Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men or anything affiliated with it. It is owned by Marvel, et al. No infringement is intended and no profit is being made.

Spoilers: X-Men 3: The Last Stand
Author’s Note: This is my first-ever X-Men fanfic. I find it a bit strange that it’s not Scott/Jean, as that’s my ‘ship of choice in the wide X-Men universe. Actually, there’s no ‘ship at all, unless you squint really hard and assume a slightly incestuous relationship. I may have botched the history of the character(s) a bit, but the movies did a pretty good job of that anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. I stole the title from a Sugarcult song, and blame that as being my source of inspiration. Please let me know what you think! Concrit is lovely.

Summary: “She did not come here actively searching him out. In fact, she had no idea he would even be in this park.” A man and a woman have a conversation over a chess board, where the pawns move but the world stands timeless.

Pretty Girl
by: chopsticks
g

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She squints against the bright sunlight, the colors in the park brought into sharp definition by the natural light. Her eyes scan the area, taking in the small children screeching happily on the playground equipment; the tired yet satisfied mothers keeping careful watch over the children; the college students throwing Frisbees around, the spinning disks coming dangerously close to several heads before someone dives to retrieve it midair; the smitten couples walking leisurely along the concrete pathways; the elderly men playing friendly games of chess while carrying on lively conversations about days gone by.

It is this last group of people that captures her attention. Specifically, her eyes immediately focus on the man in the hat with the upturned collar sitting alone before a chessboard.

She did not, she is certain, come here actively searching him out. In fact, she tells herself, she had no idea he would even be in this park.

This is, of course, a bald-faced lie, and she calls herself on it before the thought is even completed.

Many former mutants are walking through the city, and some of them she occasionally recognizes on her ventures through the park. She does not believe they recognize her, but some glance at her sideways, as if knowing what she once was.

When she first saw the chessboards set up in neat rows, she immediately thought of him and his love for chess. Sometimes she allows herself to remember him teaching her how to play, a kind and fatherly smile gracing his features when she made an unexpected move and called out a checkmate before he was prepared for it.

Most times she quashes the memory before it has a chance to bloom.

She frequents this park because it is near her home. Sometimes she allows a glimmer of happiness to flow through her at the thought that she has a place to call home now; that she can blend into the crowd without even making an effort to hide her natural appearance.

Other times she feels nothing but sadness at losing the one thing that made her unique. She’d always prided herself on being different, and now she was just like them.

This brings her back to the man sitting alone, contemplating the chess pieces and life.

She had sacrificed everything she held dear for this man, and all she got for her efforts was to be brushed aside like some overused toy that is broken beyond repair.

She feels anger swell within her, and welcomes it. She has not felt anything beyond sadness or happiness, depending on the day, and, most of all, confusion at being thrust into a world she does not understand. Anger is a welcome change from what is fast becoming ordinary and plain.

She figures it is time to confront him. She is aware that he is now no better than her; one of them, as he would so kindly put it.

She gnashes her teeth together, summoning up the courage that has abandoned her since she was found in the mobile prison, naked and confused.

She picks her way across the grass, careful not to disturb those around her. A few glance up, then just as quickly glance away, entirely uninterested in her.

She’s found that she misses the stares that usually accompanied any adventures into the public realm that she would make without shifting into a more socially correct form. She’s still not used to be so easily dismissed by those around her. (Though, she will concede, many males will stare at her for longer than necessary, though it is for an entirely different reason than when she was blue-skinned and yellow-eyed, but not altogether unpleasant either.)

Her musings make her journey short, and she now stands within ten feet of him. She wonders if he even knows she is present; he always had an uncanny ability to tell when someone was near him, and she often wondered if perhaps he and Xavier were more similar than he let on.

So it is no surprise to her that when she is not five feet from him he speaks to her in his strong, accented voice.

“Hello, Raven.”

She flinches slightly at him using her birth name rather than her mutant name, but his back is to her so he does not notice her momentary show of weakness.

“Hello, Erik,” she replies coolly, sliding into the seat opposite him. She tilts her head to the side and considers him for a moment. There are deeper lines in his face than she remembers; he seems to have aged five years already.

“I was wondering when you would appear. I thought our paths would have crossed by now.” He continues to stare at the chessboard, his voice still as smooth as silk.

“I’ve been busy,” she replies curtly, slightly unnerved that he had been expecting her.

“Ah. Adapting, I take it? That was always your specialty.”

“Yes. Your insistence on schooling for me has done me well.” She hates admitting this to him, but figures he probably already knows all about what she has been doing. A few weeks ago she thought she spotted Pyro (She never did bother to learn his birth name.) outside of her office building, but he was swallowed by the crowed before she could get a second look.

