Fic: The Missing Years
Jan. 8th, 2012 02:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: The Missing Years
Summary: Two years after Cuba, the Brotherhood falls apart. It's a long time before they put it back together again.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Word Count: 8119
Rating/Contents: NC-17, memory erasure/swapping, non-con (by way of memory erasure), character death, rape recovery, oh my god so much sadness, but! A happy ending. Also, this story deals really heavily with things that might be triggering for people sensitive to parent-child issues. Click here for more information, and please proceed with caution.
Pairing: Charles/Erik, Erik/Magda, Mystique/Azazel, Erik/Mystique
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Oh god, this story. I should wait until after everybody finishes their Secret Mutant reposting, but I CANNOT HAVE IT WITH ME ANY LONGER. First and foremost, all gloryto the Hypnotoad to my inestimable beta, stlkrchck, who bravely waded into this story and fixed it right up. I have Thoughts and ~feelings~ about this story, but I expect that only about four people are going to read it, which means that one person will read half the notes, so it's not really worth it. So. Here is this incredibly sad story, for your... enjoyment?
May 1965
The banging on the door is so loud, and Riptide really doesn't want to answer it. He can probably make a really good excuse not to, but then he'll have to fight it out with Magneto, and he's not particularly inclined to do that today.
He can already tell that it's not the cops, but that doesn't mean it's good news. He walks over; someone is yelling, a woman's voice, saying, "Magneto, Riptide, open this goddamned door! I know you're in there!"
He really hopes it's not who he thinks it is.
He opens the door.
It's exactly who he thinks it is.
May 1964
And then, one morning, they were just gone.
It wasn't as if a group of revolutionaries had family breakfast or anything, but one could reliably expect them to wake up at some point and filter through the kitchen. Mystique, in particular, insisted on eating her cereal, usually while Erik drank his coffee, so her absence was conspicuous.
It was worse when neither Mystique nor Azazel appeared for the morning's strategy meeting. It was critical, and they both knew that; the governor's speech was only two days away, and they hadn't even discussed some of the finer details of the plan, details crucial for its success.
They still weren't back by the time the governor's speech actually happened, when the attempt on his life failed precisely because they weren't there; the rest of them barely got out. They abandoned the safe house and fell to their backup; Azazel and Mystique both knew that was the plan, and neither of them showed up there, either.
First Magneto was angry, then he was worried; by the time Emma announced she and Angel were leaving, he was well on into furious.
"I'll be taking a third of the money," Emma told him.
"I can't stop you from doing that," he said, which was half an admission of defeat and half a show of fairness.
"We'll be seeing you," Angel said, and they left; it was less than two weeks before news of the New Hellfire Club started filtering in through the usual channels.
And then it was just Magneto and Riptide, the pieces of the Brotherhood shattered around them.
And neither of them knew quite what to do.
May 1965
"Jesus Christ, Riptide," she says as she steps inside, rubbing her arms with her hands as she flips back to her real skin. "How long were you going to let me stay out there? It's 50 degrees, and it's not like I have a jacket."
"You should feel lucky that I let you in at all," he says angrily.
She gives him a strange look. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"
He crosses his arms. "I might ask you the same question."
May 1964
He sat down on the bed in the hotel room and carefully removed his helmet, setting it on the nightstand. «Charles,» he thought, over and over, like an incantation, like a mantra, «Charles, Charles, Charles, Charles—»
He didn't know how long it took, but then there was the inquisitive brush of Charles's mind against his own, tentative and painful. «Charles,» he thought, as hard as he could, «Charles, I didn't come to fight, I want to talk, Charles, I'm alone, use Cerebro if you think I'm lying—»
«If I come,» Charles answered, and it hurt so much just to hear him, «I won't be alone. I can't give you that.»
«It's more than I deserve for you to come at all,» Erik replied, thinking the address at him.
«Yes,» Charles thought. «It is.»
Still, Charles came. They sat in the hotel lobby, Alex seated on the opposite side of the room and looking murderously at Erik the entire time.
"Well," Charles said, "here we are."
"I'm not going to ask for your forgiveness," Erik said, without preamble. "What I did was unforgivable."
Charles sighed. "Knowing me, I will one day forgive you." His face darkened. "But I will never forget."
Erik looked down, nodding his head, unable to face the weight of it. "Nor will I, Charles."
"You'd never ask, but even if you did, I'm not going to take you back," Charles said, softly. "You'd hate both of us if I let you abandon your ideals like that."
