Archive of Our Own

Sometimes she is glad she will never see his eyes in a crowd, catch a glimpse of red that makes choke and puts a dagger in her chest; more often she hates knowing they are gone forever.

She misses them something fierce, and photos can't compare to the real thing. His eyes were full of life, unique, animated by love and mischief—all things a still image can't show. At least, in the frame on her bedside table and in the photo album hidden in her closet, he looks happy, frozen in a memory.

Red on obsidian black, so intense they seemed to glow in the dark. Some people thought they were off-putting, and while she could understand why, Rogue had never agreed. She loved how unique they were, loved seeing them grow soft with emotion.

She loved them, and she hates having to think of them in past tense.

Maybe she should be glad: his body is back, but his eyes aren't. It helps remembers this… thing Apocalypse brought back isn't Gambit. His eyes are completely red, no sclera or irises visible, cold and inexpressive, and she swears they are the wrong shade of red, too.

Apparently, Apocalypse can desecrate a grave and violate the laws of life itself, but he can't allow her man to ever look at her with love again.

That unfeeling gaze, Rogue hates it more than anything else. His hair is longer and white, his skin dark gray, and his clothes are a mess of leather and chain—and still, all these details don't offend her as much as his eyes.

They have fought. He — Death — can speak, and though his words are cruel in a way Remy never was, his voice is the same. It taunts her, that deep, rich tone. It's hauntingly familiar, but Death says things Remy would never think.

The first time Rogue hit him, and ribs cracked under her knee, he had made a little pained noise that had made her stomach drop. It brought back to their many battles fought side by side, to the horror of seeing a friend — almost a lover? — hurt. It was a noise she would never celebrate, and she had to reopen her eyes and force herself to look at his face to remind himself it wasn't Remy. Death had seemed confused, then amused.

Rogue has been avoiding him ever since, when possible. If she spots him on the battlefield, she will pick a different enemy. It's not Remy, it's not him, but she's not sure she's strong enough to kill his body again. She doesn't want to discover what it feels and sounds like to crush his bones, ruin a face that mirrors so closely that of a man she misses so dearly. It feel like desecrating his grave.

And if Death were to look at her, dying, still wearing his stolen face… even with eyes that are so wrong, she's not sure she would be able to handle it. She imagines what it would feel like, when self loathing makes her want to torture herself, and she compares it to the weight of his body in Genosha. The memories are still unbearably vivid, and they return to the front of her mind during combat. They hurt, a pain that is physical enough to make her nauseous, and weaken her knees.

She remembers scorched skin, warmed by fire and not life; a limp body and tattered, scorched clothes. Kurt had tried to speak to her, but she can’t remember his words. It was background noise, lost in the smoke and the scent of death and destruction.

She never wants to see him again, but Death — as a concept and person alike — is unrelenting. Rogue is sure he is been looking for her, though she tries to convince herself these are the delusions of a grieving woman. To him, she is an enemy like any other. It's her mind trying to punish her, find meaning in the brutality of war.

It's another day, another fight, and Rogue is feeling herself even less than usual. It's night, the sun is gone, but she refuses to go home. She needs some time alone, to think and grieve in piece.

She is perched on the roof of a half-demolished building, elbows on her knees and face between her hands. There is a fire, a burning apartment caught in the heat of the senseless violence, and the smell of smoke is making her sick. She should leave, run from it and the memories it evokes, but a part of her seems to think she is not allowed to.

That specific fight ended two days ago, but no one has dared to return to this part of the city. Humans are scared, and even the X-Men can't be sure the horsemen won't attack again. They hadn't been able to stop them, and they doubt it will be long before Apocalypse orders them to return to the battlefield.

If she looks around, she can see traces of despair and death. Just in front of her is car, crushed beyond recognition, throw carelessly inside what had once been a quaint cafe. There are cups and spoons spilled all over, shards of glass, a bag someone dropped in the hurry to escape a mortal peril they probably could only scarcely comprehend. The wounded and dead have been retrieved, thankfully, but she doesn't need to see the bodies to mourn.

So much destruction, so much suffering. It makes her feel a little selfish to grieve her own loss so intensely while the world is burning, but she's emotionality and physically exhausted.

