just how it was going to be, right? That we, you and I, were too different to even just be friendly"

"... Ah' remember"

"Well, do you remember that one day... the day we were out and it was absolutely pouring, right out of nowhere it felt like! I was so upset, my hair was getting ruined and silly stuff like that- and I thought for sure you were just going to laugh and keep walking past me", you pause the weight of the memory reaching even you, "Then... The funniest thing happened- You took off that huge, heavy duster and held it over my head for me. Just for a little while, until we got inside. Do you remember that?"

He gives a small smile of his own at the memory, the first of its kind all night, "Yeah- Just din wanna hear you squallin' all day"

You laugh with him, "Well-", and give a playful shove, "After that, I got to thinking... maybe, just maybe, there was a refined gentleman in there after all"

Gambit gives a true, hearty laugh at that- almost strong enough to forget why he was crying, "You make it sound like it weren't obvious from da start", he sniffs, not sure where all this is going... And yet, "So what happen next?"

"Well... Once I realized that maybe I was wrong, that you might not be the heartless, selfish criminal I had made you out to be in my head... Then I got a chance to pick up on all the nicer things about you. Things I liked. Pieces that I could get along with", your hand glides up from his hand and along the steel like beam of his supporting arm- back and forth, your knuckles graze the thin thatch of red hairs covering his bicep, tickling the skin.

Nervously, Remy shoots a glance down. Your hand is on the outside of his arm. The good part. The side with all muscle and studly hairs and his reddish burn of a tan- It's the handsome side. The perfect foil to the pale, soft, stretched skin on the ugly, inner half.

"And once I did that... I saw things like a good, strong, loyal man. And how you can be fun, and loud, and brash in public, but when it was just the two of us, you were quiet, and down to earth... A good listener. A caring attitude. Maybe a little arrogant, but the more I got to know you- the closer you let me get... Even that was charming"

He makes no moves towards either coming nor drawing you closer, but you can't resist sliding just a bit nearer yourself to his great warmth. Your hand drops from his arm, and something like disappointment seizes over his heart- replaced in nigh an instant with tension as your opposing hand lands on his thick, padded thigh.

"You gave me the chance to fall in love with who you were- not just what you looked lik-"

Gambit shakes his head and interrupts, "Das the problem cher- You did love Gambit how he was, so for how he look too, non? Looks matter, whether you wanna say so or not, so how can you say you love Gambit still?", he gestures to his body, indeed the big, strong, soft one you now rest your hand on.

"Easily-", you give his leg a pointed squeeze, "I can love you when you were thin. I can love you the way you are now. And I have loved you at every stop in between- Don't you see?", your voice softens as you lean in close. Closer and closer all the time, fractions of an inch as the long seconds pass. Your free hand leaves your side, coming to rest on his broad chest-

"It's because- I don't just love the outside... I love you for what's in here most of all. The way you make me feel. The way you talk. The way you act. The way you think. That's the Gambit I love, and nothing out here is going to change my mind", a wave of emotion chokes your voice, the pleading written well within your eyes.

How oh how can you make him understand... Is there a right set of words? A perfect gesture? A fonder memory? What if he never sees what you mean- could this one thing, a lone insecurity as this, truly go on to tear down the years you've built together?

You sniff, the stress eating away at your chest. So you take comfort- Your hand slides down from chest to stomach, warm and soothing and piercing, the kind that at times can abate even the greatest of your woes.

Lately, he can't stand when you touch him there.

It's his greatest insecurity- Round and saggy and soft, it sits in his lap all the time now, like a bag of mashed potatoes and just about as good looking as one to boot. Its a burden, a curse, on his mind that has only poisoned his emotions more and more as the months have worn on. And yet... he cannot bring himself to remove you, as he so typically does.

A part of him knows this contact brings you comfort, though he may be old and grey before he ever understands why.

Remy lays one big hand over yours, holding it in it's chosen place on his body. Your fingers are like ice- no surprise, really. He's known you long enough to know that they always are this time of year.