Somehow, it felt good just to hear Charles say that, a weight off his mind, the unrecognized fear of backsliding finally pushed away. "I know."
Charles looked at him, his face serious, his eyes searching, but he kept out of Erik's mind. "What's wrong?"
Erik snorted, suddenly realizing how ill-advised all of this was. "I probably shouldn't tell you, should I? My loss is your gain, isn't it?"
"Erik, you and I will fight for the rest of our lives," Charles told him. "It doesn't mean I ever want to see you hurt."
"Everything has gone to hell, Charles," Erik said, sitting back in his chair, putting a hand over his face. "Everyone is gone. Even Mystique—Raven left me."
Charles looked at him with concern. "What did you do?"
"I have no idea," Erik said, running his fingers through his hair. "One morning she took off with Azazel."
"Erik," Charles said carefully, "far be it from me to spread people's thoughts around, but Raven is in love with you."
"I know," Erik replied. "She has been for a while now."
"Something is wrong," he said, frowning. "Azazel killed—" he rubbed his forehead—"the man from the CIA. I will forever feel guilty for not learning his name. He did it right in front of her."
"I tried to find them," Erik told him. "Short of Cerebro, how would I ever track her down?"
"Even if I would ever possibly let you do that," Charles said, though it was already clear to both of them that there was no chance of that at all, "you couldn't recognize her once you got there. And, for whatever reason, Azazel is the one person I've ever looked for specifically using Cerebro and never been able to find."
"I'm exhausted, Charles," he said. "I don't know how much longer I can do this."
"Erik," he said gently, "you left here because you had a fire inside of you, one goal that everything else had to be sacrificed for, one belief driving you forward. Has there ever been a time in your life when it wasn't like that?"
The corner of Erik's mouth ticked up. "What about when I was with you?"
"Just because you did it in a nice house didn't make it less work," Charles said, shaking his head. He put his hand on top of Erik's. "If you don't rest, you'll die. And I never want to see that."
Erik leaned over, kissing him softly, cupping his face with his hand; Charles put his own hand over it, lacing their fingers together. "Thank you," Erik said.
"I wish that I could say, 'Any time,'" he replied. He motioned for Alex, and Alex came and rolled him away. Erik walked back up to his room and put the helmet back on. He could feel the instant that Charles's mind was cut off, leaving his blank and empty.
It hurt much more than it had the first time.
He was a little surprised to find Riptide waiting for him when he went back to the safe house. "I'm going to Germany," Erik told him.
He nodded. "When do we leave?"
Erik stopped in his tracks. "Perhaps you didn't understand me," he said. "I'm going."
"And I go where you go," he said, like it was obvious.
It was on the tip of Erik's tongue to order him out, but he looked at Riptide, studying him. "Why is that, exactly, Riptide?"
"Shaw only ever wanted two things out of me," he said. "He wanted me to look good in a suit and shut the fuck up. You actually care what I think. Nobody's ever done that."
Erik thought about it. "Do you speak German?"
He shrugged. "I get by."
May 1965
"What crawled up your ass and died?" Mystique says, putting her bag down on the table.
"Where the hell have you been?" Riptide demands.
"I was in New York," she tells him. "Where the hell do you think I was? That's where Magneto sent me, that's where I went."
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Just when did he do that?"
"Riptide, you were there when he gave me the assignment," she says. "How could you have forgotten?"
He frowns. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"That sounds like a personal problem," she says, with a little laugh.
"Knock it off, Mystique."
She rolls her eyes at him. "You knock it off."
June 1964
It was nothing and everything like he remembered.
His house was gone, his grandmother's with it; there was something comforting about that, the idea that no one else would ever live there again, that part of his life swept away. The streets were the same, but what lined them was different, unpredictable: a two-hundred-year-old building next to the new synagogue, places from his childhood unrecognizable under so many new coats of paint.
His town had had time to move on, a whole twenty years.
Erik hadn't had any.
He met her in a shop, only days after they arrived. She was sweeping up, and the first thing he noticed about her was the harsh scrawl of numbers up her forearm, heavy and black. They were a punch to the throat, like every time he saw anyone's, like every time he saw his own; but she wore them like they were nothing at all, a fact of life and nothing else, no more worthy of shame or pride or hiding or showing than any other scar.
He would always envy that.
"Magda?" he said, not quite sure that it was really her, if his luck was really that good.
