Work Text:
Into the Light
The man seemed to be floating in darkness, his flailing limbs swinging but never finding purchase.
Maybe there was nothing to grasp. There was no air, no light, no sound, even as he tried to scream.
He was sure he had been sleeping, that there had been people looking over him. He had been immobile and weak, able to do nothing, existing only as pain that would always sting, as wheels that would never turn.
But that couldn't be real. There were no other people. There was only him.
And he was here, wherever this was. He might have always been here. Since the beginning of time, or maybe he hadn't, and his life here, if he could call it that, had just begun.
He occasionally felt incredible pain saturating his body, though when he focused on it, he once again ceased to feel.
He thought of everything and nothing.
Where had he been before this, if he had been anywhere? Where was he likely to be going?
He knew he must be someone, and yet, who was he? Who might he have been?
Was this death? And if it was, what did that make him?
Death was certain this had always been his vocation, had always been his path. He could not remember when it started, but he could have no other task that rivaled his purpose, no goal more critical than his own.
Death seemed to have always been hunting, seeking guidance from his master, pulling soul after soul into the great beyond. The consummate pupil, the perfect soldier, the Horseman who would travel furthest, who would even carry his master to the end one day.
And yet, Death seemed to experience his journey in glimpses, as the brief view from a door cracked open, a more prolonged gaze as the door occasionally swung out in the wind.
Death seemed to open his eyes to new surroundings, new feelings, new duties every time he blinked. Faces rarely stood out, but there had been so many, too many, and even if one wished to remember mortals, their lives were simply gone too fast.
The world changed in front of him, as did the items in his hands. He fought with rings, wielded a glowing scythe, breathed toxic air, plagued others with disease. He rode a horse, then something with wheels, then something that seemed to travel in the sky. His vantage point changed often, as did his distance from those nearby. His body occasionally changed as well. He had periods when he could feel wings sprouting from his back, helping him glide through the cool air. But other times, he was bound to the ground, and he wondered whether his wings had ever been there.
He supposed it didn't matter. He was everything and nothing. He would always be, and he would always be what never was.
He was where the end began.
He was Death.
Time slowed in an instant, and he seemed to skid to a stop.
He felt different in his skin somehow, couldn't remember the last time he'd had his feet on solid ground.
What had he been doing before this?
He had no fucking idea.
He looked around, noticed that he was surrounded by people in colorful masks, saw a parade up ahead.
Remy felt a wave of bittersweet nostalgia, and he couldn't help but grin.
Dieu, Mardi Gras already?
He guessed he'd been drinking, might even have blacked out if his memory was that bad.
Wouldn't be the first time this time o' year, he thought wryly.
True, this parade was no Courir de Mardi Gras, but touristy shit like this had been great for un petit chaoui with sticky fingers and an empty belly once upon a time, so he had a special fondness for it. [Cajun Mardi Gras celebration; a little raccoon]
Speakin' o' sticky fingers…
Remy didn't remember putting on his trenchcoat, but it was automatic at this point. He reached into the pockets, glad to find that he still had his cards and his bo staff—currently closed—and didn't have to kick anyone's ass.
He was also pleased to find that a treasured Polaroid was still safe in his inner breast pocket.
He pulled out the photo, smiling at it.
It was a candid shot of him and Rogue, taken by Jubilee, though he'd told Rogue no one was watching them at the time. Her hand had been far too close to dangerous territory, and his hand had cheekily already ventured where it shouldn't. And like the scamp he had been, Remy hadn't wanted to risk letting her walk away.
World's been conspirin' to keep us apart for so long, he thought. And yet, it wasn't his thought. And it wasn't about him and Rogue.
Hmm.
He pictured Candra, the X-Ternal, the one to whom the Guilds paid their tithes.
Why the hell…?
He felt an unexpected rage bubbling up, something more than indignation, something darker and more cutting than a mere desire for revenge.
His mind seemed to begin a strange push and pull, a Jekyll and Hyde dance step almost too rapid to follow.
He smiled at the Romeo spikes on the poles of a nearby building, thought with disgust that his beloved had chosen her new home poorly. He felt comforted by familiar sounds and smells, glared bitterly at the cesspool around him.
None of these people were fit to survive, and with him now among them, they soon no longer would.
Remy stopped in his tracks.
He felt a pit in his stomach, panic seeping into his pores.
What the hell was happening?
And then he realized.
He was hearing the thoughts of the man he'd come to consider his master, though he couldn't remember when that had begun.