Rogue doesn't hear the steps until he is right behind her. She knows he's making noise on purpose; Death seems to know how to sneak around at least as silently as Remy.

"You have been avoiding me, chére," Death says, and his voice is low, lacking warmth despite the attempt at humor. If rings hollow, but Rogue can feel it echoing in her bones, resonating in the empty space in her chest. She is so tired, too spent to properly fear for her life.

When she turns to look at him, Death reminds her of a statue—beautiful and lifeless. He would look handsome if the right soul animated his body.

He is not attacking, and this is giving her more time than she'd like to mull over things. She doesn't really understand what Death is. It's easier to think of him as an entity borrowing Remy's body, because — and she knows and loathes the thought, even if her friends and family have been kind enough not to mention it in front of her — they might have to kill him again, and the ideas he might be trapped in there, dying along Death, makes her want to scream.

But sometimes Death will do and say things that make her doubt her hypothesis. He will use his words, look at her a little too intently… and he's not attacking now, studying her with a coldness that chills her to the bone, and Rogue realises she is scared to discover what's actually inside his skull. Could they bring him back? Lately hope has done nothing but make her suffer more.

"What do you want?" Rogue manages to bark, holding back tears. She hates it, she hates the both of them, she hates the world is still spinning when nothing makes sense anymore.

"Just wanna talk."

"About?"

"Why you keep runnin' away from me."

He is studying her, considering her reaction.

Rogue is pretty sure she doesn't want to talk, not on his terms. It hurts too much when his voice is so close to Remy’s; the accent is less prominent, but they sound the same. She is angry Death won't let her grieve in piece, that he will taunt her like this… she wishes he would cut the chase and attack, but he doesn't seem inclined to.

Maybe… maybe she should end it here. It's not going to get better, and running away from her problems never led her anywhere. Fight him, use her powers, find out whatever Death had overwritten everything Remy ever was. She has never used her absorption powers against him, and she wonders if that might help her take him by surprise.

It will hurt, but she needs to knows, she needs to punish herself with the truth.

She never answers him; she flies at him with all her strength, until they both fall off the building into the ruined streets.

They land hard. Rogue is not using her full strength, but the asphalt does nothing to cushion their fall. She needs to do it, before her emotions get in the way.

She forces herself to ignore the painfully familiar ways in which he groans and bites the tip of a finger to remove her glove. Their pose is a parody of intimacy; she is straddling him, while her free hand is firm on his chest, holding him down, keeping him away from her.

His body under hers is familiar in shape but alien in any other sense, but what disturbs her — for a brief second before she can strike — is the fact Death isn't struggling. Whatever horrifying process Apocalypse subjected him to has made him stronger, not necessarily stronger than her, but strong enough to put up a good fight. Remy was fast in life, and it makes no sense Death would be sluggish. She has just enough time to notice the weird expression on his face, somber and resigned, before her bare palm comes into contact with his face.

Rogue expects the worst, her body tensing as if she were driving a car into a wall, but nothing comes. The adrenaline pumping in her blood braces her for an impact that never arrives. She expected to feel hatred, be distraught to find a mind completely alien, unlike anything Remy had been… but there is nothing.

Death's cheek is cold under her hand. Not exactly like a corpse, but not as as warm as a living thing should be. Without pupils, it's hard to understand where he is looking, but Rogue knows he must be staring at her. Her breathing becomes shallow, her heart races, slamming against her ribs like it wants out.

Nothing. Not a thought, not the slightest connection.
As if she were touching a dead thing.

God, please no. He is dead, gone.

She removes her hand fast, bringing her to her chest. "No," she manages. Her head is spinning, her mind struggling to come to terms with this new piece of information.

"No," she repeats, moving to get away from Death. By all means, it's a terrible move, but she can't focus on proper battle strategy. Her eyes are stinging, and she cannot stand to look at him as she staggers back. "Ah'm sorry, Ah--Ah thought you were still in there."

Death remains silent, though she can hear him shift.

"I don't understand you. Death be your enemy, why are you cryin' over him?" When Death finally breaks the silence, his voice is different. There is no trace of the anger she expected.