She looked at him quizzically. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"It's Erik Lehnsherr," he said, feeling a little embarrassed; he'd been changed so much that someone so important to him didn't recognize him at all.
"Erik," she said, her eyes lighting up, and she all but threw herself into his arms. "I never thought I'd see you again."
He caught her, spinning her around. "Likewise," he told her. "I didn't know—" he left it to hang, what everyone knew came at the end of that sentence. "And I didn't know if I'd ever come back."
She smiled, bright and wide, just the way he remembered, the way she used to do when they were children. "Well, here you are now."
Erik looked back; Riptide stood in the doorway behind them, not sure what to do but quite aware he was interrupting. "Magda," he said, "this is my travelling companion—" He faltered; after everything, he suddenly realized he didn't even know Riptide's real name.
"Janos," he said, offering her his hand. "Janos Quested."
"A pleasure to meet you," she said. "How long will you be staying?" she asked Erik.
He smiled. "As long as I need to."
May 1965
"I really don't see what you're so angry about," she tells him. "You were fine when I left."
"You left a really long time ago, Mystique."
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Since when is two weeks a really long time?"
He looks at her strangely. "It's been a whole hell of a lot longer than two weeks."
"I know it seems like that because you love me so damn much," she says, "but I left Friday before last. It's two weeks later. Here I am."
June 1964
Her small body was beautiful over his own, the sunlight from the window spilling over her pale skin, catching in her soft brown hair. The words and moans that dropped from her mouth were like music, gorgeous in their simplicity, nothing but pure want behind them.
They made love like that all afternoon, the breeze blowing gently in, nothing else in the world anywhere near them.
Erik didn't think he'd ever been happier.
May 1965
"Mystique," Riptide says slowly, "What day is it?"
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Friday."
He frowns; it's definitely Saturday. "What month is it?"
"What is wrong with you?" she says. "Did you lose your calendar?"
"Humor me."
"May," she tells him, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah, but what year is it?" he presses.
"This is getting ridiculous."
"Mystique—"
"It's 1964, when the hell else would it be? Seriously, I want a shower, get out of my—"
"You," Erik says from behind her, and something isn't right about it at all.
August 1964
Magda looked worried, more than she ever had, in a way she never had.
"Something's wrong," Erik said, starting to get worried himself.
"I have something to tell you," she said, "and I have no idea what you're going to say."
"You'd better just say it."
She sighed heavily. "I'm pregnant. I only just realized."
Erik nodded, swallowing hard. "You'll have to move in, then."
She looked at him in confusion. "What?"
"Where else would my wife live?" he said, walking over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders.
Her eyes widened. "Erik, just because—it doesn't mean you don't have to—"
"Who says I don't want to?" he said, kissing her gently. "I love you. Of course I want this."
She pressed her face to his chest, her tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, and Erik thought of Sebastian Shaw, cold and dead; Erik almost wished he were here, just so he could see. Shaw had poured so much of himself into making Erik the perfect weapon, teaching him nothing but how to hate. And here Erik was, doing exactly the opposite of what Shaw had programmed him for.
Once again, when it came down to Erik and Shaw, Erik won.
May 1965
"Hey, Erik," she says carefully; his expression is murderous.
"Give me one reason," Erik says. "Give me one reason I shouldn't—"
"Magneto," Riptide says, holding up his hands. "There's something wrong, let's calm down for a minute—"
The metal around the edge of the table is starting to pull away, threatening to move towards her, snakelike. "You'd better hope you're faster than me, Mystique."
April 1965
Magda squeezed his hand so hard that it was past painful, but Erik didn't dare move. It was nothing, nothing at all compared to what she was going through. The labor seemed like it had been going on forever; the screaming was bad enough, but the waiting was what was killing him. There was no other choice, though. He wouldn't miss this moment, not an instant of it, wouldn't shrink away from the messy parts of his life and skip to the good ones.
He'd never had that luxury, and he wouldn't start trying to enjoy it now.
"Push, Magda," the midwife said, her voice getting stern, as if she were trying to goad Magda into it. "You can do it harder, girl, push for me—"
Magda screamed again, but she did it, bearing down harder, gripping Erik's hand so tightly that he could actually feel the bones in it move. Then there was more shouting, and a wet sound, and Erik felt sort of sick but he didn't dare look away.
"A girl," the midwife said, and Erik smiled down at Magda, so widely that he felt like his face would crack. "But it looks like we're not done."
