For Jehilew
Gambit: "Same crap that happened to me, chere. Apocalypse got to my soul. I became someone else. Part of me liked it, too. And it's still there, waitin' deep inside. Power like that, you can't kill. You just make it sleep. …I remembered everyone I loved. And that was suddenly more important."
Author's Note: The above quote is all we know about how Gambit defeated his dark alter-ego, Death. Not good enough! I'm interested in how you think it was handled, what you would've liked to see, and if my little fic contributes anything worthwhile. It's set post-Schism, before Avengers vs. X-Men. Enjoy!
Don't Fear the Reaper
Anyone who's ever had a broken heart knows Hell isn't a place of fire and brimstone.
It's an empty bed after an argument. It's an empty bed and her clothes in boxes moving down the hall. It's an empty bed and her clothes in boxes and her cold green eyes saying 'Ah need space'. It's an empty bed and her clothes in boxes and her cold green eyes and lonely nights followed by lonely days. It's an empty bed and her clothes in boxes and her cold green eyes and lonely nights and lonely days and her magnetic new friend, who by rights, should be dead. Instead, he fills her bed and takes her boxes and warms her eyes and makes sure she is never alone.
But Remy? What does he have? An empty bed and empty boxes and the memory of her warm eyes going cold and lonely nights followed by lonely days.
"You need a friend," Laura said bitingly. If she hadn't been a sixteen-year-old former student, he might've thought she was propositioning him. Fuck, maybe she was, but he wasn't that lonely yet.
He met Kailin at the Park. After a run, they went for coffee, and later she came back to his place to fool around. The sex was great. She showered before and after and left with a kiss and a fake number stored in his phone.
His bed was still empty. The boxes, the memories, the loneliness were all he had left. That's when he realized he would never feel happiness again. Like a headless cockroach, he'd continue with his routine, but it didn't matter. She'd robbed him of his heart when she left. Inside, he was dead.
…
Illyana had been taken to Limbo and was being held against her will. Sam, the X-Man known as Cannonball, was mounting a rescue team, which everyone assumed would never return. Magik was the queen of Limbo. If she was in trouble, what chance did anybody else stand? Nevertheless, they went. They were superheroes, damnit, suicide missions were their specialty.
Gambit volunteered, half-hoping Rogue would send him off. He didn't expect her to sob on his shoulder and beg him not to go, but a "take care, Cajun" would've been nice.
No such luck.
In that hellish dimension of fire and demon, Gambit revealed his true self. Later, the X-Men would claim he'd been hexed or manipulated – and he readily agreed – but the truth was he'd merely dropped the mask. His hair turned ash-white; his skin, corpse black. In his chest, he felt a kinship to this land and its inhabitants. He reveled in their chaos and fear. He twisted his team until they fought against each other, jeered at their pleas, and laughed at their despair.
What a warm, merry place Limbo turned out to be!
Sam slammed Remy's head against his knee and Death was literally knocked out.
"What was that?"
"I need to know if you're a danger to the team."
"If you need to talk…"
Every day he walked through halls filled with familiar faces. They knew many details about his life – but they didn't know anything about him that really mattered. His biggest regret, his only fear, his favorite episode of Star Trek – unknown factors of a man they knew well. Every day, they passed him in the hall and saw him less and less. But he saw them more and more clearly. Not only would they never know him, they would never care.
Why was he here? Why was he even alive? If he fell into the ocean, no one would miss him.
"Fall," Death taunted. "Lay down like the dog you are."
Remy knew Death was waiting for him to surrender. He couldn't even sleep anymore for fear of losing control to those slivers of death. It built in his blood, tainting the poison that already flowed in his veins until his source weakened. Long ago and far away, an assassin had given him the kiss of death. His life was hers. Now something else had claimed him and she was livid. Like a hound hunting an injured fox, Bella Donna traced him to his barricaded dorm and dug him out. He wanted to break in her hands. Instead, she filled his bed and his room and the entire world with her angry, fiery eyes that accepted no lies or half-truths.
"What the hell's wrong with you?" she demanded.
She returned him to New Orleans. Why do the sick and dying yearn for home? It's something about these people and this land and their bond that strengthens the soul. Bella Donna understood this simple truth.
"Merci, chere," he said.
Her hand lay over his heart. In a tiny, unwired shack near Lake Pontchartrain, Tante Mattie had bound him to a pentagram. She chanted an ancient spell while Belle drew her own blood, and Death had no power to resist. Remy had expected a bigger fight, but blood magic was the most potent form. Like wet gun powder, Death smoldered and hissed and vanished with a sigh.
"Should've called me sooner," she said.
