Work Text:
Death Has No Heart
Death's master had warned him that he would be tested.
But when Death laughed at the tests of mortals, his master's voice became grave.
These mutants will not be like other mortals, Master insisted.
Death laughed at that as well.
He could fight any fight, defeat any adversary. His frame oozed with power, every move was crisp and skilled.
Mortals were no match. Immortals were no match. He was where the end began, the final grain of sand on the eternal shore. No matter the beginning of one's journey, one's end, one's fate rested with him.
Master was all-knowing, surely could not be mistaken. And yet, his master was not convinced.
What weapon do these mortals have? Death asked.
How could they defeat that which can never be defeated?
Your heart, Master replied.
But Death had no heart. He had no soul.
He was blind to appeals for mercy. Deaf to pleas for delay. He was not swayed by sadness, held no compassion for the weak, the sick, the lost.
There was only a chasm inside him, a necessary nothingness that kept him on course.
He was a void, bereft of feeling, and he would take and take and take until there was no more.
I cannot be made to stop, Death said. These mortals cannot win.
These mortals should not win, his master replied. And yet…
Death laughed once again.
And then Death was severed from the hive, separated from his master, a train with no more tracks.
He seemed to know he had a mission, felt the echoes of purpose lost.
He'd been held firmly, cradled and guided by He who knew best. But the lifeline was missing, and Death could not understand the rest.
He walked alone now, and Death wondered if this might be the true test.
Death was kept in a cell, guarded in turn by a variety of mortals. They kept him collared, his powers suppressed, and they watched his every move, monitored his every breath.
The woman with auburn and white hair visited every day, sometimes alone, and sometimes with other people.
She called him Remy and said she loved him. And she said she wanted him back.
She could not understand that Death had never been this Remy, that he had only one goal, could choose only one path.
Death had nothing to give her, could only take when the time was right.
Death caught himself listening as the mortals came and went, could not seem to tune them out and plan ahead.
He found that the woman spoke in riddles, and her voice seemed to stretch and clip in turns, sounded different from those around her. She seemed to move jauntily, seemed too petite to take up so much space.
He must have heard her name, but his first few days had seemed to exist in another place altogether, his vision blurred, his hearing in and out. He was unsure at times whether he was even awake, caught only distinct glimpses, remembered even fewer.
Death had given nicknames to some of his other captors. Le Ours Bleu appeared to be a doctor, and Le Lapin Bien Fâché seemed to exist purely to prowl and show off long metal claws. There were some mortals whose names he'd managed to catch. A white-haired woman named Ororo, an uppity man whose name was Scott or Jean. [the blue bear; the very angry rabbit]
To them, he was Remy or Gambit. And they seemed to speak to a person that was not him.
They brought pictures of the man Remy or Gambit for him to see. Death did not know what he looked like, but when a mirror was produced, he saw that the resemblance was striking. His skin was gray, and his hair was white. But they had the same eyes, had the same hands.
And yet, Remy or Gambit was someone Death could never be.
The white-haired woman was sitting with him today, and Death kept catching himself fidgeting with his clothing, even once got up and paced his cell.
It had been three days since the woman with auburn and white hair had come to sit with him, after a two-week long vigil.
Those weeks had been a rollercoaster, at least on her end. She'd cried, ignored him, begged him, screamed at him that talking to him was like shouting at a brick wall. She'd threatened to wring his neck, told him being Death wouldn't save him from her fists.
It had seemed strange and unnecessary, a river of rage crashing against a dam that would never break.
But now it was gone. She was gone.
And Death felt something entirely new.
It was a feeling that something was wrong.
He wasn't plunging into something cold and new, he was just… what?
Something had been missing when his master walked away, but that grief had somehow faded, now seemed to scrape unnaturally against his gray, pallid skin.
Today, his chest feel tight, and his eyes darted around, looking for something that he worried he might never find.
"Is everything alright?" the white-haired woman said.
Death nodded.
"Is there something you need?"
Death shook his head.
But for the first time since he'd arrived, words seemed to be surging up inside him, as though they might some day break free.
He continued to look around.
"She asked me to come instead,” the woman said. "She worried that you might not want her here."
Death felt his brow furrow.
He hadn't wanted anything before. Did he want something now?
He wanted something to right itself, for uneasiness to give way to peace.
Was she the reason why?
"I believe she is also trying to prepare for your transfer."
Death's stomach seemed to jump, and he felt his jaw clench.
Death looked at the woman.
"X-Corp cells are not equipped for long-term residents," the woman explained, her eyes becoming glassy. "We had hoped that some of you remained."
