A Family Affair

By Yma

Disclaimer: ANGST!!! This concept it not mine, nor is the words, I just use it and apply it to fun situations. The same goes for the characters and setting for this story, they're not mine, I'm just having fun with them, right?

Notes: This story is set after Impact and is a sequel to Forgiveness, another fanfic I wrote about Rogue and Kurt after Impact. However, it is not necessary to have read Forgiveness in order to understand or enjoy this.

I want to apologise in advance for any spelling/grammar mistakes I make. There shouldn't be that many and yes, I did go over this with a spell checker, but I have three problems. 1: I'm badly dyslexic and don't always recognise my mistakes, especially typing errors. 2: I have NO bata reader. 3: There are rumours the upcoming episode 'Cajun Spice' will feature some sort of makeup/fight/resolution between Kurt and Rogue, I wanted to get this out before that episode aired. Hence not that much time to write or go over it. Sorry.

Please RnR! Tell me what you liked, what you disliked, do you want a sequel? Do you want me never to write anything like this again? All reviews will be loved, cherished and adored, promise!

Now… onwards…

A Family Affair

"Forgiveness."

What is it? It slips easily off the tongue, it's meaning well known, but can we define it? Is it a concept? A state of being, or is it emotion?

To forgive.

A verb, forgiveness is active; forgiveness doesn't just pop along like love, hate, envy, or joy. It has to be voluntary.

Yet it is not.

For one can resist it, one can forgive without admitting it, and one can profess forgiveness when in truth rage still burns in one's soul.

So what is it? This active, passive, delicate, and sturdy thing? This thing that can reunite bonds, renew hope, ease anguish?

Forgive and forget, they say. Is forgiveness linked to memory, then? If all memory was wiped from the earth, would forgiveness reign triumphant? Or would it be absent, for to forgive a wrong, one has to remember it. But to remember is not necessarily to forgive.

Standing alone in the conservatory, amidst the lush plants, Rogue pondered these questions.

If all memory was erased from her, would she forgive? She did not know, perhaps she would, but Mystique would not be forgiven, merely forgotten. Lying in pieces as she was, now merely pebbles to the raging sea, in all probability. No funeral for her, no grave, no loving memory. Only pain, loss, guilt, and her children. Death, and not forgiveness, had released her from the pain of guilt, if ever she felt such emotions.

A cold, salty wind, blown off from the churning sea, cut through Rogue's civilian clothing, jeans, a black turtleneck, long, soft, navy gloves. It ruffled her hair, stung her face, but she revelled in the harsh feel of it.

Memory, it was the source of all pain, Rogue was sure. Memory caused rage, gave guilt, and demanded forgiveness. But forgiveness came from somewhere else entirely.

Forgive and forget? A useless phrase, for one cancelled the other out.

Ignorance is bliss. That was true enough.

'Uh, Rogue?'

Kitty's voice cut through Rogue's reverie, cut though the cold air of the conservatory, softly spoken, but its sound shredding her contemplations, sharp as the glass that littered the floor of the Conservatory. Glass from the broken panel. A panel smashed by a statue, Mystiques statue.

Rogue turned to face her addressor, noted Kitty's nervous stance, her pink jumper, denim jeans, and light brown coat. Winter was approaching and the cold sea wind howled through the smashed glass.

'Yeah?'

'Um… I, like, talked to Kurt.'

Like. She used the word 'like' in a sentence. This didn't bode well. Then again, Rogue had never expected it would. It rarely did. Nothing seemed to go well for her any more.

Rogue didn't say anything at first; instead she bent down, a stray shard of glass catching her eye, holding her gaze. She picked it up, holding it, turning it deftly in her gloved fingers, feeling its hard, cold edges, watching how the light caught it, was reflected in it. If she held it at the right angle, it would seem that light *came* from it. But it was nothing, sharp, transparent, hollow.

'What did he say?' said Rogue at last.

'I… he, like, said there isn't a problem. Said it, like, doesn't matter. He… seemed OK about it…'

The twirling, cold, sparkling glass in Rogue's fingers slipped, and cut. The Goth pulled it out of the velvety material of her glove, pulled it out of her soft flesh, and watched with dull interest as a dark patch of blood spread across the glove's fabric.

Against the dark navy of the glove, the blood seemed hardly blood at all, but a dark, inky substance.

'Kurt doesn't always show what he feels,' she said at last, watching the patch of blood on her glove spread, 'but he shows his emotions well enough to those who he wishes to see.'

'Rogue… I know something's up between you and Kurt, I'm not an idiot. He's been acting so… cold to you lately. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything to help but… you know… time heals all wounds.'

Another lie, thought Rogue, clenching her fist, feeling the agonizing wetness of the cut. Physical wounds might mend, but mental wounds… those were kept open and bleeding by memory. Time does dull memory, unless it is too painful to be dulled, but this would not help. Perhaps things between Kurt and her would mend this way, perhaps he would forget, given enough time, but forgive? No, unless that came, the wound would remain, like a bone mended at the wrong angle, ever paining it's owner, disfiguring, mutilating.

Rogue's eye turned briefly back to the piece of glass, now coloured, made into sparkling ruby by her blood. A worthless thing made to look precious. 

She threw it down carelessly amidst the other shards littered the cold floor of the conservatory.

'I'm sorry…' muttered Kitty at last, undoubtedly feeling guilty at her lack of success. Rogue had dared to hope that Kitty might be able to help her, if anyone could. She was, after all, the one who had held the reigns of Kurt's heart for many a year. Now that she could no longer help, there was only one person to turn to.

'It's fine, Kitty,' said Rogue softly, 'I… I forgive you.'

Kitty frowned, puzzled at this strange statement, but made no sound, knew that any question she threw would be ignored, rebounded of Rogue's stony demeanour.