He held her beautiful face in his hands. "Should've never left."
They lips sealed together and for a brief moment, he knew happiness. But then he pulled away.
'What's wrong?' her eyes asked.
They were wrong. He wasn't that hot-blooded sixteen-year-old boy who'd first convinced her to open her legs. Nor was he that eighteen-year-old boy who'd taken vows with her and then broken them. He was more like that twenty-three year-old who made love to her while wishing she was someone else. How he hated those boys now. They'd been so careless with her heart. He wasn't in love with her – not like he'd been at sixteen, so willing to kill and die for her – but he loved her enough to know she deserved better.
"If you want to make it up to me," she said, "please me without pleasin' yourself."
Poor Belle had fallen in love with him as a child. For her, there would be no other. He figured the occasional times they came together should be mind-blowing and awe-inspiring, for memories were all they seemed to share.
Her body was a temple he gladly worshiped, but his service wasn't entirely selfless. As with Rogue, sometimes he cheated, but unlike Rogue, Belle smacked his offending hand, which was too close to his manhood to risk another strike. She demanded his mouth and both hands and received them lovingly. He was left dry-humping the bed like a beggar. And he did beg. For her body, for her ecstasy, and finally for permission to fuck her.
"I didn't say you could do that," she said afterwards.
"Didn't think you'd mind," he said, kissing her shoulder.
She shivered. "No. I didn't mind."
"Breakfast?"
"Shower first, you filthy man."
While he slipped into her adjoining bathroom, she hugged his pillow and inhaled deeply. It smelled like him, but… different.
"Chere?" he called nervously from the shower. "How long we known each other?"
"…Awhile… Why?"
"Come here, I need you to look at something."
She tried to brace herself for the worst. Good Lord, had she hurt him? Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and screamed. His skin was black as a corpse.
"This ain't right, is it?" he asked.
…
Rogue knew he was in trouble. Like waking in the dead of night, terrified, knowing a nightmare had followed her out. She knew Gambit was in trouble. The Assassins Guild, led by his ex-wife, had snatched him from the X-Men's protective hive. He was being held under a crypt, which had been enchanted to keep him imprisoned. Luckily, Belle's voodoo parlor tricks were no match for the queen of Hell.
Unluckily, they were too late.
By the time she reached him, he'd aged a hundred years. Deep, miserable lines marred his once-handsome face. Long, white hair spread like cobwebs from his scalp and over his limbs. His uniform was a tattered rag hanging loosely from his skeletal body. Oh, her proud, dashing anti-hero!
"Chere…"
With Herculean strength, she ripped through chain links as thick as her neck. Rows and rows of them. They gripped his ankles, wrists, and neck until he bled. They tied him to the ceiling, floor, and walls. Over time, his back had stooped under their merciless weight. He tried to speak for the first time since who-knew-when, but she couldn't bear to replace the memory of his lovely voice with an old man's bark.
"Easy, sugar. You're safe now."
"I knew… you'd save me…"
The last link snapped.
"Idiot."
In a flash, he attacked with impossible speed for an entropic old man. Only her super-human endurance saved her from a broken neck. Death towered over her. Poised to strike, he stood erect and proud with serpentine black skin and milky white eyes. He was once more young and virile, and she remained where she fell for just a heartbeat, hoping he would crush her with his flesh.
Illyana attacked from behind, giving Rogue time to scramble to her feet. He grinned and winked and suddenly Magik was struggling against Darkchilde, her own inner demon. Rogue could not fight them both, so she watched him flee. Remy had always defeated Death on his own. Why should this time be any different?
But it was different. Death had blown the gasket throttling Remy's rage, and now he was in control. He would hunt down that bitch for locking him up. He'd slice her to ribbons and laugh at her agony. What a glorious day to be alive!
The blood that had exposed him and called her to Remy's rescue would be her undoing. It craved her, too. The closer she was, the less he ached. Perhaps he would cage her or hang her skin in his closet. Then, whenever he was weak, he could wear her acidic crimson. Or dance with her skeleton.
No, he decided, he wanted more than her blood and skin and bones. He wanted her soul and pride and adoration. So help him, he even wanted her love.
"Damnit," she sounded annoyed. "Thought I locked that pen."
So that's what he was? A dog to lock up at night?
He snatched her hair and spat in her face, "You're so pretty till you open your mouth."
Her tangled golden locks turned to silver in his hands, and her porcelain skin blacked like death. As her violet irises and pupils submerged under a milky film, fear flickered, and for a moment, she resisted. She was afraid. Afraid of losing him, of losing herself. Didn't she know he would never leave? He pressed his lips to hers and she melted into his dark embrace.
