Genosha: Time Stopped Having Meaning So Long Ago

[just_a_phase]

In retrospect, one or the other of them should have cried at some point. There had been sounds of pain from them both, if not equally so, yes, but tears? Only the sort that your body forces out, rather than the kind you let fall.




Then again, they're X-Men. So the pain of the escape not bringing tears is not a shocker after all, is it?




The loss of the child makes both of them shed more than enough tears--of grief, of rage, of pain that's beyond physical--to make up for every embryo they had to leave behind.




And they do what they're trained to do: they go on the run and go low to ground.



(If they could have handled it differently--if there were police for things like this--then maybe it wouldn't shatter them so. The problem is that they are some of the police for things like this. And so--and so. Something that was almost finally woven into a beautiful thing develops a fray, and time takes a different turn.)

Comments

[konocc]

It's even too much to bring to their team. All they did was file a report regarding being kidnapped by unknown entities, because it is all they know. Months of torture and no answers. No conclusions. Nothing except loss.

And they've taken it out on each other. Katya only displays cold rage to him now. All Piotr feels much of the time is alone and helpless. He hasn't quit the X-Men because where else would he go? What would happen to her? Are their friends in danger from this group?

Somehow this morning, Piotr woke up feeling different. He can't remember the last time he touched anyone. He's sure he has, but the fog is so intense. Maybe this is the crack in the ice they both need?

He summons his will and pushes himself towards her door. "Katya?"

[just_a_phase]

There's silence for a few moments before the sound of a faint click comes through the door.

It's followed by Kitty's voice saying pleasantly enough, evenly enough, "Come in," so perhaps that's a good sign.

When he does, he'll see her hair all about the floor, as she's cut it to a bit above shoulder length. Getting it to the style she wants demands stages, and she cannot even stand thinking about the idea of some random stranger cutting it for her.

She looks at Piotr for a moment before glancing at the mess around her and immediately bending to start swiftly sweeping the strands up. "Sorry. Didn't think about how much of a mess this made."

[konocc]

His eyes search over her face, lingering on the crown, and narrow in confusion. It suddenly feels like everything hat ever was between them fills the space, raking across his skin and making it harder to breathe.

[just_a_phase]

She wants to pretend that she can't read the expression on his face perfectly.

The key word: pretend.

Kitty clears her throat and drops the last few strands she'll worry about for now into the garbage, then indicates the hair scissors and razor on her dress.

"Not at the razor stage yet, but. I figured this would be--be easier," and her eyes are suddenly looking through his, instead of at his, "to do it in some quick but separate stages. Cut it short, then razor the hair, y'know?"

She's certain part of her words apply to at least more than her hair. She pretends that fact away too, ruffling the shortened strands with one hand before her eyes truly meet Piotr's again.

It's in those seconds before she meets his eyes that he can see how much pain and sorrow she's lost in. Once Kitty's looking at him, her expression is totally controlled, if pleasant enough, again.

"--So. My hair is not why you're here. I'm." She stops, closes her eyes briefly, breathes, and opens them again.

"...You wanted something, so, um. We can sit down and talk," she offers, trying so hard.

Too hard. She shouldn't have to try this hard, and knows it. Knows it as the veneer it is.

If they talk about it--

She has no idea what will turn out to be under the veneer.

You wanted to ask me to marry you. I wanted you to ask it too. If you ask it now...would you even ask it now? I was the one who lost our baby in the escape. I was the one not strong enough. --Not strong enough for my baby. My failure. My child.

[konocc]

Now he remembers the last time he touched someone. Kayta was weak and swollen from what their captors had done. She was small in his arms. So small. He had to be strong, hold her, run...

Piotr has not stopped running. He just came back to a place with terrian his feet know.

I need you. But he could not tell even himself why. It's too big. Too nameless. Too selfish.

"Your hair..." he mutters, reaching out to touch her cheek.

[just_a_phase]

She stills, telling herself she can do this. Provide this. It's just a simple touch.

--It would be different, she realizes, if she'd miscarried before they escaped. Instead it had to be after. She'd had to rely on Piotr, and he'd had to see her weakness and her pain as she lost their her daughter and could save herself and him but not that little life and--

This time it's like she's the one made of steel, of bronze, of iron, of something unbreakable that will never rust or change as she freezes when he touches her cheek.