She watched as Rogue trudged out of the freezing, empty conservatory, glass shards crunching like snow under her heavy boots.

She walked, a wraith in the halls, untouchable, untouching, her feelings hidden behind her protective mask of make-up. Kurt wore a mask too, of a sort, the mask of a clown. Rogue had never found the strength to hide her feelings in such a manner, had found it impossible to laugh through such grief. Her mask was made of iron, of darkness, cutting her off further from the world, making her seem cold, harsh, unfeeling. Her weapons were her tongue, her sharp wit, slicing away those words that hurt her. But she cried, sometimes, just as he cried. Cried at the words which slipped past her defences, cried at a world she would never have, the heaven she could see, but never visit.

Eventually, she reached her destination, a heavily carved door of dark oak positioned near the centre of the institute. She put her hand to the flour shaped brass handle, feeling an echo of coldness through her heavy glove, she turned it and entered.

She had been in this room only a very few times before, (she? Had others been in? Was it echoes of their memories she felt or her own?)

There was no reason she would be intimately acquainted with it, anyway, as it was the bedroom of Professor Xavier.

She allowed her gaze to flow quickly across the space, taking in what she saw, trying to gauge some hidden measure of the telepath that lived here. Nothing much was forthcoming, a few, small photographs, too distant to be seen properly, lay by his large, four-poster bed. Much of the furniture was quite low, to accommodate his disability, the walls were beige, the carpet red. Some pictures hung on the wall, non of them terribly famous or familiar to Rogue's eye. There were no windows in this room, and only one other door besides the one she came through. A small door leading to Xavier's private bathroom also catered for his needs.

Finally, Rogue's eyes were drawn back to the centre of the room, to Xavier himself, sitting still and calm in his chair, the hellion lights from above reflecting of his bald head.

Rogue considered, briefly, how strangely impossible Xavier was to ignore. He had a charisma about him, something that made him instantly noticeable, instantly interesting. One simply could not miss or ignore him, unless he wanted to be missed or ignored, that is.

'You've come about Kurt?' asked Xavier, his words more of a statement than question.

Rogue nodded, it did not take a telepath to know that, and besides, they had talked of this before.

'Are you sure of this, Rogue? Are you sure there is no other way?'

'There isn't. He won't even listen to Kitty. There's only one person who can sort this out, sir. Only one person he can talk to now.'

'True but… I am uneasy. I would remind you of the risks.'

'I know the risks sir; I know it's worth it. Please… I want this… I need this.'

Xavier shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, 'very well,' he murmured, 'if you are sure… I will call Kurt here and we may proceed.'

'Do it.'

Xavier closed his eyes briefly, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly as he utilised his power.

Not for the first time, Rogue found herself wondering what it must be like in his head. He was one of the few people in the institute she had not absorbed. Despite her curiosity, for who could not be curious of the enigmatic telepath, she was grateful for this. Her brief visit to the mind of Jean Grey, when her telepathy had gone insane, was bad enough. She remembered the chaos, the constant mental onslaught. It was bad enough having one or two personalities in her head, sharing her body, but what must a hundred, a thousand, be like? And Jean was a comparatively weak telepath compared to Xavier. She wondered how he coped. How he separated his thoughts out from the ruckus? Did he wake up in the morning wondering who he was? Trying to separate his own thoughts from the complex tapestry of cognition that made up the mental noise of the students...?

Rogue's own musings were interrupted by the arrival of her brother.

He was as stone to her now, as stony as her mother had been. His soft, kitten fur now hard Lapis Lazuli, his gentle saffron eyes now cold gold.

He was polite to her, of course, he passed her in the corridors, he passed her salt to her over the table, he would even smile, politely, at her. That was all, though. A gentle smile which was not reflected in his eyes, he ostracised her.

She was nothing to him now. A stranger. A shadow.

She couldn't even talk to him, he would just turn his ear, ignore her, port away.

All the warmth of him was gone, there was not even rage. She would have welcomed his anger, welcomed it like the burning fires of hell. That would have burned, have warmed, have *felt*. But this… this was emptiness, a cold prison; he didn't even give her the passion of his fury.

He did not touch her, did not see her, and did not hear her. She was alone.

The ultimate insult. The ultimate punishment. The ultimate torture.

This was his mask now, as he entered the stage, the Professor beckoning him to sit down besides her. He did as instructed, but leaned away from her, keeping his eyes fixed on Xavier.

'Sir,' he said.

'Kurt, there is someone you need to talk to.'

For a moment, an infinitesimal second, his yellow orbs flicked towards Rogue, 'who?' he asked, his voice still steady, still cool, still empty.

'I'll show you. Rogue?'

'I'm ready.'

Xavier closed his eyes, his brow furrowed slightly; Rogue felt the slender tendrils of telepathic power tickle her mind.

Then he reached out and, with one, slender finger, touched her forehead.

It was only the slightest whisper of a touch, soon withdrawn, but it was enough.

With a deep gasp of air, Rogue fell backwards into the dark pool of her own psyche.

It was a strange place, sensation assailed her, hot, cold, ecstasy, agony, fullness and starvation, all pushed against her mind until the blended into one, pure feeling, so great that she did not feel it at all, so great it became one, tingling numbness.

The senses were useless now, but she did *sense*, she understood what was happening, if only though metaphor.

She flew, floated, danced naked in that strange darkness. Around her whipped the threads of ego, their memories sharp as glass, their personalities like silken ribbons, their powers like dazzling lightning, all whirled around her, reaching out to cut, snag and capture her.

When first she had come to this place, at the concert, it had been like falling into a deep and muddy pool. She had been trapped in the darkness, caught amidst the weeds, and she had struggled, struggled to be free, but only become more and more entangled. She had been helpless then, and resented that. She had always resented needing other people, in one form or another.

