prydeful: (even now I can feel wonder)
Dinner went...okay.

She'd hoped it would go better. And Kate's slightly bothered it didn't, but--slightly.

She also feels like she has way too much energy and--to be honest? She wants to phase all the way away now

Not that she will, of course. Instead, she just settles on the couch, looking up at her fiance.

"So. How do you feel?"

One foot taps the floor rather quickly, but that's all she does.
Labor is called, well, labor for a reason.

It involves work, which Kate can handle.

It involves pain, which Kate can handle.

But there's no enemy to focus on, nothing to defeat, and that--

That's what makes her scream, while she deals with the collar, with the migraine, with the fear.

She hears Piotr's voice, Hank's voice, Logan's voice--she thinks, she might be hallucinating--and she doesn't know what the hell to do.

Luckily, her body does.

Her name is Tatiana Mala Petravina Rasputina, and Kate is weary as the little girl with silver, metallic eyes. In that, she is most definitely her father's daughter.

She's kinda glad; in her opinion, the more their children take after Piotr, rather than her, the better. (And she doesn't realize she already is thinking about children, as in more than one child.)

(She and Piotr had spent days debating if they should choose to name her for Simon or Mal, as they both care for each man and both owe each man a great deal. But they agreed, finally, that Mala sounded better. And a name that means, "mighty in battle" is probably good for their daughter.)

But she has her daughter, and she has her maybe-will-be-husband, and she thinks it's going to turn out okay.

She should have known better. She never should have dared to even think that.

But for now, let's let her have indulge in her delusion. She just gave birth.

So if visions of outdoor weddings and blue wedding dress that's probably from the bridesmaid shelf, though she'd never admit to it, if images of her daughter going to preschool-kindergarten-college are dancing in her head, well--she is Dream's favorite niece. Let her dream, even during the day.

For today, let's let her believe it will be okay.
She is not a woman who enjoys pregnancy, Kate has discovered.

She really, really wants to phase.

Instead, she's distracting herself with bridal magazines that have been heaped upon her by not only her mother, but also Simon's.

Which means there's a really wide range of styles from one page to the next, and every now and then she's not sure if she's looking at something for the wedding ceremony or the honeymoon, but...well, it most definitely serves as distraction.

"Some of your culture frightens me," she informs Simon without looking up when he enters their room.
You can be 14 and actually, truly be in love, is the thing.

Being told it's just a crush--well, that gets a laptop thrown at your head, if you want ot say that.

The thing is, she proved herself a long time ago to everyone at Xavier's. They know her. They love her. They're her family, and they understand that when it comes to Piotr--

When it came. Came. Stupid, stupid memories left over from a visit from her future self.

It doesn't make sense. She knows they got married then. She's stuck with the memory of the wedding. (Why didn't I wear white?) Along with three kids stolen from them by Sentinels, and one kiss good-bye, and it's not fair, he should be the one who has to have these all in his head if he's going to do this to her--


Fine. She's mature. She's 100% mature. The hysterical sobbing into her pillow is over. Time to be a big girl. She can handle this. She can totally handle seeing Piotr Rasputin every day and going about and being adult and--

And it's time to go home. It's winter, and she wants her daddy. (And her mom. But...well. Her mom--she wants her daddy.) And he sounded so weird on the last phone call anyway.

It's time to go home.

She's a genius. But it doesn't take being one to know that when you're heart is broken, sometimes you need to get your head clear.

That's what will happen. Right. It's just a break to get her head clear.

And the reason she leaves as quickly as possible, the reason she runs to the cab and doesn't tell Illyana, the reason she takes her most important things with her is...

Well, Kitty Pryde is a genius.

And that is the part that tells her she doesn't know how long this break will be.

[Many years later, she'll wonder if she would have had a more peaceful life if she'd just been able to close her eyes and deal with the pain. But you make one choice, and you never know that it's the one that's going to set you on your life path.

This just happens to be that one.]

About time.

Sep. 3rd, 2010 10:23 pm
prydeful: (sensei)
Considering Logan knew the first time she slept with Piotr by scent, she's not sure she's capable of surprising him about the news that's done a great job surprising her.

That doesn't mean she won't try, as she lazily stretches out on his couch, having easily tripped the lock and broken into his room, waiting for him to show up.
prydeful: (Not quite horrified but getting there.)
Hank is eyeing her in a way that Kate would be annoyed at any other time.

Hank has also given her a shot of...something, she's not quite sure what, because she really did start hyperventilating when his words finally registered to her.