She doesn't dare to read any warmth into it, but he seems careful, sincerely puzzled by her behavior. He doesn't sound mocking, and there is something about that simple fact that twists the knife into her heart. Maybe it's not Remy, not the same Remy she used to love, but there is something inside Death that wants to understand. He's not an unfeeling, mindless killing machine.

It's something. She is not sure she could call it progress, but it's something.

Rogue dares to look at him again. Death doesn't seem to consider her enough of a threat, evidently, because while he's pushed himself up on his elbows to look at her, he still on the ground and nowhere battle-ready.

"Apocalypse wants you dead," he continues, but there is no bite in his voice, "but Death wants to understand. You been hiding all dis time, runnin' like you gonna die if I look at you too hard."

Rogue remains silent, holds his inquisitive gaze. That's… the longest and most coherent string of sentences Death has offered her since their first meeting. Normally it's just threats and mockery, but this is different. Why is he feeling so chatty? Could he…Her unease grows, cold tendrils digging into her belly as she waits for him to continue.

"Death sees you, only you, when we fight. Makes him think sometimes, makes him wonder... You hit mighty hard for something so pretty, chère.

Another second stretches by, and she can only hear the crackling of fire in the ruined apartment. Something crumbles, and the noise feels like an intruder. Death is studying her, but she can't tell what he's thinking as he slowly stands again. He doesn't bother looking for his staff — dropped somewhere during their short flight — and he doesn't reach for his cards either.

Whatever he sees in her makes him smile a little. The corner of his lips curves upward in a smirk, and it's almost familiar, though she cannot remember Remy's smile ever feeling so unsettling. She hates how cold his eyes remain, like two unmoving pools of blood.

"You miss him?" He asks suddenly, and it might have as well been a punch. "You miss the poor bastard now he's gone and gotten hisself killed? A fool, dying for notthin'."

Rogue is not particularly proud of how quickly her hands find him and pin him to the nearest wall, but she's not sure she can think of much at all. Anger is easier than agony by a mile, so she listens. His body makes a loud thud when it hits the bricks, but Death is chuckling, delighted.

"You know nothing about Remy." She spells each words slowly, a hand tightening around his throat. Does Death even breath, she wonders? He doesn't seem to mind having her growl to his face, and a flash of something that could pass for desire crosses his face. The smile returns, and his gaze is burning.

"Think I do, chère. He and Death happen to be awfully close, I reckon."

Death doesn't struggle, instead he puts his hands on her hips. It's unexpectedly careful; he moves slow, doesn't put any strength on his grip. He seems to wait for a reaction before rubbing his thumbs over her sides.

The contact makes her shivers. It's been a while since she allowed someone to touch her so intimately, even through layers of clothes, and her brain is short cutting at many contradictions of this encounter. The weight of those hands is familiar, the way they fit so perfectly against her... but she is looking at the wrong set of eyes, this isn't her Remy.

"He was a good man," she rebuts. It's weak, but she needs time to think, time to clear the fog in her brain and make sense of what's happening.

"Sure he was. Didn't help, did it?"

"Why are you doing this? You got his memories? You wanna punish me? Then quit whatever this is—" she can hear her voice crack, she is sure there is a tear running down her check; it's not a very good threat, "— and get your revenge. Give me a reason to bury you again."

The hands on her hips moves, and through eyes clouded with tears, Rogue can see the vague shape of Death cupping her cheek. he is colder than she would like, but she leans against his gloved palm on instinct.

She doesn't question her choice; she is exhausted and nothing makes sense anymore. Death isn't doing anything to fight, and if this is a trap, it's working and is confusing enough to make her lower her guard a little. She can only hope the universe isn't actually that cruel. This isn't really Remy, but maybe, just maybe, there is the tiniest piece of him in there…

"You miss him," Death sounds more bitter than satisfied. "He misses you, too, you know? Makes me want you, makes feel things when Apocalypse isn't 'round."

