I wasn't sure if I was going to post this. But your reviews have been marvelous, so I thought I'd see what you thought of it.
I know it's really Mystique. But I like Mistique better, so that's what I'm using. As in La Femme...
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His name was Logan.
At least, he thought it was. He would never be too sure about it.
His other name was Wolverine. That one, he was sure about. Every time an opponent said it, some triumphant part of him acknowledged the name. He was the Wolverine. Sure, he was small, but he would fight tooth, nail and claw, and he'd win. Every time, he'd win.
Logan, on the other hand, was a persona that could never seem to win. Logan was the emotional part of him. Logan was the actions that were fueled by more than blind rage.
Problem was, blind rage was the only thing that seemed to work for him. The only thing that got him what he wanted. He'd tried other ways; they never worked. Look at Mariko. Look at Jean. He'd wanted them, but they were things he couldn't win with rage. He'd needed his emotions for them.
His emotions. Internally, Logan sighed. His emotions were confusing at best. Logan himself didn't understand them; how could he expect a woman to? Even Jean couldn't fathom them, and she was- had been- a telepath.
That 'had been' didn't wound him as much as he thought it should. He hadn't loved her; at the time, he'd thought he'd love her forever. Had he been lying to himself? Or had his feelings been an echo of something else, some other emotion?
Some other woman?
The thought had never occured to him before, but a face swam into his mind, a beautiful face framed by long locks of a tantilizing red. Then it was gone, like all the other things he thought he remembered. It was as if something in his mind cut off those memories, kept them from resurfacing past a brief, teasing flash. It made him angry. No, it made him furious. But this was another one of those things that rage couldn't fix.
For a moment today, he'd thought he'd found someone who understood. Someone who knew what it was to move through days, months, years, without anyone knowing who you really were. The feeling, that acceptance, had caught him off guard, and he'd let his shields down just the slightest bit. He hadn't let his shields down in years, and he'd thought it would be hard. But down they had come, as smoothly as his adamantium claws as they slid back into his forearms. It was just a matter of relaxing.
What about Mistique made him relax? If anything, her presense should put him on edge; she was considered X-men enemy number two, and she was a formidable opponent, with or without Magneto directing her movements. But something within him responded to the same thing within her, something world-weary and tired, something frustrated with life. Something that, sometimes, wished it all would end.
He'd tried to commit suicide before. No one, maybe not even Xavier, knew how close he came to trying again sometimes. When the anger and rage and frustration and longing- yes, longing- became to much for him to handle. No one knew what that was like. Except Mistique. He had seen it in her eyes today. There was a difference between them, though. She could die.
Could he? The jury was still out on that one.
He wondered what stopped her. Loyalty? No, something told him she stayed with Magneto because he didn't ask questions, simply facilitated the anger that she had to work out. She stayed with Magneto because it was easy.
Pride? That seemed right, but that wasn't the only thing. She was proud, in a way Logan wouldn't have expected. She was proud of the way she was. She saw the beauty in her true form, even if no one else saw past the alien feel of it. But there was also hope.
Hope had died in Logan a long time ago. That Mistique had held onto hers was remarkable.
He wondered how old she was. In her true form, her looks suggested mid-thirties, old enough to be so cynical and yet young enough to be considered in her prime. But who really knew? Those who made eye contact- and Logan guessed that those were few and far between- could see the years- so many years it was eerie- hidden in those ever-changing depths, a pain that a shapechange couldn't fix. A heart held together with Scotch tape, yet still stubbornly beating.
She was someone he could admire. Someone he could trust.
She was supposed to be the enemy. But, somehow, Logan wasn't so sure.
And, for some reason, being unsure didn't scare him as much as he thought it should.
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Review, please.
I know it's really Mystique. But I like Mistique better, so that's what I'm using. As in La Femme...
------------------------------------------------------
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His name was Logan.
At least, he thought it was. He would never be too sure about it.
His other name was Wolverine. That one, he was sure about. Every time an opponent said it, some triumphant part of him acknowledged the name. He was the Wolverine. Sure, he was small, but he would fight tooth, nail and claw, and he'd win. Every time, he'd win.
Logan, on the other hand, was a persona that could never seem to win. Logan was the emotional part of him. Logan was the actions that were fueled by more than blind rage.
Problem was, blind rage was the only thing that seemed to work for him. The only thing that got him what he wanted. He'd tried other ways; they never worked. Look at Mariko. Look at Jean. He'd wanted them, but they were things he couldn't win with rage. He'd needed his emotions for them.
His emotions. Internally, Logan sighed. His emotions were confusing at best. Logan himself didn't understand them; how could he expect a woman to? Even Jean couldn't fathom them, and she was- had been- a telepath.
That 'had been' didn't wound him as much as he thought it should. He hadn't loved her; at the time, he'd thought he'd love her forever. Had he been lying to himself? Or had his feelings been an echo of something else, some other emotion?
Some other woman?
The thought had never occured to him before, but a face swam into his mind, a beautiful face framed by long locks of a tantilizing red. Then it was gone, like all the other things he thought he remembered. It was as if something in his mind cut off those memories, kept them from resurfacing past a brief, teasing flash. It made him angry. No, it made him furious. But this was another one of those things that rage couldn't fix.
For a moment today, he'd thought he'd found someone who understood. Someone who knew what it was to move through days, months, years, without anyone knowing who you really were. The feeling, that acceptance, had caught him off guard, and he'd let his shields down just the slightest bit. He hadn't let his shields down in years, and he'd thought it would be hard. But down they had come, as smoothly as his adamantium claws as they slid back into his forearms. It was just a matter of relaxing.
What about Mistique made him relax? If anything, her presense should put him on edge; she was considered X-men enemy number two, and she was a formidable opponent, with or without Magneto directing her movements. But something within him responded to the same thing within her, something world-weary and tired, something frustrated with life. Something that, sometimes, wished it all would end.
He'd tried to commit suicide before. No one, maybe not even Xavier, knew how close he came to trying again sometimes. When the anger and rage and frustration and longing- yes, longing- became to much for him to handle. No one knew what that was like. Except Mistique. He had seen it in her eyes today. There was a difference between them, though. She could die.
Could he? The jury was still out on that one.
He wondered what stopped her. Loyalty? No, something told him she stayed with Magneto because he didn't ask questions, simply facilitated the anger that she had to work out. She stayed with Magneto because it was easy.
Pride? That seemed right, but that wasn't the only thing. She was proud, in a way Logan wouldn't have expected. She was proud of the way she was. She saw the beauty in her true form, even if no one else saw past the alien feel of it. But there was also hope.
Hope had died in Logan a long time ago. That Mistique had held onto hers was remarkable.
He wondered how old she was. In her true form, her looks suggested mid-thirties, old enough to be so cynical and yet young enough to be considered in her prime. But who really knew? Those who made eye contact- and Logan guessed that those were few and far between- could see the years- so many years it was eerie- hidden in those ever-changing depths, a pain that a shapechange couldn't fix. A heart held together with Scotch tape, yet still stubbornly beating.
She was someone he could admire. Someone he could trust.
She was supposed to be the enemy. But, somehow, Logan wasn't so sure.
And, for some reason, being unsure didn't scare him as much as he thought it should.
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Review, please.