Chapter Text
“And when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out into the little stars,
and pay no worship to the garish sun”
It was a late night, an already-three-bottles-deep kind of night. The kind of night that could only get worse.
The stars were shining, bright and hopeful, and Rogue was everything but. Lying on the cold tiles of the roof, feet dangling over the edge, heart a thousand miles away. On the ground, maybe, or six feet under. The kind of night that brought ghosts and memories, and she wasn’t sure which was more painful.
The wind blew cold and biting, and a reasonable person would have drawn their jacket closed, headed off the roof, wrapped themselves in a comfy blanket near a fire. But she was never much of a reasonable person, if you asked Aunt Carrie. She was harsh, strong willed, molded in southern fire and a sprinkle of sugar. The kind of girl with mud caked up to her knee, the kind that spent too long playing in the trees, the kind adults whispered about.
The kind who loved too deep for her own good.
The kind who was now alone.
Alone was fine. Good, even. Alone meant she didn’t have to step into the kitchen with the others and glare at the empty chair next to her. It meant she didn’t have to look at the cards abandoned on the counter that no one could shuffle properly, or the extra mug collecting dust in the cupboard. It meant she didn’t have to hide the shivers or the tears, to pretend she was fine or bear yet another pointless attempt at comfort. A hug from Kurt, awkward words of sympathy from the others, who stayed far away from her deadly touch— as they should. As he should have.
She tried not to think of him too much. It never brought anything other than bitterness and regret; for the things that could have been, and those that would never be. It didn’t make her cry all the time anymore: instead, it choked out her throat, her chest, her lungs, creeping up her spine like poison.
Alone used to mean she got to dream. In the comforting loneliness, a book in hand, she’d clear her mind, silence the whispers of those who’d dared to touch her, and weave elaborate stories: dreams of possibilities — if she could just get her powers under control, if one tiny miracle would let them touch.
Dreams were always a fickle thing. Something like mist, or the smoke from his cigarettes. Reality was cold-edged and cutting, the feeling of the roof tiles digging into her back. A cruel reminder of why, exactly, she was alone.
Perhaps that was the real curse in this— not only did death have to steal him away, it made his very memory painful. She wanted to remember him, the real him, just as much silver tongue as soft smiles, wanted to drown out the noise of her own heart in the memory of his laughter. She wanted to dream again, about his grins and jokes and the glow of his eyes, the way he moved like a whisper, his promises and murmured french. She still saw him in every tall man with a trenchcoat, searched for his eyes in the flickers of red car lights, made out his features out of cracks in the plaster. Anything to have a sliver of hope. Instead, all the loneliness gave her was the drumming pain, the stark reminder of why, exactly, there wouldn’t be any new memories to make. He would stay a memory, and she would have to move, to follow the inevitable pull of life: such was nature’s vicious rule. Frozen in time, like his smile. Every thought of him was simply another twist of the knife, another highlight of his absence.
It was the kind of night where a girl shouldn’t be alone, he’d say. But alone was the closest she would ever feel to Remy now. And so, alone was fine.
Alone wasn’t what her friends had in mind, though. So like almost every night, someone came by, checking on her, urging her to come down. And like every night, she was ready to send them straight back from where they came.
She was expecting Kurt or Logan— sometimes Scott, when they thought she needed to hear the voice of reason. But tonight, the footsteps resonating on the roof belonged to Storm herself.
“It's a cold night to be up there,” she noted, all grace and long limbs as she settled down next to her.
Rogue didn't reply. Looked at the stars, wondered what kind of answers people found in them.
“Grief is loud, at the beginning— it seeps into everything you do. It strangles your throat like a most cruel animal,” she began, her voice a melancholic drawl. The words were calm, and yet there was a sharp pain lying underneath their edge, the kind that came from experience and old wounds.
“You'll keep searching for him, you'll look at rooms and only notice his absence, and it will feel just as unfair each time. And every time he’s not here, it’ll feel like a knife to your heart. But it won’t be like this forever.”
“If you're here to give advice, Ah ain't your girl.” Her voice was hoarse and raw, trying her best to sound even a bit angry— but too frail to do so.
