Disclaimer: Marvel owns these characters, not me.

Rating: Rated M for strong language, sex and violence.

Summary for this chapter: Fourteen months later, Remy gets a new assignment that sends him back to the States, and the end of his story.

Author notes: Here it is, guys. Almost exactly one year on from when I posted the first chapter, and I've finally finished this! It's been almost 2 years since I started it, about the exact same amount of time that Remy and Anna's story played out in this tale. Thanks to all who followed, read, and reviewed this story. I hope that everyone enjoyed it as much as I did. This version of our fave couple really was a real joy for me to write and they've both really wormed their way into my heart. Their futures are still playing out in my mind and I may write more... or leave it to others. Their future, as always, is up for grabs. ;)

Incidentally, I'll be rewriting certain sections of this story, 'cos I'm a rabid perfectionist like that, so if you read over it again, you may notice some changes. I already updated the sex scene in chapter 31, so feel free to have a re-read. ;) One day I might file off the serial numbers on this and publish it. I dunno.

Anyways! Here's to a wonderful 2018 to all my fellow Romy fans and readers! Looks like we have a great year ahead of us, with the new series. I'll sure as hell toast to that!

With much love,

-Ludi x

PS: A nod to jpraner for the 'inventory retrieval' thang... ;-X

- 52 PICKUP -

Chapter 41

Fourteen months later

Another dreary English winter morning chased him out the Tube and onto the streets of London. He swam with the shoals of commuters towards Russell Square, making his usual stop for a croissant and a coffee at the corner patisserie, before heading through the park and across the road, up the steps to the elegant Georgian building with the gilt-lettered sign that read Gavin & Lord.

It never failed to amuse him, how perfectly proper and English the name sounded, and he buzzed his way through the oak and glass doors and scrubbed his shoes on the doormat, seeing as he'd just cut across the grass in the park.

"Late again, huh?"

The long, sculpted face of a man with the features of a noir detective and a sheen of slicked-back raven hair poked its way round a doorframe and out into the corridor.

"Delays on the Tube, Jake," Remy replied cheerfully. "All damn week now. Has t'be a record."

Jacob Gavin Junior gave an incoherent grumble in response. He was a lean young man with a dour mouth and a sarcastic sense of humour – not exactly the partner-in-crime Remy had planned having, but he was reliable, had excellent contacts from Gavin Senior's 'courier' business Stateside, and he was actually pretty fun once he had a couple of shots down him.

"By the way," Jake added as Remy power-walked past him, "there's a woman in your office."

Remy stopped short and turned.

"It ain't Lila, is it?"

"Lila?" Jake screwed up his nose. "Why would your ex be anywhere near here?"

"I dunno." Remy shrugged. "I left a couple'a vids round hers after we split up. She said she'd come over and drop 'em off last week." He paused before asking curiously, "Who is it?"

"Dunno." His business-partner gave his usual world-weary frown. "She wouldn't give me her name. Sounds like she's probably gonna be a 'special' case, though. I said I was free to take her on, but she specifically asked for you." His frown deepened. "Dunno why the cute ones always have to ask for you."

"Cute, huh?" Remy echoed with a small smile.

"Yeah. I left her in your office, gave her some coffee. Which reminds me. We need to hire a secretary, I end up dealing with everything since you're late, like, 100% of the time."

"Sure," Remy answered breezily, already heading towards his office. "Put an advert out for one. I ain't got no requirements – as long as they're competent and easy on the eyes."

And he opened up his door, grinning to himself as he heard Jake muttering irately under his breath behind him.

He halted when he saw her.

She was standing at the side table, her fingers running curiously over the interfacing unit there. When he came in she looked up as if momentarily startled, though she made no attempt to hide what she had been doing.

"Nice unit," she commented rather than greeted him – her accent was neutral and generically American. "Chinese, the latest model. Was thinking of getting one of these myself."

She was, as Jake had described her, 'cute'. Small, petite and compact, with a pretty, lightly freckled face and chestnut brown hair drawn back into a tight ponytail. She looked to be in her early twenties, but he guessed she was actually older. She wore a charcoal grey pantsuit that spoke to a taste in fashion that was dictated as much by comfort as by style.

He relaxed a little, slipping off his coat and hanging it on the stand by the door.

"I got a friend who does good deals. I can give you his details, if you want, Miss…?"

"Ms," she corrected him with a self-conscious little smile. "Ms. Pryde. Katherine." She crossed the room and held out her hand to him. There was something about her that was a little clumsy, a little awkward, though in a way that was endearing rather than off-putting.

