Chapter Text
“The names Gambit, mon Ami.”
Pure kinetic power emanated from him, if anyone had been close enough, they would have been able to feel it in the air.
“Remember it.”
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Remy had heard tall tale about the flash of life before death. The way you were supposed to see everything, right before it got ripped away, taken without mercy. He didn’t think much of it, the Cajun always figured that when he went out it would be with a shocking boom, in some silly and unwarranted way. There would be no time for reflection or self thought.
He was right about the boom.
Remy saw his first meeting of Jean-Luc Lebeau, a shimmer of a golden pocket watch and a raised brow.
He saw the first magenta shimmer, a warning before the flash and bang.
Remy saw N’awlins, dirty streets and delicious food. Tante Mattie.
Stolen wallets, assassins, guilds, Bella Donna, jewels, heists.
He saw Nathanial Essex, then he saw Mr. Sinister. Remy’s gut twisted with regret, his heart sped up with fear.
Blood, tunnels, regrets. So many regrets.
He felt as much as he saw the loneliness that he lived within for years, years of pointless heists and cons, useless money which attempted to fill the hole in his heart. The hole carved out from the massacre of his own creation. The hole that ate at him every day, for eternity.
Then Remy LeBeau saw the X-Men.
Righteous, courageous, brave. Everything Remy failed to be. Gambit tried to be those things, Gambit tried to be a hero. But Remy was just a swamp rat, who had the blood of countless mutants staining his hands.
Remy was no good.
He saw Rogue, mon chere, and he saw hope. Beauty, strength, purity.
And then he saw nothing.
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“It’s been days, Rogue. I’m not of the belief that there is anything left to find.” Hank spoke softly, a large pawed hand resting on Rogue's jacketed shoulder. He could feel her shake beneath his grip, whether from anger or sadness, or both, he was not sure. “You were there, you saw close up what Gambit did. An explosion like that, well, I don’t think even Logan would have a body left to be found.”
Hank knew his words could come off as harsh, but he didn’t know what else to tell the southern belle. She had been searching the ruins of Genosha non stop since the battle ended. The young X-Man was able to find quite a few survivors, and many more bodies. None of which were the one she was looking for.
Rogue had yet to find her beloved boy, and Hank had about a 0.0001% chance stored in the back of his head that there was even a body left to recover.
“Gambit saved countless mutants. None of us even knew he had that much power in him, but he surprised us, and he saved us. My dear girl, Gambit knew the odds.”
Rogue continued to sniffle, shakes and quakes keeping her from forming a clear sentence. So she continued to cry in silence.
The camp around the pair of X-Men was busy, but Hank thought it was finally calming down from the previous days. Less injured were being found, and more doctors had been sent in. Genosha was a dormant war zone, dust still permeated the air, but there was no searching left to be done.
All the stones had been turned.
Rogue wiped a gloved hand across her eyes, shoving the heel of her palm into them as if it would take the images away.
“He died thinkin’ I betrayed him, Hank. He died and I had chosen Erik. Oh god,” she barely contained a wail, “I lost both of em’. I broke both their hearts in one night, and now they’re gone. My sweet Remy doesn't deserve that… Didn’t. I can’t stop looking for him, for either of them.”
Hank frowned, running a hand along his companions back.
“The professor’s unexpected return should help to bring you some closure, dear girl. He has been here on Genosha, and he has been at the mansion with Cerebro. In neither case could he find the existence of your boys anywhere on the planet. I know it is not the answer you want, but it is the answer the world has given us.”
Rogue wanted to punch the blue doctor. But she refrained.
In all honesty, she was exhausted, she had slept no more than a few hours in the last 3 days. The days since the attack.
The exhaustion forced her to stop her searching and her running and her flying. It forced her to stop, it forced her to think.
Remy LeBeau was dead, it was all her fault.
Rogue let out another sob, and Hank sighed.
“One of my patients is to wake up soon, I hope you go and get some rest. You’ll be no good to those who have survived if you are asleep on your feet.”
And with that, Rogue was alone. Again. As she always will be, now.
It’s what she deserved.
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Four days after the attack on Genosha.
The X-Men had been a beacon for the survivors of the massacre. With every flight of the blackbird, supplies, remedies, and food was brought to the island nation. And with every exit of the plane, survivors traveled back to the main lands in hordes. Nobody wanted to stay at the sight of the devastation, but the X-Men felt it was their duty to keep returning.
Every time Logan stepped out of the bird, he cursed the scent of death.
The old mutant had hoped that with exposure and time, his heightened senses would grow used to the smells of post-apocalyptic Genosha (as he so lovingly deemed it), but the scent was as rancid as ever.
Fire, smoke, burning flesh, death. It permeated the air. Logan could hardly stand it, the sounds and sights would slowly bring him back to his days in the War, of course. The scent, though, would send him flying and sprawling into those memories.
