Post by tingrin on Sept 18, 2006 16:44:18 GMT -5
When Piotr came in from outside, he wore a deeply thoughtful expression on his face, his eyes holding an uncharacteristic faraway look that was most unlike him. He scanned the area until his deep blue eyes rested on Sibyl, a look of uncertainty on his face. He took several tentative steps towards her, paused, then continued, more assured.
"We must talk," he said, softly.
Sibyl had her arms around herself, leaning against the wall just outside Hannah's room. The little girl had gone down for a much needed nap, but it was Sibyl who would rather have had her head beneath the covers.
She looked up at Piotr like someone almost unaware of where they were; seeing herself in someone else had twisted something in her mind. It seemed Piotr shared the same feeling.
"Da," she responded in a soft whisper, gesturing a bit down the hall. "My room."
He hesitated briefly, then bit his lip and nodded, gesturing politely for her to go on first. The last time he'd entered her room, only what, less than an hour or so ago, it had been with pleasure at the thought of seeing her. Now it was with increasing anxiety at what he perceived may have been going on.
Yet it had been this Sibyl with whom he had just discussed some of his dreams and plans, had it not?
The thought was stretching his brain to capacity.
Sibyl shut the door behind him quietly, and straightened the stool he'd been sitting on not long before. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she folded her hands in her lap.
"Can you explain to me what has happened?" She looked up at him, bewildered. "She changed to look like me, yes? Why?"
Piotr studiously avoided looking at her. He couldn't. He wasn't ready yet.
"Her name is Mystique," he said, softly. "We believed she had been Cured, last year, before Alcatraz. She is a shape shifter and she was Magneto's closest and most trusted lieutenant."
He moved to stare out the window. "As for why she was changed to look like you, I do not know. I sincerely do not know."
He wasn't looking at her. There was something else.
She watched him now without breaking her gaze, leaning a bit as if she could turn his face towards her with only her eyes.
"Petya..." she whispered. "What are you not telling me?"
"I...must know," he said, staring out over the gardens. "The other night. We shared a bottle of vodka. Please tell me that was you."
His voice was strained and unnatural.
His question struck her. Her hand went to her chest, and she shook her head a little. Already she couldn't speak. Why was this happening to her? Why hadn't she seen it coming?
Shaking her head again, then again, she held her breath, swallowing hard. It hurt her for Piotr that there may have been moments he thought were her, that were not.
"No, I would not bring it to the school... not while I am still a student." She swore softly in Russian, looking at him. "You didn't... tell her anything... things that might be a danger to you?"
"Bozhe moi," he murmured. "Oh, Sibyl."
He turned to look at her. "No, that is not what troubles me. I...you...she..." The big man buried his head in his hands. "It was her, not you. I feel..."
To Sibyl's alarm, the big man was on the verge of tears.
Sibyl didn't know what to do. This was bigger than she could fathom. Who in all their lives would imagine being impersonated in the very place they slept?
With shaking hands she touched him, fingers running along his arms, his shoulders. She stepped to him and kissed the top of his head.
"Shhh... Piotr. If nothing important was said, then... it is frightening, and hurtful... but not so awful we cannot overcome it." Strength and wise words when others were weak. She had learned it very young, reading fortunes as a child to old women desperate for hope.
"Sibyl, you do not understand." Piotr looked up at her, his blue eyes bright with unspilled tears. "She and I...we slept together."
There. It was said. The sheer enormity of it made him want to be violently sick. He felt violated.
The room was quiet between them as she stepped back. The bed creaked a bit when she sat heavily on it once more, her face a mask of too many awful emotions all fighting for space in her heart.
Sibyl and Piotr were quiet, simple people with modest dreams. They weren't made for moments like this.
She put her hands to her face, and took a heaving breath in, the sort that would have been relieved by a hearty sob, but nothing came. Sibyl remained quiet, her shoulders shaking in spite of her better efforts.
He was ripped apart by her obvious distress, not knowing whether he should put his arms around her and comfort her, or whether he should stay where he was. He fidgeted awkwardly for a few moments.
"I love you," he said, suddenly. "I did not know. The gods help me, Sibyl, I did not know. I thought...the vodka, the relaxation, the..." He buried his own face in his hands for a moment. "Forgive me," he said, eventually, his voice muffled. "Forgive me."
The beautiful words came from his lips, the ones she had been holding back herself for days. And on their heels came chasing a description of images she was trying desperately to shut out. They shattered the pure tone of the first confession... so brutally she thought she could hear it smash against the ground.
"Get out!" She cried, pointing at the door, a hand going over her mouth as soon as she said it. But it was only to keep herself from crying, even as tears spilled from her eyes. "Out," said much more weakly, she struggled to hold herself together and prayed he would be merciful and go.
