Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men - that is the sole property of Marvel Comics. I am not making money from this fanfiction.

I was simply feeling bittersweet and wanted to share it.

Seven years have passed since the incident in San Francisco. Seven years since the Golden Gate had turned into nothing more than scrap metal, left to be rebuilt by some of the very people who'd witnessed its destruction. Seven years since the cure had been injected, either by force or by choice, into well over twelve thousand mutants. However, it had only taken one before the fearsome power of that potent drug wore off. One year, and twelve thousand mutants once more awoke to their powers; some more violently than others. For a few, it would take many months to recover all they lost, while others took years. The lucky ones were restored overnight. Some might not call this luck.

Once government had taken note of this, and of course they did so swiftly, immediate action was to be taken. The action itself, though, took many months to be decided upon – and it was with both reserve and weary acceptance that mutant and human worked with one another to agree on a proper course of action. Debates – all of which were heated, sympathetic, and downright prejudiced – continued into late sessions and early-morning reengagements. Weeks passed, and those who could held their breath the entire time. For the rest, breathing itself was painful. Until finally there came the day where silence fell over everyone, and indeed, everything. The decision had been reached. The course of action would be no action at all. Mutant and human kind were simply going to have to co-exist. There was no denying the power mutants held, whether in their mutations or in sheer number. There were no threats, however, and it was felt by majority vote that there was no reason to take any course of action which might lead to another incident like the year previous.

Even though, for many, those scars still wept with the blood of the lost on both sides.

This tale, though it has spoken of the majority, is not about them. Instead, it is of but a few who lived long enough to see the very beginnings of the war – and its end…

Lawrence Anderson sat back in his chair, observing through keen eye the chess board sitting in front of him. He'd played this game with this man for so long, he was sure he could see every move that could possibly be made several moments ahead. But the game wasn't the reason for his daily visits with his friend, Erik Lensherr. No, it was the man himself who captured Lawrence's attention. He was very old, very wise, and more often than not seemed to be on the extreme end of nostalgic. He didn't speak much at first, but as the younger man kept returning, soon enough the old mutant began to warm to him, telling tales of his youth. It was like a novel. The only thing Erik never spoke of was his mother, having only mentioned her once in the telling of his troubled youth.

His quest for revenge had been an epic tale of strife, friendship, and loss. In the end, though, he'd gotten his wish. It was without mercy that he brought his foe down, and used him as nothing more than wasted space and an example to the new recruits he was trying to make. At the same time, he'd been forced to part ways with the one true friend he'd ever had. Charles Xavier. Erik didn't speak much of him, either, for when he did, a look of guilt clouded his eyes and he would become suddenly weary, as if the memory of his friend pained him too much for his heart to bear.

It was with rapt attention that Lawrence soaked in all of this, every word nearly soaking him to the bone. And why shouldn't it? After all, Lawrence himself was part of this tale… Even if his companion didn't know it. That's how it had to be. Erik could never know Lawrence wasn't who he said he was; could never know that under the beige, wrinkled skin, balding head and soulful brown eyes lay a different type of creature. One with azure skin, blue scales, and glowing golden eyes that cried tears of sorrow for him almost every single night. The British accent would recede and leave a soft, husky, feminine quiver in its wake in the evenings. Mystique, clever imp that she was, simply could not bear to let him know it was her who indulged him like this.

And indulge she did. Who else did he have to go to now? He lived in a retirement home, and though he was still given apt amounts of privacy – which he could simply never do without – no longer did he have the independence or pleasure to do as he wished, when he wished. He had nothing and no one, save for his eldest child. He stated on more than one occasion that she would come to visit, and momentarily, a light would flash in his eyes that would always make Mystique smile. Seeing Erik happy and excited over anything anymore always made her day just a little bit bright. Today was one of those days where he was much less talkative, however, and prying words from him was difficult. It seemed he'd been in a fight with Wanda, the aforementioned daughter.

"Surely she will not begrudge you your idiosyncrasies and opinions, my friend," came the soft, accented words from Lawrence's mouth, and inside Mystique cringed. She would give anything to speak to him like she used to, using her own voice, her own eyes.

"But she is," came the equally soft reply. "She knows I am an old man, and she's aware we don't see eye to eye. She simply grew tired of me, I fear."