This could not be new, did not feel new, but how long had it been since he felt like Remy?
Remy looked down, registered that his coat was black, realized that the skin of his hands was gray.
Gonna go out on a limb and say this ain't alcohol, he quipped inwardly, trying hard not to lose his shit.
Where the hell had he been before this?
He vaguely remembered pain in his side, an explosion, other images just beyond his reach.
What the fuck is happenin'?
Remy felt a sudden wave of pleasure, almost pride from his master. The way a teacher thinks fondly of their star pupil's successes, their unwavering faith that the student's success will repeat itself.
What...?
Remy saw someone standing in front of him. Someone who should not be there. Someone who, if he was truly there, would not be standing.
He gaped.
Professor? he tried to ask.
Nothing.
Professor Xavier? Remy tried again, but the words caught in his throat.
He was overcome with a menacing sense of glee, a predator zeroing in on its prey.
He reached for his scythe, his hand moving of its own accord.
Non!
Death had to- No, Remy had to warn him.
Professor, run! he tried to shout.
Nothing again.
Fuck!
Remy tried to keep his feet in place, but his body was no longer his own. He could think and feel and see, could watch a horrific film playing on a screen in front of him, but he could no longer act.
He stalked toward the man, saw him looking through the crowd.
Lookin' for me? he thought. No, his master thought.
Remy walked up behind Xavier, trying desperately to take back control of his body, to find his damn fucking voice.
Professor, run! he tried to scream.
"Mighty untoward, peekin' at another man's cards," he heard himself say instead.
It was exactly something he would say, and yet, it wasn't him.
Xavier spun, gasping when he saw Remy.
Remy felt himself clamp a hand over Xavier's mouth, could only watch in horror as Xavier was overtaken by purple rot and blinding light.
The professor groaned, sounded like he was in pain, and then he faded into nothing.
Remy found that his body was his own again, that he could at least control his movements, but Remy also felt a wave of smug self-satisfaction that did not belong to him.
What did you do? What did I do?
He could almost feel his master's laugh shaking in his chest.
Remy looked around again, unsure what to do but knowing that he would have to do something.
But what could he do now that his master was now in his head, now spoke in his voice? Now that he felt his master's hope's and desires?
What could he do now that all the people around him were in danger? Now that the danger was him?
Remy's head started to become foggy, as though a cloud was starting to sneak in, and with it, came wisps of shame.
Surely Death would not defy his master. Surely he could not. But he wasn't Death, he was…
He furrowed his brow.
No, he knew. His name was Remy. Wasn't it?
The fog was becoming thicker, though he looked around, trying to fasten his mind firmly to the things around him.
Masks, beads, Romeo spikes.
What were any of those things, and why was he thinking of them?
He had just a moment to wonder whether he had put his photo back, and then his mind clouded over.
The darkness was different now, seemed to slice into Remy's skin, tear at the insides of his lungs. His heart pounded in fear, and he seethed as he tried to scream and nothing came out.
He couldn't seem to remember why, but he knew that something was in danger. Something or someone. Though it must be somewhere else, because here there was only him.
He occasionally thought he saw something, felt himself trying to fight, desperate to speak. It almost felt like someone had touched him at one point, for just a moment that his master was weak.
But it was usually dark, would always stay that way, no matter how much he fought.
He should probably give in at some point, but what would he do then? Who would he be? And what would be the point?
Pain suddenly seemed to flood his body, and Remy thrashed, would have screamed if he could.
Was he finally dying? Was this finally the end?
Someone fuckin' make this stop!
Remy felt his heart clench.
No one would. Probably no one could.
He could only hope that it would be over soon. Somehow.
A voice rang out, seemed to fill the space around him, was so jarring that Remy curled into himself.
Remy, if you can hear me, come back to me! the voice called urgently, as though danger was headed their way.
Remy thought he knew the voice, but who the hell would-
Oh fuck.
Professor Xavier.
Remy could feel his heart pounding, his eyes beginning to sting.
Xavier had found Remy before. Maybe he had found him again.
He didn't understand. Maybe couldn't understand.
"Professor! Help me! Please!" Remy tried to shout, and miracle of miracles, he found that he had a voice.
He listened for a reply, hoping that Xavier would speak.
For a long time, Remy heard nothing, and he tried not to give in to despair.
Had that been a trick? He could no longer tell what was real. Maybe none of it was. Maybe he had been right that no one was coming. Maybe-
"Come on, sugar," Remy heard his favorite voice say.
