I know, I know. I have other stories to work on. But my computer (literally) broke, and we had to buy a new one, which means I have lost EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY STORIES! I copied them from the site, but it takes a while for a muse to recover from a hit like that.
I was watching X2 for the ten bagillionth time, and I decided that Mistique just might be more multi-faceted than we think. This is just a little train-of-thought type thing, ending with a bit of fluff, but reviews are appreciated.
-------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------
They called her Mistique.
It was a good name; she'd chosen it herself. On her surface thoughts, that was the title she called herself by, and when she talked in third person, it was who she was. It was an alluring name to fit with the alluring persona she'd built up, the cold-hearted facade that was so convincing she half-believed it herself sometimes.
Mistique was how she fought, smooth and crisp and effortlessly exact. Mistique was how she spoke, in that echoing voice that was, somehow, not a voice. Mistique was in the way she watched 'normal' humans as they walked down the street, slightly depreciating and not without a hint of malice. Mistique was in the way she toyed with people, using her powers to shamelessly illicit responses that Mistique found amusing. Mistique was in the way she drawled out Magneto's real first name- she was the only member of the Brotherhood who dared. Mistique was in the way she stared coldly at underlings, younger mutants who thought that they, perheps, were better than her.
Raven Darkholme was in none of these things. She was hard-put to find anything Raven was in, these days, and when she did find something, her defenses, so carefully built up, would quickly smother Raven with Mistique. A genuine, caring smile would be replaced by the bitter, cynical smile most had come to recognize as her own. It wasn't hers. It was just another change, so quickly put on just as any other skin she wore. They thought that when she was in her true form, that was when her expressions, at least, were real. She wondered where they'd gotten that impression.
Then she stopped wondering; she knew. She'd given it to them. Raven hated herself for it, then Mistique told herself to stop being such a softy. Sighing, Raven gave in, as she always did. Mistique was tough, a spirit unbreakable. Even she feared her, and yet, like Doctor Frankenstein, she'd created her. The world was a harsh, unforgiving place, and Mistique dressed accordingly.
She was invincible, mentally and physically.
No, not quite. There was one who matched her, possibly even surpassed her. Even the thought of him sent shivers down Raven's back, and a wave of remembered pain into Mistique's stomach. Wolverine, Mistique whispered fiercely, blood hot with revenge. Logan, Raven whispered even more softly, and even then, Mistique pounced on the thought. But she, the warrior, the shield, couldn't erase it.
He'd lived as long as she had. Perheps longer. But he didn't remember it. She envied him and felt superior to him at the same time.
What if she forgot the past century? What if all of the pain and loss and bias was erased, like a disk with a magnet against it? Would Mistique cease to exist, because it was those things that had created the need for her? Or would forgetting all those very- sickeningly, Mistique corrected- human emotions mean that she forgot what it was to be Raven, to be some semblance of human? Was Logan- Wolverine! she corrected so fiercely that she almost spoke it aloud- less human because he couldn't remember why he was the way he was? He just WAS- wild, feral, elemental, completely guided by instincts he didn't understand more than half the time. Even Mistique had to acknowledge the raw beauty of it, the ruthless way he fought against much larger opponents and won, the fire that bloomed hatred and frustration and some other unnameable emotion in his eyes. If she had to hazard a guess, some gut feeling told her it was longing.
Mistique was the only one who'd guessed how very little human emotion went into what he did. Even his volatile attraction to Jean Grey- the late Jean Grey, Mistique smirked maliciously- had no roots in his emotions, other than lust, if that could be counted an emotion.
She'd come to him in that guise, that of the stick-thin, red-headed telekine with a slight Russian cast to her features, and even as he had hungrily accepted the kiss and the offer of more, she knew that he didn't really want anything past the skin, the flesh. His emotions didn't twitch, and even though she was no telepath, she knew that with a certainty that surprised her. He didn't love Jean Grey. He didn't remember how.
Raven did. Mistique just fought tooth and nail to keep her from doing it. When Raven wanted to cry, really pound and sob and carry on in anguish at being so cold, Mistique forced her jaw tighter, her eyes narrower, her spine straighter.