"Robert Lord," he introduced himself in kind. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Pryde."

They shook hands, and he offered her the seat at his desk where her barely touched coffee cup was still sitting, which she took obligingly.

"So," Remy said, once he'd taken his own seat behind the desk. "What can Gavin & Lord do for you, Ms. Pryde?"

She wasn't like most of the 'special cases' who came his way, with their parleying and their secrecy. Ms. Katherine Pryde, it seemed, was unschooled in this sort of transaction and completely in earnest. She dug into her purse and brought out her cellphone.

"I need you to get something for me," she said. "Something my family lost a long time ago."

She opened up something on her phone and turned the screen to show him.

It was a Faberge egg, a subtly elegant piece of work that, unlike most Faberges was almost entirely bereft of any ostentation. The entire shell was made of a rose-pink guilloche enamel, encased in a delicate trelliswork of tiny, shimmering diamonds. It was standing on a pedestal of crimson red enamel decorated with a band of gold cloisonné hearts. He wasn't an expert in Faberge eggs, but he knew enough to know that he'd never seen this one before.

"Hmm," he mused out loud. "S'not every day ya get t'see a lost Faberge egg. You say this is a fam'ly piece?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "My great-great-grandfather gave it to my great-great-grandmother as a wedding gift. It got stolen during the Second World War. By the Nazis."

"Interestin'." He took the phone from her and studied the picture in more detail. What intrigued him most was the fact that it was being hosted on an exhibition page – as one of the exhibits. "'Faberge: A Retrospective'," he read the title of the page aloud. "The Charles F. Xavier Gallery at the Worthington Hotel, New York." The exhibition was already underway and he looked up at her. "Your family's private property is on show at a public exhibition."

"Yeah." She nodded again. "On loan from a 'private collection'."

He handed her back the phone and leaned back in his chair.

"I see," he stated.

She looked at him expectantly, and when he said nothing more, she said: "Can you get it back for me?"

She really was an amateur at this. He gave her a slow, easy smile.

"You mean steal it?"

She was confused.

"'Inventory retrieval'… That's what you do, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "Logistics, Ms. Pryde. We're a legit business. You know… like shippin', from storage to our clients. You sure you ain't got us mixed up wit' someone else?"

Ms. Pryde pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. She dipped a hand into her pocket and took out an off-white business card.

"You came recommended to me from someone."

"Oh?"

She tossed the card on the desk between them. It was worn and dog-eared, but it was definitely one of his.

"I have a… 'friend'," she said in a firmer tone. "His name is Peter Rasputin. You did some work for him a few months back. I told him about the egg, about the exhibition. He gave me your card, told me you could help me."

Peter Rasputin. He remembered him, a newly famous artist whose latest works had been stolen from a Berlin exhibition by a criminal gang who'd been intending to use them as bargaining chips for lesser jail sentences. He'd retrieved them with the minimum of fuss, leaving another grateful customer. When he looked at the card she'd thrown on the table, there was no doubting it was his. There, on the back, in his own handwritten print, was the name, Peter Rasputin. Jake's Spidey-sense had turned out to be on the money – she was a special case.

Satisfied, he pocketed the card.

"It'll cost you," he warned her.

"I know," she replied, relieved he was now on the level with her. "Money isn't an issue. That egg is priceless."

He sat there, regarding her, chewing on his bottom lip.

"There are at least five other outfits back in the States who could help you, Ms. Pryde," he decided to probe her further. "Why'd you bother comin' all the way out to London when you could get the same kinda service back home?"

She seemed annoyed, and a little miffed, that he was still questioning her. Her expression was half indignant, half embarrassed.

"Look," she said. "I don't know much about this kind of thing, if I'm honest. I've never so much as gotten a speeding ticket in my entire life, and I couldn't tell you what the backseat of a cop car looks like. I don't know who to ask to get this kind of thing done, and frankly I count myself lucky that Peter could recommend anyone at all." She sighed. "When I got the recommendation, I did my homework. I work in IT, and I, uh… know a few things about the deep web. I went on some forums. They say you're one of the best at what you do."

The compliment, though furtively given, was flattering, and he allowed himself a small grin.

"You must really want this get got," he observed.

