Libris Veritatus

*An emotional mismatch*

For more than the length of an entire season, we’ve been waiting for the inevitable comeback of Gambit. But we’re not the only ones who have been waiting for it. Rogue has too, and her journey of grief was very much at the emotional centre of the second half of season 1. All that pent up emotion and expectation had primed its audience for an explosive payoff. Episode 8 had a lot to deliver on.

Let’s think back on where Rogue and Gambit last left things off. Rogue had made a decision not to be Magneto’s ‘queen’; she chose Gambit, but never had the chance to tell him so, and then he died. Gambit, on the other hand, sacrificed himself, saving Rogue in the process, thinking that he didn’t have much left to live for other than the glory of taking down the Tri-Sentinel. He died thinking Rogue had chosen Magneto.

This is where they are emotionally when they pick back up in S2 E8. Rogue has the hope of realising that Gambit is alive, but has the fear of knowing he has probably been put under Apocalypse’s thrall. She also has the guilt of knowing that she broke his heart before he died. And Gambit (or Deathbit, as I’ll now call him)… well, for all he knows, Rogue has still chosen Magneto, and rejected him. Perhaps he is bitter, angry. But that is not what we see at all.

The comics primed us for emotional turmoil between Rogue and Deathbit. Deathbit, and the Deathbit arc, was horrendously done in the comics, but one thing it did have was the weight of Romy’s angst. The reason X-Men ’97 Romy fans were so excited to see Deathbit was because it had set up that angst so well, and Deathbit actually had a chance to be done right. Remy had a reason to attack Rogue; and Rogue had a reason to do everything in her power to bring him back. His bitterness; her regret. These two powerful threads from S1 E5 held a lot of promise. Yet Dead Man’s Hand instead chose to go a bafflingly lacklustre route. Instead of recrimination, Deathbit inexplicably approaches Rogue with a marriage proposal (despite the fact that he has no knowledge that she rejected Magneto for him at all). And Rogue does not have to fight him to reestablish the psyche of the man she loves. Despite declaring herself to be ‘scared’, she accepts his proposal straight away. There is no resentment on his part; there is no remorse on hers. There is no fight to bring Remy back to Rogue at all. The complicated knot they left their relationship in in Remember It never even gets alluded to, let alone discussed or worked through. Rather, we go straight through to what I call the ‘black wedding’. Death and his bride.

*Call backs to X-Ternally Yours*

One of the hokiest epsiodes of TAS is X-Ternally Yours. You can fight me on this opinion. Don’t get me wrong—I do get a lot of enjoyment out of watching its romantic silliness, but the whole idea of a supernatural enforced Gothic wedding is something only 12 year old girls can take seriously. Calling back to that episode in Dead Man’s Hand was… certainly a choice. I was expecting any variation of Rogue being pummelled by Gambit as she fought valiantly to get through to him, to get him to tap into the love he felt for her, and draw him out of Apocalypse’s hold. Instead I got… the black wedding. For all the mature and weighty themes X-Men ’97 has dealt with so far, and that has so rightfully won it praise… I was not expecting to feel like I was watching an episode of TAS again. It felt jarring, out of place, and a little unserious.

*Apocabit*

Deathbit is Apocalypse regenerated. He isn’t really Deathbit, he’s Apocabit, as far as I can tell. I was expecting him to be ominous and sinister (I'll take the 'sinister' pun here, because really what they've done is merge the Deathbit and X-Men: The End storylines). Both the comics and fanfic depict him as someone who has completely rejected his former life as an X-Man, as someone who has no memory of it; who feels an echo of his love for Rogue, but who sees love as a weakness. Therefore he sees Rogue as a prime target for elimination. But it seems as if XM97 didn’t quite know how portray him. The obvious way to go would be for a menacing presence who nevertheless demonstrates a cold, superficial charm. What we got instead was Gambit as he always was—still silver-tongued, still devil-may-care, and still absolutely besotted with Rogue. The complexity of his thraldom to Apocalypse is merely boiled down to what we see on the astral plane—he is a psyche literally subsumed by Apocalypse. Yet where is the burning rage and vengeance we see in En Sabah Nur earlier in the season? At this point, Gambit is a vessel for the man who callously murdered Magneto, yet at no point do we feel that he has that truly terrifying quality about him. At times, I felt he was almost being played smarmy, which was incredibly off-putting.

