SPOILER ALERT! THIS FIC CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR X3, SO IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT, DON'T READ YET!
----------------------------------------------------------Okay, so I didn't like what they did to Mystique in X3. More specifically, I didn't like what Magneto did to her. Not only was it out of character for him, it was bizarre. His feelings for her turned on a dime just because she wasn't a mutant anymore, and I find that very unrealistic. /End short rant! Hopefully it doesn't suck too horribly. I just felt like I had to write something. Oh, and one more thing--I actually like Pyro, and I'm not sure why he came out looking like such a dork in this story (so far.) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.
--------------------------------------------------------------When she crumpled on the floor of the truck, she felt it. Her mutation was leaving her. Her skin seemed to shrink a little, to grow tight and inelastic, and her body felt solid and heavy. She couldn't feel her bones or her organs or her muscles, couldn't perceive them on the edge of her consciousness the way she'd done so naturally, so effortlessly, for so many years. She tried to morph, tried because she thought perhaps she was wrong and she'd imagined it all, but nothing happened, and suddenly she was naked and cold and pink, and more frightened than she'd ever been in her life.
"…Erik…!"
She was vaguely aware of the way the other men were staring at her, and it made her angry—no, not because she was suddenly, startingly naked, but because she was a human, and how dare they stare at her when she was so exposed?
"I'm still one of you," she snarled. "I'm not some kind of freak." And her voice had lost its lovely timbre, the slight and melodic vibration of other voices within her own. She was still curled on the floor, challenging them with her eyes—oh, her eyes, what did they look like now?—when Magneto neatly removed his cape and draped it over her body.
"You're too naked, my dear," he said, and his eyes were more sorrowful than she'd ever seen them, perhaps even moreso than when she'd caught him alone, remembering his parents and his childhood. He helped her up and she stood, shaking, his cape draped over her shoulders and concealing nothing. She'd forgotten what it meant to be nude. It was only after she saw the Juggernaut's eyes again resting shamelessly on her chest, a leer spreading across his face, that she thought to wrap the cloak around her body, haphazardly, like a bath towel, repeating Erik's words in her head.
"Erik," she whispered again, and a lump rose in her throat. "Erik, I'm so sorry."
"Sorry for what?" he said. His voice was flat and he did not look at her face as they exited the truck, flanked by the Juggernaut and Multiple Man. Pyro trotted along behind them like an ingratiating young puppy. "There is nothing to be sorry for. We'll…make the necessary repairs."
"Okay," she responded, and god, her voice was so small. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Okay, yes."
Better.
"The first thing to do is find you a proper set of clothes. You will still fight by my side, my dear. You are still Mystique."
"I am still Mystique," she said, half to herself.
"And soon you shall be once again be… our Mystique."
"Yes," she said, "…thank you," and her hand twitched as she went to stroke his arm in gratitude but thought better of it. Perhaps he wouldn't want to touch her anymore.
"For what?" She glanced over at him and saw the slightest smile curling his lips. "Did you think I'd just leave you there?"
Behind them, the Juggernaut and Multiple Man exchanged curious glances.
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Mystique was used to living as a beautiful woman. Hell, she was used to living as a hundred beautiful women, and she of all people knew the power that physical beauty could yield to the person who knew how to use it.
And she knew how to use it.
What she didn't like was this new inability to turn it off. But she was useful, still, to the Brotherhood, and when they'd all returned to the island she'd outfitted herself in a wooly sweater and a long, stiff, utilitarian skirt she'd had stashed away in her closet. A mutant who could replicate any piece of clothing in the near blink of an eye had little use for an extensive wardrobe, but it did get cold on the island sometimes, so she had a few things.
Without her scales, her skin felt soft and too tender, almost like the shallow, open wound of a skinned knee, and the sweater scratched her nipples. The skirt made her legs itch and made slight red rashes appear on her thighs. Magneto gave her a set of his cotton pajamas and they were much more comfortable, even if she felt a little absurd wearing them.
Mystique hated her new skin.
A few days passed, and during that time Mystique left her room only when she had to, and generally at night. When she wasn't alone, she wore Magneto's pajamas. When she was, she went naked. It felt better, but she still couldn't stand to look at herself. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of her bedroom, so she turned it to the wall.
She went into town alone one day—at least no one would recognize her in this form (and oh, how she tried to tell herself it was nothing but a form)—since Magneto couldn't come with her. He was a wanted fugitive, after all. He'd suggested rather half-heartedly that she wear the pajamas he'd given her, but she'd refused and left in the scratchy sweater and the itchy skirt, shuffling along in bedroom slippers, to stop in the first store she came to so that she might buy something that didn't hurt so damned much.
How do they handle wearing clothing all the time?
She purchased a satiny, butter-colored blouse that made her human form appear just a little sickly, but would look lovely when she was blue and red and yellow again, and two pairs of loose-fitting pants that she felt would accommodate her scales if she ever felt the need to wear them. She picked up a pair of inexpensive, minimalist heels on her way to the counter—no way would she ever wear shoes again once she had returned to her true form. These were a one-time thing.
The young salesgirl smiled as she rang her up, glanced briefly at the thick sweater and then twice at the bedroom slippers.
"Lost my luggage," said Mystique.
"That's awful," said the girl, folding the pairs of pants. "I hope you find it again." She picked up the blouse and shook it out. "This isn't really your color."
Mystique smiled a little. "Oh, it will be."