"It has sentimental value," she explained in a quieter tone. "As a kid I was shown pictures of my great-great-grandparents with it, of my great-grandparents with it… I was told stories about it…" She paused slightly, her voice lowering yet more as she continued, "My mom and dad aren't alive anymore to see it now, but as soon as I saw it was being exhibited, I just knew I had to have it back. It's ours Mr. Lord. It was stolen from my grandparents by people who hated them and killed them for it. I never knew them, but if I had that egg back, I feel like I can finally… …"

She trailed off, but he knew exactly the sentiment she was feeling at that moment. She didn't need to explain. If she got back that piece of her past she felt like she could finally move on.

"A'right," he said at last; and she looked up at him hopefully.

"You'll take on my case?"

"Not just yet. I need to do some homework first. In this business, Ms. Pryde, vettin' comes before fieldwork."

She looked surprised at the implication of mistrust, and he smiled indulgently at her.

"It's nothin' personal, Ms. Pryde. It's just how we operate. It's also why I only take 'special cases' on recommendation." He took one of his business cards out the stand at his elbow and wrote his name on the backside. "Here," he said, passing it to her when he was done. "Save it for the next person you wanna recommend me to."

-oOo-

It was past six when Jake Gavin looked in round Remy's office door. He was surprised to find him still there, seemingly engrossed in his tablet.

"Where is Remy LeBeau and what have you done with him?" he demanded loudly. Remy looked up, confused. Jake was the only one in England who knew his real name, and he wasn't entirely used to hearing it.

"Huh?"

Jake rolled his eyes and stepped inside.

"You're still here. It's… what?" He checked his watch. "Twenty after six? And you're still working."

"Oh." Remy glanced at the time on his tablet vaguely. "Yeah. Just workin' on that new case I got."

"Oh, you mean the one you got this morning? With that Katherine… …"

"Pryde. Yeah."

He scrolled down the page he was reading as Jake sat himself casually down in the swing chair opposite him.

"Okay, she must've really made an impression," he remarked sardonically. "'Cos you're never this invested in a case. I mean, I know she was cute, but… I thought your type was more… …" He appeared unable to find the words, and Remy looked up at him with a raised eyebrow and asked:

"More what?"

Jake shrugged.

"Full-bodied?"

"Full-bodied?"

"Bitey?"

"Bitey?"

"Challenging."

This time it was a statement and not a question. Remy laid down his tablet and grinned.

"I dunno. I kinda get the feelin' Ms. Pryde is a lot more challengin' than she looks."

Jake raised an eyebrow.

"Okay. Whadja dig up on her?"

He reached for the tablet and Remy let him, amused. He'd met Jake during his first month in London, hustling in the city's most prestigious casino. A skinful of drinks later and they'd somehow ended up getting into business together. It had made sense under the influence, and, surprisingly, it still made sense thirteen months of sobriety later. Between Jake's proven ability in the field, the respect they'd built up for each other over the months, and the tall tales they'd told over one too many drinks, they'd actually ended up becoming friends – or as close to being friends as either of them would admit.

"Katherine Anne Pryde," Jake was reading off the tablet. "IT consultant for GG Incorporated – whoa. Boring. Graduated in computer science from the University of Chicago… Scholarship to study sim-tech in MIT. Practicing non-Orthodox Jew. Mixed Russian and English ancestry. Family migrated to the US after WWII… yadda yadda yadda…"

He continued to read to himself, scrolling down the rest of the page before finally deciding he'd seen enough.

"So her story checks out," he stated, passing the tablet back to Remy. "You even managed to pin down the original certificate of sale for that Faberge egg, which earns extra kudos from me. All in all – sounds pretty run-of-the-mill when you read through it. Kinda boring, actually."

"Yeah," Remy nodded. "Not the kinda woman who'd hire a professional thief to steal an heirloom for her."

"Pfft." Jake waved his hand dismissively. "People get all sorts of crazy about family stuff. Especially stuff that happened during the war, and even more so about expensive works of art. Trust me, I know."

"Sure ya do." Remy had heard enough anecdotes about Jake's time 'couriering' (read 'smuggling') back in the States. "Her past checks out just fine. When I said she was a challenge, I was referrin' t'the part that said she's a black belt in jujitsu and aikido. Don't tell me ya missed that."

Jake's expression was incredulous.

"What, her? She's gotta be like… only 5 foot or somethin'…"

"Five-six."

"Seriously? She looks smaller."

"Nope. You jes' try an' hit on too many supermodels."

He got up and went over to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a whiskey.

"Want one?" he asked his friend.

"Nah. I'm headin' out. Got a date."

"Oh, and here I was thinkin' you were anglin' for Ms. Pryde."

"I still might be, depending on how tonight goes."