But the memories were starting to warp and combine with the sounds of a giant, disgusting creature of metal and fire.
And he hadn’t even been on the island at the time.
That thought sent Logan’s gaze to his side, where Rogue helped to lead survivors into the cargo bay of the Blackbird. They packed in like sardines, parents attempting to shove their children into the spaces between others.
They wanted to flee, Logan didn’t blame them one bit.
He wanted to, as well.
But Logan thought of Rogue, how she continued to stay, even though she couldn’t go more than a moment without tears in her eyes.
She had seen Gambit die, and didn't even have a body to hold in her arms.
Logan could still smell his death on her, but he would not be sharing that information with the traumatized girl.
Gambit and the Wolverine hadn’t always gotten along amazingly. When the crook first joined the Mansion, Logan didn’t trust the boy one bit. Shady eyes and a criminal history, what was there to like?
But, as the years went on and the boy continued to grow, so did Logan’s appreciation for him.
The X-Men learned more and more about the prince of thieves' past, and while Gambit tried to hide it and downplay his traumas, Logan could always smell his sadness.
The team knew very little about Remy LeBeau, in all honesty, but every new fact they learned sent a bolt of concern down Logan’s spine.
A mention here or there about time spent with Mr. Sinister, a complicated story about fleeing New Orleans, or just the scent of loneliness that seemed to permeate around Remy when he drank.
Logan picked up on it all, tucked it away, and continued to treat the Cajun like an annoying little shit.
He thought it was better that way, to not ask head on, to avoid the uncomfortable questions.
But Logan would ask now, if he could. Because he has the sneaking suspicion that Gambit died with an unfinished story, and a life that needed a few Band-Aids.
Alas, Remy was dead. So, Logan grunted, and walked over to Rogue as she closed the bay of the blackbird.
“They’re all dying to get out of this place.” He mumbled to his teammate as the Blackbird took flight. Rogue glared at him, and Logan coughed.
“Poor choice of words, sorry.”
Rogue frowned and nodded, then turned to survey the land around them.
“The numbers get lower every day, I’d say there’s only a few more planes worth o’ mutants out here. Then I guess we start moving the bodies.” Rogue said the last part with despair in her voice, and Logan knew exactly why.
“I’ll help you do one last sweep for your swamp rat, once we get all the survivors out of here. If there’s anything left of the boy, we’ll find it. He’ll get his funeral.” Logan promised, and Rogue looked at him with tears in her eyes.
“Thank you, Logan.”
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The last survivors of Genosha were being transported away in the blackbird by Scott and Jean, along with the few military helicopters that had been sent by the kinder of nations. It had taken too long to get the mutants away from the place, Rogue thought.
And now, in their solitude, the X-Men were surrounded by nothing but bodies.
Children, sisters, brothers. Mothers. Fathers.
Bodies.
Rogue pitied Logan and Beast, their heightened senses of smell must be nauseating at a time like this. To be fair though, Rogue would think it a wonder if any member of the team didn't feel at constant threat of retching. Far too much devastation had occurred for the comfort of a calm stomach.
Walking away from where she had sent off the Blackbird, Rogue slowly returned to base camp.
The home away from home was decorated with military style tarp-tents, firepits, and a disgusting amount of white sheets. Rogue mused that the sheets used to cover the bodies must have taken up half of the space on the Blackbird with every supply run it brought back.
Really, it wasn't funny at all.
Rogue thinks she might be losing her mind.
In the first three days, Rogue had not stopped searching for Remy.
Oh, Remy.
Her heart burned, it really did. It was on fire, and her gut was shredding itself apart, as if Wolverine's claws were tearing straight through her.
God, Rogue felt sick with herself.
She avoided eye contact with her gloved hands, for fear that if she took even a peak, she would see blood.
Dark red, oozing, staining blood.
A mixture of Remy’s and Erik’s, and every mutant who had died. Rogue wished she had a shoulder to cry on, someone who would hold her and tell her it would all be okay. Calming, dark eyes to look into, to crinkle at the corners with a grin.
Oh, Remy.
Why, of all those innocent souls, couldn't it have been her?
Why had Remy, that stupid, ridiculous, wonderful bayou boy, shoved her out of harm's way?
It should have been her who died, and Remy should be there in the camp right now. On his own two feet, helping with the wounded. At least he would be able to actually touch them.
Rogue felt angry, and became terrified with herself that she could be angry at a dead man, one who had sacrificed everything for her. But then she realized that anger wasn't directed at Gambit, not one bit. It was all on herself.
Goddamnit.
It should have been her.
Finding herself at the center of camp, the center of the mounds of sheets and mounds of bodies, Rogue moved to take a seat, thinking that she might just rest her eyes for a moment.
Then, she felt the signature feeling of the Professor in her head.
He had come to Genosha after his unannounced arrival at the mansion, and after quickly growing restless trying to help with cerebro, made Scott fly him to the scene of the massacre with the next supply run.