"You are her father."

"I am an old man…"

This subject had been brought up before. Erik's begrudged his age with a vehemence that was difficult to get used to. As the men faded to silence, thinking only to themselves and of their chess game, it was only half an hour more before the game was won. Erik had taken the King yet again, and it never ceased to amaze Mystique how he did it. She had learned the game long, long ago, and knew every move imaginable. But Erik always seemed to surprise her. She loved it.

"Looks like it's game over for tonight, Lawrence. Same time tomorrow, I assume?"

There was no light in his eyes tonight. No expectation in his words. Nothing. Frowning, and carefully moving the facial muscles of Lawrence Anderson again so as not to give any indication of something familiar, Mystique lifted one thick brow.

"Are you tiring of our chess games?"

"It is not the chess I am tiring of, my friend. It is the games you are playing with me… Raven."

Startled, all that happened for a moment, all that anyone would see, was two old men, staring each other down. One with an expression of thoughtful conclusion, while the other seemed completely in shock, mouth parted slightly, coat halfway up one arm, knees quaking. For what seemed like hours, they did this, gazing at each other as if through a fog, the most disarmed of the two finally slipping the coat back off his arm and placing it back over the chair he'd just been occupying. Nothing could have prevented the tear from escaping the younger male's eye, or the shuddering sigh that followed it.

"Raven, please… Let me see you as you are. You know how I hate it when you hide."

"E-Erik. How did you-?"

The sentence wasn't even completed when the change began. Brown slacks and cool green button up shirt dissolved against the curves of a nude woman, shoes transforming into feet and fire engine red hair sprouting where once there was little tufts of gray. Against the blue of her skin were more deeply shaded scales that covered her breasts, thighs, feet, and arms. An exo-skin of sorts that protected her like armor. Bright yellow-gold eyes replaced the brown and brightened up the room a little bit. It was only after the transformation was complete and Mystique once more stood before Erik as she was meant to be that light made home in his steely eyes.

"I've known for weeks. How long you've actually been doing this to me, and in what guises, I can only guess…"

"Nine months," she confessed, another tear slipping from the same eye as before, a twin matching it seconds later, wetting both her cheeks.

"Ah. Nearly as long as I've been here. Why did you not think it appropriate to simply tell me?"

"You would have turned me away."

"We need to talk. Scotch?"

And without words, Mystique turned on her heel and moved to the cabinet in the corner. She'd seen him on numerous occasions make his way to it to fix them drinks before and during their chess games. Now, she did it herself, pouring two classes of the drink before making her way back to the man she'd shared a majority of her life with. She offered him the drink, and instead of taking her original seat, Mystique sat herself gently on the edge of the table they'd been using, crossing her legs at the knee with her glass resting in both hands on her lap. Silence was all that came from her, and her eyes remained downcast.

"Oh, don't do that. You're much to pretty for that. Let me see you."

Warm, weathered fingers found her chin and tipped it to the light. Shining eyes gazed upon her, and a dark hue of indigo crossed the bride of her nose. Feeling like she was under some type of scrutiny only bothered her when it was Erik who was doing the scrutinizing. A smile, however, cracked the line of his mouth, and the wrinkles that formed parentheses around his mouth seemed to deepen in his joy.

"My dear, you haven't aged a single… day."

The frown was there before she could stop it. His fingers left her skin, and without thinking, she set aside her glass and reached her hands out to clasp his palm between them. She brought it to her face, forcing his palm to caress her cheek, like he'd done so very long ago. Her eyes were wet, though no more tears seeped from them, and they watched as Erik's roved over every inch of her face that he could soak in, the line of her neck, the curve of her body. It was sorrow she found there, mixed with the same look he got whenever he'd spoken of Charles. She didn't want him to look that way for her.

"Is this my punishment for leaving you helpless and so alone, Raven? Flaunting your beauty before the eyes of an old man who cannot even enjoy it anymore?"