"Anyone I know?" Remy asked curiously, flopping back down into his seat. Jake, whose tragi-comic love life appeared to be an open book, shrugged.

"Just some guy I met down the Marquis last week while you were busy wining and dining a client."

"Great. I'm happy for you. Have fun."

"You stayin' here?"

"Yeah. Just gonna finish this up. Won't be long."

"Wow. All work and no play, man. You're weirdin' me out. Don't stay up too late."

Remy was touched to see that his friend looked genuinely worried. Usually, it was him pulling the workaholic thing.

"I won't. Now would you just go? You're the one with the date here, not me!"

Jake scowled, picked up his briefcase and got to his feet.

"You don't haveta make it sound so damn miraculous!"

"I'm not. I'm jes' tryin' to get rid of you. Now go out, have fun, and if you come in late t'morrow I'll know it went well."

But Jake was already at the door.

"Ugh. Sure. Fine. Goodnight, 'Mr. Lord'. I'll see you tomorrow. On time."

Remy rolled his eyes as his business partner finally left. While he got along well with Jake most of the time, there were definite moments when his cynical humour and dry wit was a pain in the ass.

He sighed and turned back to his tablet. All else aside, he was pretty sure that stealing Katherine Pryde's egg would be cakewalk, the kind of thing he'd used to pull as a matter of routine back when he was in New Orleans. It was easy money and his client was invested. He'd be stupid not to take it.

He closed the document he had open and brought up a browser.

It was finally time to book a flight back to the States.

-oOo-

A couple of days later and he was landing in JFK – the first time he'd been back since he'd left for the UK. As soon as his feet touched the ground he realised, with some surprise, just how much he'd missed it.

He hailed a cab from the airport and whilst inside he fired off a quick text to Katherine Pryde, whom he'd promised to keep updated of his progress. When that was done he sat back and watched the familiar hustle and bustle of New York life unfold before him.

It was impossible not to think of Anna.

He remembered the taxi ride they'd taken after their trip to Muir like it was a memory from another lifetime. Since his move to England he'd learned not to think of her too often, not to wonder about what she was doing or where she was now, or whether he'd ever seen her again. He was a practical man who didn't want to live a life that was dependent on her being ready to find him again; and so he'd moved on after a fashion, carried on because that's what one did with any life that was worth living. He'd wandered into a job and into a relationship that hadn't lasted, not because he hadn't genuinely cared about Lila, but because his heart hadn't been in it. It was only when it had ended that he had realised that a part of him was still even waiting for Anna at all.

The phone buzzed in his pants – Ms. Pryde's expected reply – but he ignored it for the moment. He was nearing a familiar neighbourhood, and he toyed idly with the idea that he could stop the cab right now, head on over to that old red door and knock, ask Raven for the thing he'd refrained from asking her the first time round.

Let's jes' end this charade, Raven. Tell me where I can find her. I don't care if she's different, if she's changed. I jes' want t'know if she found home. If she found what she was lookin' for. If she's happy now.

If she's happy I can be happy, I can move on.

.

He arrived at the Worthington Hotel around noon and checked in at the ornate reception. The Charles F. Xavier Gallery was situated on the first floor, just off the lobby. He didn't go in, not just yet. Instead he observed the people queueing for the exhibition – Faberge, it turned out, was still a subject of some popularity.

Leaving his quarry aside for the moment, Remy went up to his room and connected to the WiFi. Katherine Pryde's message was brief and generic, while Jake was complaining about the fact that he had to interview potential secretaries all by his lonesome. Remy was thoroughly unsympathetic. This may have been a business trip, but it was nice to be back Stateside and once work was over he was determined to enjoy himself.

He took a shower and freshened up before heading back down to see the exhibition. Most of the pieces were ones he'd seen before – the star of the show was Ms. Pryde's egg, which was apparently making its public debut. It was being exhibited in its own dedicated room, which was already bustling with inquisitive people. Remy studied the room carefully. His practised gaze immediately sniffed out the four cameras trained on the prize – two obvious ones for the benefit of the audience, and two hidden ones for the benefit of real security. The room had two doorways – one for entrance and one for exit, so as to control audience flow. On a plinth in the middle of the room, behind a case, was the egg. Its simplicity made it smaller than most Faberge specimens, but it was its very simplicity – as well as its romantic connotations – that leant it its appeal. A couple of old women were already cooing over the pink guilloche enamel and the band of arabesque hearts circling its base.

