AN: I haven't exactly counted, but I think I'm seeing an increase in the number of Rietro fics, which pleases me to no end. Anyway, behold chapter eight. Tally ho, sally forth. (Sorry, I've had quite an abundant number of pixie stix myself today.)
Sunday went by like a scene out of a movie, a beautiful sunny day, everything going right, just before it all goes to hell. In spite of Xavier's concern that a friendly presence in Rogue's mind would cause her to withdraw further from the others, it actually caused her to spend more time with them: Pietro's influence gave her confidence, and the way he complained if she let him get bored was incentive alone to go find someone to do something with.
The wholesome atmosphere was disrupted when, around eight that evening, Logan had been shocked and disturbed to find out that Kitty and Kurt had no idea how to play poker.
"At your age? That's pathetic!" With that statement, Rogue found herself sitting at the round table with Scott, Jean, Logan, Kurt, and Kitty, with a pile of pennies in front of her and a straight in her hand. Logan had placed on his head a transparent green visor, which he considered an indispensable accessory for the dealer of the game, and a cigar in his teeth, which he considered an indispensable accessory for lots of things. Kitty and Kurt were playing as a team so they could get a grip on the rules, which left the rest of them playing solo. Except of course for Rogue, who still had company.
Red's bluffing, I know it! Pietro said every single hand.
Pietro, Jean's luck ain't so bad that she has to bluff every hand!
And it ain't so good that she should smile like the Cheshire cat.
Have you been in the Lewis Carroll again?
Maybe. Ante up.
Pietro proved to be a big help, keeping a reasonably close count of the cards. Rogue threw a couple of hands to improve Kitty and Kurt's chances, Scott's preferred game was, and would always be, blackjack, so he played half-heartedly at best. Jean was far and away the smoothest operator at the table, smiling like the Mona Lisa the whole time. After a couple hours of fierce competition, Pietro got bored, and Rogue got bored shortly thereafter, folded her hand and donated her winnings, generously, to Scott, who was having the worst time of it, and he accepted with grace; she then made her way upstairs to bed.
Did you have fun? She asked Pietro. She could feel him grin in her head.
Well, it wasn't scrabble-fun, but it was a good time. Did you do your homework?
Rogue rolled her eyes.
Yes, 'mother', I did. You were there, remember? You wouldn't stop singing the goldfish crackers jingle.
Oh yeah, he replied. He paused for a moment as Rogue opened her door. She'd come to recognize this as an almost certain sign that he was about to say something which would make him seem vulnerable and sweet, and waited patiently as she changed into her pajamas.
You're nervous about tomorrow, aren't you? He finally asked, and the question stung.
I'm trying not to think about it, she thought back.
Why are you nervous? He asked, clearly trying to mask his own fears unsuccessfully.
Rogue sat down on the edge of her bed and tried to put a stopper in the wash of sorrow on which she felt like she was choking.
Because here in my head everything is so easy, Pietro. It's just you and me and no one can interfere. It's been nice. It's been really, really nice.
So what's the problem?
Rogue sighed and bit her lower lip till it hurt, trying to push all thoughts out of her mind.
Stop that! Pietro protested. Cut that out. I'm serious, what's the problem? His voice took on a more jovial tone and Rogue could feel his smile in her head trying to break through the smog of her fears. Tomorrow, you get up, you go to school, and I'm sure I'll chase you down before you have a chance to close your locker, and you can tell him how well it all went. This whole voice in the head thing will fade out, and you can tell the real me what a swell guy he turned out to be.
And then what? Rogue asked. He didn't see the things you've seen. I didn't talk to him, I talked to you, and even if you're the same person, he wasn't in on this lost weekend of ours.
I wish I could tell him, Rogue, you know I do. Hell, part of me doesn't want to. I can't believe it, I'm actually so sexy that I'm jealous of myself. I can't tell him, so you're gonna have to.
Rogue crawled under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.