Which is strange, because looking at how small and pale she is, her face seems to be made of nothing so strong. Porcelain is the word that comes to mind.

Even she doesn't have a clue which one she's more like these days. Selfishly, she closes her eyes for a moment and lets herself enjoy the warmth of his touch.

But it's only a moment, and she doesn't lean into his palm at all.




"It's just hair. It will grow back." Her voice is calm again, even--the rage is under control, if it's there. But it's like she's waiting for something from him to get them back to where they were.

[konocc]

It can never be as it was.

Somehow he knows with absolute clarity he could turn her, out her down on the bed to their side and - And it would change nothing.

"Why?"

[just_a_phase]

Maybe she was waiting for him to show he already understood.

The rage is cold and burns, but it's not really directed at Piotr any longer.

It's cold and contained; when its target is at hand, then she'll release it again.

That leaves how to answer Piotr--how to even interact with him--now.

She looks at him for several seconds before reaching up to wrap one of her hands around the one of his touching her cheek. She doesn't let it go, though; instead she holds it firmly and does something much like he was thinking; she leads him over to her bed and pulls him onto it with her, curling up onto her side and letting his arm drape over her.

He can choose to curl up behind her or not, but it's the greatest offer of intimacy she's been able to give. Her touch and expression both are gentle, even if neither gives much away.

(She deliberately lets his arm drape over the portion of her torso that had been swollen with life, then flattened after death came to steal the life away.)

[konocc]

Piotr crawls in behind her, spooning her and feeling strangely detacted as he does so. And he remembers.

He remembers the facility. The fight was short. Brutal. Katya had been tired and weak from what they had done. She fell into his arms and he took her and ran. The snow was a shock. Everything around them had been warm, too warm, in those months. The snow was a welcome old friend, and he ran to her embrace.

They'd run for days. Kayta's weakness was frightening. She barely spoke. He did his best, passing what he could find to eat onto her. Mostly they ran through the tundra, twigs snapping around them as their hope faded and their tempers flared.

One of them in a jeep found them, but they had been ready. They trapped him, left him. Piotr could hope he was alive and could learn to repent. At the time, he could not care if the man died. Everyone was prey and preditor mixed together in a deadly game.

The jeep had a GPS. That was when they discovered they were back in the United States, specificaly the Alaskan wilderness. So they drove with all the petrol the jeep had to spare to the one place they knew in this sparce place. Even then, it had taken two more days of hiking to make it.

During that time, she mentioned what their kidnappers had done. He hadn't the mind to concider it, or so he had thought.

The Summers called it a 'cabin.' The two story gray wooden home was nearly twice the size of his own childhood home in Russia.

Peter...I don't feel so good...

He knew soon enough why.

It was when when he discovered what the mind cannot grasp, the heart can mourn for.

[just_a_phase]

"Because," she says evenly--

and everything about her is even, ballerina's grace applied to every part of her being, voice included.

Or maybe it's more like when she's practicing gymnastics and on the beam, that sort of even; too much one way or the other and you slip and fall.

One's hot, one's cold: both are rage waiting for her to release if she slips even a bit

--and there's only the briefest of pauses before she continues, "--well. I thought you'd know already, actually." And there's the only bit of sadness she'll let out. "Because everything's different now. Maybe most of all me. I don't know. Because it had blood in it, for a while, and I can't keep scrubbing my hair. Because because. I thought you would know already," she repeats, and then, "Because everything's different now. Maybe me most of all."

[konocc]

"I should go then."

Because this is doing nothing for them except bringing pain. She should not have more and, even a metal man can take so much.

He begins to move away.

[just_a_phase]

Her laugh is close to being bitter; her laugh is close to sobbing.

It is closer to the latter than to the former, but by how much only Piotr can decide, ultimately.

"Why am I not surprised?" She's phasing away from him before she even finishes the question. "I thought this was lost too. I just needed it confirmed. So, okay. We're good. It's not like anything changed in Genosha anyway. I can't even break us up, because we weren't actually back together. Maybe I'm just being arrogant in assuming anything was there to be lost."

She'd wanted, she'd wanted so much, she'd invited him into her room at the hotel, and now--

Too late. Not even too little too late, just--too late.

Her eyes are burning, but she won't, won't, let herself cry.

Never cry for might-have-beens; if she let herself start for a might-have-been, the torrent of how many exist would have her drowning in her own tears like Alice.