Remy sidled up and gave it a suitably disinterested look. Photography was prohibited, but he hung around long enough to take a couple of shots with the pinhole camera hidden in his button. Having seen the only thing worth coming for, he left and headed back into the lobby. He sent off the pictures to Katherine, and she replied almost immediately.

YES, her message said. THAT'S IT.

Satisfied, he headed off for coffee and a late lunch.

-oOo-

Just before seven that evening Remy donned a suit and tie and headed down to the Xavier Gallery for a drinks reception being held in honour of the exhibition's various donors and sponsors. Remy had already faked his way onto the guest list days ago, and so he passed on through without any trouble. He pulled his usual shtick, mingling with the guests and drinking the wine offered, telling all the lies he knew they expected to hear. It took an irritating amount of time for the moment he'd been waiting for to get underway – the private tour, led by the gallery director.

Remy had never been one for tours, and since he knew practically everything there was to know about every exhibit already, he allowed himself to switch off and focus on the task in hand. Only gradually did he begin to lag behind, feigning interest in the exhibits themselves rather than the director's long-winded and fawning speeches. He knew the egg was to be the piece de resistance, and so he didn't have much time to make his move. As soon as he was sure he'd been forgotten, he headed back the short distance to the room that held the egg.

The best way to get in would be through the exit door, where the tour would terminate. He was racing against the clock, but that was okay, it was part of what he liked. He took out his lockpick and had the door open within half a minute or so. Then he hit the EMP device to make sure the security cameras were down.

In his experience small galleries and museums always had the worst security and this place was proving to be no exception. He slipped on his gloves and pressed his palm against the control panel. The door swept open. When he stepped inside it slid shut behind him, and he stopped.

The plinth was empty. The egg was gone.

It had been a set-up.

He spun on his heel, and just as he was about to hit the control panel, he heard the other door across the room open behind him and someone step quickly inside.

"Remy," said a voice.

He stopped.

He turned.

And it was her.

Anna.

She was dressed exactly like one of the guests, in a cocktail dress with her hair twined up in that familiar chignon. Her wildcat green eyes were exactly as he'd always remembered them, as he'd reconstructed them in his memories – but there was something different in her glance, a softness he'd never seen before. She seemed changed in a way he couldn't identify, that was both exhilarating and painful because in all his secret reveries of a reunion he'd never expected this nameless change he couldn't categorise now. It threw him, sabotaged every silent plan he'd made for this moment.

"The egg—" he began instead; but she interrupted him before he could finish the thought, explaining:

"It's in a private viewing room. Don't worry. No one will bother us here."

It was only then that he began to appreciate just how finely orchestrated this had been. He moved across the room slowly towards her, and she watched his approach with something he read as apprehension. He knew what she was expecting – his anger, indignation at the song and dance she'd led him on, at the game she'd forced him to play.

He stopped within a few inches of her.

Standing there, this close to her, he saw exactly what he'd sensed before – the change in her. At first it was her fierceness, her stubbornness, that he thought had gone, but that wasn't exactly it. It was the wildness, the desperation. The rage, the hate that had driven her for so long.

"I'm sorry," she apologised, reading his silence as displeasure. "I just had to make sure it was you, and when I was, I couldn't help myself. I wanted to know if you'd changed, and the more I watched you, the more afraid I was you'd be disappointed if you saw me… If you'd even want to see me… And then I didn't have the guts to call it off anymore…"

She was being more honest than he knew either of them had ever been comfortable with, and, self-conscious, she dropped her eyes and murmured again: "I'm sorry…"

Until that moment words had failed him, but now he found them again. He slipped off his gloves and he raised his hands, slowly bridging the gap between them; he touched her cheeks, cradled her face in his palms, and she glanced up at him with surprise as, for the first time in months, his skin was on hers and she was finally more than just a lonely memory. She was flesh and bone, and, at last, within arm's reach.

"It's okay," he murmured softly. "I knew it was you. I knew it was you, Anna."

She held her breath at the words, and if she was wondering how he'd known she didn't ask, and he was grateful. Instead her hands curled into his shirt and suddenly they were kissing, kissing like the first time they'd kissed that night in his hotel room, nearly two long years ago.

Afterward, he was amazed to find that while so much time had passed and so many things had changed, this thing between them had not.

And perhaps she was thinking the same thing. The thought was in her smile, in the way she looked at him. She took his hand in hers, pressed it to her chest, held it tight.

"C'mon, Remy," she whispered, as if to talk too loud would be to ruin everything they'd just found. "Come with me."