Still trying to process his words, Rogue looks at him. If Death is lying, Apocalypse made him the cruelest of his creations. The hold on his throat eases, even if it was never tight to begin with, and she moves both hands to his shoulder. She is pushing him against the wall, trying to restrain him, in theory, but she feels as if she's just grounding herself.

"Do you… have his memories?" She doesn't know how much that would help. She wonders what was going through Gambit's head in Genosha, dying a hero without knowing he hadn't been abandoned. If he feels bitter, she can't blame him.

"Some. They don't make much sense, jus' noise inside my skull. He makes it hurt something fierce to see you." Death pauses, seems to consider something. "I should kill you."

Rogue has enough time to taste bile and dread, but before she can will her body to move, he continues, brushing her cheek in a vague attempt of reassurance. "Death should kill you, but I don't want to. I need to know why he wants you, why a dead man wants you bad enough he can't rest."

His voice is different, closer to a whisper, thick with desire.

Remy sounded just like that when they were intimate; sometimes he would just tell her how much he loved her, sometimes when the mood was right he would whisper filthy thoughts right into her ears, and it would make her heart race and her knees grow week. They couldn't have sex like most couples would, but they made love in their own ways.

It makes her feel wrong, guilty beyond measure, to feel the same pulse of desire now, for a creature wearing Remy's face like a costume. She can only hope he's in there, somewhere.

Her throat feels dry, and she has to swallow before she can speak again. "Do you want me?"

Death leans forward, the hand on her cheek moves to wrap around one of her wrists. When he answers it's by growling into her ear. "Oui, tellement."

He repositions them, moving slow and careful, so she's the one with her back to wall, and Rogue lets him do it because she's not sure this isn't a dream. He's not even restraining her. A hand is on the wall by the side of her head, the other is tilting her chin upward.

Rogue can't look away from his lips. She could kiss him. It would be wrong, but her powers won't work, and she can kiss him and maybe he can kiss her back. And he's a perverse mirror version of Remy, but maybe his lips would taste the same, and maybe, if he's still in there, he would wake up.

Ah. Saving your love with a kiss, like a fairy tale. It sounds childish, but she suspects Remy would find it romantic.

"Let Death take you?" It sounds like a question, not a threat. It's an offer, she realizes with a thrill. His breath washes over the shell of her ear as leans closer to speak, then the curve of her neck. Then his lips are on her.

Death kisses her behind her ear, and Rogue lets out an embarrassing little moan, and her hand grips the back of his coat. The open kisses on her neck are hungry, all tongue and teeth. He bites, leaves a mark on the small patch of skin above her uniform. One hand is tilting her head, giving himself more space to work with it, the other is gripping her side; he's not holding her hard enough to bruise, but it's possessive.

"Please, kiss me," Rogue begs, and despite the supplicant tone in her voice, the way she pulls his hair is demanding. It's just rough enough to make his scalp sting in a way Remy would have loved, and the little noise coming from the back of Death's throat seem to suggest he feels the same.

She maneuvers him until he is forced to look at her face. His eyes are burning with desire, red blazing in the night… and she can only catch a glimpse of familiar red on black — Remy's eyes, not Death's — before he's on her again. It's enough to make her heart jump.

He is kissing her hard, body flush against her, and it's hungrier than anything she's experience in a while, hungrier than Remy has ever kissed her. She has fond memories of their kiss in the savage land, locked in a cell and powerless, but it feels so far away in both time and space now.

A small piece of her wants to cry — because it hurts how much she misses him, because someone is finally holding her but she can't be sure it's the man she loves — but she still wants it. It's a bad idea, but if they stop now, she knows she won't be able to live with the regret.

If her mind isn't playing tricks on her, if Remy is still in there and those were his eyes… She hopes he will understand her silent plea.

She throws a leg around Death's hips, allows him to grind against her. He is already half hard, and she doesn't hesitate to rub against him. They are rutting against each other with desperation, he's growing harder against her. It's familiar.

She remembers long desperate nights, chasing friction through clothes. Physically, it wasn't as satisfying as when he pleased her with clever fingers and gloved hands, but she liked it. There was something intimate about the way their limbs tangled with each other on her bed in an approximation of sex. It was liberating when he let her ride him and pin him to the bed, made her feel in control; but she also liked letting him set the pace, when she needed someone else to hold the reins. He looked devilishly handsome above her, his voice enough to make her shiver with want.