“So I hear.”

“And I hear that you are no longer graced with as magnetic a personality was you once were.”

“You have heard correctly, unfortunately. It seems that we have both met the same fate.” She notices a tinge of bitterness in her voice, and secretly thrills that he might blame her for his downfall. After all, she did sell him out to the government.

“Not quite. I have, as you put it, adapted. I have an apartment now, a job, even the start of friendships. But you already know that. What I’m curious about, though, is what have you been up to?” She leans forward, her dark hair falling into her face, and she hurriedly shoves it behind her ears.

“Your hair is black.” Misdirection. He’s avoiding her question.

“Yes. I was surprised it was not red. Apparently that’s a color only reserved for mutants nowadays.” She pauses, resting her head on her hand. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I have been playing chess.” He smirks slightly, a knowing glint appearing in his eyes.

“And that’s all?”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t believe him. She finds it hard to believe that a man who lost his source of identity, his life’s work, and the only man he has ever openly referred to as a friend within the same week would spend all of his free time in the weeks afterwards playing chess.

The thought she ignores is one that has been plaguing her since his mutant rebellion was laid to rest: Why hasn’t he come after her for her betrayal?

She says none of this, and instead quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I’m not angry with you, Raven,” he says suddenly, finally raising his eyes from the chess pieces to meet hers. She feels her jaw muscles tense but says nothing.

“You did what you believed to be right. You may not realize it, but your actions prevented war. Though I’m sure you did it because you were angry at me.” His voice is even, but at least he is looking her in the eyes as he says this.

“Hell yes I was angry with you!” She purses her lips and reminds herself that outbursts will get her nowhere with this man. “You abandoned me when I needed you the most.”

“I know, and I sincerely apologize. I was…misguided. I forgot that family should be the most important thing in a person’s life, not their personal crusade.” A sad smile covers his features, and she sees he is being pulled back into the world of memories.

“Do you remember when I taught you how to play the piano? You were so young then, but exceptional nonetheless. You loved to play the piano in the drawing room at Charles’s. It was your favorite room in the house.”

“Yes,” she whispers quietly, a soft smile coming to her face.

“And Scott would love to come in and study his equations with you playing.”

“He always said that music was just math with sound, so it helped him to focus.”

“Yes, his ability with math was a little scary sometimes, wasn’t it?” He grins then, and she does as well, remembering the many times they had randomly quizzed a young Scott Summers with various multiplication and division problems. They had always needed to track down a calculator to make sure he was correct, which he always was.

“It certainly was. When I was still a young student there, I once asked him if his real mutation was his ability to compute so flawlessly, and the optic blasts were just a side effect of having too high of an IQ.” She lets a smile flutter to her face as she thinks of the old friends that are now departed.

He grins, and then his face becomes serious once again. His hand reaches across the board to take hers, squeezing it gently.

“Forgive me?”

She inhales sharply, but knows she would never be able to be angry with him forever. For now, though, she knows she still could be.

“One day.” She does not remove her hand from his.

“Good.” A smile graces his features again, and then he leans in and whispers, “Let me show you something.”

He removes his hand from hers and holds it out before a pawn, clearly concentrating.

“Erik-”

“Shh,” he hisses, his forehead scrunching as his concentration becomes more focused.

She arches an eyebrow and says nothing, watching the pawn as it does exactly what she expected it to do: nothing.

Then, suddenly, it wiggles. She gasps lightly, sure that her eyes are deceiving her. Then, it moves. Barely, but it surely does move.

“Th-the cure…”

“…Isn’t permanent,” he finishes for her, a look of triumph on his face. She gapes at him, unsure of what to even say.

“I-I have to go,” she says hurriedly, standing up quickly and practically running away. He says nothing to her retreating back, and she is glad for it.

When she reaches the safety of her apartment, she closes the door and locks it. As the bolt slams into place, she turns and places her back to the wood, feeling her body sagging under the pressure of the knowledge she has just been given. Her body slides to the ground and she places her head in her hands, thoughts running through it at a frightening speed.

If the cure isn’t permanent, then that means that soon she might begin to revert back to her mutant self. She would be Mystique all over again.

Now she wonders if she even wants that life anymore. She has grown accustomed to a life as one of them, and though there are things she misses, she thinks there is something to be said for stability.

If she is to be Mystique again, she must choose between continuing her life as a mutant pretending to be a human, or as being a mutant who embraces what she is.

More importantly, a war may still be coming. When it comes down to it, who will she stand with?

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the end.