-oOo-

She'd taken him up to her room. It was the best room with the best view, and he was pleased to see that her taste in the finer things didn't appear to have diminished.

There had been so many things to say, to catch up on, that neither of them had known where to start, nor had they been inclined to try. So many months of enforced denial had honed the impatience of their desire. No words were wasted. Alone at last, in the privacy of her hotel room, they could indulge in one another for as much and as long as they wished. They touched, they kissed, they unclothed one another and made love, wildly, greedily. The imperfection of memory had nothing to offer them in comparison. Words were a distraction. It was only afterwards that they seemed necessary at all.

"Y'know," he said as they lay side by side together on the red shag rug, the room lit only by the comforting glow from the art deco fireplace beside them. "If I'm gonna die now, I'm gonna die happy. I ain't even jokin'."

She laughed softly and rolled over onto her stomach.

"You're not allowed to die," she murmured, her finger tracing the outline of the star-shaped bullet wound he'd once taken for her. "I'm not gonna let you."

Her accent was softer, warmer, tempered by the sunnier climes of the South. It made him smile.

"Don't worry," he answered, brushing a lock of hair back from her forehead tenderly. "I ain't plannin' on dyin' any time soon. Not that I'm likely to, in my current line of work."

She threw him a playful grin.

"Good to know, Mr. 'Robert Lord'."

She said the name with a twist of humour that would've left him indignant if she was anyone else. She grinned even harder when he didn't rise to the bait and pushed herself up into a sitting position.

"Drink?" she offered him.

"Sure."

He propped himself up with the pillows and cushions they'd left scattered around them, watching her as she got up and crossed the room, the firelight playing across the curves of her body. There was an easiness, a relaxed quality to her movements that she'd never had before, like she was finally comfortable in her own skin. She paused only to throw on a light kimono – a green one that he vaguely recognised from their shared past – before heading to the minibar and pouring them each a glass of wine. She raised her eyes only to give him a smile that was as simple and genuine as he'd ever seen from her. She was beautiful in ways he'd remembered, and in others he'd forgotten; and yet still more in ways he was only just discovering.

She came back and handed him his drink. They touched glasses lightly, briefly, without saying a word. Each silently drank to the other, to the moment, to a future neither was sure would reach outside this room.

"I missed you," he told her honestly.

"I missed you," she replied.

He was struck once more by the change in her, by the things he had missed. Here, in this room, he'd connected with her body, interfaced with her on a purely physical level; but everything else, all the important things… they were what made her the person she was now, and he couldn't touch them.

"Did you find what you were lookin' for?" he asked her, conscious that he still didn't know. She twisted the glass between her fingers, stared into her wine and said:

"Yeah. I found what I needed to find."

The words were cryptic, and he gave her a quizzical look that brought a weary smile to her lips.

"I found out that there were people who cared for me. That I was loved. That I was born and raised in a beautiful place, that I belonged somewhere, that I have a past, a history." She paused and lifted her eyes to his, added: "And I found that sometimes, you can't go back home. That there's nothing for you there anymore."

He was silent. There was a time he'd gone back to New Orleans, once. And once he'd got there he'd discovered the disconcerting truth – that he'd changed, and so had home. There were things he couldn't go back to, roots he'd cut too long ago to salvage – they'd already withered and died.

"I figured my mom and dad might have left something," she continued pensively. "Anything that could ground me, that I could hold onto. I prayed they'd left some mem-chips, some letters, a diary. But there was nothing. Everything was auctioned off or destroyed after they died, there was nothing left, even if there was anything to find." She sighed and ran her forefinger absently round the rim of her glass. "It took me a long time to figure out home wasn't home anymore. So I left. And I guess I was trying to find a new home. Maybe I was trying to find a new me. Maybe they're the same thing."

She paused, considering the idea and apparently finding no answer. She lifted the wine to her lips and drank.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Are you?"

"I wanted you to be happy."

Her smile was faint.

"I was happy. Once I'd figured out that you just take home with you, y'know?" She reached out and touched his hand almost tentatively. "That's when thinking about you stopped hurting," she admitted quietly. "When I was finally ready."

She seemed a little embarrassed about it, like she'd wasted too much time.

"You had Raven track me in England?" he asked her; but she shook her head firmly.

"No. I respected you enough not to ask her to do that. But I did ask her to find you, when I was ready. Which wasn't easy, since you were operating under an alias, and have a habit of scrambling your digital trail."

She gave him an accusatory look that was only slightly softened by the humorous little pout that accompanied it. He shrugged.