“I am here because someone needs to tell you this, whether you want to hear it or not. It may feel unbearable for now, but time passes, and wounds will heal. One day, you may find that the places that once brought you to tears now come with bittersweet joy.”
“How’d you know that?”
“That’s how losses have always been.”
“Ah'm tired of it. Of everythin’.”
“He was a dear friend to me too,” she whispered, a crack in the mask of a goddess. “But I promise you, Rogue. One day, it’ll feel like you can breathe again.”
-o-
Ororo was wrong. Dead wrong. Cause the moment he shows up, she's not sure she can breathe at all.
It’s the kind of mission she hates— the kind where they go in with no information except that something’s wrong, and that it’s got to do with mutants. She tries to calm her nerves, doing her best to ignore the muffled music playing in Jubilee’s headphones. No real lead, barely a semblance of a plan, and they’re not even sure who they’re fighting; Beast said it might have to do with Apocalypse, and that was enough for them to load up the Blackbird and go throw themselves into the unknown, leaving Storm, Hank and Morph behind to defend the mansion. Because that’s what X-Men do. Like good little toy soldiers, she can almost hear Mystique sneer.
“Remember, you're acting as a scout, Rogue. Do not engage before we've been able to join you, assess the troubles and plan a course of action,” Scott reminds her, stern and looking every bit like the leader Charles dreamed him to be.
Logan snorts somewhere in the back, but she doesn't look— just prepares herself, waits for her signal, and then pushes her feet off the plane and into the air.
The feeling of falling off a plane would be terrifying, for most people. For her, it's routine ; a few seconds of freefall, til she's at just the right height, and then her powers kick in. High enough to stay hidden in the sky, but low enough to get good visibility and avoid radars.
An empty wasteland of hard dirt, grey rocks and snow, the ruins of a military warehouse, the smoke covering the field, and yet the black humanoid form in the center is still the only thing she notices.
No other humans— no survivors. She relays as much to the team over the intercom. Enemies? He could be one. It's unclear. He looks like…
It’s nothing serious, nothing real— just a blurry figure in the middle of the destruction. Nothing that would scream him. She's not even sure why her brain makes the connection, just that it does, and that she has to choke out the hope in her throat before it can strangle her.
Maybe it's the height.
Or maybe it's the fact he's wearing a trench coat. It's not his, black instead of brown, and his is safely back in his room anyway, she's sure of that. But it's roughly similar in the cut, in the way it's swaying in the wind.
It's not the hair, at least. A pale grey, almost white, blending in with the snow and ash, something almost sickly beautiful.
She needs to get closer. For the mission, she tells herself, and definitely not cause she can feel her heartbeat picking up just at the sight.
The person— she's fairly sure he's a man, at this distance— is walking toward something in the ruins she can't quite make out. Determined, his steps light but calm. Despite this, his feet barely touch the ground before moving, never lingering, more of a ghostly movement than real steps. He's going northwest, not quite turning his back to her but almost, enough to hide his face. Enough to let her hope, for just a second, that it'll be a familiar one.
It's a strange scene, the destruction before her. To see everything be so still, so quiet, in the way that makes instinct or good sense scream danger. Except there is no danger, not visible at least: just dust, slowly settling, and that man. It feels wrong, wrong in the kind of way that twists her gut and makes the hands unsteady.
And then, the man moves, looking at something to his right. Not far, not a lot— enough for her to see a hint of grey cheekbones, the curvature of a nose, and then he turns back and all she can see is dreadful pale hair, and all she can feel is bile rising in her throat.
Of course his memory wouldn’t leave her alone. No peace for a devil, he’d say, or something just as dumb— and she can almost hear his voice and she's not sure if it's real or not, because he's there.
He's there. He's there.
She doesn't need a second look— with anyone else, she would, but not him. Not for the face she spent so many years mapping out in her mind, wishing she could touch it, not for the features she tried so hard to remember.
“That's Remy. That's him,” she breathes over the communicator.
“What?” Scott's voice comes as a crackle from the Blackbird's intercom, words carried like he's not sure if he's misheard or if she's gone crazy.
“It's Remy.”
