Disclaimer: Neither Mystique nor Destiny nor anyone else you recognize in this story belongs to me. Including Cuba.

A/N: This takes place after events in Mystique # 6, although you don't have to know that comic to follow this story.




Useless Hindsight


Mystique stares into her drink, absently swirling the little umbrella straw. Her poison of choice is loaded with enough alcohol to kill a small mammal, barely enough to get past her alcohol tolerance.

God, she hates this country. Cuba! What the hell is she doing here? Why the hell doesn't she just get up and run?

Because Xavier would find her. Because the idiots in the government would find her. Because, like it or not, without Egghead's protection she's dead meat.

What is it with these self-proclaimed good guys? Why did they always insist on forcing her to serve them? First X-Factor, now this. Couldn't they find someone else to do their dirty work?

Forge. He was instrumental both times Xavier's brats had suckered her in. You should be kinder to him, considering how intimately your pasts are intertwined... and it's his fault she is dead. Even if Irene had wanted to die... even if she had lost all hope in the future only she could see... even if she told him to go, even if he did save Mystique's life, it's still his fault. She can't ever forgive him for that, even if she wanted to.

Hating Forge gives her an outlet for all her rage and despair and frustration, gives her a way to still mourn for her without giving in to the sadness and grief that threaten to overwhelm her. She's had her grief. She's allowed herself sadness. All that is done now.

Sometimes Mystique wonders why the hell she fights so hard to survive. What does she have to live for, now that Irene is dead? Two children who hate her... an entire population of mutants, doomed to destruction, that label her a terrorist... a string of ex-lovers, ex-friends and a list a mile long of people that just plain and simple want her dead.

She doesn't really blame them. They have their reasons. Not that she's sorry, of course--of all things in life, Raven finds regret to be one of the most useless. But sometimes, she allows herself to think of what could have happened, who she could have been, if things were different.

But that's useless hindsight. She's never had time for uselessness. But tonight, staring into her far-too-sweet tropical drink, she feels like being useless. She feels like letting herself sway and fall to the ground like all the other drunks, feels like wallowing in self-pity, feels like letting go for just a second to think of all the things she never allows herself to think about. After all, she's just survived an exploding government building; she's put who-knows-how-many sentinels out of commission; she's played the hero, for once, and she didn't even have to kill the little sister.

She orders another round, engrossed in her own thoughts. I owe myself a chance to relax...

***

1910. London.

Raven was never impressed by physical beauty. Why place so much stock in something that she could so easily replicate? Beauty wasn't sacred, wasn't special in the least. Beautiful women were in no way superior--in fact, Raven held them in contempt: brilliant appearances usually hid dull minds that did nothing but collect dust while the pretty girls giggled and flirted their way through life.

Then came Irene. Beautiful. Yes, very beautiful. Dark hair, kind mouth, eyes that saw nothing but bored into your soul.

You are Private Detective Darkholme, correct? Crisp, commanding, bossy. I need you to help me decode these books and find the person they describe.

Raven didn't blink as this beautiful woman tossed two messily bound journals on her desk. You're rather pushy for a blind broad, she said evenly. You got any money?

I'm afraid that I am short on funds at the moment, but that will change soon, she replied evenly. I trust that you will find these diaries fascinating enough to take my case without immediate pay. She spoke with supreme confidence, as if nothing could possibly dispute her words.

Raven snorted, skeptical. Yeah? I find a lot of things fascinating, Ms.-



Ms. Adler, but deciphering some moth-eaten book for no money isn't one of them.

I assure you, these are no ordinary books. Inside them lies-

Yeah, yeah, some great mystery, I'm sure--otherwise why come to me? She stood, picking up the one of the books and flipping through it. Get out of my office, Adler--I'll give this a peak tonight, and if you come back tomorrow morning with money, I might consider the job.

Irene found Raven having breakfast the next morning in a pub two blocks away from her office. Upon seeing her, Raven had to keep from choking on her coffee in surprise. Wha-... how? How did you know I'd be here this early?!

Lucky guess. Without waiting for an invitation, Irene seated herself beside the detective. What are your thoughts on the diary?

Raven treated the bossy woman to her most withering glare, forgetting for a moment that Irene couldn't see her. The parts that are at all understandable are intriguing, but most of it is senseless drabble and gibberish. A literary masterpiece it is not.

I'm not asking for a literary review. I want to know if you think you're up to the task of deciphering it and discovering the identity of one of the men written about, because if you're not than I'll leave now.

