scalesandsecrets | Family Reunion

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.

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"Honestly, I didn't want to talk to you for a long time, either." She admits. She should be honest. "A lot has happened." To put it lightly. But right now, she doesn't owe her mother a blow by blow of being kidnapped by terrorists, or falling out of an airplane, or anything of the sort. But she can ease the dying of a woman who, for all of her faults, still adopted her, still fed and clothed her for most of her life.

"Lung cancer," she repeats. That made sense, nothing she wants to pry into further. She's not sure how to feel about it, though. Of the two, Priscilla had always been her preferred parent. Owen was... Harsh. Aloof. Her friends had called him scary. "I'm sorry for your loss. That had to have been awful."

And now her mom, too, had cancer. "Did they tell you what kind?" she asks softly, allowing one hand to drift across the table. If her mom wanted to hold it... It would feel really nice to be touched by her mom again. To be held like she used to.

The tip of her nose is starting to sting, a clear sign emotions are welling.

"What do you mean. Tell me the truth about my mother? Did you know my birth mother? I always thought it was a closed adoption..." Now she's just as concerned as she was curious.

"I'm sure." There's no judgement in Priscilla's eyes, only sympathy as she listens to Rogue speak. "Life throws these things at us and we pick ourselves up and carry on, but losing your father was so very hard."

She lets out a little gulp that's half a sob, and when Rogue's hand reaches out she takes hold of it, fingers wrapping around Rogue's gloved ones and squeezing gently, the contact making her smile through barely restrained tears.

"Pancreatic, the doctors say I don't have very long." She says sadly, holding onto Rogue's hand like it was life itself and nodding hesitantly at the question.

"That's what we told you, yes, but it wasn't true. I don't know if you remember the neighbour? Irene? The elderly blind lady. She told us not to tell you, but we adopted you from her, she was your mother Marie, at least in a manner of speaking."

"Well, if anyone taught me how to pick up and carry on, it was you two." But her mother's hand is, she imagines, soft with that lotion she always had in her purse. Hydrangeas, she was pretty sure.
She doesn't do anything with her hand, but enjoys the feeling of the weight in her own. Holding hands had become a sacred act for Rogue. and just letting her mother hold on to her was... It was important. Somehow.

"I hate to hear that," she says, but it explains why she'd reached out after so long. Wanting to make things right before she went to meet the Jesus she had always loved so much.

She stops cold. "Irene?" She repeats. Of course she knew Irene Adler. She'd loved Irene. She'd spent countless afternoons over there as a kid, doing her best not to cause too much trouble. She remembered the time she'd learned Irene shared her name with a character in a Sherlock Holmes story, and how Irene had smiled and laughed at the coincidence, saying how funny it was. But this changes everything.

"Irene? In a manner of speaking? What d'you mean?" If Irene was her birth mother... she had to find her again. She needed to talk with her. She had so many questions only Irene would be able to answer. "She was my mom?"

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.

"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.

Family Reunion

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