He never told you, perhaps never will, but... back when the two of you were younger. When he was... thinner. On nights like this, he got it in his head to tap into his powers just a little bit. Just enough to charge up his body to produce some more heat- all in the interest of keeping you warm on a cold winter's night.

What a silly thing to do- A pathetic, misuse of his powers. Were his unmarried self ever to hear of his present self doing such a thing, he has no doubt the old Remy would fall to the floor in laughter. In mockery. He could've grabbed you a blanket. He could've turned on the heat. But no- No, even when all was said and done at the altar, when you were his and he was yours then and forever. He was still so set on impressing you, even then...

To see your joy, was his joy- and so it has been ever since.

With his free hand, he thumbs away a stray tear from your cheek and leans in to plant a kiss.

He hasn't had to do a trick like that warming thing in quite some time, given his... current state. You were never left disappointed. Never cold. Never unsatisfied. And-

And... Thinking back now, it reminds him. He can't recall a time you didn't love him-

Then.

And now.

And every stop inbetween.

For as long as he can remember. For as long as you've been together. You've always loved him just the same. Without judgment. Without contempt. With all of you... for all of him.

Gambit rests his forehead against yours tiredly. The tip of his sharp nose tickles yours as he sniffs, the slow drip of a tear or two falling straight down to your lap. He sighs deeply, thoughts troubled by the internal fight. What's a man to do when his ideals no longer align with the reality? For so long he's feared you no longer loved him, and now...

Now he doesn't know what to think.

His breath hitches in his throat, heaving a lone sob, "Oh darlin'... How you still love Gambit when he don' even like he self?"

"Because... You've given me every reason to. All this time. All these years. You make me happy, just by being you", you sniff once more, putting on one more push to get the words out, "You're more then enough, just the way you are- and nothing else can ever take that away"

And there they are- Not the perfect words. Not the ones to make everything go away. Not the ones that will cure him and all his fears... But the ones that are just enough. The ones he'd been waiting so long to hear. The ones he needed to hear.

All his life it's been what could he do for others. Stealing. Fighting. Lying. Cheating- Anything to make up for being a mutant. Anything to make up for being a criminal. Anything to make up for being a lousy, abandoned, needy kid. His actions got him tolerated. His looks had always been what got him adored.

Funny... Never before had it occurred to him that, just perhaps, actions alone could net him all the adoration, all the love and appreciation he could have wanted. All that he deserved to have.

Perhaps he isn't satisfied with his looks now- But you are. You can see the worth in him, even when he can't. And even still, your affections run so much deeper then that... Deeper then he ever thought possible. Past the skin. Through the flesh. Down to his very core-

If you, the only one he's ever come to care this deeply for, so thoroughly as this- can love him when he feels he's at his worst? Then maybe... Perhaps he can't be as terrible as he thought.

Gambit offers one more, wet sniff- followed in suit by a hint of a smile. He tilts your head back with his nose as leverage, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. What more is there to say, when you've put things so well?

You love him for his actions- Then let those do the talking.

Leaning just a little more forward all the time, he groans into the kiss, pushing pushing pushing... until at last, something gives.

With a dedicated shift in weight, he playfully pushes you down back to the mattress. Careful not to pin too hard or to crush you flat- he lets you finish until his thanks can be known. When the moment's exchange is done, he flops down beside you. The bed frame groans and rocks in response to the slam, a response that would normally kill him with embarrassment- but as for tonight, neither you nor he seem to care.

Gambit wraps you tightly, protectively, in his arms- drawing you to him. A wave of hot air rolls off of him and he sighs in relief as he gets comfortable beside you. Every fiber of his being thrums with energy- He doesn't even mean to charge up like this, but how is he to fight his nature? To deny himself the release of such a deep, resounding joy...

He snuggles against your cheek, humming low. One arm supporting your neck and the other reaching in just such a way so as to hold you. After a moment, he rolls you both over- him to his back, you to your side and laid against his chest. One quick jerk to interrupt the calm as he snatches over a pillow for himself, and then... back as you were.