*Callbacks to X-Treme X-Men*

One thing the episode did right was to demonstrate how powerful Gambit can be. It was good to see that they did away with the comic’s terrible fart gas power, and give Deathbit some real fighting chops. There was no better demonstration of this than his fight with Xavier on the astral plane. Even on Xavier’s own turf, he was being outdone; and only Rogue could have held the power to bring Remy back. It was clear that in this moment, they were harking back to the famous scene in X-Treme X-Men #18 where Rogue attempts to bring Gambit back from the dead (and succeeds). The scene sticks in the mind because Rogue fights so hard for him, declares her love, and is able to kiss him psychically. She physically (in her astral body, of course) pulls him from the pearly gates and back to her.

Dead Man’s Hand’s iteration of this scene feels more flat, not merely because until this point Rogue has not had to fight for Remy, but also because the scene itself is confusing. It isn’t clear how Rogue can reach him on the astral plane (is it because they are psionically linked by the shard of Apocalypse’s power that is now in her?). There has also been no real rationale for either of their feelings, no confrontation about where they both left one another in Genosha. The only rationale we have for the moment is that they love each other, and so the weight of what came before is not paid off, because it is never addressed. Rogue simply saves him, or partially does, because the power of love conquers all. It’s the most simplistic solution to the tangled mess that came before. It is emotionally weightless.

*Apocalypse and the External*

Earlier in the season, Rogue had expressed her hope that Apocalypse would learn what it is to love someone, “for all their sakes”. It was a touching moment reminding us that she was still grieving for Gambit. But it had also had the potential to foreshadow something more meaningful, because in Dead Man’s Hand we learn that Apocalypse had come to love the External (loosely based on the comic’s Candra), who had also made an appearance earlier in the season. He did fall in-love, he did give up something of himself for another—and he was betrayed. This casts Rogue’s earlier observation in a more potent light—or it would have, if the revelation had hit harder. Instead it is merely skimmed over in a few seconds, giving neither depth nor substance to the one time Apocalypse was truly vulnerable.

When Deathbit confronts the External, it's actually Apocalypse who's confronting her, taking vengeance against her, and reclaiming what is his. But the weight of his love, his betrayal and his vengeance is something we can't feel because it's completely glossed over in a total of a few seconds of screentime. There is a parallel between the External’s rejection of Apocalypse, and Rogue’s supposed rejection of Gambit, that had a lot of potential to make an impact; the fact that Rogue did not, in fact, reject Remy could have been the thing that became his redemption. But sadly, it is never really drawn upon.

*Pacing*

All this leads to what I think is the main problem with the series; and that is time.

When I heard that season 2 of X-Men ’97 was only going to get 9 episodes, my immediate reaction was ‘uh oh’. It was clear from the ending of season 1 that there was a lot they wanted to get done in season 2. Because of the success of season 1, I was expecting at least 10, if not 12 episodes to be greenlit for the following season. Having only 9 episodes did not bode well. In fact, I’ll say my one gripe with the series as a whole has been time, and relatedly, pacing. Episodes/arcs like Lifedeath deserved far more time than they were given. The second half of season 2 in particular has suffered from pacing issues due to lack of time.

I was also surprised that Dead Man’s Hand was only 30 minutes; I was certain they would've made it at least 45 minutes. What we ended up with felt like the skeleton of a really good episode, in which all the issues above could have been teased out. Instead, everything had to be compressed, and thus a lot of what could have been the emotional core of the story had to be sacrificed. The end result felt like a lot of wasted potential.

Don’t get me wrong. None of the above means that I hated the episode. There were things to love about it. I loved what they did with Apocabit’s voice – I even would’ve loved them to go further with it. It could’ve been even more sinister. And there were sparks of really wonderful moments, such as Rogue’s psychic rescue of Remy, in which the vision of something truly beautiful could be faintly discerned. Rather than hate, I feel disappointment at what the episode could have been. Nevertheless, I look forward to the following, and final, episode of the season, with interest—and hope.

               Only then did the barely-there smile fade from his lips.  Whatever was in her eyes, he’d read it.  This wasn’t play.  She pulled his head down towards hers and tilted her face into his kiss.  Their mouths moved together, slowly at first, then with growing passion.  The equation of their lust was so obvious, so simple, that it amazed her that it had taken this long for them to get here, that the distractions outside of it had seemed so important.  It impressed upon her a sense of wasted time and she dropped her hand to his stomach, then lower.

               He was naked under the sweatpants, already – already – half hard, and she stroked him through the soft fabric, aroused by the memory of him inside her, by the unashamed need for it again.

               He made a sound in the back of his throat without breaking their kiss, one that simultaneously said stop and more, please.  It was the first real signal of submission he’d given her, the first sign that she was the one in control.  She broke their kiss and watched his face as she stroked him, watched what she did to him – an incredible turn-on in and of itself.