"Twins?" Magda panted. "I thought, but—" Anything she was going to say was choked off by another groan, as she pushed again.
It still sounded so awful, but at least it was faster this time. "And a boy," the midwife said. Erik laughed out loud, looking to Magda again, but she didn't look back at him. And then suddenly the midwife was yelling at her assistant, and there was blood everywhere, and Erik couldn't look away from Magda's face; he couldn't even hear, his ears filled with static, the commotion, the sound of her death not even coming through.
"Magda," he whispered fervently. "Magda, don't leave me like this, you can't, you just can't, not now, not ever—"
His name was the last thing she ever said.
Janos finally pulled him away; he didn't even have the energy to fight back, clinging to Janos limply, letting himself be dragged back.
And that was the moment when he knew it was all over, when he knew what he should have known a year before: there was only ever one path for him, and no matter how far away he ran, it would always find him.
And punish him for leaving.
"I can't stay," he said, weakly, shakily. "I can't stay, and I can't ever know where they are."
The midwife approached him. "Herr Lehnsherr," she said quietly. "If you cannot raise these children, I know someone who will take them. They will be safe."
He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, swallowing down his tears. "Riptide," Erik said, and his voice was still shaking, but the old steel was underneath it. "We're going."
May 1965
"Erik," Mystique says, her voice shaking. "Erik, you're scaring me."
He steps forward, looming over her. "Maybe you should be scared of me," he says, "because I haven't even decided yet what I'm going to do to you. I only know that I'm going to do worse to Azazel."
"Who is Azazel?" she says, equal parts frustrated and terrified.
He pauses, looking at her, unsure what the hell is going on. "Mystique, don't you dare play games with me."
"I have no idea who you're talking about," she insists. "I don't know anyone named Azazel."
Riptide steps between the two of them. "Mystique," he says, "when we left the beach in Cuba, who was with us?"
She looks at him like he's got three heads. "It was the three of us and Angel."
"How did we leave?" he asks.
"We—" She looks puzzled. "We must have—" She shakes her head. "I don't have any idea."
Riptide rubs his forehead. "Shit."
Erik glowers at her. "I swear to god, Mystique, if this is a scam—"
"Erik, all I've done is what you've told me to do," she protests. "I did it, and now I'm back. That's all I know."
"Look, I know somebody who can settle this," Riptide says. "We'll have to wait a few hours, because she only works at night, but she'll believe us, she doesn't ask too many questions, and amnesia will probably be the least complicated thing she has to work on all night."
"Fine," Erik says tightly.
May 1964
Azazel was stretched out beside her when she woke up, drawing circles on her stomach with the tip of his tail.
"You know it worries me when you do that," she said, squirming.
"I'd never hurt you, darling." He drew an X over his chest. "Cross my heart." She rolled her eyes at him, and he kissed the end of her nose. "I forgot to tell you," he said. "Erik called today."
She rolled towards him, throwing an arm across his stomach. "Erik who?"
"Erik Lehnsherr."
She looked at him in confusion. "Who's that?"
"No one important," he said, smiling. "Just an old friend."
May 1965
There's no one in the waiting room—the secret waiting room, the one Riptide only gets them into because he knows a guy who knows a guy—when the three of them arrive. Erik rings the bell, and it's only a few moments before a woman walks through the door; she's dressed head to toe in white, excepting the blue and red capelet around her shoulders.
She looks between the three of them. "I only counted two of you," she says, pursing her lips. "On future visits, please refrain from using telepathy-blocking paraphernalia," she tells Erik, looking at his helmet. "We don't have a telepath proper here, so your thoughts aren't in jeopardy, but our security systems do run on the same frequencies. You're welcome to use it once you're here."
"I'll make a note," Erik says, raising an eyebrow at her.
She raises her eyebrow right back. "Who is the patient?" she asks.
Mystique waves a hand. "That's me."
"Some preliminary questions before we go back," she says, looking at her clipboard. "Are you carrying any weaponry?"
Mystique gives her a look. "No."
"Are any of your bodily fluids more acidic than is typical for human beings?"
"No."
"Are you aware of any symbiotic or parasitic presence, physical or spiritual, inhabiting your body?"
"No."
"Is this your real form? We can offer you a screen if you'd like to change."
She shrugs her shoulders, turning blue. "It's fine."
The nurse looks up from her checklist, smiling. "That's all I need out here. If you'll come back, we'll take care of everything else."