If she keeps her eyes closed, she can pretend this still Remy.

They keep kissing, and Rogue reciprocates the best she can. She hasn't done anything like this in a while, but Death seems to appreciate her efforts. He opens his mouth for her, lets her push her tongue inside.

"I missed you so much, chère."

That makes her choke a little. It sounds too much like Remy, and Death has stopped talking like he and Remy are two separate things. Maybe it's a mistake on his part, but she needs to hope.

Distractedly, Rogue feels Death sneak a hand behind her back. He locates the zipper, and soon she find herself helping him take the uniform off. She catches his eyes again; the pure red is still gone, they're still the familiar red and black shade she misses so badly.

She doesn't know what to say. Maybe it is a dream, and if she asks too many questions they will both wake up.

The cool air of the night makes her shiver. This time she doesn't hesitate to grab one of his hands and bring it to her chest, and Death is happy to oblige. He seems familiar with her body when he squeezes one of her breasts. He teases a nipple between two fingers, not unlike Remy would toy with her with gloves on.

"Remy, please," She begs quietly, barely registering the name leaving her lips.

Death ignores her, instead continuing to push down her uniform. He exposes more of her skin, leans down to kiss her chest. He takes a nipple between his teeth, not as harshly as she expected, and Rogue can only moan at the new sensation.

"Remy, Ah—Ah'm sorry. Ah wanted you, but Ah was scared, Ah thought…." her voice breaks when Death pinches her nipple. She knows it might not be the best time for a confession, but it could be the only chance she gets. No matter how little of Remy is still in there, she wants him to listen.

Her words finally make Death stop his ministrations, and he pulls away from her. His eyes are still Remy's, but he is visibly conflicted; there is a harsh expression on his face — like he wants to correct her, say something cruel — but it fades. Rogue doesn't realize she was crying until he's brushing tears off her eyes.

"Dis is Death," he corrects her quietly, neither as smug or confident as before, "but Death wants you too."

His eyes are burning with unadulterated lust, his desire intense and achingly familiar in a way that makes her feel lightheaded.

Remy, please, she thinks. You know that's not you. She doesn't say anything, doesn't want to push her luck. If Death leaves her now, alone and empty, she might never find the will to fly home.

Rogue pushes the coat off his shoulder, demandingly grab at his clothes. She wants them gone, wishes the chestplate was magenta instead of black. She is surprised by the heat in her own voice when she tells him, "then get out of this armor and take me. Let me see you."

That awakes something in him, and she discover his eyes can burn even more intensely.

He claws at his own armor, almost desperate to take it off, and Rogue helps, equally as impatient. She notices her hands are shaking a little.

What follows feels like a dream and a nightmare in equal measure. She lets him lay her down on the bare ground, too cold for comfort, and she can distractedly feel some pebbles dig into her back. She is invulnerable; none of this will leave a real mark on her skin, but she whishes they were somewhere familiar. If Remy were himself, she'd like to think he would want something more romantic.

The fact it's so surreal helps her curb her fear somewhat. She… She hasn't done something like this in a way, not skin on skin.

"De most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

Rogue is worried he will be too fast, too rough, but before she can protest, Death surprises her by settling between her legs and kissing her inner thigh. He continues worshiping her body, tracing her legs with his mouth, and muttering nonsense in broken french. Rogue can't fully understand him, but the rumble of his voice is more exciting than she is willing to admit. She squirms, finds herself clenching around nothing.

"Remy—"

"Death," he corrects her, rougher than before.

She swallows dryly, then concedes, "Death, please, don't stop."

And he obliges.

It's a novel sensation, the feel of his tongue on her bare cunt. If his skin is colder than usual, his mouth feels as warm as any ordinary human, and it's a delicious contrast to cold of the floor and the night. Her head drops back, and when she open her eyes, she catches a glimpse of the sky. The sky is empty and dark, barely any star looking down to witness them.