Now she was not alone though, now another was with her. Xavier. His telepathic presence lingering with her, guiding her through the tapestry of her own mind, separating the residual personalities, helping her find what she wanted.

Time, being a personal concept, held no real meaning for her here, she could make a year last a second, or a second last a millennium, her search could have been instantaneous or have taken all the ages of man and the earth.

And the journey was dangerous, with the snakes and whips of persona's lashing and biting at the heels, desperately seeking to take her over, to entangle her, to become her. But Xavier helped, warding them away, guiding her as well as he could, reminding her of who she was.

Until, at last, they found their target.

A persona, strong, sinuous, writing and brushing against the others, reached out towards her. This time Xavier backed away, this time she allowed the persona to take her.

It wrapped itself around her, entered her, lashed, bit, tickled and held her, until it almost became her. Almost.

Some part of her remained free, within the persona; some part of her remained in control, and would remain her. For although the persona was wrapped round her like cotton around a bobbin, like rope around a stick, it was Xavier which held the thread's end.

The persona was in the driving seat, but Rogue still had control of the steering wheel.

Kurt, meanwhile, was also torn in two.

It all happened so very quickly, the Professor reached out and touched Rogue, then drew back quickly, as if stung. His face screwed up in concentration, he hunched forward in his chair whilst Rogue fell forward, fell into a crouching position, hugging herself as if she'd been punched in the stomach.

Kurt's first instinct was to go to his sister, but he pushed that away quickly, moving to aid Xavier instead. The worm of guilty rebellion uncurled itself within his belly for a moment as he did this, what was he to aid his teacher before his sister?

-Not as bad as one who pushes their mother over a cliff- he retorted to himself furiously as he checked to see if Xavier as hurt.

The Professor waved him away, though.

'I'm fine Kurt,' he gasped, his brow smoothing at last, his breathing becoming regular again, 'it is her you should talk to now.'

'Vas?' asked Kurt, confused, then he followed Xavier's gaze, to the feminine form now pushing herself to her feet, and he gasped.

The dark, auburn hair with its white streaks had become a livid red. The green eyes had become yellow, a bright, vivid gold, and her pale, almost white skin had shifted into dark, rich blue.

'Mystique!' Kurt breathed.

'In a sense,' said Xavier, his voice seeming to come from a long, long way away to the shocked elf. He found himself gripping onto the desk with one hand; he felt the blood drain from his face, his world spin.

'Do you remember the Concert,' Xavier continued, his voice smooth and steady, 'when Rogue drained some of Mystique's powers and the personalities within her tried to take her over?'

Remember? Of course he remembered, remembered the fear of various villains just popping up in the middle of a music gig. Remembered the shock of seeing his face, his powers being used, like some weird doppelganger. Remembered discovering that it was Rogue causing this mayhem. Remembered hearing that this, in turn, had been caused by Mystique. Remembered his own bitterness at this discovery, once again Mystique had gone after Rogue, had chosen Rogue over him *again.* Remembered the strange mix of fear, curiosity, anger, jealousy, and guilt which warred within him for days afterwards. He remembered taking Rogue pizza whilst she was recovering.

'Well, with Rogue's permission, I have repeated that process. She thought it imperative that you speak to Mystique, to settle things between you, and this seemed the only way that could happen. I entered Rogue's mind and with her help, brought the Mystique personality, absorbed from the Concert, to the surface.'

'But…' stuttered Kurt, trying to push back the memories which assailed him, 'who… who *is* she?'

'I'm Mystique,' replied the blue woman at last, speaking for the first time, 'or as close as can be. It's curious… I feel some of Rogues memories within me, I know what happened after the Concert, and recently… but in most other ways I am Mystique, I have her shape, her power, and her memories. I am as close to her as can ever be found now, I suppose.'

Kurt found he had no response to this, his mind was whirling, this was too confusing. What should he say? What should he do?

'I'm going to leave you two alone to talk,' continued Xavier, seemingly oblivious to Kurt's state of mind (though he undoubtedly wasn't,) 'if you need any help, just call. Logan and I will be just outside the door, I expect no trouble, understood?'[

His eyes were fixed on Mystique at this point, who gave a small nod.

Then, with a final, piercing look at both of them, Xavier rolled out, leaving by the only exit. As the doors opened and closed for him, Kurt caught a glimpse of Wolverine, looking concerned, standing outside.

Then there was silence.

Kurt felt like he had his own tail stuck in his mouth, nothing would come out. He watched, mutely, as Rogue/Mystique/whoever she was, began to circle the desk, as if she was casually admiring the woodwork, though, some small part of Kurt noted ruefully, she was probably looking for any important documents.

_She moves like me_ he though, noticing the smooth flow of muscles under her skin, a gentle, graceful, predator like gate, she flowed like a snake across the carpet. Yes… a snake… that was the difference, for Kurt had always had a catlike elegance about him, playful as well as graceful, but there was no playfulness in her movements, only simple purpose, dreadful pragmatism.

There were other, subtle differences too, like her skin. Though also blue, it was a lighter shade than Kurt's; probably due to the fact she had no fur. He remembered noticing this, noticing the soft warmth of her skin when he had held her to teleport her inside that army base, all those months ago, when they rescued Evan, Blob and the others. She had been silent then, not a word to acknowledge his presence, just cool, collected, businesslike. He might as well have been Kitty, Scott, or anyone.

Questions choked his throat, why had she left him? Who was his father? When was his birthday? Why was she so angry? Why did she fight with Magneto? Was she angry that he had been unable to save her? Was she angry at Rogue? Why had she never tried to be near him? What would she have named him, if given a chance? What where the circumstances of his birth? How long would she be here for? Did she love him?

He wanted her to look at him, to talk to him, but her gaze remained fixed upon the desk, as if deciphering it's every detail. Suddenly all the questions, pent up within his breast, exploded into one, simple word.

'Mother…?'