With a resilience that bordered on extraordinary, Raven forced her way through at times. When she'd spoken with Nightcrawler, that night before she'd visited Lo- Wolverine. For an instant, the pain in his eyes at his very own appearance had shattered Mistique, and Raven rose from the ashes like a pheonix from it's pyre. She hadn't told him the truth, of why she stayed in her true form all of the time, but she'd told him what he needed to hear, and it was truer than she'd like to admit. Nightcrawler shouldn't have to hide who he was, because he had nothing beyond the surface to hide. Mistique had too much, and she'd always have to hide, if only from herself.
The way Logan hid behind his aggression.
Why did her mind keep returning to him? Mistique had pounded those thoughts into the smallest corner of her mind. Raven had let them out again, without even meaning to. Dammit.
The quaint little bell hanging on the door of the quaint little cafe jangled loudly, interrupting her internal battle, but not for long. Entering the cafe was the very same stocky Canadian she'd been musing about. Quickly, she averted her eyes, which, at the moment, were the baby blue of the skin she'd used to seduce Vincent Laurio, the guard at Eric's prison. It was a good skin for eating breakfast in a small cafe in New York; no one looked too closely, because the skin- for laughs, Mistique called this one Rebecca- was so damn attractive that it dazed them, just a bit. It was so different from her true skin, and this Rebecca was what was wanted by society.
She didn't have to watch to know that Wolverine was studying the room with more than just his eyes. She could hear his nostrils sucking in air as he cast his heightened senses around the room, but more importantly, she knew that kind of hesitation. She used it herself all the time. You stop, pretending to look unsure about where you're supposed to be, when really you're making sure everything and everyone in the room is safe. Living a mutant existence for more than a century did nothing if not put you on edge, and any indescrepancies would be instantly identified.
So she wasn't surprised when his feet clunked heavily over to her booth. Slowly dragging her eyes away from the window, she gave him a negligent look. "Can I help you?"
"What are you doing here, Mistique?" he growled, not loud enough to catch the attention of the other diners, but menacing enough to get her hackles up, and she had to concentrate briefly to keep from shedding her blond haired, blue eyed skin.
Of course, he saw none of this, for by then her eyes had returned to the window, following an amused smirk. "Watching them."
She was vaguely surprised when he slid into the booth opposite her, but realized that it was so they wouldn't attract attention. "Who?"
She smiled briefly, meaninglessly, at the waitress who appeared to refill her coffee cup and offer Wolverine a menu, which he declined in favor of a cup of coffee, then stirred as she gazed out the window, avoiding eye contact. "All of them. Wondering how many know the truth, and how many just accept what the tv tells them."
"About us?" Wolverine asked, winking at the returning waitress, who giggled and managed to brush her front against his arm as she turned to walk away.
"What else?" she said, sighing and watching a boy riding on his father's shoulders. She'd done that with her father once, so long ago. Longer than she liked to think about. The silence stretched out, until finally she broke down and glanced at him. "So what are you doing here?"
He coughed slightly. "Ah, well. I'm supposed to be supervising a shopping trip."
She chuckled briefly at that imagery. "Let me guess. You and Saks Fifth Avenue really don't get along."
"Especially not with four teenage girls in tow. Jubilee suggested that I, ah, take myself elsewhere." He stared bemusedly into his coffee, then glanced back up. "Who are you supposed to look like?"
She shrugged. "Nobody. Just something I invented." She cleared her throat. "This is as close to what I would have looked like as I can get." Furious, Mistique pounded mentally on Raven for allowing that to slip out.
Wolverine studied her for a moment, and she tilted her chin up slightly. She would NOT be a blushing, retreating person. She could take a direct look. Finally he nodded. "I can see that, maybe. So," he stuck out a hand. "My name's Logan."
She blinked, startled, and shook his hand. "Raven Darkholme."
He nodded acceptance, then returned to his coffee. "No offense, but you look better blue."
She laughed quietly. "I think so. But I doubt I'd be able to drink my coffee in peace looking like that."
He nodded again. "I hear that. Or does that mean you want me to go?"
She shook her head slowly. "S'ok. You can stay if you want, but I'm not paying for your coffee."
Wolverine-Logan smiled. "Right. Anything to keep me out of the junior petites department."
Mistique-Raven shrugged. "It doesn't really matter to me."