She can hear Jubilee's gasp. Jean sounds sympathetic, the kind of sorry tone she's grown to hate lately.
“Rogue, you know Gambit is….”
Coward, can't even say it, she almost snorts.
“Ah'm tellin’ you, it's him.”
“Gambit's dead, Rogue.” Cyclops is clear, unwavering, trying to get the words out as quickly as possible as if that would soften the blow. “Do you think it could be a hallucination? Jean, do you detect anything?”
“I can't pick up any power signature, but I'm not detecting any presence on the field either, “ she answers. “Rogue— even if Gambit was alive, we would have picked his signature up on Cerebro. Remember, Apocalypse is powerful; he might have a telepath under his command.”
“Y’all ain't seeing him— it’s him, Ah know it!”
“Rogue, are you flying towards him?”
“Course Ah am.” Where else would Ah be, she almost adds, but they're already convinced she's lost her mind. She must look pretty crazy too, curled hair blown out of place by the wind, dust projected against her uniform and hope on her face.
“It might be a trap—”
“Ah wouldn't care even if it was, sugah.”
“Rogue, do not engage! Come back to the blackbird, n—”
That's all Cyclops gets to say, before she rips off the communicator from her chest and crumbles it in her fist, letting the useless plastic and metal bits fall to the ground like snowflakes.
Somewhere, she already knew, she's convinced of it. Some small, hopeful, treacherous part of her brain noticed the familiarity in his steps, in the way he carried himself. Her flight gets quicker.
He’s here. She doesn’t know how or why, doesn’t know what made heaven or hell give his soul back— just that he’s here. That’s all she wants to know, for now. Rationality can wait until she’s got him back.
He doesn’t look when her shadow passes over him; he knows she’s here, she’s sure of it. And yet, he just keeps walking, no sign of tension in his shoulders, no stumbling, no acknowledgement. It hurts more than she'd like to recognize.
She lands straight in front of him— an almost suicidal move against most ennemies. She should take advantage of her upper hand, aim for the back of the head, tumble until backup arrives— she doesn't do any of that. Instead, she lets herself drop onto the stone, disturbing the dust. Her skin feels clammy now, gloves sticking to her palms like a prison, but she'd be damned if she showed it.
Red eyes find hers. Not the red on black of her memory. Instead, his eyes are full of molten fire, shining bright in the half light. As blazing and uncaring as the sun— you light up everything you touch.
Remy.
It's him.
Grey skin, white hair, looking like he crawled out of eternal fire and with the eyes to match.
It doesn't look like Remy. There's something too cold, glass broken into dozens of shards and gathered into sharp edges, cruelly mimicking the mirror it once was. But it's him. She knows him.
Of course, her worst nightmares had to take shape— a human form, his form to taunt her.
And yet, she can't stop the gasp that escapes her— because it's him, and she's spent months trying to drown out the fact that she wouldn't see him again, but he's there and she can't focus on anything else, can't stop the sudden warmth that spreads through her spine, uncomfortable and heavy and it doesn't matter because Remy is in front of her and he's real.
“Remy,” she calls out, more of a breathed prayer than a real sound.
He doesn’t answer. Stares down at her with no more interest than when he looked at the rubble half a second ago.
“Remy,” she tries again, offering her hand, almost afraid to reach him just in case he'd disappear under her touch. “Sugah, are you oka—”
He steps around her.
Not a look, not a hesitation. Simply a step to the left, a minor inconvenience to avoid.
A whole fucking glacier could have hit her, and it'd probably hurt less.
It feels like a stranger wearing his skin, just like she wore his coat without having any right to do so. Except this doesn’t bring any comfort. It’s painful, humiliating, burning from her eyes, a harsh mirror to the worst mistakes of her life, to all the errors she’d sell her soul to undo.
Remy doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t take her soul, or her hand, or anything she’d offer. Just glares through her like she was never even worth observing.
She calls his name again. He doesn't spare even a glance towards her.