Every month, it's the same check-up, the same thing; two checkups from now is the deadline she and Piotr had agreed on for starting fertility treatments, and frankly, in her head, Kate recites the results of Hank's tests along with him, like she has every month.

The problem comes when this month, the words in her head do not match the ones coming out of his mouth.

It took her a minute.

"--Wait. Wait. Say that part again? --NO, HANK, NOT THE PART ABOUT MY WHITE BLOODCELLS."

He had looked slightly miffed at the shouting, but she feels, really, that was entirely understandable.

"...Oh. Um. Okay. ...Hank, you should probably call Piotr. I think I'm going to hyperventilate."

Which she then did, showing, Kate feels, that she at least has some idea of what's going on in her body, and then there was the shot, and then Hank called Piotr, and then--

Wow. My brain really doesn't ever shut down. And I babble in it, too. Huh.

She really hopes Piotr gets here before she drives herself crazy. Or drives Hank crazy. He might inject her again, then. She couldn't blame him, really.


She's not at all sure how to deal with this.
prydeful: (thoughtful)
Things have been--

Not slow, exactly. Nothing, Kate thinks, in this universe is ever slow. But compared to spending months in prison, it's definitely been easier.

Though one thing--one thing Kate is not having luck ignoring--isn't going so easily.

She's not thinking on that, she reminds herself as she practices flips in the Danger Room.

She's still not thinking on that when she finishes, sweat-drenched and sore, and heads back to her room and her shower.

She is still, in fact, not thinking about that while she stands in the shower.

She's just staying in there. For a while. Enjoying the spray.

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.

Translated by Alastair Reid
Someone is tapping her foot.

A lot.

For a while.

And then she's sticking her head back through the door--literally--to roll her eyes at her roommate.

"Kiddo, come on. Stevie's already threatened us with extra laps if we show up late again."

Okay, so this ignores the possibility of portals that take you immediately to where you need to be. Or the fact that running really isn't a big concern for either of them.

It's the thought that counts!
Shadow is--

Well, there's talking happening, and there's actions of variously rated natures happening, and there's decisions being made and not happening, and also Sallie makes really great pie.


It's not that it's distracting, it's that right now--especially with the things they can't avoid talking about sometimes in their own world, back home--Shadow has Piotr, and Kate finds herself liking the privacy it feels like the world gives them.

That doesn't mean getting out isn't nice too, though, and right now Kate has her security badge on, her feet propped on a table, a salad that's ridiculously tasty, and humming to herself as she watches the room and sees who's about to talk to.
prydeful: (Damaged)
She's bleeding.

You don't think of it as bleeding, really. Or she doesn't, not most months. It's her period. It comes three months, regular as clockwork, when she's on the pill, and it's every five to six weeks when she's not on it. It's just part of a biological system.

But the reality, Kate thinks, is that she's bleeding.

If you bleed this much, people rush to help you. To bandage you up, to stitch up wounds. People recognize it as something being wrong, that the world isn't working like it should. They give you pain medicine and let you cry and scream, because it's a lot of blood, a lot of tissue, and that's got to be a horrible thing.

Unless it's this sort of bleeding. This bleeding from between her legs, she thinks as her hands form fists, and it makes her sicker to see the blood staining her panties than it did to see the blood gushing from a bullet hole in her chest. Than it felt to be gouged through with a beam and pinned to Piotr like a butterfly on a placard.

This is bleeding out, and it's bleeding out with hope, and no one will--

It's just a period. A period, something at the end, something final. It marks the end of one cycle, and now the next starts. It's just a period. A simple function.

Except it's bleeding, too, gushing blood and tissue and hope, more than anything, and since they made that damned cure it seems like Kate's seeing hope bleed out everywhere in ways it never should.

It's not that much blood, part of her wants to say, and it's so much blood she feels like if she stands here it will keep leaking down her legs, stain the floor, her skin, build up around her ankles and drown her whole. Like Alice and her tears.

She didn't know how much she was hoping and praying without words to a deity she doesn't much acknowledge that a baby would be conceived right away. That they'd be started.

She hit the period earlier than she thought she would have, but she hasn't been off the pill for a couple of years.

She didn't even have time to try out the pregnancy test this time. The best pregnancy test there is gave her the answer for free.

She's still bleeding on the floor, Kate realizes, because she's frozen since the moment she realized what was happening, and she quickly cleans up herself best she can, tile somewhat better, and then leans against the wall and closes her eyes.

And the worst part is that part of her is gong inside oh God, one more month, one more month I can't phase just as loudly as the part that's upset and demanding why they can't have their little boy or girl yet. Why they can't have their family yet. It's so fucking easy for so many people, and she knows it's hard for some mutants to conceive with each other, and she is praying to any god that might listen that they don't have that one too. Not that problem, not after all the others.