She looks back over her shoulder at Erik, and he frowns.
June 1964
They sat across the table from each other; it was a little restaurant, the kind that were becoming more and more popular in the city, one where a bright red man who happened to have a tail could dine with his blue companion without a second glance.
"That was quite a heist we pulled, my love," he said, leaning towards her.
She shrugged modestly. "You did most of the work."
"But as ever," he told her, "you made quite the stunning distraction."
She ran her foot up the inside of his calf, smirking. "I'd like to think I'm a bit more than that."
He smiled. "You are useful to me in more ways than you know, my little pet."
May 1965
Mystique finally reappears. Seeing their faces, she holds up a hand. "I don't know anything, so don't ask. She's waiting for results."
"How was it?" Riptide asks.
"She touched me in ways I've never been touched before," Mystique mutters; he laughs, turning it into a cough when he sees Erik's expression. "And how weird is it that the strangest thing that happened to me today wasn't going to see a nurse who wears a cape?"
Erik snorts. "I'd think you'd be used to things like that by now."
It's a long, tense time before the nurse reappears; Riptide pretends to be really, really interested in Life Magazine while Erik drums his fingers on the end table and Mystique resists the urge to slap him for it.
The door finally opens again. "I'm ready to talk about your results now," the nurse says, and her face is very serious.
Mystique turns, clutching Erik's arm. "Erik, please come with me."
"Mystique," the nurse says gently, "you have a right to confidentiality. And I'm going to have to ask you some questions that you may not want anyone else to know the answers to."
She pulls him. "Erik, I know you're angry at me right now, and you don't believe me," she says, "but please don't make me do this alone."
He looks at her, and something about her face stops him from saying no. "I'll come."
The nurse nods. "You can come on back."
July 1964
It was hot in Monaco, but that mattered little when they were holed up in their hotel room, the only breeze provided by the air conditioner.
Mystique put on a tall brunette to answer the door; she blocked the waiter's view of Azazel with her body, which wasn't that hard considering what her body looked like. He didn't even seem to notice when she pushed him back into the hallway, his tip fluttering to the floor.
"Dinner," she said, pushing the cart towards the bed.
Azazel looked her up and down. "It'll wait."
She grinned, going over to the bed. She slid beneath the sheets, straddling Azazel's hips. "Let me just slip into something more comfortable," she said, her blue skin trickling all the way down her body.
May 1965
"Thanks to Stark Industries' scanning technologies, the first thing I can tell you is that the amnesia is definitely telepathy-related," the nurse says. "There's no evidence of brain damage, foreign object implantation, or anything like that." Mystique lets out a labored sigh, reaching for Erik's hand; he laces their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly. "Unfortunately, without the aid of another telepath, there's no way of knowing how far it goes, how much was taken, or what was taken."
"They took enough," Mystique says.
The nurse looks to Erik, then to Mystique. "You're certain you don't want to be alone? Because this is where the hard part starts." Mystique shakes her head resolutely. "Okay, then. First, I have some reassuring things to tell you. I didn't find any evidence of forced sexual contact, either in your natural form or in the other forms you had me examine."
Erik hadn't even thought of things like that; he wonders what else he hasn't considered, what might be worse. "Thank god for that," Mystique says, sighing.
"Likewise, you have no sexually transmitted diseases, no evidence of toxins, nothing like that." The nurse sighs. "And this is the one that might be nothing," she says, "or it might be very, very bad."
"Go on and tell me," Mystique says.
"How long has it been since you had the baby?"
Mystique squeezes his hand so tightly that Erik has to shut his eyes. "What baby?" she says.
For a moment, all the metal in the room shakes.
April 1965
"It's a boy," the doctor said as he stepped into the lobby, pulling off his gloves. "A boy what, I can't tell you."
Azazel took another drag on his cigarette, his tail flicking back and forth. "How is she?"
"She's fine," he said. "It was fairly easy, all things considered." He gave Azazel a look. "Which of them do you want back?"
"Give me her," he said. "Do what you want with the baby. I need it to live, but I don't care where it is."
The doctor shrugged. "Fine by me."
Azazel gave him another hundred-dollar handshake. "There's no one quite like you, doctor."
"I certainly hope there isn't," he replied, smirking. "I don't need anyone cutting into my business."
May 1965
Erik shoulders his way through the door into the lobby. "Riptide, get the car."