"Goin' dark is just what I do, chere."

"You're a pain in the ass," she informed him with helpless affection. "But you're here now. Which makes all the weeks spent trying to locate you worth it." She trailed off, before quizzing him curiously: "You said you knew it was me. How did you figure it out?"

"Katherine Pryde," he told her.

"Huh?"

"Katherine Pryde. I remembered the name. It was on some of the mem-chips you stole off Essex, that you were hiding in the panel inside your closet." He watched the enlightenment cross her face and continued: "She was one of his one percent, on the original Weapon X programme. Which meant only you – or Raven, actin' on your behalf – could'a sent her."

Of all the explanations possible, it was one she had never expected. He couldn't lie – it felt good to outmanoeuvre her.

"You don't miss a trick!" she exclaimed, prodding him playfully in the ribs. "You figure either of us will ever get to the point where we're past playing games with each other?"

"I dunno." He shrugged innocently. "Y'wanna stick around and find out?"

The question quieted her.

"Do you?" she asked him instead.

He thought about it. There were so many things he could've said to her, that he wanted to say, or explain. But he didn't know where to begin, and so he simply answered: "Yes."

She took in a visible breath at the reply; and suddenly the old Anna was there again, fixing him with the gaze of a lonely, wounded beast.

"There are some things I won't ever be able to give you," she reminded him. He knew what she was referring to – the children Essex had prevented her from ever having. But it didn't matter to him, not the way he once thought it might. He reached up and touched her shoulder, ran his thumb thoughtfully under the hem of her kimono.

"I don't care," he said.

It was the truth, and she believed it. Gone was the wounded beast, replaced instead with sadness.

"You might care," she told him quietly, "one day."

"And I might not." He slid the kimono partway down over her shoulder, studied the play of the firelight on her bare skin, the texture of her on his fingertips. "There are some things you gotta be willin' to risk, chere, to get anywhere in life. You know that. We both do."

She swallowed, visibly.

"I lost Cody," she whispered.

"And I lost Belle," he replied.

Still, even after these years, it surprised him to realise how much saying her name hurt.

"I don't want to lose you too," she admitted.

"Me neither," he said honestly. "But," he added thoughtfully, "I think that's a pretty normal human emotion, not to want to lose the things we care about."

She smiled, nodded. Even talking about this, about feelings, felt like a risk; but the more they did it, the less daunting it became. There were so many emotions he'd closed himself off from, so many things he'd stopped believing in. But interfacing with her memories had given him back one thing – the hope that there was someone out there who loved him. It was the only thing that had kept him going on without her, through yet another prolonged exile in a strange land.

It reminded him of the thing he'd been meaning to give her.

"Oh, yeah," he said, suddenly leaning over towards his discarded pants, lying a metre or so away. "There's somethin' I wanted t' give you."

She watched as he teased the pants towards him, a small smile on her face.

"You know something?" she said in an amused voice.

"What?"

"Your accent. I swear you're going native."

"No, I'm not," he scoffed openly, just as he managed to grab a hold of the garment. He slipped a finger into the pocket and took out a small mem-chip case, tossing it to her. She caught it in both hands.

"What is it?" she asked him curiously.

"Your mem'ries. The ones you gave to me before you left." She looked up at him with confusion in her eyes and he added: "Thanks for sharin' them. I know there were things on there that you never would've wanted me t'see, and… it meant a lot. It still does. You let me see a part of you no one should have t'share. But those mem'ries… they kept me goin'. They kept me waitin'."

She opened her mouth slightly, and he saw she was struggling to find the right words. He didn't need them. He didn't need any at all.

"You don't have to explain anythin' t' me, Anna," he told her softly. "Those are your thoughts, your feelin's. I took all'a your mem'ries from you once, I let Essex steal them from you when he had no right. Lemme give at least one of 'em back to you. Lemme make at least one little thing right."

She looked down at the chip in her hand, and slowly, deliberately, closed her fist over it.

"You don't need to make anything right anymore, Remy," she rejoined quietly. "You were the only one who cared enough to give me back what I wanted, what was stolen from me, the things that made me who I am." Her voice dropped a notch as she added: "And I love you for that, Remy LeBeau. I always will."

They were hard words for her to say – the hardest of all. For him, it felt like he'd waited half a lifetime to hear them. If there was a moment he was finally ready to move forward, it was then.