Maybe she has gone crazy, she thinks. Wouldn't come as a surprise to anyone, after all these months grieving, fighting, tearing herself and the world apart for something like justice or peace. Maybe it's just her mind punishing her, reminding her of what she'd never get. Reminding her of the limp body she'd held, of a torn white suit, of how she could have sworn she saw his breath, of how she could touch him—
She lunges forward to grab his hand. No real plan in mind, none other than making sure he exists. This time he finally reacts: he dodges her touch and turns around, his hand grasping around her neck.
The movement catches her off guard, raising her off the ground before she can use the momentum to fight back. She tries to escape, and finds his arm as cold as iron and just as steady, a strength that was never his filling his veins. She could— should fight it off, use her own borrowed force to shove him away, hit him while she’s still in shape to do some damage.
But it's Remy, Remy whose face is still a perfectly passive mask, Remy who looks nothing like the Remy she knew, Remy who doesn’t seem to recognise her, Remy who’s finally back. So all she does is call out his name, once more, voice broken by his hold, searching for a crinkle in his eyes or a tilt in his lips or anything at all that might show it’s him. No reaction rewards her efforts.
He doesn't look angry. He’s silent. Quiet, and deadly precise in a way that feels just enough like him to have her hope.
It's unfair how beautiful he is, she thinks as the black dots cloud her vision. It probably shouldn't be her last thought— she always thought she'd go down swinging and screaming— but it's perfect.
Then, a bright blast of lights swarm his face and he drops her, raising his hands to cover his eyes. He finally breaks his composure, brows furrowing in annoyance, yet nothing more.
It takes a second for her to regain her breathing. When she does, standing shakily once more, she sees Jubilee, sparkles still dancing between her fingers ready to shoot. Her mouth is dropped in an “o” shape, eyes roaming wide and unsure. She looks like she doesn’t know whether to run up to him for a hug, or to attack again.
“Gambit?” she tries, voice unsteady. He reaches his hand towards her, and she has the good sense to pull away, tumbling a few steps back. Wolverine draws her behind him, standing his ground with a snarl on his face as the rest of the team joins them
“Gambit? Are you okay?” Jeans asks.
“I don't know what this is, but it ain’t the Cajun,” Logan interrupts. “Smell's wrong”.
“Who are you?” Scott demands, hand already on the visor like they're facing an enemy instead of a friend.
Remy turns for a second, his face back to a harsh mask. He seems to ponder whether the question is even worth answering, as if simply deciding whether or not to crush a bug.
“I am Death. Face me and meet your end.”
He doesn't say it like a threat; it's merely a statement, his patois almost all but gone.
“Remy, stop this,” she almost begs, her words closer to a wheeze, still feeling the shape of his fingers on her. He ignores her.
“What are you doing here? Can you tell us what happened to you?” Scott tries to negotiate and she'd almost laugh, because what is there to negotiate?
“Why would I do that?”
“We're friends. Teammates, the X-men. You don't remember?” Jubilee’s eyes are full of tears now, trying her best to keep face.
“Does a gardner remember every flower he cut?”
From the corner of her eye, Rogue sees Jean reaching a finger to her forehead, the thin veil of her powers already spreading. This time, he smirks, and she sees a hint of him, or maybe a hint of cruelty, or maybe it’s the same thing. She gasps, and he turns towards her with a knowing smile.
“Death does not play mindtricks, child.”
“I don't know what kind of games you think you're playing, bub—”
“Games? This is no meer game,” he shakes his head, a packet of cards appearing in his hand as if out of thin air. “But if you insist… then pick a card, mon ami.”
They all know what the words mean—when half a second later, the explosion blows them back, they’re prepared. Wolverine leaps into action as Scott shields Jean. When the dust settles, he’s already out of reach, another charged card at the ready. Chaos takes the field, attacks half hidden by the flying dirt, and Rogue is faced with the harsh truth that in all these years, all these sparring sessions, Gambit must have been holding back. That’s the only explanation for what they’re seeing.
There's five of them; more than enough to take a single enemy down, normally. And yet he seems to dance between all of their attacks, dodging as easily as he breaths. And then he starts answering in kind, one charged card falling after the other.
She'd seen this before —seen him moving as silent as a snake, seen him survive falls that were just too high, seen him dodge hits that would have struck anyone else. Nobody was ever really sure just how much of his feats were training, dumb luck or a variation of his own powers. Somehow, she'd never considered just how deadly it all might be if he wasn't on their side anymore.