               “I want you inside me,” she whispered – an honest tease.  She gave him an enigmatic little smile and released him, a temporary mercy that he probably didn’t want at all. She gripped the hem of his tee and slowly tugged it up his torso.  She pulled the thing off of him and tossed it aside.

               The breaths were surging through his body like the rhythm of the tides; she leaned in and kissed his collarbone, a tiny concession that for some reason she felt compelled to give him.  Her thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants and she teased the things down over his hips, his thighs… and when they’d finally hit the ground he was back in her hand and she was pleasuring him relentlessly.

               The back of his head hit the door, but he didn’t make a sound, just let out this long, shallow, wavering breath.  For several moments he was off in some other place, and she bit her lip against a wicked little smile, at what she knew she must be doing to him – until he lowered his head again and fixed her a glare that was one part smouldering and one part you dirty bitch, which immediately wiped the smile from her face.  His fist clamped onto her wrist roughly, halting her mid-action.

               “I will come in your hand if you don’t stop that right now, chere,” he told her in a voice that almost made it sound like a threat.

               She resisted the urge to tell him that was probably the idea, that there was worse she could inflict on him.  She had the stark impulsion to get on her knees and taste him, suck him, make him beg for her in ways he’d never begged a woman before.  But she wanted the violent intimacy of him inside her more, and so she released him.  His breaths lengthened, steadied.  He lifted her arm and slowly backed her away from him, manoeuvring her round so that they’d switched positions.  He pressed her arm up against the wall and then his body against hers; his erection was hot and hard against her stomach and it took her breath away.  Up till this moment he’d been passive, letting her figure out whatever pace she wanted to set, and it was only now, when he had her where he had her now, that she realised just how much he’d been holding back.

               He smiled and leaned in, his mouth capturing hers in a passionate yet brief kiss that left her wanting more as soon as he’d taken it away.  Slowly, inch by painful inch, he began to roll the vest up past her ribcage, her breasts, over her head, flinging it aside.  Almost immediately his hands were gliding over her body as if to reacquaint themselves with something too long denied.

               They kissed again, soft, fleeting nips that paused only when he began to push her shorts and underwear down over her hips and thighs.  She watched on as he got to his knees in front of her – a pose of almost blatant supplication – and peeled the rest of her clothing down her legs, without once breaking eye contact with her.  His palms ran up her calves to the backs of her knees, caressing her there in light circles before hooking her left leg and raising it slightly.  Instinctively her hands slid through his hair, and he shifted slightly, taking a little of her weight against his shoulder.

               He kissed the junction of her thigh, and then the hot, wet centre of her.

               For a few seconds everything tunnelled, her senses exploding in a blazing white heat of pleasure.

               A long, inarticulate moan left her mouth, and oh Lord she was ready to do anything he wanted, he could tempt her to any madness possible and she would say yes… …

               No sooner had the thought entered her mind than he had backed away from her – she heard him laugh, soft and playful, a sure sign that this was his way of levelling the playing field between them, of getting back at her.  He kissed his way leisurely back up her body, evidently in no hurry to appease either her desire or his own.  Suddenly his lips were there, on her throat, her neck, her chin, her ear – she swivelled her face so that she could finally taste him, and this time their kiss was long and deep and greedy.  When they pulled apart there was this look on his face – serious, no smiles – that was both pleasurable and deeply unsettling to her.  She didn’t have the inclination to analyse it – the hot weight of her lust was like an addiction in itself, demanding the transitory bliss of release at any cost. Her hand grasped his and she led him over to the bed with a barely veiled impatience.  The mattress creaked as she knelt on it; she looked back over her shoulder at him, her gaze sweeping over his body, wondering, momentarily, at the fact that such a beautiful, clever, glorious man as him could want a broken thing like her.

               His palm touched the small of her back, smoothing down over her buttock, like she was a statue, a work of art, not a broken thing at all.  What he made her feel was unspoiled.  Whole.

               “Come here,” she murmured.

               He joined her on the bed, and she put her hands on his shoulders, pushing gently.  He read the cue effortlessly, lying back against the pillows and looking up at her, his fingers running the length of her lower arm, down, up, down again.

               Somehow she reminded herself to breathe, and she straddled his long, lean body, the press of her knees sinking into the mattress, her heart beating so damn fast she felt sure he could hear it.  She reached back with her right hand, found him, guided him gently into her…  And when he was in as far as he could go she blinked and set her teeth firmly into her bottom lip, holding back a strangled moan of pleasure.

               She looked down at him.

               He was looking up at her like this was the first time they’d had sex.