The gall of this woman! She came to Raven, a cocky little bitch with no money, and now she was walking away because she thought Raven wasn't good enough?!

She tightened her fist, knuckles cracking. Raven didn't want to give this woman the satisfaction of knowing how truly fascinating and mesmerizing she found these old books. Didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing anything.

I'll take the god damn job.

***

Berlin. 1911.

I just don't get it. The clues all point to here, and yet they all contradict each other!

Cancel each other out, perhaps?

Yes, exactly. It's like he never existed.

His existence has always been shrouded in misery.

There it was: that smooth, confident sound that crept into Irene's voice when she was certain she was right. Raven couldn't decide whether she loved or hated that tone.

She sat regally, head bent gracefully over a cup of tea. But we have exhausted our resources tonight. No more talk of the books or of our mystery man, or I am certain we'll both go insane.

Irene's delicate hands gently traced the porcelain tea cup in front of her, drawing circles in the drips of tea on the china. Silence stretched across the table like a fish net, baiting each one, waiting for one of the women to become ensnared. Raven... you don't have to hide from me anymore.

She said it so casually, as if making regular, everyday conversation. Raven stared, then laughed. Hiding? Whatever do you mean?

I know who you are--what you are. I know that in your true form you appear as a blue demon, and I know you have the ability to change your body into almost anything.

Beneath the table, a fist was clenched and a gun was cocked. How... how do you know this?

Her eyes stared straight ahead, vacant and blank and deep as a snow drift. Because I'm like you, Raven. We're both freaks. So bitter already. Of course she was, when she could see and feel every instant of pain and hatred against her kind that would come to be.

Oh, really? Prove it then. Morph for me.

No--I can't change my shape, that's not my ability. Those books that you're studying, that we're studying--I wrote them. Sometimes the words and images come to me in dreams; sometimes they come to me in random flashes during the day; sometimes it seems as if I'm living in the future for weeks on end.

Uh-huh. You expect me to believe you can see the future?

That's a nice way of putting it. I call it being taunted by sadistic, horrifying dreams that might or might not happen. Raven noticed Irene's hand clenching around her cup, the knuckles going white, and realized how much Irene was risking by telling her this, opening herself up. Sometimes... sometimes I don't even understand what they mean. Why do you think I needed a detective to help me decipher my own diaries? Most of the time all that comes to me are images, images and voices, crying out in pain or gasping their last breath of life.... That's why I sought you out, Raven, that's why I chose you to help me. Because we're so alike; we're the same.

Raven found it hard to breathe. She knew that Irene meant more than their shared abnormality; she meant the same... the same... Raven couldn't think. Vaguely she was aware of her arm going limp, the gun clattering to the floor under the table, but all of her attention was on Irene, her snowdrift eyes, her mouth saying words Raven didn't understand but knew all along to be true...

Irene looked away, hunching her shoulders demurely. Suddenly she didn't look so self-assured--instead she looked nervous, shy and tentatively hopeful. Raven, I... I wish you would show your true self around me. Her voice dropped to a whisper. I've seen you... in the visions. You're so beautiful in your true form.

Raven stared. A thousand different thoughts and emotions roared through her mind; she didn't know which ones were real, which ones to trust. All she knew was the woman in front of her, Irene, Irene Adler, Adler Irene, Ms. Adler, Irenie, Renie, Destiny...

No one had ever called her beautiful before.

Irene heard the subtle melting of bone and muscle, heard the nervous sigh that escaped Raven's lips as flesh turned blue, as black locks melted to red and dull brown eyes glowed yellow. She turned her head, shoving future images of what this looked like out of her mind, shoving all the hints of the future out of her mind--god, this was the most important moment in her life, this was what mattered most, she had to be here, now, had to focus...

If she dared to breathe, if she dared to speak, it would ruin everything. That was all Raven knew, that she couldn't do anything to ruin this, that if she did she would spend the rest of her life searching for this moment. Hands that killed men without a trace of guilt, hands that shifted and morphed and changed without a second thought, gentle, loving hands reached across the table, cupping the cheek of the woman they loved. Irene turned her head, and Raven could swear the blind woman looked straight into her eyes and saw through every deception, straight down to the bare bones of her soul. Raven swallowed nervously, and then threw all her ethics and codes, all her defense mechanisms, all her emotional walls out the window and pressed her lips to Irene's.

***

East Berlin. 1970.

Mystique lay perfectly still, eyes closed, until she heard his breathing slow, felt his body relax and heard the light snore that signified sleep. Only then did she stealthily rise from the bed,walking into the living room to retrieve the radio communicator hidden in her purse'.

She dialled and held her breath, listening to the familiar two rings before her lover's voice came on. It wasn't a question. Irene always knew when her lover called.

Hi, baby, Mystique purposely made her voice low and sexy, imitating Marilyn Monroe.

She heard Irene chuckle on the other end. Seducing me over the phone, Raven? How cheap.

Mystique grinned into the darkness. Trust me, Renie, I'd much rather seduce you at home. Then we could really have some fun.

Hmm. Somehow I'm suspicious of your definition of fun,' Raven.

Ah Irene, you know me too well. Mystique turned slightly to keep a wary eye on the sleeping form of Victor Creed. But darling, I thought we agreed to use those other names now.

You mean Irene snickered, an odd sound from such a dignified woman. I'm sorry, love, I just have a hard time reconciling you with such an... interesting nickname.

Raven sighed. I know, they do sound a bit--strange. But with the international climate so tense these days, you know we can't afford to use our real names.

Yes, I know, Irene sighed. But I still don't see why I can't call you Raven in private.

Because you might slip up and call me Raven in public, Destiny.

Fine then, Mystique. How goes the mission.

Mystique rolled her eyes. Even easier than I thought it would be. Victor Creed's smart enough to be an invaluable asset to me, but not smart enough to figure out what I'm actually doing.

You mean he's not giving you any trouble? Irene's voice was tinged with worry.

Mystique shot a contemptuous look towards Victor's sleeping form. Trust me, Irene, he has no idea what's really going on. I'll be long gone before he puts two and two together and realizes I've double-crossed him.

You'd better be.

Mystique smiled, her lover's words warming her heart. Don't worry, I'll be home before you know it. Nothing could keep me from you for too long.

... I miss you.

... I know. I miss you too- Mystique's voice broke a little, to her embarrassment. -more than you can imagine.

Raven... something's not right with this. I can't see it clearly, but... something will come out of this adventure with Creed. Something that won't bode well for you.

Don't worry, Irene. I'll handle it.

I just wish you were home.

I wish I was home, too. But I... we have to do this.

I know. I knew from the instant I met you that you would be away from me so long...

Don't say that. Don't say that! I'll be done with this before you know it, Irene, and then I'll come back and we'll be inseparable again and-

Raven. It's all right.

What?! What's all right? I don't like being away from you, Irene, and after this mission I'm not going to this anymore. I'm going to come home to you and any missions we need to take we'll take together.



Irene? Irene, are you there?

I love you, Raven.

Despite herself, Mystique felt hot tears gather in the corners of her eyes. Dammit, Irene, what the hell are you hinting at?

She heard a sigh on the other end of the phone line. Nothing, my dear... nothing. It's just--things are very... foggy for me lately, I can't--can't quite tell what's going to happen to you-to us-after this mission.

Well, I can tell. Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to come home to you, we're going to have blissful reunion sex and then travel the entire world and conquer it. The future's quite clear.

She heard Irene laugh. That sounds wonderful. I like your version of the future, Raven.

Yes, so do I. I say we set about implementing it immediately.

But of course. I should let you go now; he'll wake up soon, and won't be pleased if you're not in his bed. Goodbye, Mystique.

Bye, Destiny. Mystique held the radio to her ear until she heard the dial tone. Sighing, she tossed it back in her bag. She stared resentfully at Creed as she slowly turned back into Leni Zauber, hating the perky tits she needed to seduce him, hating the blonde hair he favored in women, hating the fact that it was him, not Irene she was changing for.

***

New York. 1989.

Irene was agitated. Most people wouldn't be able to tell from looking at her, listening to her, but Mystique had loved this woman for almost a century. She knew Irene better than she knew herself. She knew the way she flexed her hands when she was trying to see something just out of reach; she knew the way her hand would sometimes slip when she was upset, barely missing its target, something Irene never did normally.

They were being sent off to Scotland, of all places. To assist Forge. Mystique's heart still swelled with hatred when she thought of him, when she thought of how easily he cast her daughter into oblivion, the smarmy heroic excuses' he made for murdering the only other woman she had ever loved. And now she had to risk her life and her team to save the bastard.

Irene. Irene. Mystique placed a hand on her lover's shoulder, gently turning her around to face her. There's something wrong.

Irene's reply was too quick, too ready. No! No, there's nothing, I... she lost her train of thought, and Mystique recognized the blank look that signified she was seeing the future, not the present.

Irene! Irene, what is it? Is it something about the mission? What?

Irene turned back to face Mystique, who suddenly felt as if she was seeing someone else. Her face was gentle, caring, and sad, achingly sad. There's nothing you need to worry about, Mystique. Not now. Not me. Not ever.

Mystique felt something burning hot in her throat, growing and festering and making every word hurt. You make me worry when you act like this! Irene, what's going on?

Irene sighed, seemingly back to normal. Nothing. The mission tomorrow... it will go as planned, for the most part.

For the most part? What do you mean?

Irene laughed then, and Mystique had never heard a more heartbreaking sound. Oh Raven, love, if I told you everything you... I... neither of us could possibly understand. That's the wonderful thing about destiny, isn't it? No matter what your talents are, it's all a gamble in the end. Set about to change the future and you confirm it. Go out of the way to protect it and you rip it apart. Trust me, Mystique: it's best not to know.

The burning animal in Mystique's throat was growing. She could feel it push up towards her mouth, up into her brain. Irene, whatever's on your mind... tell me, please! I know there's something going on!

Irene smiled, a tired smile. You're paranoid, Raven. I've told you: the mission will go as planned, we will stop the Reavers, and you will continue hating Forge. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm rather tired. She turned to go.

No! Dammit, Irene, that's not all! She grabbed at her lover, but Irene kept walking, dignified, beautiful, resolute. Mystique felt the burning thing eat into her mind like acid, burning away logic, reason, love, hate. It was spilling out her mouth, setting fire to the floor, erecting a wall of flame between her and the woman she loved. She stood, a lesbian terrorist turned mutant soldier, hands clenched at her sides as she watched Irene turn away, walk away, accept her fate. Tears streamed down her face and the words came only as a whisper. What aren't you telling me?!

***

A cramped apartment. 1989.

Fucking hell! Mystique slammed the book shut, eliciting a cloud of dust from the pages. Her hand twitched as she imagined chucking the damn thing into the dumpster on the street below.

She felt like crying. She, international mutant lesbian terrorist, leader of Freedom Force and The Brotherhood of Evil Mutants, mother of an anti-mutant activist and two powerful X-men... felt a solitary tear slither down her cheek, despite her best attempts to keep it contained.

It was sometime in the middle of the night--probably closer to early morning, actually. She'd been studying the damned diaries for five fucking hours straight. Some ungodly mutant muscle cramp was devouring her shoulder, her ass was numb and she was certain she had veritable suitcases camped out beneath her eyes.

But she couldn't stop. Not now. These were Irene's diaries, Irene's livelihood, Irene's precious words and hazy images, and deciphering them--finishing the job she'd started in 1910 and never stopped was the only task that mattered anymore.

After Muir Island, after the... funeral, Mystique sat down at a pub in London and didn't leave for a week--or maybe it was two weeks. That period of time swims in an alcohol-induced haze, and nothing's clear. She remembered sobering enough to go on a mission for Val Cooper, talking to some old woman about a Hulk sighting, but that had been a disaster. The old crone had looked so much like Irene that Mystique had collapsed into hysterical tears after just five minutes of conversation. It had been such a strange sight, seeing a middle-aged rich white businessman fine and smiling one minute and sobbing without abandon the next.

And now she was here, holed up in a cheap apartment building in some nondescript American city--she doesn't even know which one. She didn't pay attention to geography when she stumbled off the highway, dragging Irene's diaries with her.

She hadn't left the apartment for at least two weeks, ordering in cheap fast food or making top ramen whenever she got weak with hunger. She spent all her time pouring over these books, these ancient tomes that held the last pieces of her lover.

I should have started holding her, kissing her, making love to her right then and there. I should have told Val Cooper to fuck off when she asked us to save the X-Wannabes asses. I should have never trusted Forge to keep her safe. I should have, I should have....

Grief consumed her. She was only a brittle blue shell of the woman she'd been before; she'd lost her other half. She'd misplaced her destiny.

Mystique stood up from her chair, stretching her cramped muscles. It was snowing outside, she realized. She could see fat, wet flakes floating down outside, turning the street below into gravely wet mush. She watched as perfect, six-pointed snowflakes swirled around her grimy window, lost, searching; she listened to the wind howl as she felt herself begin to freeze.