It's terrifying how quickly they get overwhelmed. In an instant their plan is useless, and there's no time for any sort of strategy, just desperate attempts to stop him, constantly missing their own attacks to avoid his blows. A card flows near her head, the familiar buzz of energy filling her ears for an instant and she thinks he missed, thinks he might be distracted enough for her to finally land a hit. Her muscles flex, leg bend to pounce, readying herself —before a storm of debris sends her flying down.
Of course he hadn't missed. Despite her head pounding and the blood she can feel trickling down in her hair, she almost wants to laugh. It's bitter and it burns her throat — Ah should've known better than that. He hadn't even been aiming at her, but simply at the warehouse behind.
He knew, because of course Gambit knew, that she could take a hit of his cards. It would have hurt, would have stunned her maybe, but it wouldn't have stopped her, and then she might have gotten a clear shot at him. He knew, so he'd gotten her out of the way.
There's rubble everywhere, and a thick black smoke filling the air, and none of them can see clearly enough to catch him—every time they get a chance he's gone already. It's made harder by the constant explosions littering the battlefield, blinding them before they can attempt to guess the direction of the throw.
Even Logan doesn't hear his steps on the ground — he smells him, but it's a second too late and he's on his back now, the metal taste of blood in his mouth, and he wants to swipe at the enemy but it's Gambit, and before his claws could tear him the man is out of reach anyway, moving like water from an enemy to the next.
They've always been like this— there's a rhyme, a melody to their fights. Each plays their part and they all fall together in perfect harmony. Or they used to, at least: now, they're one instrument short. He knows all their songs, and he knows exactly how a discordant note can make it all fall apart. It's cacophony, a hazardous screeching noise where music should be.
Jean is the first to fall, along with Scott. Gambit's got her right where he wants—he's got them all right where he wants, clearly.
She stops in the middle of the field, exposed, hand reaching her temple, trying to reach him, willing, convincing, forcing him to stop. Rogue's no psychic, but it's evident from their strained stances that she's trying to break through the static that surrounds his mind.
It seems to work, for an instant. He falls silent, his smile fades and the area feels all too quiet as the smoke clears. His face looks slightly surprised, disarmed, then his eyes shut in a quick expression of pain— it’s not what she hoped to see, but it’s better than the smirks and indifference she’d been granted thus far. His lips fall open, but no sounds come.
Quiet. His knees buckle. Quiet as a battlefield never should be.
And then Jean screams, falling over and it's chaos again. Rogue thinks she hears her scream the name of Apocalypse, but she's not sure, and Jean's out of commission. Gambit lands a few hits with his bo staff, and she had never been a prodigy at close fighting, but it's almost unfair to see how easily he brings her down.
And of course, Scott tries to stop him— Gambit dodges a few powerful blasts, stepping to the side or leaning right down, while sending cards raining across the field, still smirking. Somewhere, something in Rogue wonders if it's wrong that she's relieved to see him artfully avoid the hits, to see him okay— there's a blow to Jean's knees and the awful, awful crack of a bone. And he must have known, because of course he did, that this would be enough. Enough for the boys to stop thinking, to act rash, enough for them to lose any resemblance of coherence.
Wolverine leaps at him and he's out of the way before the Canadian is fully in the air— he grapples him anyway, pushing them both to the ground. Their movements are quick, too messy for her to discern who's got the upper hand. She thinks she can see Remy slipping away time and time again, escaping from the holds and dodging deadly claws, but Logan’s a fighter with enough instinct and experience to last him a lifetime. Wolverine pins him to the side and though his face doesn’t show anything, his movements seem struggling to ward off the coming blows.
Then, Cyclops sends another blast. Full power, angry enough to crackle the red quartz of his visor. For a second, she fears this fool might kill him— until she sees Remy smirk, barely half an instant, and suddenly he’s not struggling anymore, flipping Logan around to let him take the hit.