Now she looked up, or raised her eyes a little way, at least. Raised them until they came to one, three fingered hand.

With the possible exception of his tail, Kurt was the most self conscious of his hands. They were the one thing that, holo or no holo, gave him away. The three, bulky digits, so ungainly, so deformed, they made themselves known in so many aspects of his life. From opening a jar lid, to typing a message on a computer. He noticed her staring at it and, more out of habit than anything else, moved to put it behind his back.

With the speed of a striking snake, her own hand shot out and grabbed his, holding it firm.

Kurt couldn't help but gasp at the sensation, her smooth, almost delicate hand with it's perfectly manicured nails gripping his own, bulky, three fingered hand, in this way they were different, so, so different..

She raised their locked hands; examining his like she would some strange, foreign tool. He cringed under her scrutinising gaze, and then saw that she was not, in fact, looking at his hand, but at what was rapped around his wrist.

His holo-watch.

Eventually she spoke, her voice like iron covered silk, 'you always ware that.'

Kurt knew to what she was referring, 'it helps me,' he said, hardly knowing what to expect, this was not a topic he was expecting to come up, 'helps me mix into normal society. It lets me go to school.'

'I was never able to go to school,' whispered Mystique, her eyes still fixed on his watch, 'even when my powers first emerged. They were too… volatile, I was too old for school by the time I mastered them. And I could hardly go to school looking as I do. Tell me, do you sometimes forget who you are?'

'Vas?'

'Who you are?' she released his hand now, and stepped away from him a little. He felt strangely relieved, and began to massage his dimly aching wrist; her fingers had cut into his skin like a vice.

'When you wake up,' she continued, 'do you look at your holo-self and wonder if that's really who you are? Or do you remember that you are blue? Do you ever wonder what your real shape is?'

'N… nein, of course not. I know who I am. How could I not?'

The last was spoken with some, slight, bitterness.

'I don't,' said Mystique in an almost conversational tone, 'when you take on so many shapes, so many identities, you wonder which is really your own and which if false. For example, how to you know I'm this, Raven Dalkhome, and not this-'

She waved a hand over her face and she changed into a tall, dark skinned man.

'-Or this-'

Now she shifted into a short, blond woman.

'-Or this-'

An old man with a long, white beard-

'Or this-'

A slender, Asian boy-

-Or this-'

A dumpy old woman-

'Or perhaps this-'

The tall, figure of Magneto-

'Or even this?'

And suddenly there was the dusky skinned, dark haired girl, with clinking gold jewellery and a gentle, sweet, beguiling smile.

'A-Amanda?'

'Who else?' she whispered, and moved forward, putting one hand against his breast, pushing him slightly.

For all his balance, Kurt nearly fell over, and was helpless to resist as she pushed him up against the wall of Xavier's office, her soft body pressing against his, her face next to his, her words whispering in her ear.

'Come on, elf, did you think that I would make a friend for Rogue and leave you all alone?'

'A…A-Amanda… this… uh…'

'Shhh,' her hands stroked his chest, she even smelt like Amanda, that soft, spicy, sweet scent, a little musky, a little floral, 'didn't I tell you blue was my favourite colour?'

'N-nein, this ist… ist wrong.'

'Wrong? Was all that happened between us wrong? I'm hurt, Kurt. Remind me, what  did we get up to? First base? Second? Third? Or was it that, soft, sweet home run?'

He gave a strangled cry as her hands slipped beneath his shirt, felt his soft, furry chest. Fear, confusion, lust, revulsion welled up within him, he struggled and pushed away from her, but remained held, pushed, trapped against the wall by her deceptively strong body.

'Nein! You're… your not her!' he gasped between his struggles.

'Really? How do you know who I am?' her voice was soft, husky, full of hidden promise, 'do you even know who *you* are?'

He became acutely aware that one of her long, slender legs was pushing against his groin. Panic filled his mind, fear rose within his chest, bile surged in his throat. He said the first thing that came to hand, the only thing he could think of saying.

'Ja… Ja… I'm Kurt Wagner! I'm Kurt Wagner!'

Then the let go of him, moving back, allowing him to breathe at last. As she moved away she changed, shedding Amada's form like a second skin, shifted into that familiar, blue skinned self.

'Well done,' she said, 'you've done well. So… Kurt Wagner… nice name. Not the one I would have chosen but…'

'Who are you?'

Kurt's voice was different now, harder, hoarser, loaded with anger and confusion.

Raven laughed, as if this pleased her, 'I'm Raven Darkholme,' she said, a note of triumph in her voice, 'and I am Rogue. But for the purposes of this conversation… you can call me mummy.'

The last was spoken with biting cynicism, Kurt almost winced. Almost.

'Why are you doing this? Are you… were you…'

'Don't be a fool, boy. How could I be Amanda? You've met her parents, talked to her whilst I was… incapacitated. That was just a bit of fun. What? You legendary sense of humour deserted you? Shame.'

'What have I done to deserve this? Please… I just want some answers. You owe me that, at least.'

'Ah yes, the answers to those questions you whisper to the sky an night, I suppose. "Oh Gott"' her voice changed again then, changed to his own, soft, accent, '"who was my father? Why is my mother so angry? Does she love me?" I suppose you feel like you're owed the answers to those, at least. Correct?'

There was something suitably mocking in her voice, like a knife edge covered in soft velvet, biting none the less.'

'Please…' Kurt found himself whispering, it was the only word he could manage.

'Alright then,' said Raven casually, and she pushed herself up onto Xavier's desk, sitting on it, swinging her legs playfully, 'let me tell you a story. Once upon a time I fell in love with a great man, a man who looked a little like you, in fact. I'd never been in love before, had never let myself, but it was the most amazing experience of my life. I gave him my heart, my body, my mind, my very soul. I risked everything for him, and he loved me in return, dangerous as it was. Then one day I found myself pregnant, with his child. I went to him, I told him the joyful news… and he rejected me. He left me. He broke my heart, threw back everything I'd ever given him, because I was pregnant. Since that day I have never been loved, and I have never loved in return. That child was you, Kurt, and that was what you cost me. That and more besides. So, I think, all debts are off.'