It was no less than he deserved, and it was with a heavy heart that the big Russian turned and left Sibyl's room, walking down the corridor in some sort of daze. It was over. His dreams, his hopes, all were shattered.
Because of one foolish night of passion.
"We must talk," he said, softly.
Sibyl had her arms around herself, leaning against the wall just outside Hannah's room. The little girl had gone down for a much needed nap, but it was Sibyl who would rather have had her head beneath the covers.
She looked up at Piotr like someone almost unaware of where they were; seeing herself in someone else had twisted something in her mind. It seemed Piotr shared the same feeling.
"Da," she responded in a soft whisper, gesturing a bit down the hall. "My room."
He hesitated briefly, then bit his lip and nodded, gesturing politely for her to go on first. The last time he'd entered her room, only what, less than an hour or so ago, it had been with pleasure at the thought of seeing her. Now it was with increasing anxiety at what he perceived may have been going on.
Yet it had been this Sibyl with whom he had just discussed some of his dreams and plans, had it not?
The thought was stretching his brain to capacity.
Sibyl shut the door behind him quietly, and straightened the stool he'd been sitting on not long before. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she folded her hands in her lap.
"Can you explain to me what has happened?" She looked up at him, bewildered. "She changed to look like me, yes? Why?"
Piotr studiously avoided looking at her. He couldn't. He wasn't ready yet.
"Her name is Mystique," he said, softly. "We believed she had been Cured, last year, before Alcatraz. She is a shape shifter and she was Magneto's closest and most trusted lieutenant."
He moved to stare out the window. "As for why she was changed to look like you, I do not know. I sincerely do not know."
He wasn't looking at her. There was something else.
She watched him now without breaking her gaze, leaning a bit as if she could turn his face towards her with only her eyes.
"Petya..." she whispered. "What are you not telling me?"
"I...must know," he said, staring out over the gardens. "The other night. We shared a bottle of vodka. Please tell me that was you."
His voice was strained and unnatural.
His question struck her. Her hand went to her chest, and she shook her head a little. Already she couldn't speak. Why was this happening to her? Why hadn't she seen it coming?
Shaking her head again, then again, she held her breath, swallowing hard. It hurt her for Piotr that there may have been moments he thought were her, that were not.
"No, I would not bring it to the school... not while I am still a student." She swore softly in Russian, looking at him. "You didn't... tell her anything... things that might be a danger to you?"
"Bozhe moi," he murmured. "Oh, Sibyl."
He turned to look at her. "No, that is not what troubles me. I...you...she..." The big man buried his head in his hands. "It was her, not you. I feel..."
To Sibyl's alarm, the big man was on the verge of tears.
Sibyl didn't know what to do. This was bigger than she could fathom. Who in all their lives would imagine being impersonated in the very place they slept?
With shaking hands she touched him, fingers running along his arms, his shoulders. She stepped to him and kissed the top of his head.
"Shhh... Piotr. If nothing important was said, then... it is frightening, and hurtful... but not so awful we cannot overcome it." Strength and wise words when others were weak. She had learned it very young, reading fortunes as a child to old women desperate for hope.
"Sibyl, you do not understand." Piotr looked up at her, his blue eyes bright with unspilled tears. "She and I...we slept together."
There. It was said. The sheer enormity of it made him want to be violently sick. He felt violated.
The room was quiet between them as she stepped back. The bed creaked a bit when she sat heavily on it once more, her face a mask of too many awful emotions all fighting for space in her heart.
Sibyl and Piotr were quiet, simple people with modest dreams. They weren't made for moments like this.
She put her hands to her face, and took a heaving breath in, the sort that would have been relieved by a hearty sob, but nothing came. Sibyl remained quiet, her shoulders shaking in spite of her better efforts.
He was ripped apart by her obvious distress, not knowing whether he should put his arms around her and comfort her, or whether he should stay where he was. He fidgeted awkwardly for a few moments.
"I love you," he said, suddenly. "I did not know. The gods help me, Sibyl, I did not know. I thought...the vodka, the relaxation, the..." He buried his own face in his hands for a moment. "Forgive me," he said, eventually, his voice muffled. "Forgive me."
The beautiful words came from his lips, the ones she had been holding back herself for days. And on their heels came chasing a description of images she was trying desperately to shut out. They shattered the pure tone of the first confession... so brutally she thought she could hear it smash against the ground.
"Get out!" She cried, pointing at the door, a hand going over her mouth as soon as she said it. But it was only to keep herself from crying, even as tears spilled from her eyes. "Out," said much more weakly, she struggled to hold herself together and prayed he would be merciful and go.
It was no less than he deserved, and it was with a heavy heart that the big Russian turned and left Sibyl's room, walking down the corridor in some sort of daze. It was over. His dreams, his hopes, all were shattered.
Because of one foolish night of passion.