               He reached up and ran his thumb against her bottom lip, making her release it from the clench of her teeth and that was when the moan she’d been trying to hold back came out.

               There was this smile on his face that almost made her wonder who was really in control… until she realised that both and neither of them were, and that was okay.

               She moved against him slowly, rolling her hips into a cadence that she at first thought too slow but that seemed right.  His hands slid up her thighs to her hips and round her backside… and then he was moving with her, matching her effortlessly.  There was a simplicity to the moment, an artless spontaneity – neither one had to guess the other.  They were in perfect concert without having to share a word or a look.  His right hand came up, his fist curling into her hair, gently pulling her down towards him and into his kiss.  Almost simultaneously their pace began to quicken, the long-denied demands of their desire driving their selfish quest for satisfaction as they ground and thrust greedily against one another.

               It seemed that hardly a few seconds had passed before her orgasm hit her, an angry, juddering starburst that left her reeling and breathless.  Time tunnelled and when she came out the other side her forehead was pressed against his, her heartbeat slamming through her entire body, the echoing drumbeat of her pleasure.  She didn’t even realise she was breathing until his hand curled around her neck and he recaptured her mouth like he could gobble up every last breath she possessed.

               For a few blissful moments there was nothing but their meandering touches and their sugar sweet kiss.  When they surfaced it was at the exact same second – she’d given up wondering at how completely in sync they were.  He muttered something under his breath that she didn’t understand, something impatient, almost fierce.  Without warning he’d flipped her over onto her back, all but taking the wind out of her.  His gaze was feral, an expression she’d never seen in him before, and for the first time she felt truly intimidated by him.  He stared her down like a wild thing, and almost at once his body was surging up into her with an urgency that was almost brutal, that made her cry out loud.  With every stroke he impelled her submission in a way she’d never experienced or realised she wanted before.  Her nails gripped his back as she tried to anchor herself against his onslaught, this unexpected display of power, one that she couldn’t help but marvel at.  Here was something she’d never seen before – a man chasing down his own pleasure, teeth grit, eyes unfocused, almost as if she wasn’t even there at all.

               It was only when her palm slipped round the nape of his neck that he seemed to surface; his eyes snapped to hers and he licked his lips, gave her a wolfish smile, a brief ‘hello’ tucked somewhere in there.  He shifted up her slightly, his left arm circling her shoulders – he slowed his pace, his rhythm changing completely.  Pleasure rippled through her again, coaxing an involuntary moan from her mouth; she wrapped her legs around his, pressing her lips against his shoulder as she rocked back against him instinctively.  It was only when she came a second time that he switched back up to deep, hard thrusts; he gave a breathless moan, a sound of pure, animal abandon – and suddenly there was the warm, liquid pulse of his orgasm, deep inside of her. 

               When his eyes finally focused on her again it was like he was seeing stars.

               “Jesus, chere,” he muttered.

               She laughed lightly and pulled him down so that his forehead was resting lightly against hers, the two of them breathing together in wonderful tandem. 

               “Like I said,” she murmured back playfully, “we make a good team.  Huh, sugah?”

               The clichéd Southern term of endearment, and the unexpectedly pitch perfect accent with which it was delivered, brought first a smile to his lips, then a laugh.

               “I swear you hide that accent so fuckin’ good every time I hear it it’s almost like I’m back home.”

               He said it all in a single, heartfelt breath, and there was a sadness there that touched her.  She slid her palms up over the familiar rasp of his stubble and drew him down into a slow, sensuous kiss.  It was a wonderful moment of tender passion that brought home to her just how far uncoupled sex and passion had become for her over the years.  The thought was frightening but not unpleasant.  If anything it made her all the more impatient to recover what suddenly seemed like lost ground to her.  There were so many things she wanted to do with him and yet there was so little time.

               “What?” he asked her when they’d broken apart and he could see the look in her eyes.

               “Nothing,” she murmured. “I’m just wondering what to do with you next…”

               He laughed softly, shifting slightly so that he could trail feather-light kisses down her neck to her collarbone to her breast.

               “Do whatever you want,” he murmured round her nipple, “I’m all yours for tonight.”

               The words were sweet and sexy and made her heart ache.  Tonight didn’t seem long enough.  It wasn’t long enough to stave off all the silly, unimportant things that existed outside this room.  For so long now she’d plotted this lonely course, year after year of exile, of other peoples’ lives.  And now she was close, so painfully close, to finding all the missing pieces that made up her.  There was so much she’d sacrificed for it.  So much she’d lost.  This would just be another thing.

               In a day or two he would be gone, and once again she’d be what she’d always been – alone.