He reached for her and pressed his lips against her bare shoulder, kissed his way down the slope of her arm with a simple passion he hadn't felt in years. Her fingers touched his cheek and he obeyed her summons, his lips skimming back the way they'd come to finally find her mouth once more.

Finally, after all their time spent searching, years of lonely exile had finally come to an end.

-oOo-

They were both awoken the next morning by the shrill ring of his phone.

Locating it after the mess they'd made of the room the previous night proved to be an adventure in itself, and by the time it appeared it had long stopped ringing.

Remy was unsurprised to find that Jake was the caller, and so, knowing his partner would be worried, he shot off a text letting him know everything had gone well and that he was staying on for a couple of days' vacation.

While Anna ordered them breakfast he scanned the exhibition catalogue that he'd picked up the day before. The Pryde egg took up the centrefold, the high-res photo showcasing all its many perfections. They were the kind of perfections that made the thief in him itch.

"Shame I didn't get t'pull this heist," he remarked wryly to himself. "Kinda feels like I've left a job half-done. You sure it don't need stealin', chere?"

Anna laughed, getting out of bed and putting on her underwear.

"It belongs to Katherine. I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to lose it again."

"Belongs to her already, huh?" He cocked an eyebrow at her. "She kept that transaction pretty quiet. All the paper and digital trails say it still belongs to the previous owner."

"Oh, I helped work out a deal between them," Anna explained mysteriously, hooking her bra. "Katherine owed me one 'cos of it. Hence her little visit to Gavin & Lord."

"Hmm." He watched her openly, as appreciative of her resourcefulness as he was admiring of the little show she was currently putting on for him. "So," he began after a moment, setting aside the catalogue, "you got any plans? For work, I mean? Apart from brokerin' mysterious deals, that is?"

She paused for a meaningful split second, midway through slipping on her harem style pants.

"Raven's been giving me some work," she finally answered casually. "I have some stuff lined up for the next couple of weeks."

"Cool," he returned, feigning disinterest. "Hey – think you can pass me my wallet? It's in my coat."

The look she gave him clearly showed she was suspicious, but he gave her a smile that begged her to indulge him, just this once. With a roll of the eyes she went to retrieve the article, slipping on a satin blouse as she did so. As soon as she'd retrieved it she came right back to sit next to him on the bed, his wallet clutched in her hands.

"Open it," he told her.

Whatever misgivings she had, she opened it, and when she shook out the contents, out fell two plane tickets.

She stared.

"No pressure," he assured her when she didn't speak. "I figured you might have stuff goin' on here, so it's a return ticket in case you need to head back."

Her eyes met his.

"Treat it like a vacation, right?"

"Right."

She thought about it, a conspiratorial little smile playing across her lips.

"I'm guessing you don't need another business partner… Seeing as you've got one already…"

He shrugged.

"I dunno. Gavin, Lord & Raven sounds pretty distinguished, don'tcha think?"

"I think," she answered silkily, "that three's a crowd. But hell," she picked up the return ticket and pocketed it swiftly, "a vacation sounds pretty good. I'm sure Raven won't mind if I take off for a bit."

"Hm. I'm sure." He grinned. "So whaddaya wanna do first? Sightseeing? Partyin'? I know an awesome art deco bar a bus-ride from where I live…"

"Sounds thrilling," she cut in sarcastically. "But I was actually thinking of all the 'wild sex and crazy heists' you once mentioned. Or is that off the menu now?"

She still had endless ways of surprising him. He didn't think she'd ever stop.

"Definitely not," he murmured.

"Good." She leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips before getting to her feet. "Now the coffee in this hotel sucks, so I'm gonna go to the café next door and get us some. I won't be long."

She headed for the door, grabbing her purse as she went. But when she got there she stopped and said seriously: "You know what I said last night, Remy? About taking home with us? Well… I want mine to be with yours. London, Paris or New York… It doesn't matter to me. If it's where you are, it's where I want to be. It's home."

And with that honest conclusion, she turned and left.

Remy smiled to himself.

There was no way to erase the past, not without obliterating the person that you had become. But there were ways to shape it, to give it meaning. What mattered was the future, and the memories you made inside it.

He got out of bed and went to the window, threw the curtains open wide. Sometimes, he thought, salvation found you, in the unlikeliest of places. He'd met his in a hotel bar, nearly two years before. Anna Marie Raven, the woman who would rewrite his past, who would shape it, who would give it meaning.

She wouldn't do it by erasing it, by changing it, by making him forget.

She'd do it by writing his future, by writing a shared one.

They'd both write it, together.

-END-