It takes her several breaths before she looks back at him, eyes red but no tears in sight. "What did you want, anyway, before my shorter hair took that thought off of its rails?"

[konocc]

He looks out the window instead of at her. Too late. It started too early for them and it ended too late.

"To see you," he replies simply. "I live under the same roof, and yet -" He shakes his head.

[just_a_phase]

"Maybe it's better this way," she says after a moment. "Would it be worse or better if we'd have gotten back together before this?"

It's mostly curious in tone.

"--I don't think you've looked at me once in the eye since I lost the baby." That's idly said. as she floats in the air and considers trying to force their eyes to meet. How much would you avoid me? "Or maybe I didn't see it. I've lost count of how many times I've spent looking at your face hoping to see something in it, something for me in it, and in the end never finding it on your face or in your eyes. Maybe I don't look when I'm afraid of what I'll see is missing this time. Or that something I don't want to see is present. Or that one of those two things is what you'll see on my own. I don't know any longer."

One fist tightens, then the other, nails digging into her hands.

Then both relax.

There are reasons she does this.

"And here we are. We live under the same roof, but we could be miles away for all we interact. And you can't even understand--"

She breaks her promise to herself, briefly; tears color her voice and fall down her face; they're stopped by her biting into the flesh of her right hand.

Physical pain is rarely likely to make her cry.

[konocc]

His back is still to her. "My eyes still follow you wherever you go. They always will. But when I see you when you do not think I do, there is pain. She was not only of you," he whispers, his accent marking his words, like footprints in deep snow. "And this is what it feels like when you look at me. I am not a lover. I am a reminder."

[just_a_phase]

"//Is that what you think?//" she asks sharply, the Russian still flowing as easily from her tongue as it does his. "//A telepath and a man of steel? However will we deal.//"

Her feet touch the ground, and says--and not even Catherine the Great could match the tone she uses--with her hand firm on one of his shoulder blades, "//You will look at me, Piotr, when you tell me my own mind, especially when it comes to this. To the death of the child they made from me and from you. You will look at me, and you will let me tell you how I see you, because you are not a telepath.//"

[konocc]

He turns. He looks. He says nothing.

[just_a_phase]

"//How can I see a lover when we've never had sex? When every time, every fucking time, that I've asked you to sleep with me you've sent me away?//" she demands, voice sharp. "//How can I see a lover in any other sense when you've been in your ball of misery and I've been in mine? Perhaps that says as much, or more, about me as it does about you. But we have never met.//"

Her eyes and fists both squeeze tightly shut for a long moment before she exhales and opens them again.

"//I will give you this. That was not at all how I wanted that night to end. And if I thought we were capable, now, of being more to each other than sources of pain, I would take you to my bed. I will not ask you to wait for me for a mythical someday, and I will not promise the same. We have always ended up in the same place with each other before something or someone splits us apart. I have given up, I think, on believing that we will only be friends with each other in the end. But belief and reality are often very different things.//"

She stops for a moment, as if done, and then after a moment says, slowly, "//And I will say, if only this once, that she was made from you as much as from me. Now please do me the courtesy of leaving before I have to ask you to do so. We cannot do anything but bring pain to each other for now. We have been that way before. We learned to be friends after that; we will after this. After that, who knows. She was made from you as much as me. That is all I have left in me to give you or anyone else.//"

[konocc]

He's furious.

Was it still and always going to be about a simple physical thing? It she going to hang all this on that?

He's done being punished for caring. For having restraint.

Piotr gets up and walks out.

[just_a_phase]

She closes the door very quietly behind him; she hates herself a little for ordering her words deliberately that he might think back on them later and hear the parts after referring to the sexual act, the parts about being a lover the way they often have been--but not until his anger dies down.

It is, she tells herself--and suspects she's right--better this way.

It is so very strange that she is refusing to cry, she thinks, but her eyes still burn.

She makes herself start to work instead. She cannot see to work if her eyes blur with tears--and this is work that no X-Man (except Wolvie, except, maybe, Piotr, or at least before all this Piotr) would understand.

So it is done carefully, on her own computer that doesn't run through the mainframe.

And it says more about her heart than any words do that when she has to choose between two torturers, she doesn't hesitate.

She chooses to go after the woman who hurt Piotr instead of the man who hurt her.