Death takes his time eating her out, alternating between pushing his tongue inside her and sucking on her clit. It's almost hungry, the way he tastes her. His hands hold her thighs open, fingers digging into muscle and soft skin hard enough they would leave a bruise on a normal person.

Through the haze of arousal, Rogues pushes herself up on her elbows to look down at him. He looks gorgeous; he looks wrong. She knows the elegant arch of his back, the strong muscles flexing under the skin, even the tone of his voice… but his hair is too white, and he responds to a different name. She tries to picture Remy as she remembers him in life; she moans a little louder and grabs Death's hair. He seems to like it, chuckling against her sensitive flesh. He adds a finger, starting to stretch her.

The pleasure building inside her is making her legs shake, and she bites her lower lip to muffle a moan. The combined efforts of his fingers and mouth is divine, but it can't make her forget the wrongness of it all.

They are outside — fucking in a battlefield, an unkind, self loathing part of her provides — and she doesn't know if anyone is around to see. The civilians have left the ruined city behind, but someone could be looking for survivors, or scavengers might be hunting for abandoned goods… and her allies might be looking for her.

That last thought makes her feel a powerful combination of shame and arousal. She doesn't know what she would do if her friends saw her like that, entangled so intimately with an enemy, but the danger, the taboo nature of it is oddly exciting.

Rogues comes with a chocked noise, thighs clamping around Death's head, clenching on his fingers. He seems to love it.

She needs a moment to recover, feeling thorn by contrasting emotions. Her cheeks are wet again, and she realizes she'd been crying silently. That was wrong, so wrong, and it shouldn't have felt that good. She can only hear her own labored breathing, and with her eyes closed, she's worried he already left.

"êtes-vous ok?" Death says after a brief pause, spelling each word slowly like he struggling to speak. She can hear her move closer, hover just above her. He's not as warm as he should be, and the pit in her stomach grows deeper; it reminds her it's all wrong, it shouldn't be happening.

He doesn't seem willing to accept her silence, and he even manages to sound worried when he speaks again.

"Anna? Are you okay?"

That's too much. She can't handle that.

Rogue lunges forward, wraps her arms around him and pulls him down. She sobs silently against his shoulder, caution thrown to the wind. Her eyes are closed; it's so easy to imagine a different face when he uses her name.

For a brief moment Death remains still in her arms, then he pulls her closer in an awkward approximation of a cuddling. It's odd; he is cold, and she can feel his hardness trapped between them. "You are… a weird woman," he says, confused. "Dis makes no sense, we're enemies." More silence, the arms around her tighten. "You should to kill me, girl."

"Ah don't want to."

If Death notices how weak her voice sounds, he doesn't comment on it. He only adds, "Death doesn't want to kill you either."

"Remy… Death… Whoever you are, I don't give a damn anymore. Just stay."

He nods, then tilts her head and kisses her again, deep and hungry. Rogue finds it easier to lose herself in it now, more confident a piece of her man still exists within Death. His eyes are still there; they look pretty, like twin rubies.

Wordlessly they shift, he is between her legs, basically cradling her to his chest. It's a long kiss that leaves them breathless, and Rogue looks at him when they part, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen. She throws a leg around his back presses a little.

"Please."

She is ashamed to beg, hopes Death won't force her to ask.
He doesn't, and she wonders if there is just too much left of Remy to resist her plea. This version of Death is much softer than anything she's seen from it.

His hands sneaks between their bodies, the heel of his palm pressing against her clit as he slides two fingers between her folds. She is still wet and sensitive, and he hums appreciatively. He stretches her, plays with her until she is squirming under him and pulling his hair.

"Impatient little thing," he comments, before repositioning himself. Rogue can feel the head of hic cock tease her entrance.

She looks at him, takes in the sight of Death. He's still a handsome man, familiar and different in a way that hurts, and she struggles to take her eyes off of him. She doesn't want to stop now, she wants to feel that lean, hard body against her; she wants Remy inside her, even if he's wearing another face. Her throat his dry, her head is spinning, but she nods at him.

To her surprise, Death takes her slowly. She is grateful — and it' easier still to close her eyes and imagine Remy never left — and she buries her head in his chest. Looking at him still hurts, evokes emotions that grow intense — unbearably so — now they are connected.

