Worth a Thousand Words

The image stared back at her harsh and unblinking. Mystique's hand trembled, making it wavier. Her throat tightened and it became difficult to breathe. The lights in Trask's office burned her eyes as she stared down at the black and white photograph clutched so impossibly in her hand.

It cannot be.

She hadn't seen him in over four years, but she remembered their last encounter so raw and so vividly, it might as well have been yesterday. The pleading in his eyes; his hand stretched out for her to take.

"Please?" The same hands that had held hers so many times, that allowed her to vanish into thin air, that had stroked her scaly skin and coarse hair and told her with every lingering touch that she was so very beautiful. Those hands now held her child – their child – with a fierce parental devotion that neither of them ever experienced. She remembered meeting his gaze and his pale blue eyes bore into her, soulful and wild in equal measure. Those eyes had betrayed his heart more times than he would ever admit. How many times had those eyes traced the shape of her body, gazed into her own amber ones until she had to look away from their intensity of his adoration.

It was those eyes that drew her to him. She had been on the run for two days before he was able to find her. The mission had gone badly and the team was scattered; she had collapsed in a snowy field, utterly spent and felt as if death was not far away. When he finally found her, he took her to a cave and covered her in furs next to a fire while he stood watch at the entrance. Hours later after, she remembered asking why he hadn't taken her back to headquarters; he looked at her from his vigil, his crystal eyes shining against his dark skin. He simply shrugged and then looked away, telling her he was too tired to make such a large jump right then. But it was too late; the longing in his eyes had betrayed his heart, and Mystique recognized it for the same feeling that had been building inside her since that fateful day on the beach. She pushed off the furs and approached him, stopping directly in front of him. The icy air frosted their breath, and after a moment of silence, she reached out and boldly traced the jagged scar on his face. She remembered his sharp inhale and how he flinched at her touch – it would still take months before he got used to being touched without automatically teleporting – and standing on her tiptoes, she leaned forward and brought her lips to his in the frozen, Russian air. He tasted of sweat and smoke and sin all at once; an anchor in the storm of that was her life after Cuba. Afterwards, wrapped up in furs and each other next to a dying fire, those same eyes and hands had shyly confirmed her suspicions; that he had never been with a woman before she came into his life.

"I can't. You know I can't. " His hand waivered, drooping slightly. Mystique looked away. Her body ached from giving birth two days before. Her very bones ached from the despair of their situation. They had discussed this. They knew this was the only chance he had. Why couldn't he just understand?

Erik was gone. He had been captured after that failed assassination attempt; with Emma no longer around, no one knew if Erik was alive or dead. Shortly afterwards, the Brotherhood disbanded, and the pair had been on the run ever since. Several world governments were looking for Mystique; she was a wanted woman in eight countries. But so far, they didn't know anything about him or that Mystique had been pregnant. He was invisible in more ways than one, and now he was the best shot at their son had at remaining invisible too.

"They'll be looking for me. I've stayed here too long." She remembered twisting her fingers in her lap, unable to meet his piercing gaze. "You have to go. Now. You have to go and keep him safe."

"We need you. I…" His voice halted, stuttering. The baby began to fuss in his arms. "I need you."

"I can't!"

In a flash, he had seized her wrist. The blue mutant jumped up and looked pleadingly at her mate, but he didn't teleport her. He simply stood there, holding her wrist, gazing mournfully into her eyes. After a few silent moments he gently opened her hand and pulled it to his face. He kissed the palm of her hand lovingly and then pressed the palm of her hand to her own cheek. The baby began to cry in earnest.

He turned away, clutching the newborn tightly to his chest. The last thing she heard was one racking sob as his disappeared from her life.

She started down at his lifeless image in the autopsy photo. The spaces for "mate" and "children" were marked negative. There had been nothing in the file about their son or herself. Even in death, he had found a way to save them. She opened her hand that he had kissed so many years ago and pressed it to the side of her face.

Oh my darling.

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

I will make them pay.