The wall, against which previously Kurt had been so eager to escape, suddenly became his only prop. The blood drained from his face, the world seemed to spin for a moment, his breath was harsh in his chest. Behind his eyes he felt tears well up.

'No… nein… you're lying… you're… Gott, please no.'

'What's the matter, Kurti?' Raven slipped down from her seat on the desk and moved towards him, her eyes filled with mock concern, 'you should be grateful, I'm telling you the truth, you see, and I don't do that for just anyone. I owe you nothing, and you owe me everything.'

The tears finally escaped Kurt's eyes and trickled down his fur, he bent his head, hoping she would not notice them.

She did.

'Come now, my poor boy,' she murmured, almost tenderly, 'don't cry. You can make it up to me. You can make it better.'

'H-how?'

'Simple, you're a teleporter, and the only way I can get out of here, the only way *we* can get out of here, is by teleportation.'

Kurt raised his head suddenly, a look of surprise suffusing his features.

'Think about it,' whispered Raven, her voice full of passion, full of promise, 'we could be together for longer then. You, me, Rogue even. She's still here, inside me. Xavier's power isn't strong enough to send me back into Rogue's subconscious, not at a distance. We'd be together, as we were meant to. No more rules, no more bosses, no more orders, no more hiding. Just freedom, the world at our feet. It would be a grand adventure, we could have anything, son, *anything.* You owe me that, owe me your life. And so does Rogue, after what she did to me.  And I'm willing to give you my world in return, if that's what you want.'

For a moment Kurt almost agreed, the offer was so tempting, the picture so rosy. All he'd wanted, all he'd dreamed, to belong, to fit in, to have a family. Then, like a whisper from the past, like a ghost in his mind, Rogues voice came back to him from the Danger Room, when they had talked so many days ago.

_"She didn't care for us, Kurt, she just cared for herself."_

 Like a cold, perfect icicle the image shattered and, for the first time, he saw the world as it was, saw it with a dreadful, dark clarity.

'You're using me,' he said, his voice strangely flat, 'using me like you did Rogue, using me like you use everyone. Do you even know how to *not* use anyone? Is that all your capable of?'

'Oh no, I'm capable of a lot more, Kurt. Do you want to see some of it?'

Kurt shook his head, 'nein,' he said, his voice raw and rough for all it's steadiness, 'I don't think so. I'm sorry, Raven. I was wrong, and I won't help you.'

'Wretch!' spat Mystique suddenly, lunging towards him. She slapped him hard, and he gasped out at the piercing pain, both in body and soul. Before he could react, he once again found himself pinned up against the wall, Mystique's small, perfect blue hands rapped round his throat.

'Freakish bastard!' she screeched, 'I should have drowned you myself!'

Kurt's eyes widened at this, spots appeared around his vision, his lungs begged for air. Then, partly out of instinct, and partly because some of him knew that there was nothing, nothing at all he could now, he 'ported away. Disappearing with his familiar puff of brimstone and "Bamf!"

Unbalanced by his vanishing act, Mystique stumbled forward, thought the haze of brimstone, coming to rest against the bare wall. Slowly she slid down it, coming to a stop in a crouching position, her arms rapped round her knees.

After a few seconds she turned her head to the side and vomited violently on the carpet.

She had only just finished retching when the door opened and Xavier wheeled in.

He made no comment as to the mess she had just made on his floor.

'Raven-' he said softly.

'Can it, you bald idiot,' she growled, slowly pushing herself to her feet, 'and don't ask me why I said what I said. You know the reasons already, you're a telepath. You know it all…'

'It's over, Raven, you've said what you wanted. It's time for Rogue to come back.'

'No, I've talked to Kurt, but I need to talk to her, I need to explain. Give me a few more minutes; let me write her a letter… please.'

That last word, a word that sounded so foreign in the shape shifters mouth prompted Xavier to nod, 'very well, there are pens and paper on the desk. I'm going to give you fifteen minutes.'

Mystique nodded and moved behind the desk again, sitting in Xavier's chair, she soon found the tools she was looking for and she began to write.

Xavier remained where he was, though he did not attempt to see what she was writing. He recognised the need for some privacy, but also knew that was one who was not to be trusted.

'I'm done,' she said at last, putting down both pen and paper.

'Excellent, you are ready then? There is nothing more you want to say? No other message you wish to be passed along?'

'What? You want some sentimentalist drivel, I suppose. Come on now, you know me better than that. I've said all I needed to say, to both of them. No, I'm ready… except… I do have one, last question of you.'

'Which is?'

'Baring in mind all I have done, all I still could have done, if you could have saved me… if you could have rescued me, would you have?'

'Of course I would have, Raven.'

'I rather thought so,' sighed the shape shifter, feeling the tingling of his telepathic power probe her consciousness, preparing to be pushed back into the Abyss, 'and for that I shall always hate you.'

She felt the serpentine coils of Mystique's consciousness slowly unwind about her, prompted and aided by Xavier's telepathy, and she was able to feel again. It was hard, at first, to distinguish her own ego, hard to move, hard to avoid the other tendrils of consciousness. Xavier helped, of course, guiding her to safety, helping to keep her separate from the many other forms in the dark recesses of her own psyche. Eventually, after what seemed like a second of a century, she emerged from the muddy, weed-clogged pool of her psyche and into the harsh winter air of her own mind.

Rogue came up gasping. She felt like she'd run sixty miles in the snow. Her body ached all over, she couldn't stop shivering, her mouth tasted of bile, and the scent of vomit filled her nose. Straightening up out of her crouched position, she found the reason for this in the small pile of puke by the wall.