The stretch burns a little, her body isn't used to it, and her nails dig into his back hard enough to make him groan and carve his skin. He gives her a moment to recover before he starts moving, rocking into her with slow but powerful thrusts.

It feels good, it doesn't feel real. Rogue can't seem to hold a coherent thought, and maybe she doesn't want to think about it too hard. She just wants to pretend this is her Remy. It feels different than what she's expected, and there is a slight hesitation to the way Death's moves. He's restraining himself, she can tell, and the nonsense he whisper into her ear sound confused. It's like he's trying to remember what making love to someone feels like.

Neither of them is idle, hands and mouths exploring one another in quiet desperation.

"Death think he stills loves you," he says, between a kiss to her neck and a love-bite.

Rogues wants to say he loves him back, but Death silence her with a possessive kiss.

She doesn't know how long it lasts, she isn't even sure that they're still on planet earth, but eventually she comes. It's overwhelming, and she pulls him closer, hard enough to leave bruises on his back and shoulders. Her mind goes blank for a blissful moment.

Death doesn't take much to follow her, his thrusts growing desperate, harsher than before. Rogue can hear a chocked, "Dieu, Anna." before he pulls out, spilling on her belly. His release his hot, staining her skin.

There is peace for a few breaths. He's above her, forehead almost touching, some powerful emotion reflecting in his eyes. Death looks tender, almost.

Then it ends.

Death crawls away from her like a wounded animal, a cross of confusion and fear? Regret? on his face.

"Non, non." He's grabbing his clothes, putting them on clumsy and fast. He's not even looking at her. When he finally turns toward her, Remy's eyes are gone; they're all red, with no visible pupil, like Death.

"Sugah…?" Rogue tries. He ignores her.

Death puts a hand to his head, scowling, as if he's in pain. "Apocalypse wants Death back. Dis… Dis isn't me." He looks frightened enough to appear vulnerable when he turns to go, leaving her stunned and cold.

She doesn't stop him when he leaves, mortified and worried grabbing him will break the spell and bring Death back. His expression, his voice, keeps replaying in her head. He was scared. That wasn't a horseman.

The night is cold, and it's quickly becoming unpleasant. Rogue dressed up quickly, to the best of her ability, and she swears she can see herself move. It's like a dream, and she might believe it if not for the gentle ache between her legs.

Rogue finds herself redressing alone in the night. She feels dirty under her uniform, and she craves a shower that probably won't make her feel clean at all. Without Death's company to distract her, now that the high of their passion is faded, she wants sit down and cry. There is an ugliness to the fact their first time without the constraint of her powers will forever be stained by what Apocalypse has done.

She had always imagined something sweet and loving, in a perfect world where her powers were under control… not a battlefield, and definitely not a version of Remy that couldn't remember himself. She holds her temples; her head hurts, but her heart is in pure agony.

Now that she's alone her fears are running wild. What if once Remy is back, her powers remain a problem? What if this all they get? She can't even be sure he will remember anything from his time as Death. No one answers her question, and she feels more alone than before.

She takes off, much harsher and faster than she intends, cutting through the air like it is personally withholding her answers. Her frustration is growing; she is tired of feeling so helpless, of letting other men control her like.

No, she can't let that happen again. Rogue thinks back to their encounter — dread and heat alike still pooling in her belly — and tries to focus on the way Death had looked at her. Remy is still in there, in some way; she knows that now.

Maybe he will never be the same, maybe they will both be too broken by the end of it, but it doesn't matter. They are X-men, their life has never been fair or easy. They can put the pieces back together… and maybe they won't be the same person they were before, but there will be hope.

She is under no illusion the universe is generous; the last year has been too painful to believe there is someone looking out for her. But their life is bizarre enough to offer a miracle, though ugly and perverse. After all, Remy had gone from dead to Death, her pleas answered in a distorted fashion. He was back; she could take him back.

Her anger has a new purpose, a new target.

Rogues continues flying, leaving the battlefield behind. The air is getting clearer, and she can longer smell smoke; if she looks up, the moon is shining, indifferent but beautiful .