It. Was. Fucking. Cold.

Remy LeBeau was a lot of things. charming, dramatic, annoyingly pretty, built like a sin, but one thing he absolutely was not made for? Negative-degree, face-stabbing, soul-draining northern winter.

This wasn’t “a little chill.” This wasn’t “oh, look, a cute dusting of snow.” No. This was the kind of cold that made the air hurt. The kind that slapped you the second you stepped outside and whispered "you don’t belong here, Cajun."

And poor Remy? His Louisiana-born, humidity-loving, swamp-raised blood was suffering.

He had grown up with heat thick as soup, storms that steamed windows, and winters that were basically a mild inconvenience. Meanwhile, you, hardy, seasoned, borderline feral when it came to brutal climates, had experienced every type of weather hell had to offer. Blizzard? Been there. Ice storm? Survived that. Apocalyptic tundra? Probably camped in it for fun.

Remy, however, handled cold by either migrating south like a disgruntled waterfowl… or barricading himself indoors until the temperature rose above “why does the air sting??”

So when the X-Men shipped the two of you out on a winter mission in a place colder than a tax collector’s soul?

Yeah. He was fucked.

Even bundled under three layers, with a scarf wrapped around half his face and thick gloves he hated wearing, Gambit looked like he was two seconds from fully shutting down. Every gust of icy wind made him hiss. Every crunch of snow under his boots was a personal attack. His breath fogged so hard he looked like a dying dragon.

But then he found out something life-changing. Something earth-shattering. Something he clearly considered a divine miracle.

You ran hot. Like, top-tier space heater hot.

And suddenly?

You no longer had personal space. At all.

You were reviewing the mission details you’d written, focused, composed, totally expecting Remy to be at least trying to pretend he wasn’t freezing to death.

Instead, you felt movement.

Then a shadow.

Then...

FWOMP.

Remy’s entire trenchcoat engulfed both of you as if he were trying to devour you whole. His arms wrapped tight around you, and he buried his face went inside like a man clinging to the last warm thing on earth.

“Remy—” you began.

“Shhh,” he mumbled, voice muffled and dramatic. “Dis is life or death, chérie.”

He tightened the coat around you two even more, completely ignoring the fact that he looked like Kirby trying to absorb a new power.

“I ain’t built for dis!” he whined, snuggling deeper. “Dis cold? It cruel. It evil. It unnatural. I can’t even feel my damn fingers!”

“You’re wearing gloves.”

“An’ dey ain’t workin’, clearly!”

You sighed, adjusting the papers in your hand while he clung to you like a heat-starved koala.

“This is a mission,” you reminded him.

“An’ I’m survivin’ da mission,” he countered. “By usin’ da one resource I got.” He squeezed you tighter. “You. My walkin’, talkin’, beautiful furnace.”

You rolled your eyes, but your free arm looped around him anyway.

“Fine. But you slow me down, I’m dragging you through the snow.”

“Dat’s okay,” he murmured blissfully. “Long as I can die warm.”

You smacked the back of his head.

“Remy.”

“…Okay okay, live warm. But still warm.”