But they were both lying. And deep down, they both knew it.
------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------
Review, dudes and dudettes!
I was watching X2 for the ten bagillionth time, and I decided that Mistique just might be more multi-faceted than we think. This is just a little train-of-thought type thing, ending with a bit of fluff, but reviews are appreciated.
-------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------
They called her Mistique.
It was a good name; she'd chosen it herself. On her surface thoughts, that was the title she called herself by, and when she talked in third person, it was who she was. It was an alluring name to fit with the alluring persona she'd built up, the cold-hearted facade that was so convincing she half-believed it herself sometimes.
Mistique was how she fought, smooth and crisp and effortlessly exact. Mistique was how she spoke, in that echoing voice that was, somehow, not a voice. Mistique was in the way she watched 'normal' humans as they walked down the street, slightly depreciating and not without a hint of malice. Mistique was in the way she toyed with people, using her powers to shamelessly illicit responses that Mistique found amusing. Mistique was in the way she drawled out Magneto's real first name- she was the only member of the Brotherhood who dared. Mistique was in the way she stared coldly at underlings, younger mutants who thought that they, perheps, were better than her.
Raven Darkholme was in none of these things. She was hard-put to find anything Raven was in, these days, and when she did find something, her defenses, so carefully built up, would quickly smother Raven with Mistique. A genuine, caring smile would be replaced by the bitter, cynical smile most had come to recognize as her own. It wasn't hers. It was just another change, so quickly put on just as any other skin she wore. They thought that when she was in her true form, that was when her expressions, at least, were real. She wondered where they'd gotten that impression.
Then she stopped wondering; she knew. She'd given it to them. Raven hated herself for it, then Mistique told herself to stop being such a softy. Sighing, Raven gave in, as she always did. Mistique was tough, a spirit unbreakable. Even she feared her, and yet, like Doctor Frankenstein, she'd created her. The world was a harsh, unforgiving place, and Mistique dressed accordingly.
She was invincible, mentally and physically.
No, not quite. There was one who matched her, possibly even surpassed her. Even the thought of him sent shivers down Raven's back, and a wave of remembered pain into Mistique's stomach. Wolverine, Mistique whispered fiercely, blood hot with revenge. Logan, Raven whispered even more softly, and even then, Mistique pounced on the thought. But she, the warrior, the shield, couldn't erase it.
He'd lived as long as she had. Perheps longer. But he didn't remember it. She envied him and felt superior to him at the same time.
What if she forgot the past century? What if all of the pain and loss and bias was erased, like a disk with a magnet against it? Would Mistique cease to exist, because it was those things that had created the need for her? Or would forgetting all those very- sickeningly, Mistique corrected- human emotions mean that she forgot what it was to be Raven, to be some semblance of human? Was Logan- Wolverine! she corrected so fiercely that she almost spoke it aloud- less human because he couldn't remember why he was the way he was? He just WAS- wild, feral, elemental, completely guided by instincts he didn't understand more than half the time. Even Mistique had to acknowledge the raw beauty of it, the ruthless way he fought against much larger opponents and won, the fire that bloomed hatred and frustration and some other unnameable emotion in his eyes. If she had to hazard a guess, some gut feeling told her it was longing.
Mistique was the only one who'd guessed how very little human emotion went into what he did. Even his volatile attraction to Jean Grey- the late Jean Grey, Mistique smirked maliciously- had no roots in his emotions, other than lust, if that could be counted an emotion.
She'd come to him in that guise, that of the stick-thin, red-headed telekine with a slight Russian cast to her features, and even as he had hungrily accepted the kiss and the offer of more, she knew that he didn't really want anything past the skin, the flesh. His emotions didn't twitch, and even though she was no telepath, she knew that with a certainty that surprised her. He didn't love Jean Grey. He didn't remember how.
Raven did. Mistique just fought tooth and nail to keep her from doing it. When Raven wanted to cry, really pound and sob and carry on in anguish at being so cold, Mistique forced her jaw tighter, her eyes narrower, her spine straighter.