Some of me?
"It will be difficult for all of us, I believe. We thought we had gotten you back. But Remy LeBeau died in Genosha, and it appears he remains that way."
The woman wiped her eyes.
"I have missed you, my friend. I miss him."
Remy LeBeau.
That name seemed to rattle against the inside of Death's skull, like it was trying to attach itself to him, slipping away each time.
Maybe part of him had begun to believe his captors must be right, that if they looked long enough, their friend might be there.
Death was surprised to find himself feeling sorry, wishing he had not let these people down.
Death does not apologize, he reminded himself.
So why did it feel like he should?
And why did it seem to matter that he was leaving? That he was going somewhere else, though he knew not where.
He pictured the auburn and white-haired woman, and he realized that he would no longer see her, that something he could rely on would no longer be there.
It was her absence that jarred these past few days, he realized. She'd been consistent, a welcoming figure into a world that seemed familiar and yet far away.
She was a constant in this new life of his, whatever it might be.
That space would be empty soon, and Death found that he simply could not let that come to be.
Death began to pace once again.
Was this what it was like to miss someone? It couldn't possibly be. Not him. Not her.
He missed his Master. He missed his purpose. He-
He reached into his coat pocket, instinctively grabbing for something that wasn't there.
Hmm.
That wasn't possible either.
Death had no instincts. No habits ingrained.
He dragged people into the abyss, pulled them onto new tracks. But that was his duty, his purpose.
Right?
It had been.
But now, he kept trying to grasp at something. Felt like something should be in his hands, felt his fingers moving almost of their own accord.
Death realized he'd gotten used to the woman's riddles, noticed that other visitors were more matter of fact and dull.
She was gentle and loving, and yet explosive with rage. She was small and soft, and yet big and bold. She had green eyes that sparkled, hair he somehow knew no one else would ever have.
She was life. His polar opposite. But when she looked at him, she was love personified.
His master had said he would be tested. That his weakness was his heart.
Death has no heart, he'd said.
And he was alert to danger, refused to be tempted and pulled away from his important task.
But Death only had no heart because she had been missing.
He just didn't understand how or why.
The door swished open, and the white-haired woman looked up and smiled.
After a moment, Death saw a familiar face.
Rogue.
And he let out a relieved sigh.
The two women turned to look at him, looked as surprised as he felt.
"Hi there, sugar," said Rogue, giving him a bittersweet smile.
Death's chest felt warm at that.
What did that mean? And why?
She turned to the white-haired woman.
Stormy.
"Thought I'd give you a break. Logan also said I need to suck it up and spend some time here, since tomorrow's gonna be rough."
Stormy nodded.
"I believe he is right."
She stood, gesturing to the chair.
"Thanks." Rogue looked back at Death. "No chance the two o' you've had a nice chat?"
"No," said Stormy. "He has still not spoken."
"Thought so," Rogue sighed.
"I will be back later."
Rogue nodded, taking a seat.
Death stood, watching her.
"Can sit if you want. No sense bein' uncomfortable."
He remained standing.
"Alright. Were stubborn when you were Remy, too," she grumbled.
Her eyes became glassy, and she groaned.
"Just one day I'd like to not be cryin' all the time."
She blew out a long breath.
"Not sure how much Ororo told you, but they're shippin' you out tomorrow. Would be a different story if we could see you in there. But guess we were wrong 'bout that."
She wiped at her face.
"I was really hopin' we'd get you back. Thought maybe I could make it happen somehow. Course I couldn't. Couldn't save you then. Can't save you now."
Tears trickled down her face.
"It weird I'm gonna miss you? This version o' you. Think just bein' 'round you does somethin' to me. Like you're just supposed to be there, and somethin's right when the world's that way. Guess it's silly now. Think I'd just be happy to keep any o' you I can have."
She wiped at her face again.
"Pretty pathetic, huh?" she croaked. "Gonna see you off tomorrow, but-"
She stood abruptly.
"I can't do this."
She wiped her nose with the back of her glove and stomped toward him.
"I hate you. And I wish you'd never come back."
She pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes.
"Ain't fair to break my heart twice."
"Don't cry, chere," Death heard himself rasp, words escaping through a throat unused to speech.
Rogue jumped away, her hands flying from her face. She gaped at him.
"What?"
Death stared back.
He didn't know her, but he needed her, and he didn't understand why.
"Remy?" she asked.
Was he?
Death had no reply.
Audio/Podfic Version
(read aloud by me!)
Length: 13:51
Listen: Death Has No Heart mp3