The distorted scream stops just as a burnt flesh smell hits her nose. She rushes over, pushing Wolverine’s heavy body onto the side, the healing factor already at play. Despite this, his eyes are glossy, breath coming out in labored grunts.
“Behind you,” Jubilee screams, shooting shards of light at Remy— or Death, or whatever the thing wearing his face is. It's enough to make him stumble, give her time to dodge the bo staff that would surely have knocked her out. Taking advantage, she runs to Cyclops, who's now kneeling near Jean. Better not to get separated; keep the team intact, get the wounded to safety, her training dictates.
“Take her and Jubilee to the blackbird,” she instructs. “It's too dangerous for them. Ah'll distract him until we can get him down or until reinforcements get here.”
Leaving and retreating isn't an option, they both know. Not when she's spent months praying to see him again: no way she can let him go again.
Scott hesitates, drawing Jean closer in his arms.
“Are you sure ? He's….”
“Ah'll be fine, sugah. Just need to hold him off till Wolvie gets back up. An’ if things get ugly, Ah can ways give him a little kiss.”
A nod, and then he rises, carrying Jean's limp body like she weighs nothing, and yells out orders at Jubilee. One last look before turning on his heels, and he sounds more like a friend than a leader.
“Be careful.”
She hears his steps get further away as she dodges another card, trying her best to keep Remy's attention on her. If he notices them leaving, he makes no moves to stop it. She takes to the sky, trying to get a clearer view and stay out of reach— and that's a mistake, one that he must have been expecting, because he immediately looks up and smiles at her. And despite everything, the chaos, the rubble and the blood spilled, she feels her heart stop for a moment, swallowed whole in the way the corners of his lips raise and she doesn't know if she's dreaming, but for a second she could swear his eyes soften—for a instant, she's back in the kitchen, at the mansion and she can dream of nothing more than his mouth on hers.
She knows him. How could she not? They've spent so long dancing around each other, playing their game and forgetting there was ever any stakes, pretending that it could replace what she missed.
He knows her, too. She sees her own reflection in his deep red eyes— cursed eyes, he called them, and she could never quite see it, lost in the beauty of them. Now that a fury burns behind them, she understands better why they called him a devil.
He charges an explosion and sends it right into her face— it's a small one, she knows. The kind he uses when he wants to distract someone. And it works: it blows up in front of her eyes and she instantly brings her hand up to cover them. When she opens her eyes again, he's gone.
Gone— no. Her eyes roam the scene, taking in the ruins and desolation, but no sign of him. No no no no no no no he can't be gone, he has to be—
She flies down. She knows it's a mistake, she's goddamn aware of it but she doesn't care, because he's gone and suddenly her chest hurts like hell, breath heaving and throat closing.
She turns a corner, and he's there again, sharp and focused, waiting in ambush. A trap, one that she walked— or rather, ran into. But if she falls, he'll get away, and she can't let that happen either: so she throws herself closer, landing flush against his body, and kisses him as hard as she can. She feels him tense for a second, surprise washing out over his features.
Her busted lip hurts like hell, and it's only the pain that reminds her she's not dreaming. She knows what to expect when their lips meet: the same rush of memories as usual, a jumbled mess of faces and places from Louisiana, the familiarity of his memories, his mind, him, all things she's absorbed a thousand times. In a way, she's almost longing for it.
Empty.
It's empty.
There's nothing, not this time. She tries to grasp at whatever filament of his soul she can, to find something, anything of him to hang back on. There's a gaping hole in her chest, or maybe his. No memories, none of his psyche come to invade her mind through the pull of her powers. She reaches out, more and more and grabbing at everything of him she can, holding as tight as possible. Not even any pain, despite the battle they've just raged— no feelings at all. There's a goal, an objective to reach and a body molded to reach it, but no more; barely a husk of a human. A grave for a body already awoken. Empty. A puppet with its strings cuts, a mirror.
Her mind is still reeling, drowning in the nothingness when she feels him going limp against her.
And just like last time, she's cradling him and he doesn't answer. Just like last time, his skin is still lukewarm, and yet going cold so fast. Just like last time, she knows she can touch him and nothing will happen. Only difference is this time, he's already dressed for a funeral.
Just like last time, his chest is not rising.