He stands. "What—"
"Don't ask questions," Erik snaps. "Get the car. And give me your coat."
"I'm fine," she protests, but whenever she tries disguise herself to leave she just flashes blue again. Riptide wordlessly passes his jacket over and leaves; Erik helps her into it, smoothing it over her shoulders.
"We'll go home," he says. "Everything is going to be fine," he tells her, though he doesn't believe it for an instant.
At any other time she'd be fighting him off, because he's aware that he's smothering her a bit right now; it's bad sign that she's just letting him do it. She's not even crying, just standing there looking dazed.
Erik hurries her out through the back entrance; there's a time and a place for grand gestures and forcing people to take notice, but this definitely isn't it.
It would be so much easier if it were. Erik's much better at that.
April 1965
"Azazel," Emma said, crossing her long legs. "It's been a long while since we've heard from you."
"A shame, of course," he told her, kissing her proffered hand. "But today, I have a little bit of work for you."
Emma smiled. "The same as last time?"
He shrugged. "My plans have come to fruition."
"And what plans they were," Emma said. "Pull one pin and watch the Brotherhood collapse."
"Two pins," he pointed out. "I took Mystique out, but I did also take myself."
"I have plenty to thank you for," she said, indicating the sumptuous surroundings, "but it'll still cost you." She smirked. "Despite what you might have heard, I don't come cheap."
"Oh, I am more than prepared to pay," he says, smiling. He nodded to the telephone. "Call your bank. You know which one."
She picked up the receiver, dialing and having a short conversation. "Very generous of you," she said as she hung up.
He opened his arms. "Only the best for the best."
"Where is she?"
"Waiting in the lounge." He motioned to Angel, who left; moments later, she appeared with Mystique.
"Emma," Mystique said, smirking. "How long has it been?"
"Too long," Emma replied. "But it's about to get a lot shorter, honey."
Mystique collapsed.
"I will leave you to it," Azazel said, giving her a little bow.
"Don't be a stranger," Emma said, smiling. When he had gone, she walked over, crouching down and placing her hand on Mystique's forehead. She shut her eyes in concentration; it was a few minutes before she opened them again.
She stood up, rolling her neck this way and that. "Take her to a nice hotel," she told one of her assistants. "Get her a room, leave her a pistol and five hundred dollars. Do it fast. She wakes up in two hours."
Angel walked over, looking down at Mystique. "What are you doing to her?"
"I'm sending her back to Magneto." She laughed. "I never liked Azazel."
May 1965
It's quiet and tense in the car on the way back to the house. Riptide is silent; Erik knows he must have a hundred questions, but he's staying out of it, like he should. He's reliable like that, or Erik wouldn't have kept him around for this long.
Erik sits in the back seat with Mystique, and she doesn't say a word either. His arms are around her, but she's stiff, laying against him, unmoving. When they arrive, she lets him lead her out of the car; he takes her to the kitchen and makes her eat something, drink some water, and still she's doing nothing.
He does the only thing he knows to do; he takes her to his bed, the only one in the house beside Riptide's, and lays her down, tucking the covers in around her.
When he goes to leave, she finally moves, grabbing hold of his arm. "Erik," she says, her voice frail and thin, "don't leave me."
"Of course not," he says, leaning over and kissing her forehead. He climbs into bed next to her, and she curls up against him, clinging tightly. She falls asleep almost immediately, as if she's exhausted, and somehow Erik does too, long after she's gone.
Her crying wakes him up in the middle of the night; she's facing away from him, curled up on herself. Her hand is over her mouth, as if she's trying to keep it quiet, keep him from hearing.
"Raven," he says, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close to his chest. "It's going to be okay, Raven."
"I don't know what to do," she says, through her tears. "I don't know what to do, I don't know—"
"You don't have to do anything right now," he tells her. "Just breathe."
"It's gone, Erik," she sobs. "My child is gone and I'll never—I'll never even know—I could pass my child on the street and never know—"
Erik's heart is breaking all over again, for Raven, for Magda, for the children, for himself. He's powerless again, left with nothing, unable to even begin to help any of them. "I know, Raven," he says softly. "I know, I know—"
She turns, clinging to him. "Erik," she says, pressing her face to his chest, "Erik, Erik, Erik—"
"Anything you need," he tells her, and now his eyes are watering. "Anything at all, Raven. Things will get better. I promise you that."
