AN: Originally written for misfire and her prompt: "Dry clean only." Repost.

Death Wears White Gloves.

"You'll be the death of me, Rei."

He recalls laughing those words at her the night they first met, after three disastrous passes around the ballroom with her dangerous feet. He'd taken her out on the terrace out of self-preservation, but a twilit sky, a red dress and a first genuine smile woke him to something riskier.

He recalls murmuring those words to her the day they'd gotten caught in the rain, huddled under the strange fruit tree that grew in her personal garden. Her planet had never appealed to him and her father certainly hated him, but when she crushed her mouth to his everything else became trivial.

He recalls yelling those words at her one fateful night, tossing them in her face as they circled one another like predators, weapons already darkened with each others' blood. She was a fierce, fiery thing at his betrayal—never more beautiful, never more out of reach—but he caught her. His blade flashed with a sinking, kneeling, grieving apology, but the woman in his arms no longer burned.

He could say those words now—because as she leans over his broken body, recognition pooling and dripping from her eyes, Jadeite realizes they're finally true. She's returned the favor.

But he doesn't. He smiles, remembers the way her hair used to curtain around them, and whispers, "Careful, Princess. Bet those nice white gloves are dry clean only."

Then he closes his eyes and hopes the next lifetime will be better for them.