With a resilience that bordered on extraordinary, Raven forced her way through at times. When she'd spoken with Nightcrawler, that night before she'd visited Lo- Wolverine. For an instant, the pain in his eyes at his very own appearance had shattered Mistique, and Raven rose from the ashes like a pheonix from it's pyre. She hadn't told him the truth, of why she stayed in her true form all of the time, but she'd told him what he needed to hear, and it was truer than she'd like to admit. Nightcrawler shouldn't have to hide who he was, because he had nothing beyond the surface to hide. Mistique had too much, and she'd always have to hide, if only from herself.
The way Logan hid behind his aggression.
Why did her mind keep returning to him? Mistique had pounded those thoughts into the smallest corner of her mind. Raven had let them out again, without even meaning to. Dammit.
The quaint little bell hanging on the door of the quaint little cafe jangled loudly, interrupting her internal battle, but not for long. Entering the cafe was the very same stocky Canadian she'd been musing about. Quickly, she averted her eyes, which, at the moment, were the baby blue of the skin she'd used to seduce Vincent Laurio, the guard at Eric's prison. It was a good skin for eating breakfast in a small cafe in New York; no one looked too closely, because the skin- for laughs, Mistique called this one Rebecca- was so damn attractive that it dazed them, just a bit. It was so different from her true skin, and this Rebecca was what was wanted by society.
She didn't have to watch to know that Wolverine was studying the room with more than just his eyes. She could hear his nostrils sucking in air as he cast his heightened senses around the room, but more importantly, she knew that kind of hesitation. She used it herself all the time. You stop, pretending to look unsure about where you're supposed to be, when really you're making sure everything and everyone in the room is safe. Living a mutant existence for more than a century did nothing if not put you on edge, and any indescrepancies would be instantly identified.
So she wasn't surprised when his feet clunked heavily over to her booth. Slowly dragging her eyes away from the window, she gave him a negligent look. "Can I help you?"
"What are you doing here, Mistique?" he growled, not loud enough to catch the attention of the other diners, but menacing enough to get her hackles up, and she had to concentrate briefly to keep from shedding her blond haired, blue eyed skin.
Of course, he saw none of this, for by then her eyes had returned to the window, following an amused smirk. "Watching them."
She was vaguely surprised when he slid into the booth opposite her, but realized that it was so they wouldn't attract attention. "Who?"
She smiled briefly, meaninglessly, at the waitress who appeared to refill her coffee cup and offer Wolverine a menu, which he declined in favor of a cup of coffee, then stirred as she gazed out the window, avoiding eye contact. "All of them. Wondering how many know the truth, and how many just accept what the tv tells them."
"About us?" Wolverine asked, winking at the returning waitress, who giggled and managed to brush her front against his arm as she turned to walk away.
"What else?" she said, sighing and watching a boy riding on his father's shoulders. She'd done that with her father once, so long ago. Longer than she liked to think about. The silence stretched out, until finally she broke down and glanced at him. "So what are you doing here?"
He coughed slightly. "Ah, well. I'm supposed to be supervising a shopping trip."
She chuckled briefly at that imagery. "Let me guess. You and Saks Fifth Avenue really don't get along."
"Especially not with four teenage girls in tow. Jubilee suggested that I, ah, take myself elsewhere." He stared bemusedly into his coffee, then glanced back up. "Who are you supposed to look like?"
She shrugged. "Nobody. Just something I invented." She cleared her throat. "This is as close to what I would have looked like as I can get." Furious, Mistique pounded mentally on Raven for allowing that to slip out.
Wolverine studied her for a moment, and she tilted her chin up slightly. She would NOT be a blushing, retreating person. She could take a direct look. Finally he nodded. "I can see that, maybe. So," he stuck out a hand. "My name's Logan."
She blinked, startled, and shook his hand. "Raven Darkholme."
He nodded acceptance, then returned to his coffee. "No offense, but you look better blue."
She laughed quietly. "I think so. But I doubt I'd be able to drink my coffee in peace looking like that."
He nodded again. "I hear that. Or does that mean you want me to go?"
She shook her head slowly. "S'ok. You can stay if you want, but I'm not paying for your coffee."
Wolverine-Logan smiled. "Right. Anything to keep me out of the junior petites department."
Mistique-Raven shrugged. "It doesn't really matter to me."
But they were both lying. And deep down, they both knew it.
------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------
Review, dudes and dudettes!