She tilts her face up, and suddenly she's kissing him, and Erik has no idea what to do, no idea at all. Her kisses taste like salt; they're slow and a little clumsy, and she puts her small hand on the side of his face, holding him still.
She lets him go, after a moment, resting her head against his chest again. Erik holds her closer, his arms wrapped tightly around her, and she starts sobbing again.
He has no idea what to do about anything.
--
"You're probably going to be mad at me," she says, several days later, after long, sleepless nights filled with too many tears. "I talked to Charles."
Erik stares at her. "How did you get in touch with him?"
"It's called the telephone, Erik," she says, raising an eyebrow at him. "He says he'll do it. Not at the mansion, obviously, but there's a place."
A few hours later, Erik isn't surprised to find himself in the same hotel he was in a year ago; they're in a private room this time, at Charles and Mystique's insistence. Erik hadn't argued; if it goes like he thinks it will, then no one else should see.
He and Mystique sit on the edge of the bed, Charles across from them in his chair. Charles looks at her gravely. "I need to know that you're absolutely sure about doing this."
She swallows. "Yes."
Charles nods, lifting his fingers to his temple. A few moments later, he pulls them away sharply, sucking in a breath. "Oh my god, Raven."
"What did you see?" Erik says.
"I didn't see anything but the very surface," he tells them. "I don't—should I really be doing this?" He gives Mystique a worried look. "Is that really what you want?"
"I want you to do it," she says.
"We have to know," Erik says. "We have to know to fix it."
Charles gives him a look that says he knows very well what Erik's definition of the word "fix" entails. He shakes his head, lifting his fingers again. He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes.
It's a long time before he opens them again, and he's crying by then, shaking from it. "Raven," he says, fumbling for her hand. "Raven, I'm so sorry."
"Why can't I remember, Charles?" she says.
"I haven't put it back," he says, shaking his head wildly. "I don't know how much of it you want—"
"Who did this?" Erik demands.
"It was a hatchet job," Charles says, breathing heavily. "She wasn't even trying not to get caught, she just—she didn't even take it away, she just locked it up, she knew—"
"Emma?" Mystique asks.
Charles nods fervently. "She wanted someone to find out."
"Show it to me," Erik demands.
"Erik," Charles pleads, "I can't, it's too much—"
"Don't you say that," Erik snaps. "You know what I've been through—"
"No," he says, shaking his head. "Too much information, have a whole year in here, it hurts, Erik, it's hurting me, you can't—"
"Goddammit, Charles," Erik snaps, "give it to me."
Charles lifts his fingers again, and so many things are forced into Erik's mind all at once. Erik barely reaches the wastepaper basket before he throws up from the sheer vertigo of it, all the things careening through his mind.
Charles was right.
Finally the shaking stops, and Erik's head stops feeling like it's going to burst open. What's next might be worse; once his mind stops spinning, he can see everything, a whole year of memory right at his fingertips, and he hates every bit of it.
"Azazel," he says, shutting his eyes.
Mystique looks at the two of them, her face drawn. "If it's that bad," she says, "then just tell me. I don't want to see. I don't need to."
Charles sighs, his shoulders slumping. He looks to Erik. "I'm not sure where we should begin."
June 1965
Life in the house goes on, because there's not really much of a choice. Bills are paid, contacts are kept up, threats are assessed- there's nothing to be done about them, yet, but surveillance is always worth it.
And every night, Riptide goes to his bed, and Erik and Mystique go to Erik's, and no one talks about it. There's not even anything to talk about; they sleep wrapped around each other, but that's the extent of it; that's what they need from each other right now.
And then one night, she climbs into bed beside him; her hair is still damp, her body warm from the shower. He knows it's different, just by the way she looks at him; and when she leans over, putting her hand on his shoulder and kissing him, he doesn't hold back. He pulls her toward him, and she wraps her arms around his neck, kissing him over and over again. He's been wanting this, wanting her, ever since she came back, since before she left, maybe since that night at the mansion when she slipped into his room. His hand lingers over her hip, sliding up onto her waist, her scales smooth underneath his fingers—
And he sees red skin, a hand in the same spot, skimming up her side—
He shuts his eyes tighter, shoving the image down; he's not going to let that interfere, not now, not when they're so close. He kisses her harder—
And it's hard like he used to do it, when he would hold her down, laughing as he—
Erik pushes her back, wanting suddenly to get as far away as possible; he sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, feeling sick to his stomach.
Mystique moves behind him, her hand coming to rest on his back, rubbing circles there. "What's wrong?"
