Family Reunion

[scalesandsecrets]

My Dear Marie,

I know that we haven't spoken since what happened and I want you to know that I feel terrible about it and that you felt the need to leave. It was my fault, I know that now and I want to ask for your forgiveness.

The truth is I don't know how much longer I have and I don't want to meet with the almighty without having made things right between us. Therefore I've decided to come to Westchester, and if you're willing, to make up with you before it's too late.

You can reach me on the number below.

With all my love,
Priscilla D'Ancanto.

The letter had come a week before, hand written in Priscilla's distinctive handwriting, the paper bearing a trace of the cheap drug-store fragrance she'd always worn. Seven days and a number of hesitant texts later and Priscilla sits at a table in the Westchester Coffee House, her hair tinged with white now, deep lines at the corner of her eyes and skin that's getting spotted and wrinkled with advancing age. But there's a gauntness to her appearance that speaks of ill-health, her clothes hanging off her more loosely than they should, a slight tinge of yellow to the whiteness of her eyes and her skin that speaks of liver problems. Raising a cup of coffee to her lips her hand shakes in a way it didn't in the past, every part of her body language reflecting a woman increasingly worn down by time.

Or so it was meant to appear.

Comments

[scalesandsecrets]

Were Rogue to sniff her glove she'd be able to smell some of the exact same hydrangea lotion smell, Priscilla's hand old and shrunken in hers. But they're getting to the crux of it now, Priscilla's voice unusually earnest as she spoke.

"Partly." Priscilla nodded, eyes fixed on Rogue's. "But there was another woman, one who conceived you, carried you to term, crafting your genes before you were even born to ensure you were the future of our species."

As she spoke Priscilla's voice grew stronger, although her volume dipped, forcing Rogue to lean closer, the grip on her hand tightening so that she could not pull away, dishwater dull eyes gleaming yellow.

"Figured it out yet?" Mystique's unnatural voice echoed from Priscilla's lips, albeit quietly so as not to draw unwanted attention from the other customers.

[notmarieanymore]

"I- our spec- Ma- you're hurting me," she says, pulling her hand back, though Priscilla's grip was iron. She looks from their hands, to Priscilla's face and- those eyes.

She knew those eyes.

They haunted her sleep.

Rogue had two things she could do here, she realized. One: Rip her hand from her glove and cause a huge fuss by knocking Mystique out right here and now and get her answers that way. This would get the ire of the local community, and likely her fellow X-Men. Two: Keep this civil and hopefully get her answers and maybe some more information about her life. She'd always had questions. This was her chance.

As much as she wanted to punch Mystique, because she really fucking did, she was still the lady Priscilla had raised her to be.

She sets her jaw. "What the hell are you talking about." Her voice is low.