Their souls came together. He possessed her and she him. Everything that had kept them apart was petty concerns of the living – her happiness and their families and his freedom: gladly sacrificed on the unrepentant altar of desire.
Overhead, the sun faded to night and the moon froze in the sky. Every living thing scurried away, and the grass beneath their feet curled and melted and turned the ground to quicksand. Even Tante Mattie, who'd known them since birth, fled from their sight. Why? What had they done? They'd made a world without pain or fear, loneliness or want; a place without time or power or powerlessness; a land devoid of every bright and living thing gifted from Heaven but wielded by Hell. It was, in short, death.
"What now?" she asked. "They'll come for us."
"Let them! This is our town. If the X-Men think they change that, let them try!"
In the heart of the city, they floated into restaurants with months-long reservations. Everyone seemed to vanish wherever they went. Shaky, stuttering waiters quickly poured their wine. The clammy chef, who prepared their meal at the table, was so anxious that he sliced open his thumb. Blood poured all over the food. Terrified, he didn't breathe until they applauded and laughed and complimented his commitment to excellence.
"Warm blood improves every meal!" Death declared.
The chef fainted.
They strolled through the French Quarter, which for once was deserted. The place wasn't the same without the people and the music and the warm, lovely smell of food. A storm was brewing off the coast. The air crackled with impending doom, but they weren't bothered. In a cozy, empty café, she made his coffee, and then they went to a jewelry store.
"Anything to your fancy, my love?"
Her ebony fingertips caressed a gaudy diamond necklace. "Now you're speakin' my language."
He grasped her other hand and when she turned, she saw he'd dropped to one knee. She gasped.
"Who else would have me?" He smiled wickedly.
She eagerly slipped the ring on her finger. "Can we have a church weddin'?"
"No one's gonna tell us no, chere."
"Oh…"
"What's the matter?"
"Who's gonna walk me down the aisle? My Daddy can't do it…"
"Why not?"
Back at the Boudreaux family crypt, Death eyed the chains with disgust. "Not gonna lock me up again, are you?"
She wrapped a line around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. "Not unless you want me to."
Marius Boudreaux rose from his cement coffin. Like them, his skin and hair were monochromatic, although his body had decomposed somewhat and his dirty suit wasn't fit for church. He and Bella Donna were so happy to be reunited that he didn't protest the wedding. Julien, in the corner coffin, rattled with rage.
"We'll just… leave him here," she decided.
…
When they stepped into the cathedral, the wooden floors, white walls, and antique pews withered, cracked, and darkened. It looked as if a fire had swept through. Light could not permeate their sphere. Inside the shadows were whispered curses of all those buried beneath this ground, crying for him to pluck them from the River Styx.
"Let's get this over with," Death said.
The reluctant priest found courage when administering communion – he thought the Holy Sacrament would destroy them. When his magic cookies failed, his performance floundered. Death considered killing him, resurrecting him, and making him start over. It was the surest way to make this holy coward conquer his fear of the afterlife, but goddamn, this was long enough already.
That's when the X-Men arrived.
"Is nothin' sacred?" said Bella Donna.
"I'll take care of this," her father said. "Enjoy your day, mon chou."
Marius put up a good fight, but they always knew he wouldn't be enough to throw off a team of X-Men. As the charred walls reverberated, they rushed through the vows and blessings. Inside grew darker and darker. Blindly, they exchanged rings. A chorus of demons took up the rafters, chanting "Ave Satanas" until the stained-glass bleeding martyrs shattered, threatening to bring down the walls with them. The giant bells in the unstable tower thundered overhead.
"Oh God, forgive me," uttered the priest, "What have I done?"
Every form of wickedness since the dawn of time filled the broken church. Destruction, death, pain, greed, lust, madness, hopelessness. Their pointed wings, bald heads, and hooved claws broke the deafening roar and impenetrable night.
When the X-Men finally breached the door, Death and Bella Donna were long gone.
…
It had been so dark for so long that he couldn't even recall the sun. He couldn't recollect lamplight. He didn't remember the moon. And it was spreading. He could feel his sphere of influencing stopping abruptly at the town limits and assumed some superhero had telepathically or otherwise sealed him. If they thought Death was trapped by this physical realm, they were mistaken. But for the time being, he was content.
Bella Donna was happy. Queen of this dead kingdom, she was free to hunt at will. They communed with the dead and fucked in the cemetery, and no one censored them because everyone else was doing it, too. This was human nature at its truest, purest form. He should've been happy, too…
But he wasn't.