"Chere?" he asked hopefully.
He felt a hand grip his.
Remy LeBeau was used to putting on a brave face. He was used to pretending that everything was fine. That he wasn't injured or in pain, that his heart wasn't broken, that he intended to look ahead and dive into life with fervor.
But tonight, at a gala celebrating Genosha's rise to better things, it was too much, and as he watched the woman he loved in the arms of another man, twirling gracefully in the air like they were being carried by a gentle breeze, Remy couldn't continue to pose as just another casual, cheery guest.
Remy couldn't watch with a smile, couldn't pretend that he wasn't consumed with disappointment and sadness.
His heart ached. For himself. For both of them. Even though he understood Rogue's reasoning, knew that some part of her even believed she was giving Remy a chance for something better.
Every time I look at you, I see all the things we can't do, Rogue had said to him.
Someone who didn't know her well would have mistakenly seen selfishness in the statement. They wouldn't know of her terrible fear of hurting him, of her deep concern that she was holding Remy back. But Remy knew her well, and he knew the selfless ways she tried to love those around her. She would deny herself what she wanted, even when it hurt, because she didn't feel good enough, because she didn't want someone to be stuck when they could have something better.
I see all the things I can't give you, she might have said.
Her distance had never been due to a pure desire for touch, her openness to that asshole had never been a mere attempt to seize a chance. She was making the best of a difficult situation, was making sure that she would be okay when she let Remy go.
Maybe it would have been easier if Remy hadn't known that love was there, that care was there.
As Genosha was consumed by fire, Remy scrambled to help the injured around him, but he also had one goal in mind. The ballroom had been hit, and the person he loved most had been there. Invulnerability or not, she had been in danger when the Godzilla Sentinel struck, and Remy would not be able to breathe until he knew she was safe.
He turned a corner, a relieved sigh escaping even as worry flooded his veins. Kurt was on the ground, and Rogue was kneeling next to him, holding up her bare hands.
Remy knew her body language well, could read her even when he couldn't see her face, and whatever had happened, Rogue was utterly panicked.
"Rogue!" he shouted.
She spun, her terror-stricken eyes slightly softening when they connected with his.
"Remy!" she gasped as he ran toward her.
He checked Kurt, could practically see Rogue sway when Remy delivered the good news.
"He alive," Remy told her, and then he stood, finally looking Rogue up and down.
She was alive, relatively uninjured.
"So are you," he breathed, knowing that he had never felt more grateful.
Rogue gave him a small nod.
Remy felt a hand on his shoulder, realized that Magneto was talking to him, but for just a moment, Remy couldn't find a way to respond.
Because rather than looking to see whether Magneto was alright, rather than seeming to take in any of his words herself, Rogue's shining eyes remained on Remy.
And those beautiful green eyes said more in an instant than she ever could. She had something she had been about to say. Something mixed with sadness and regret, hope and frustration. Fear, and yet something like safety now that Remy was there, now that she knew he was alright.
She hadn't told him that she loved him, but the look on her face told him that she might have, if she'd only had the time. And if she had, Remy knew he would have done the same.
Death had been an easy choice after that. There was no other way, and there was no time to think, no time even for goodbye.
His death meant that the people in the gardens had a chance to live, that Rogue had a chance to live.
And when the Sentinel pierced his side, when the explosion ended him completely, all he could see before his death was her.
So much had been a puzzle after that, but something was different now.
There were more pieces, rattling against each other, memory after memory fighting their way to the top. But they were starting to settle into place as well.
It was still hard to know which memories were real. But in watching the picture become clearer, he realized he was beginning to see which pieces didn't fit.
He still had so many questions, wanted so much for the image to make sense.
Which memories were true, he wondered, here and now? What was his purpose? Who was he?
And most of all, what was his name?
He seemed to be many things, many people, had lived lives and died deaths that were and weren't his own.
His name was Death and Sanjar Javeed. Warren Worthington and Caliban. He was un petit chaoui and Le Diable Blanc. He was heir to the Thieves Guild, an exile from home, a former Marauder, a man on the run. He was the sum of all of his parts, bad and good, of the end and this new beginning, of where that end began.
He was one of the X-Men, and he was alive, and he had a chance once again.
His name was Gambit. He remembered.
And he was also Remy LeBeau.
Come on, sugar, the voice coaxed.
Remy opened his eyes.
Audio/Podfic Version
(read aloud by me!)
Length: 21:33
Listen: Into the Light mp3
The photo in question:
