Disclaimer: This a'int mine.
Author's notes: I've been meaning to write this for a while, but finally got off of my lazy butt to do it. This does take place after the "Get Mystique" storyline from Wolverine, but, honestly, I don't think you need to have read it to get it.
Introspection
Mystique was not an individual who enjoyed thinking about the past. Tomorrow was more interesting, and there was very little in her past that she cared to remember. Certainly the times with Irene were meant to be cherished, as were some of the memories of Rogue growing up. Even those were tainted by how badly things had gotten between them, particularly after her last dealings with the X-Men. Still, sometimes it was unavoidable, and her last dealings with that self-righteous prick Wolverine made them necessary today.
So it was that she was holed up some hell hole motel outside of Denver, and rooting through her bag. The majority of the items in the bag were usually kept in safe deposit boxes scattered throughout the country. Together they made up the entirety of the personal items that she truly valued. It was a rare instance that she got them all together, and rooted through them.
She removed a picture and looked at it. It was the newest picture in her collection. She had stolen it during her last stay at Xavier's. If anyone knew that she was the one that took it, no one said anything.
Mystique took a moment to focus on the picture. It was of a short, blue furred man, standing atop of a fountain. It was, of course, much more. It was her only picture of her second son, Kurt Wagner, the mutant known as Nightcrawler. This made it one of her most precious possessions.
Most of the people who knew her would be surprised of that, she mused. They thought that she hated her son. That she would rather he not exist. The irony of it was almost too much to bear for. The truth was the opposite. She could never hate her son, and could not possibly love him more. Unfortunately being around him brought on too much guilt. It reminded her of her failure of a mother, so she avoided him.
Looking at a picture some more brought back another unwanted thought. If that village of close minded simpletons had reacted with such fright, she would never have joined Magneto's crusade against humanity. As she the picture back in the bag, she thought about how she would never have joined him if it were not for one thing.
She took out a picture from the bag. It was of the one thing that had caused her to join Magneto's fight. It was the oldest picture that she had of Rogue. Mystique could well remember Irene, Destiny, telling her that she needed to adopt the child. She remembered the guilt from what happened to her child, a child she had never got to name, making it easier to adopt the girl. The moment that she had decided to adopt Rogue, was the moment that she joined Magneto's fight, at least mentally.
Perhaps some would be surprised to hear that, she thought. The simple truth was, and is, that Mystique was an inherently selfish individual. She could care less about what happened to the rest of the world if the people that she loved were safe, and as happy as they should be. There was no point fighting the humans over what they did to her first child, as it would be a waste. What she could do was protect her other child from them.
Mystique felt tears start to pour out of her eyes, as her body betrayed her. She did not want to cry over the fact that her baby girl hated her. She did not want to acknowledge the pain that he daughter caused her continually by rejecting her. Quickly, Mystique put the photo back into the bag, lest she risk the tears damaging it. She might not be on good terms with her daughter, but the photo still meant a lot to her.
Mystique then rooted through her bag, and took out another picture. This one was a laminated newspaper clipping of a man shouting, and looking like Hitler. It was of the late Crayden Creed, her eldest son. She knew he had hated her, when he lived. He hated all mutants, and was resentful that his parents were both humans. She knew too, that she should have hated him just as much as he hated her. He was both human, and the head of an anti-mutant organization. The combination should have been enough to drive out all of the maternal love she had for him.
Truth be told, he largely had driven out her love of him. She'd be lying if she said that she had cried when he had died. She had felt more relieved then anything else. She had gotten tired of fighting against him. She loved him just enough that she knew that she could never kill him if the situation called for it, while he would be perfectly capable of killing her. It was not much, but it was more than she would have spared anyone else in that position.
She put the picture back in her bag, and started to cry. These were not the reluctant tears of earlier. These were tears of sadness and anger. Sadness at her relationship with her children and anger that, to a certain extent, Wolverine was right. She was all alone, and she hated it. She cried herself to sleep that night, thinking about how much she hated introspection. It wasn't worth the pain she thought.
The night morning, Mystique packed up and left the motel. She would return the objects in the bag to their lock boxes, and then go on her way with the rest of her life.