"Can't you? Erik, my prolonged youth has always and will always be for your aid! Touch me, hold me, look at me, speak to me like you used to. I want you to be content again. That's why I've tried so hard to befriend you all over. You don't know how it made me feel to see you smile at me. Even if it was only once a day, or once a week. To make you laugh at Christmas and to see your face when you told me your granddaughter was born…"

"You deserve so much more than what I can offer you anymore," replied the worn man, his eyes finally leaving her to fall upon his lap, his hand pulling away from her face to rest on his knee. He was despondent in his age, and it pained Mystique to look upon him that way. From her edge of the table she slipped, drink forgotten. She took his away and set it near hers before slipping into his lap, tenderly pressing her body against his, wrapping her slender arms around his shoulders and drawing his head against her collar bone. His breath was warm and shallow against her flesh. Free fingers roamed up into his thinning hair, lightly stroking the fine strands over his scalp.

"Erik, you deserve nothing less than me. And I want nothing more than you. If I had, I wouldn't have come back to you time and time again. You know that."

"Always to the point, aren't you, my dear?"

She felt the feather-lightness of his eyelashes as the closed against each other against her skin. His breathing was growing deeper, and soon his arms curled around her back, hands pressed flush against the middle and small of her back. He always had felt a little cool compared to her, but the contrast had also been beautiful. Even now, the presence of him so close, the scent of his cologne, the feel of his clothing – it was all so familiar to Mystique and she had been missing it for so long.

"You wouldn't have me any other way," she pointed out softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, near where her fingers lay.

"Are we to pretend that I never left you? That I never betrayed your trust and love of me for a goal I never should have made you a part of?"

"Only if we pretend that I didn't sell you out for every idea you were worth. And, by the way, I made the choice to follow you. I believed in you, in your plans, and I wouldn't change that for anything."

"After all this, you wouldn't go back and wish to stay with Charles?"

"No."

And silence engulfed them again as both of them soaked in the power of the words that had just been spoken. Mystique's fingers continued their delicate trail through his hair and over his scalp, her other hand gently rocking over the top of his spine. His hands were motionless, but they continued to press into her until her body was so flush with his that it was almost physically impossible for them to become any closer. She liked it that way, and apparently he did too, for she felt the smile tugging at his lips against the top of her breast, and it caused her to mimic it, tilting her head to rest her cheek on his head.

"Please. Come lie with me. Warm these old bones for just one more winter night, would you?"

"It is late. You need rest and so do I. Would you like me to read?"

The question sounded funny on her lips, as it had always been Erik who read to her, and Charles before him. But lately, she knew he'd been having trouble reading, and this was her way of paying him back for all those blissful night curled up against his chest like a contented kitten. Tonight, once they'd made it to his room, the roles were somewhat reversed. Mystique still curled up against his side, head resting in the crook of his shoulder, but the book was in her hands, and she was the one reading the print while Erik's eyes slowly drooped shut.

After three chapters, a loud yawn escaped the man, and she couldn't help but chuckle.

"You need sleep. Turn off the light, Erik."

"Anything you say, my dear."

And the light clicked off, leaving them in darkness. Once under the cover of dark, and wrapped in the warmth of the comforter that smelled so good, Mystique sighed happily and let her exo-skin melt against the rest of her flesh, leaving her utterly naked. She turned on her side, wrapping one arm around Erick's stomach, pressing her breasts against his ribs and curling one leg over the thigh closest to hers. She was met with a warm chuckle and a kiss to her forehead.

"I wish there was more light coming in here." And she knew what he meant.

Wordlessly, and without provocation, the woman slipped from the gentle grip of her ex-boss and lover to slip to the sliding doors, pulling the drapes from them with an ease and quietness that disturbed nothing, not even the thin layer of dust upon the curtains. Silver-white moonlight bathed her body in an ethereal glow, and Mystique turned her body slightly, so that she was mostly covered in the light, her eyes turning toward the man in bed. Still on his back, his head was turned to her, eyes shimmering with a pleasure she couldn't really define. She knew his gaze fell on everything he could ever want to see, but in the end, he once more ended up on her face, so placid and serene in the cool light.

"You've never looked more beautiful. Every time I look at you, you startle me into breathlessness."

"Flattery gets you everywhere."

"Come back to bed, Raven. It's cold."