He'd been cursed with an insatiable, unnamable yearning. Nothing thrilled him for long. Yes, he was free to make mischief, but what fun was trouble without consequences? Yes, he could give Bella Donna everything she ever wanted… But she didn't need him to grant her wishes. Yes, he'd made this place in his image, but sharing his secret pleasures made them lose their flavor.
He'd placed himself above all others, but he wasn't any different from anybody else. God, he'd married one acceptable woman, and worked all day and night to make her happy. Besides his death-touch and odd appearance, he was Ozzie-fucking-Nelson! He was the ultimate hypocrite: taking life without surrendering his.
At least Ozzie could jump off a bridge and end it all.
Death couldn't die.
It was the lowest part of his miserable existence. Now he searched out the sun in earnest, and tried to heal the things he'd broken. Every good and bright thing wilted from his touch. There was no hope here. There was only ending.
That's when the storm arrived. He thought the distant rain was the tears of those who hardly knew him mourning his loss. No, it was his destiny. The Bright Lady. She always appeared when the soul was lost. It was her piercing blue eyes which led him to the Veil. Just behind the curtain, he thought he saw a light. How long had it been since he'd seen color? He could sense a universe full of wonder, his life's true purpose – just beyond. The voices… they did not venture beyond the Veil. Silence. How long had it been since he hadn't heard the ceaseless chatter of the dead? He felt drawn to venture in, but not without Bella Donna.
"Did ya not read your 'Harry Potter'?" she asked. "The Veil is bad."
"No, the Veil is death. Like us. That's where we belong. This world is purgatory."
"It clearly ain't Heaven… What if we go to Hell?"
"I've been and it ain't all it's cracked up to be."
"What about Daddy?"
"He's got to cross over someday, too. We'll make sure he's got a nice place to call home." He watched the resistance in her eyes melt away. "Come on, chere. I ain't goin' without you."
But he'd force her if he had to. He'd drag her kicking and screaming by the roots of her silver hair if words didn't work. But his words always worked.
She grasped his hand and they stepped over together.
The universe stretched out infinitely. He was suspended in a velvet pool of silence, carrying a light without a source. No, the glow was his mutant power. Remy saw himself now for what he'd always been… broken, hungry, obsessively tinkering with mindless tasks. All that mattered, the only thing that had ever mattered-
"Belle?"
Silence.
He grabbed the scraps of memories – that life he'd been so invested in. There was Belle in pigtails; in cut-offs; in a wedding dress; in braids and socks and nothing else… But she wasn't just memories and clothes. She'd once been as alive as him.
Where had she gone?
Death stood on the other side of the Veil. Grinning. He hadn't crossed over. He'd sent Remy and Belle into the great beyond so he could possess them entirely.
What had he done?
"Don't fight it," said Death. "She's already gone. There is nothing left for you."
He reached for his memories again and found them fading. His friends… That girl with the green eyes, what was her name? And the man with a mustache (or had it been a Van Dyke?), why had Remy loved him so deeply? Stormy, Stormy… what color were her eyes? They'd all be gone soon. Wherever he was headed, whatever he was facing – would strip him of Belle and everything he'd ever felt for her. He couldn't allow that to happen.
Candles blew out as the Veil fluttered overhead and around him, summoned by his will. Apparently, such things have true power in the afterlife. He snatched it, charged it, and watched it explode. She screamed in pain, startling him, before everything faded to black.
…
Anyone who's ever been in love knows Heaven isn't a place of pearly gates and golden streets.
It's a soft kiss after a lost battle. It's a soft kiss and her clothes on the floor at his place. It's a soft kiss and her clothes on the floor and her sparkling violet eyes saying 'I need you'. It's a soft kiss and her clothes on the floor and her sparkling eyes and stupid fights followed by make-up sex. It's a soft kiss and her clothes on the floor and her sparkling eyes and stupid fights and make-up sex and her tardy period, usually on time, arriving later than usual. Instead of relief, he feels disappointed and it makes him realize where he wants to be.
And Death? What does he have? A powerful weapon and an easy target if only he could fight.
"You wasted your gift of death," Mystique said bitterly. If he hadn't known better, he might've thought she was disappointed with him. Hell, maybe she was, but she wasn't his burden anymore.
He met Rogue in the lobby. After a hug, she gave him a bag, which contained the final mementoes of their union. It was awkward. She smiled before and after and left with a kiss and a false promise to visit often.
He knew it was bullshit. Clothes, memories, arguments were all they had left. That's when he realized he was free. Like a fallen angel, Death drew authority in fear and sorrow, but was powerless to inflict it. She took the keys to Death's escape when she left. Now he was as good as dead.
…
The End.
…