_Did I do that?_ she wondered

Yes, or rather Mystique did. She remembered the meeting, remembered it as one remembered an old home movie. She saw it play out from a neutral perspective, seeing and hearing it all through another's ears, but the details were hazy, half hidden by a layer of gauzy confusion. She felt a dull ache in her heart as she recalled what she, what Mystique, had said and done to Kurt.

She had done this in the hope of finding some forgiveness, now she wondered if she had just made the trench between them deeper.

'Rogue…?'

She turned and saw Xavier, his eyes full of concern. He had born that look a lot, recently.

'I'm fine,' lied Rogue, and wondered why she'd bothered. He had been in her head, after all, just like part of him was not in hers.

'Mystique wrote you a letter,' continued Xavier, 'do you remember?'

'Kinda… it's all a little hazy. I'd like to read it.'

'Of course.'

'Alone.'

The worried expression on Xavier's face increased, for a moment she thought he would scan her brain, but then she realized her fears were in vain. His memories within her, caught by his brief contact, told her that he would not do such a thing except in an emergency. He respected privacy too much.

This was somewhat of a comfort to her.

'If you wish,' he sighed, 'but please, if you want to talk, do so. You know I'll always listen.'

'I know.'

He nodded and wheeled out, leaving her alone once again. She was grateful for that.

She sidled behind his desk and sat down in a chair. The letter was sitting there for her, folded up neatly. On its front, facing her was a single word.

_Rogue_

The handwriting was simple, smooth, a little blocky maybe, it gave away little about the person's identity, it was so utterly featureless. Except, maybe, for a slight tilt of the capital letters, a gentle, miniscule curve in the flow of the lines.

With a deep breath, Rogue picked the letter up. It took her several attempts, her gloves, thin though they were, still hampered her ability to do some delicate tasks, like picking up and separating paper. She managed it with a modicum of grace, none the less, and, not sure of what she would find, began to read.

_Rogue

Know this, every word, every expression I said to Kurt today was true.

Yes, for once I told the truth.

Surprised? That one such as I, who has lived by lies, should finally be honest? Well, just because I lived by lies doesn't mean I need to die by them.

It is odd, to consider myself dead… but I know I am. I know I'm merely the shadow of a memory, the echo of a personality borrowing your body. Perhaps I should be angry for that, it was you, after all, who pushed me. Rage, anger, these are things I know well, I'm used to them. But they're useless now, what would be the point, raging at you over an act already done? So put it aside for now, there are more important matters to consider.

Are you angry at me still? Angry at what I did to you? Angry at what I've done to Kurt? That would be our way, wouldn't it? That would be what I taught you, always remember those who harmed you, never forgive…

It's a pity I didn't hold my children as hard as I hold my grudges.

And here I am again, being so truthful, laying out my heart for you inspection. Now you're probably wondering why I'm sounding so sentimental. Talking about holding onto my children and such like. Well, I did tell Kurt the truth, but not all of the truth. Not all.

Kurt Wagner.

My great mistake (1).

How did I let him go? How did I leave him to the cold stream, the wolves, to the forest? How could I let him be brought up by strangers instead of his own mother?

Kurt was the one thing in my life that was made out of love. The one thing good I ever created. He also broke that love, true, and for that part of me resents him, but I also know that, in all my life, I have never made anything so selflessly, with such love, as I made my little blue boy.

I let him go because I knew that I would destroy him. That's the story of my life, you see, an inverse Midas touch. Like you, everything I touch is consumed, destroyed. How could I bare to destroy the one good thing I had ever made?

To echo the well used cliché, you set those you love free. 

So, my last, true act of love was to set my son free. I imagine he resents me for that, but that cannot be helped.

And what of you? Why did I take you in? I owe you that answer, at least, for all the harm I've done you.

 I suppose it was an experiment, an experiment in love, to see if I could do something good. I adopted you, I took you in and I did what I could. But, as I said before, I destroy what I touch.

We are so alike, you and I, angry, proud, passionate, determined and lonely.

Did I touch you so hard that you took too much of me in, my little girl? Are you like me now? Did I make, or seek to make, a carbon copy of myself within you? I do not know. That if for you to decide.

Whatever the answer is, I am sorry.

There, that it my apology to you, never to be repeated. Treasure it if you can, or throw it away if you will. I respect you enough, now, to make that choice.

Kurt is a different matter, though. 

I don't pretend to understand it, how he could look so like me, so different, so alien? How he could have so much of me within him? He wares his masks, he tells his lies, plays his cunning tricks. But he loves too, he cares, he gives, and he forgives. Yes, he forgives something I have never managed to get the hang of.

I hope he forgives you, Rogue, though I don't ask it for myself.

He hates me now, I think. I pray he hates me. For I am dead, and it is better that he thinks ill of me, and hates me, than hates you, the one who is deserving of his love.

So, that is my last gift to you. Perhaps the only gift I've ever given anyone without expecting something back in return.

I give you your brother.

And I gave your brother my hate, which is in truth all I have. I hope to receive the same in return from him.

No matter how much I want to, I can't love him, you see. Not any more. My heart turned to stone long before the rest of me; it is too hard and cold for any real love now. But I still feel some hate. The only genuine emotion I could give my baby boy, the only one that would do any good.

With luck he will loath me now, with luck he will understand the truth about me. I was never a mother to him, not in anything more than blood. He will understand why you did what you did, and perhaps now he will forgive you. Perhaps now you will be together again.

I think it is better he hates his dead mother, and loves his living sister. It is only right, only what I deserve.

I only ask, I only beg, that you look after him, that you do not destroy this one, beautiful thing I have made. I pray I have not passed my poisonous touch to you. 

Good bye Rogue, if we meet again, it will surely be in Hell.