Sticking a tampon in hurts. In all ways; emotionally, because she doesn't want that little mess of absorbency in her, doesn't want to need it, and physically because Kate has a temper and is losing it, and shoved it in too fast and at the wrong angle.

Pain'll go away, and it's her own damned fault.

It still hurts, though, and it makes her slam her first one, two, three times against the wall, and then more till she's lost count and breathing heavily, shoulders shaking and chest heaving.

She should go out of the bathroom, she realizes, soon.

But first she closes her eyes and lets go for the first time in weeks, lets her body be intangible and her fingers drift through the sink.

There's no reason for the moment not to, after all, and part of her hates herself that she's grateful for this reprieve.

But that doesn't stop her from enjoying it.

On Shadow

Nov. 14th, 2007 03:40 pm
prydeful: (Worn out and through)
It's weird to wake up and be solid.

Piotr's arm is over her, which sometimes happens even if she's phased, but the bed is also solid beneath her.

It's just--

It's weird. It's only been a few nights, and she's telling herself she'll get used to it.

It's not bad, anyway, she reminds herself as she gets up and heads to the bathroom, uses the toilet and splashes some water on her face.

She stops to look in the mirror for a moment, studies the Kate Pryde who's studying her back, and thinks, You could be pregnant and feels a little sick to her stomach.

She needs, maybe, Kate thinks, to not think about that in the middle of the night. There are too many ways to get lost in her own thoughts, alone.

When she heads back to bed Piotr's stirring slightly in his sleep; it makes her bend to kiss him, softly, drift a hand over his hair, and whisper a shhh that may wake him more than let him sleep, but is still meant for comfort.
prydeful: (whoof)
They don't have sex all that much.




...They have a healthy sex life, let's say, which is slightly healthier than normal when one of them hasn't seen the other for a month. (Even if the other hadn't seen his girlfriend for only a few days.)

But there are other things, too, and the post-coitus bit is just as nice as the coitus itself. Kate thinks so, anyway, as she lies curled up on her boyfriend, head on his chest and fingers drifting across said chest, his arm, his shoulder, back to his chest again.

His breathing is slow and even, far more so of both than it was a few minutes ago, and it makes her smile and kiss a spot near his collarbone to see how relaxed he is.
prydeful: (Shadowcat)
There's a lot to talk about.

One thing in particular. Dancing and a kiss and waking and wondering.

But there's a lot to talk about, and Piotr's face is serious enough she hasn't kissed him yet, just silently tilted her head towards the door and moved with him back to Serenity and her bunk, silent and in the mood for business before anything else.

Because that's what has to be done now.

(She's still holding his hand.)

The door closes behind them, and Kate sits on the bunk.

"So what's happened?"


Sep. 29th, 2007 11:53 pm
prydeful: (yartzeit)
The reality, Kate is willing to admit as she scratches Lockheed’s back, is that she is, perhaps, not the best-behaved Jew the world has ever produced.

It’s been a long time since she thought about it as something religious, really. It’s hard to observe holy days when you’re in jail. Or a spaceship.

It messes with your sense of time, if nothing else.

And she feels stupid doing things on her own, and it’s not so much like sleeping with the large warm Russian boyfriend is something you can consider holy. She doesn’t have a clue of when she last saw a rabbi as anything other than someone just on the street.

And she kinda feels being an X-Man is sacrifice enough and abstaining enough to hold her for the rest of her life.

But being crappy at being Jewish doesn’t make her any less a Jew. In her head, it’s organized neatly: Daughter, Jewish, Genius, Dancer, Mutant. All of them were true from birth—even dancer she thinks was, just part of her, born with grace the way some people are born with double joints or the ability to run quickly, and the lessons brought it out—and some she knew sooner than others. Her earliest memories are of her mother and father; the ones after that are of grandparents, and with grandmother comes gold necklaces with Stars of David on them, comes prayers recited in words she didn’t understand yet.

She can’t stop being any of those things. They’re her.

And the thing about God is that she has no doubt He exists, and she’s pretty sure He’s not always a right bastard.

But she’s pretty sure He also can be whenever He likes. Or so she thinks; it’s the only way she can explain to herself how the world works.

So Kate doesn’t talk to God much, and likes to think there’s something of a mutual understanding going on there.

And then there are exceptions.