Now, Charles had been spending his time with Hank in the medical tents, recounting what had happened in his time away, while also searching outward with his mind, seeking survivors.
It had been over a day since the Professor last sent out news of a survivor to be found, and Rogue sat ramrod straight as she prepared to hear her leader's words.
“My X-Men!” Even within her mind, Rogue could hear the shock of Charles’ voice, “A survivor, in the southern quadrant of the bay! Quickly, they appear confused and scared!”
Rogue was in the air before the professor had even finished his words. She passed Ororo on her way, she always had been the fastest flier of the group.
The air whipped Rogues multicolor hair, and pure determination swam through her bones. This survivor, whoever they were, had been alone multiple days. They would need help, medical attention, who knows what else. Rogue tried to fly faster, and then felt the professor enter her mind once more.
“I cannot tell where exactly this survivor is, they seem to be able to block me out of their mind in some way. It is quite odd. All that I can feel from them is overwhelming fear, and confusion.”
Rogue finally came upon the southern sector along the bay. In the day after the massacre, the X-Men had created a gridded map of the island so as to make the search parties easier, Rogue felt that she knew the island of Genosha like the back of her hand now.
But this part of the island was not one that Rogue enjoyed.
Here, Remy LeBeau had died.
In the first day or two, Rogue spent as much time as she could in this place, searching nonstop. After that initial disappointment, though, she began to resent it.
But, if there was a survivor here, she would persevere.
Rogue started by flying along the crumpled remains of the streets, peeking beneath larger pieces of rubble and stone. She did not find anything.
Eventually, Rogue heard Logan and Ororo catch up to her. They followed a similar thought process, searching along the alleyways and inside the buildings. Or, Rogue supposes, what remains of them.
Things still burned all around the X-Men, and ash floated through the air. Rogue supposed that if this survivor had just recently woken up, it was no wonder they would hide. Because of this, Rogue justified avoiding the wide open crater in the center of the sector. She had no reason to search such a wide open area, no reason to allow the tears to flow again.
In the back of her mind, Rogue wondered if Logan could still smell Gambit's blood in the air.
As if answering her, Logan dropped from the roof above Rogue, landing beside his teammate. “I smell something.” He gestures vaguely down the street, to the left, then the right. “Either there, or there.” Wolverine put his nose to the air again, “Smells familiar. Think it might be someone I know. Can’t tell, though. You head left.”
Rogue grunts acknowledgement, and tries to swallow her emotions. Great, to the left, just where she was avoiding.
This part of the sector was a complete mess. Walls crumbled, buildings toppled, and in the center of it all, a crater.
Tears formed in Rogues eyes, she cursed herself.
Instead of flying, like she had been doing, Rogue allowed herself to land, and slowly walked to the crater.
She didn’t see the survivor anywhere, but she tucked that to the back of her mind for a moment. Instead, she crept right up to the edge of the impact, and fell to her knees.
Kurt might think she was praying, Rogue isn't sure that she's not.
“My sweet Remy…” She didn't even know what to say, “I- I’m so sorry.”
Silence is what met her, spare the crackle of flames and settling of concrete.
“You were such a beautiful person and I- I took that for granted. I didn’t know what I had. And now you're gone. Oh, sugar.”
She was speaking to nothing. To dust, decay. Rogue closed her eyes as tears fell, and a sob broke her chest.
Then, the scrape of a boot, the shifting of stone.
Rogue spun with her unnatural speed, quick to get to her feet. She scanned the area, and her eyes landed on a figure shrouded in the shadows of a fallen slab of concrete. Their shape was lopsided, as if they had just tripped. Rogue’s heart broke as she saw the slight figure, they looked like just a skinny teenager, even from the shadows.
Heart pounding, Rogue slowly approached. “Hey, darlin’. I’m with the X-Men, I’m here to get ya’ to safety and some food, can you come on out?” Rogue did her best slow approach, not wanting to spook the scrawny figure. She could just barely hear Logan and Ororo approaching, minding their business as Rogue dealt with the stranger.
The tip of a black boot escaped the shadows, the survivor seeming to trust Rogue, and she began to smile, “Come on, hun, I’ll get you somewhere warm and-”
Her heart plummeted. Straight through the floor, through the center of the earth. Legs shaking, eyes widening.
“What the hell?”
It wasn't Rogue who spoke, it was Logan, a few paces behind her. But she couldn't help but agree with the sentiment, or she would if she hadn't lost control of her ability to speak, or stand. Ororo rushed to catch Rogue as she stumbled.
The boy in front of the trio was fully emerged from the shadows now, nervously holding a single playing card like a weapon in his hand.
“What de’ hell is an X-Man?” Glowing red iris flicked between Logan, Ororo, and Rogue.
“Remy?” Rogue could hardly whisper, but the boy frowned.
“Wha’s it t’ you?”