And if I find that you have dragged Kurt down there with you, then Satan and all his torments will be no match for my wrath.

Raven._

 

Rogue read the letter a few times over, trying to feel with words, to understand the sentiment.

She did not know that she had succeeded.

She new that Raven would probably wish it destroyed, burnt or torn up as soon as possible. Even in matters such as these, she hated leaving evidence.

Rogue folded it up neatly and put it in her breast pocket.

She left the room, then, and after assuring Xavier that she was alright, made towards her next destination. She needed to talk to Kurt, and she knew just where he would be.

It was the perfect winter day. The air clear as glass and the sky a bright, untarnished blue. A wind, harsh and biting, whipped into the conservatory where Kurt sat, his back to her, he did not seem to have noticed her presence. He was on his knees, staring out through the gaping hole in the conservatory, piercing the cold, azure sky with his golden orbs.

Kneeling down, he looked like he was preying or, perhaps, like he was some sort of… icon. A blue, lapis statue to some demon god, staring out into the empty world, the glass shards from the broken window surrounding him like proffered diamonds.

Fear contracted her heart for a second; she worried that he might cut himself on the glass. She remembered doing the same earlier on that very day, not that this concerned her. Any feeling was better than emptiness.

Only the flow of his hair in the wind spoiled the stillness of the scene. She took note of how his fur rippled in the breeze too, like long grass on a hilltop.

She moved forward, eager to talk with him, hoping for a chance to feel the softness of his fur between her gloved fingers once again. She wanted her brother back.

Glass crunched beneath her feet as she moved forward, he heard her.

'You were right,' he said.

Rogue blinked, she didn't know what to say, how to reply.

'You were right,' repeated Kurt again, 'I… that was what you wanted to show me, ja? That you were right?'

'I… I wanted you to understand,' her words were a breathy whisper, hardly louder than the chilling, winter wind.

'Well… I don't. I tried but… I don't. Why can't I understand?'

His tones were so soft, so desperate, he sounded almost childlike.

Once again no words would come to her, none except the bitter phrases of sarcasm and cynicism, they were always there, a cutting tongue to protect herself. Yet even those were of no use to her now, she sought comfort, sought to heal and be healed, not to hurt. Yet now those words seemed to be all she could find, was this how bitter she had become? So twisted that all she could do was hurt? Was she so like her mother now?

No, no, she wasn't. She wouldn't be.

A soft sound interrupted her train of thought, a soft laugh, 'look at me,' muttered Kurt, 'acting all miserable and moody. I'm sorry, I really shouldn't do this. You were right, I suppose that's all there is to it. Well… I suppose I'd better be going, no point in staying here, maybe I'll watch some TV. I don't think there's much on tonight but I'll-'

'Stop it.'

He half turned to her; she could see his blue face in profile now. Was it her imagination, or was that moisture glistening on his fury cheek?  

'Vas?'

'Stop pretending everything's alright. It's not. Stop hiding, stop lying and stop putting on disguises.'

Kurt swivelled to look her in the face now, some anger in his voice.

'I'm not-' and he gasped, he had seen her face, 'vas?'

Rogue allowed herself a small smile, and Kurt gawped further, he had never seen her like this.

She wore no makeup.

Every grain of powder, every speck of eyeliner, every smudge of lipstick had been cleaned off, leaving her face bare, pink, vulnerable.

'I've been thinking,' she said, 'about how we hide, about how we lie about our feelings and… and don't talk about them, and put on all these faces and makeup and… and gloves and holo-watches and… well, you know. So, I figure, this is part of what got us into this mess and it's not helping so… so I guess I'm saying that I'm taking mine of now. Here, for you. If… if you can do the same then, then maybe we can talk, really talk, maybe we can figure this thing out. Right?'

The entire speech, which sounded so eloquent before, came out as incredibly lame to Rogue's ears. She hoped it would not sound so to Kurt, hoped he would listen, hoped he would stay, stay and try to figure this out with her, not run away and pretend everything was OK.

'Alright.'

The word was spoken softly, almost reluctantly.

'Alright,' he said again, 'but no lies. Ja? No avoidance. I'll stay, but we talk, ja? And we both tell the truth, say what we're feeling?'

'Sure, Kurt.'

She moved towards him and sat down besides him, a little wary of the broken glass on the floor.

Again silence settled over them, but this time it was more comfortable and Rogue was not troubled by it. She knew it was Kurt's turn to speak and that he would speak, once he could find the words, and find the courage to say them.

'Do you think,' he said at last, 'that… that Mystique was telling the truth? Before, when she spoke through you… with her memories… did she mean what she said? Did she mean all of it?'

Again, there was an imploring, child-like note in this voice, and Rogue knew that, even if she had wanted to, she could not have lied to him then.

'Yes,' she said, 'yes, I think she was telling the truth.'

There was a harsh hissing sound as Kurt breathed in between ground teeth, his face set in an expression of anguish.

'What do you feel?' Rogue asked, knowing that the pain had to be let out, had to be vented this time, lest it fester and become septic.

'Many things,' whispered the elf, 'I feel pain at what happened, and grief, I feel embarrassed, that I was led along so easily. And… and I feel angry.'

'At Mystique?'

'No, at you.'

'Why?'

'Because you did this. You knew… you wanted this, wanted to prove your point. Wanted to show me who Mystique was, why you killed her, and you *were* right, but… but you broke my heart to prove is that what you really wanted? Did you hate me that much?'

'No! No, of course no!'

'But you did this to prove you were right, you knew Mystique would… what she would do. You knew what she was like?'

'Yes, no… I… look; I didn't do this to hurt you, Kurt. I didn't do this to hurt you, I did it to give you a chance, and I did it to give you your mother back, if only for a while. I did it to show you that… that you had a family. You had me, you had her… I didn't know she would be so cruel, I swear it, I didn't know.'