This is probably one. Which means she has to figure out where to start, and she’s never been good at that. There’s something about the way that Kurt prays that makes her jealous, in a way. She thinks it’s more being Kurt than being Catholic, but there’s something in the simple motion he makes of crossing himself and the way he says, “Amen” like he means it that always seems like he’s actually starting to talk to, well, God. That all the reverence is there, and that he is aware exactly who and what he’s daring to speak to.

And there are so many prayers for so many days, starting with Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha olam and it leading off into a dozen dozen different prayers and she’s even heard it by people who sounded like they really meant it, said it like Kurt says, “Amen” and Ororo says, “by the Bright Lady” and you know she means someone, Some One, who’s very real and there to her.

The thing is—well.

Kate’s not one of the people who can say things like that. She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t think she can be. It’s not natural.

She hopes, a little, that makes the attempt count more.

Lockheed’s on her legs, and Kate looks at him, silently, drifts fingers over his scaly wings, and whispers, “All right.”

Just that, as she gently shifts Heed to the side and bends to reach under her box. There’s a stub of a candle in it—she thinks it’s from an evening she’d made Piotr laugh by being ridiculously romantic, and that had been the point—and a lighter, both of which she removes and sets on the stand.

This isn’t really how anything should be done, but sometimes you have to do a thing now, because you’ve got the guts to do it now—and in a way this takes as much guts as anything else.

“For—for the son of Simon and Kaylee Tam,” she says, after a moment, and it’s not that it has to be done, it’s not that it fits exactly into any rite or ritual but—

So many different traditions light a candle to remember someone lost. And there’s a candle, and it’s what she has to try and make this feel right, feel formal.

Feel, admittedly, something beyond like she’s stumbling about on a path she’s never really worried about knowing all that well or not.

And it’s harder, because it’s not for her son, not for her loved one. It’s for that of a friend, and so she can’t even say the words the way she did in Piotr’s memory, say for the memory of her beloved.

Really, she doesn’t know what to say at all.

So she stares at the candle, for a moment, and then closes her eyes and doesn’t say anything at all.

Doesn’t, exactly, think anything, either. It’s not scripting it out in her head. Words matter—words matter so much—but she doesn’t have the words for this one, and so instead she thinks only Please and tries to put all her hopes and fears and desires behind it.

For it to get better for them. For the baby to be loved, wherever it is he is. For Simon to look less tired, and for him to not worry about his marriage on top of the rest. For it to not be a thing that needs to be worried about. For there to be less pain, and for grieving to take place. For the loss to never be less there, but to be something that doesn’t interfere with life continuing on. For the right things to happen for them, whatever that is—for their marriage to get better, or for it to not, but for it to be what’s right for Simon and Kaylee both. And if the right thing is one that hurts, then for the pain to be dealt with and something that doesn’t stop them from continuing to live or find joy, together or apart.

Please is the only word she has, because she doesn’t think she can say, thank you yet and doesn’t know if she’s going to be able to at all. She can’t say thank you for whatever God gives.

But normally she can’t even say please, so she hopes, a little, that she gets points for effort. If there are points.

This is why she doesn’t think about religion too much. She hates things she can’t see clear answers to.

But she tries to think on it a little more, now. Long enough to watch the stub of wax melt and the flame sputter out. And she’s not sure she knows how to end any better than she knew how to start with this, so she just nods once, and throws the wax in the garbage, and settles on the bunk again.

Lockheed crawls back onto her lap and she bends her head to kiss his snout.

And she thinks please once more, for herself and for Piotr, and then makes herself stop.

Because some prayers you know won’t ever be answered.

So Kate kisses Heed again, and she wishes that Piotr will come home to her soon.

(This she can’t pray for. And if she realized it, Kate would admit that really—that says everything about what she thinks of God answering prayers.)
Piotr is not here.

This has nothing to do with why Kate is cursing in Japanese under her breath at various laptops she's taken to pieces in the cargo area.

Nothing at all.

Why would you think that?

Not. A. Thing.

prydeful: (Made In Japan)
Piotr's gone back.

Logan's gone with him.

Neither of these facts has anything at all to do with why Kate is throwing knives, small and silver and sharp and numerous, at targets.


Not at all.
prydeful: (Thinking)
So phasing through the floor of the bar aside--

This being with Piotr thing.

It's going...better than she thought it might. As a relationship, not just the sex.

The sex she was always pretty sure she'd like, really.

But--it's nice. And she's liking it. And she...probably should tell some people about it.

Logan's one, but he's not around, not with things going on, as much as he was, and--

It's Logan.

He'll notice soon, if he hasn't already, and then she doesn't have to tell him.

...There are some other people, though.
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