His one hand that had been curled about her shoulders moments before beckoned to her, and she was powerless to resist. Not that she wanted to anyway. In a moment, she was once more under the blankets with him, cheek pressed against his chest, leg over his, arm across the length of his torso. So familiar. So calm. So wonderful. Tipping her head once, she let her lips fall over Erik's, and allowed them to longer, for he did not pull away. Indeed, he returned her affections, and if she wasn't mistaken, that was a tear on his cheek, making her face wet in turn. Without acknowledging it, without even looking out of curiosity, she placed her head back on his chest and closed her eyes, waiting until she knew sleep had taken him before indulging herself…

…In the morning, Mystique awoke to find Erik's heart had ceased to beat sometime during the night. His flesh was still warm on hers, though his joints were becoming stiff quickly. It was with resigned horror that she removed herself from his bed and sucked back her tears long enough to call an orderly. Long after he'd been taken away in an ambulance, pronounced dead on arrival, she was still sitting there, in his rumpled bed, pillow clutched to her chest as she sobbed like a baby. Her screams were muffled by the sound of the downy pillow, and with every painful gasp, she inhaled the scent of her deceased friend. Her cries were muted only moments before Wanda, Erik's oldest child, walked in with her baby girl clinging to her hip.

"Mother…"

"Wanda…"

Without further words, the women embraced one another, Wanda's tears fresh while Mystiques remained stale in her eyes. The little girl at Wanda's hip looked so much like her mother. Large eyes full of wonder, full of beauty, full of innocence. Mystique took a minute to ruffle the child's hair while she explained what had happened. Strength was Wanda's only ally, and she remained tough through the conversation, though her cheeks remained stained with the few tears that leaked through. In the end, she disappeared, returning from an adjacent room a moment later with her father's helm.

"He would have wanted you to have it, mama. Take it."

Before she could protest, Mystique felt the cool metal shoved into her hands. Seconds later, Wanda was out the door with her baby. Mystique never even got her name, that little ball of delight...

…Three days later, she was looking down the long walkway to the front of Xavier's old mansion. It was a weekend, and most of the students were playing outside, laughing in the cool sunlight on this early spring day. Most of them didn't know who she was, and those that did let her pass without a word. They stared at her, though, as if she were an alien. What right did she have to set foot there? Why?

At the front door, she knocked, feeling it would be severely inappropriate to simply walk in as she'd done so often in her youth. Instead, she waited until her call had been answered. It was Storm who stood there, dressed in white and looking tired beyond her young years. She tilted her head and waved a hand over her face as if she thought, for a moment, that she was seeing things. Mystique, still carrying Magneto's helm in her hands like a shield, brought it up closer to her chest. She wasted no time on greeting, nor did she apologize for her sudden appearance. After a deep breath, she locked weary eyes with the beautiful woman before her.

"I need to see Charles…"

"You can't."

Mystique bristled. She was in no mood for a fight, and her eyes steeled against the woman blocking her entrance into the institute. Knowing full well that after his initial death, Charles had found a 'new body' of sorts, she knew he was in there somewhere. He was her oldest friend! And Erik's. He needed to know…

"Wait," the dark woman pleaded, one hand extending. "Let me explain. The Professor passed on… Three days ago. I'm sorry, Mystique, but no one can talk to him now…"

In slow motion, it seemed, her fingers began to shake. As if an invisible force were pulling on them, the digits loosened their grip on the metal helm in her hands. With a clangorous crash, it hit the cement before anyone knew what happened. Mystique's eyes were widened like a deer that was caught in fast approaching headlights. Her knees were the next to weaken, and her body soon followed the helm, shins crashing into the concrete, even as Storm reached out to try and catch her.

"No," she whispered, eyes shut tight against the reality crashing around her. Her only real friends. Dead. The same morning. Why was she left here? Her youth? All the wrongs she'd committed over her long lifetime? What had she done that had been so awful, so terrible, that she had to lose everything all on the same night? "This isn't happening."

Arms wrapped around her form, and the crisp smell of clean shampoo assaulted her nose. She could feel Storm's hair touch her shoulder, and the woman dragged her to her collar. Storm's heart was thudding almost as loudly as her own, Mystique noticed. Her breathing was just as labored. And for a moment, she found something kindred with the woman. The pain that comes with losing something dear to you. That was the last thing, in fact, that she felt before blackness came from all directions and blinded her, deafened her, and drowned her in its inky depth…

…Mystique was not in the medical wing the next morning when Hank went in to check on her again.

And not hide nor hair of her was ever to be seen again.