'Maybe you didn't,' he whispered, 'but now I know… I'm so afraid…'

'Afraid of what?'

'Of myself, of what is in me.' He raised his voice, speaking as if he was trying to caughterise a wound which had long been within him, as if he was letting out bad blood. She listened to him with eager ears, knowing this was important, knowing their relationship could hinge on his words.

'When I first learned Mystique was my mother, I… I told myself it was OK, because I had a sister, I had you. And you were good and brave so… so I figured it would be alright, because if you were good, then I could be good. Then… when you allowed Mystique's statue to go to the Brotherhood, when you pushed her off the cliff, I thought… maybe you weren't so good, but Mystique was OK, ja? She couldn't be all bad… maybe she had some good in her, something that could redeem you… could redeem the both of us. Now I've met her… and I was wrong, she's a bitch, she's as evil as they come, and my father was little better, leaving her, breaking her heart because of me… so I wonder… with you killing her, and her being evil and my father abandoning her, even though she loved him… what's left to redeem me? Is there anything good in my family at all?'

'Kurt…'

'All my life I've said to myself, it didn't matter what I looked like, because it was what was within that was good. My body might be demonic, but my blood… that was human, that was good. Now… now I learn by blood's just as bad as my body… now I wonder what am I going to turn into? Am I going to be a monster too?'

'No Kurt!' objected Rogue, speaking urgently, her hands gloved moving to grasp Kurt's own wrists. He winced at the strength of her grasp but did not struggle, his golden eyes held tight by her green orbs.

'No,' she said again, her voice harsh, intense, 'you are what you make of yourself! Mystique… she changed herself, and held her grudges, and… and changed so much that there was nothing left for her to be, until she had nothing left to hold onto except her anger. And I… I'm not sure about what I am… I know I do wrong, I know I make her mistakes, but I'm trying to be better, Kurt… I swear it! But you… you're good, I know because I've been in your head too. I know you have goodness in you, I know you can be better than her, better than either of us, because you let go of your disguises, you keep those you love tight to you, and you forgive Kurt. You throw away what's bad and keep what's good, which is more than Mystique or I could, sometimes.'

'Rogue… are you asking me to forgive you?'

'I… yes, I suppose I am. That was what this was all about, after all. In the beginning, I wanted to make it up to you, wanted to show you… I wanted you to forgive me. Now… after what happened, I wouldn't be surprised it you hated me all the more.'

'I don't hate you Rogue,' he said softly, 'I never really hated you…'

'Maybe not… but if you let me go… if I lose you, then I don't have anything, see? Then I'll become just like her, just like our mother, because I'll have nothing. And I'll have destroyed everything I touch, just like her, even though I don't mean to, and I couldn't bare that, though I know it's a risk.'

'Rogue?' Kurt's voice was tentative, curious, 'I don't understand.'

'Don't worry, you don't have to but… but if you could… forgive me? I'll try to be a better person. I promise… just tell me, do you forgive me?'

'I don't know. I want to, but I don't know that I can.

Those words hammered into Rogue like iron, for a moment her heart ached so much she thought it would explode, would have been glad if it had exploded.

'But,' said Kurt at last, his every syllable weighted and measures, his every word spoken from the heart, 'I suppose… I suppose I could try though, ja?'

'Yes?'

And heaven was almost hers, heaven was within her reach, tentatively passed over to her, a chance at redemption, a chance at family, a chance at forgiveness.

'If… if I try to forgive you…' he continued, 'will you try to be better too? Will you try to forgive more too? Will you be a better person because… because I think I'd find it easier to be good if… if you could be good too.'

'I'll do my best, Kurt.'

She would, she really would.

'Gutt and… do you think that you… do you forgive Mystique? Because I don't think I can at the moment, even though I wanted to.'

'I can try… I will try.'

'Danke.'

They sat there then, not speaking, holding hands, Kurt's three fingered paw fitting with surprising neatness in Rogue's gloved hand.

'You know,' said Kurt at last, 'we really should talk to the Professor about this… we really should tell him about this… tell him our problems…'

'Yeah,' agreed Rogue, 'we really should.'

And at this they both smiled, for they knew neither of them would talk to Xavier, it wasn't their way. They dealt with their problems alone, once. But now… now they would face them together.

Eventually Kurt let go with one hand and turned away from her, turning to face the open sea and sky, he looked thoughtfully out.

'Rogue,' he said, 'do you think Mystique, wherever she is, do you think she forgives us?'

Rogue looked at him, and saw that his eyes were fixed on the clear, pure blue sky, and that his ears, undoubtedly, were fixed on the sweet calls of the sparrows, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

She tried to share that vision, briefly, but found her gaze pulled downwards, pulled to the crashing sea, pounding angrily against the jagged, black cliff rocks, and her ears were filled with the mournful, agonized screeching of the gulls.

'I don't know,' she said at last, though she thought she thought she did, and that would be her first lie to him this day.

'Kurt,' she said again, her voice aching with need, 'hold me?'

He didn't hesitate, not for a moment. He leaned forward and put his arms round her, being careful not to touch any of her bare skin. She relished the sensation, relished the feeling of his warm body around her, and relished being with him again. It was then, for the first time in a long time, she felt like herself, and she felt like she was not alone.

They would remain that way for a long time, holding each other against the chill winter wind, sitting in an empty room full of sparkling, shattered glass.

So still they seemed... they were like a statue, a statue moulded of fear and courage, hate and love, guilt and forgiveness. A strange, delicate thing, but strong as long as they were together. Strong as long as they were a family.

And what their mother would have said to that, none would ever know.

The End

(1) This line was actually inspired by an Eels Lyric from their awesome song, Novocaine for the soul. The full lyric goes like this… "Life is good, and I feel great, 'cos mother said I was a great mistake."

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