What if he doesn't listen? She asked, both to herself and to the Pietro who lived in her head. That Pietro laughed, and said,
If he doesn't listen, then the gloves come off. Slip him some skin, and while he's unconscious, you'll have time to run him to Atlantic City.
Rogue giggled a little.
I don't think that waking up to find out he's married is gonna change his mind.
Pietro shrugged.
Maybe not, but I know for damn sure he can't afford a divorce. Now go to sleep, it's gonna be a long week and it all starts tomorrow.
*****
Rogue had hoped for another game of scrabble, for another movie, for another dream of normality heaven. Instead, she got a surreal dream of normality hell. Everything was off. The colors were just a little too bland, like someone had turned down the contrast knob. She was in the passenger seat of some old car, a huge boat of a thing. She looked down at her hands, and saw that her usual leather gloves had been replaced with small white ones. If that weren't bizarre enough, it suddenly occurred to her to check and see who was driving the car.
She looked like someone had put Donna Reed and Lucielle Ball in a blender and painted her skin blue. She wore white gloves, her hair was impeccably curled, and she wore some sort of expensive hat pinned to it.
"Mystique…" Rogue whispered. The driver glanced over at her.
"Why Rogue, I'm surprised at you! It's simply not appropriate for young ladies to address their mothers by their Christian names like that, it's vulgar! Honestly, sometimes I wonder what they teach you at that school of yours," she turned the steering wheel, which seemed enormous compared to the steering wheel of Scott's car. "You'd just better behave yourself in front of Mister Lensherr."
"Mister Lensherr?" Rogue asked. She caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror and swallowed hard. Her make up was gone, her hair longer and curled at the ends and held back by a headband. She sat their fixated by her own reflection after the car stopped. Mystique broke the spell by getting out and opening Rogue's door.
"Sweetheart, there's nothing to worry about, you look like a perfect little lady!" she exclaimed, grabbing Rogue's hand and pulling her out of the car. Rogue glanced back. An Edsel? What the hell was an Edsel? The Donna Reed version of Mystique dragged Rogue to the porch of the house before them, then rang the doorbell, smoothing her dress. "Smile, sweetheart," she said, nudging Rogue, who was still staring down the street at this bizarre 1950's Betty Crocker nightmare she'd stumbled into. The door opened, and Rogue turned back.
He looked ridiculous; she would have laughed if this hadn't all seemed so deranged. His hair was slicked back with was looked to be a half-gallon of some viscous substance, and his clothes were so clean cut and generic. The expression on Pietro's face did not belie any amusement, indeed, the only thing Rogue could read off him was horror.
"If that's really you," he said, almost too quietly for her to hear, "Then for christ's sakes run before my dad gets to the door."
"Why that's a strange thing to say, Pietro!" Mystique laughed. "You have such an odd sense of humor, it's charming! Now is your father in? I hope we're not early…"
"Early nothing, Mrs. Darkholme!" a deeper voice echoed from inside. He stepped up to the doorway, looming over Pietro, clean cut, a pipe in his mouth, a broad smile on his face, blood curdlingly wholesome.
"Oh god," Pietro murmured, looking like he was about to make a run for it when the man's hand fell heavily on his shoulder.
"I think you've kept these ladies waiting outdoors long enough, don't you slugger?" the man said warmly. Pietro looked sick to his stomach. The older man turned back to Mystique and Rogue. "Come in ladies, forgive my son, please, he's not always sure of himself in social situations."
Rogue looked around for a way out, as far as her eye could see, she was trapped in this wholesome nightmare. She looked back at the door and recognition hit her, like a free-weight to the gut. He didn't look the same out of battle wardrobe. He looked much more intimidating now.
"Magneto?" she whispered.
AN part 2: I know, cliffhanger, I'm the devil. The next part'll be up soon, wherein this nightmare is continued and Rogue and the live flesh and blood Pietro cross paths again. Oh, I don't own Scrabble, Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass, Donna Reed or Lucielle Ball, or Edsel.