The comforting heat of him, like boiling water just below the surface, permeates all the way from your skin, to your tired muscles, down to your very essence. You haven't a clue how he manages it... but you're thankful enough not to question. The skin of your cheek and the frozen digits of your hands feel warm and alive once more as he checks back in. It does him good to see your shivering go still. He feels accomplished. Fulfilled.

This is a service he personally gets to provide just for you- wrought from his own body, with his own efforts, and one that allows you the luxury to feel satisfied and secure.

He would hate to leave you broiling... but perhaps he should consider using his talents more often.

"Is you warm enough, mama?", he nuzzles your head.

Slowly but surely, he lets the power fade, a certain confidence flooding his chest as you nod a dreamy yes. Your hand slips free of his paw, sliding up and down the curve of his stomach, nails biting the skin here and there as they cross back now and then over the hem of his tousled up shirt. His abdomen rises and falls with each one of his robust breaths, taking your head on a similar journey as it rides his chest.

Ba-dum Ba-dum Ba-dum-

You smile to yourself, listening intently to the thundering might of his heartbeat. You've always thought his muscles on the outside were impressive- but a part of you feels they've always played second string to the strength and grandeur of his heart.

In your neutral, comfortable position, your arm rests atop his stomach. You know he worries about the softness- not being lean or defined as he used to. It feels shameful, like an abandonment of past standards and discipline- but you don't see such things at all. He's warm and dense like stone beneath your touch. Like a fortress, he has but a way of that similar, comforting solidity- that sturdiness about him.

You smile, a serenity washing over you and him and the very room you're in. Your nails graze against the plateau of his abdomen, back and forth and back again in a rhythmic lull. Gambit watches your floating hand with leisurely interest. Even now, a small, tiny part of him would almost like to chase your hand away... But the sense of relief he feels to finally bask in the ministrations of your touch is enough to drown it out. No more shame. No more hiding. No more doubt.

Just you... and him.

Gambit takes a deep breath, drinking in the fragrant scent of your hair, before letting go. His stomach rises only a touch now that he allows himself a break from sucking it in. How strange it feels to let those tired muscles relax- He's gotten so good at posturing. At flexing his deeply hidden abs and sucking in what all else he can manage. He's been doing it so long, it almost feels unnatural to not.

He lets you go on like that for a few minutes more until you're almost sure he's determined to fall asleep to this petting- You give his belly a little pat, signaling at last that you're done for now. It's late as it is, but you don't want to push him away if he's not ready to say goodnight just yet. Gambit groans in disapproval, but then thinks better of it.

No words pass between you until soon after, his unnaturally quiet voice speaks up. Gambit closes a paw over the back of your still hand, rubbing a gentle circle on the back of your palm- but he doesn't make eye contact. Before this moment is over... There's just one thing left that he must know. He quirks a brow, turning to you conspiratorially, "You sure you don' regret marrying me?"

"Never", you kiss his jaw, without missing a beat, "Besides, I couldn't let Anna have all the fun-"

"Hmpf- Fun, huh?", he muses with a ghost of a smile while looking down at your entwined hands.

You manage to flex a finger from beneath the weight of his callused paw, scratching playfully at his stomach, "Well... It's been a little while- but yes, I'd say so", a devious smirk accompanies your hand as it slides dangerously down south along his stomach.

"Ay!", he yelps, drawing up a leg to block your progress and twisting a little as he does so. Gambit swats you off and smooths down the front of his shirt, "Down girl, down! Now we was jus' havin' a nice moment-"

You laugh while he tries not to, assuaging him, "Alright, alright- Just thought I'd ask"

The flush almost starts to drain from his cheeks as he settles back in. Gambit scoffs, and shakes his head in mock disappointment, muttering something, as he crawls under the sheets proper at last, "You strange, cher-"

You follow his lead and crawl into bed, not sure what to make of his chiding. Perhaps you indeed went a little too far for just a joke... Your head hits the pillow as Gambit leans up and over you to reach for the lamp. But before he turns the switch, he looks down, connecting his gaze to yours one more time.

With that old, sly smile... the one you swear hasn't seen the light of day in months- he darts down to kiss your forehead, coming back to one up you, "Ask me again in da' mornin, cherie", he smirks-

and the lights click out.