"Every time I touch you," he says, and he has to stop and swallow. "Every time I touch you, I can see Azazel. I can see what he did to you."
Her hand goes still. "What I let him do to me," she says quietly.
He grabs her by the wrist. "Don't ever say that again," he snaps. "Don't ever even think that. What he did to you was wrong, Raven, and you had no choice at all." She's looking away from him, but he can still see that she doesn't believe him. "Come and lie down," he says gently, letting her go. "Everything will be fine," he tells her, just like he keeps saying, even though he's still having a hard time deciding if he believes it or not.
It's a long time before either of them sleep.
They don't speak about it again.
But life still has to go on.
--
"I have an idea," Riptide says, three weeks later.
Erik looks up from his book. "What sort of idea?"
"There's some chatter on an anti-mutant gathering in Graeve next week," he says. "Nothing big. Maybe fifty people."
Erik lifts an eyebrow. "That's fifty people who are certainly superfluous."
"I thought you'd see it that way," Riptide says, grinning.
"Do you have a plan?"
"I'd settle for setting it on fire, honestly," he says, with a shrug. "I just want to get out of the house."
It doesn't escape Erik's notice for an instant that this is something that, a year ago, would barely have rated his attention. He was going to set the whole world on fire, but now he's down to fifty people, a bunch of backwater hicks who'll barely be worth it.
But if this is what it takes to get things going again, to get him moving down the path he was made for, then so be it.
"Let's do it, then."
--
She's never asked about the picture on the dresser, the one in the small wooden frame; but when Erik comes in that night, she's looking at it, her finger trailing along the side.
"Who is she?" Mystique asks quietly.
"Magda," he says, picking it up. "Magda Lehnsherr. My wife."
She shakes her head. "You don't have to explain anything to me."
"It was while you were gone," he tells her. "We were living in Germany, and." He sighs, suddenly weary of it. "She died in childbirth." He runs his thumb over the image of her face. "Aside from my mother, she is the only human I will ever love." He puts the frame back down. "But like all humans, when I needed her the most, she failed me."
Mystique's breath hitches in her throat. Erik keeps his eyes on the photograph; it's better if he doesn't see her reaction.
But then she wraps her arms around him, ducking her head under his chin, and holds him like that for as long as he'll let her. He shuts his eyes, holding her close. Something in him relaxes, something that's been so tense for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like when it wasn't.
"I can't replace her," she says, when they part.
"I know," he says. "I trust you enough to know you'd never try." His hand clenches into a fist. "If anyone ever did—"
She puts a hand on his chest, calming him. "It's okay."
He shakes his head. "I can't change anything that happened to you."
"Nobody can," she says softly. "But we can move on, Erik."
"And do what?"
"Exactly what we started out to do. We left two—" she winces—"three years ago with a goal. It's time to get back to it."
He kisses the top of her head. That's it. That's it exactly.
--
The mission is, of course, a success. Very few people actually get set on fire, though it's not accurate to say that no one does. Rather more get thrown into a nearby lake, several up against trees, and at least one of them ends up with the bumper of a Ford wrapped around his neck.
Just enough of them get out, though. Just enough of them to let everyone else know that the evil mutants, the one they're so scared of, are real.
And they're watching.
Their escape is clean, too much commotion for anyone to follow when they split up, and the three of them regroup at the safe house. Riptide takes one glance at the way Erik is looking at Mystique and says, "I think I'm going to turn in. We can talk strategy tomorrow, right?" No one even answers him. "Right."
The door hasn't even shut behind him when Erik steps towards her, taking her face in his hands, tilting it up to kiss her. "I want you to go get in our bed." Her eyes are wide with surprise and so hungry. "Now."
He only just restrains himself from slapping her on the ass as she goes; there's something thrilling about the way she does it, too excited to try to be sexy about it, just trying to do it as fast as possible so she can get to the good part.
His cape seems like an incredibly poor fashion choice right now, the way it's so damn hard to get off; he just manages, throwing onto the table and weighting it down with his helmet- and, of course, he stabs his hand with one of the horns. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all, because nothing is going to ruin this, short of a full scale attack.
She's waiting for him when he walks into the bedroom, laid out on the sheets, and as he undresses, it's almost impossible to keep his eyes off her. She's always naked, something he knows in sort of an abstract way, but he's really reminded of it now; she's biting her lip, staring at him like she doesn't even know what she wants first.
He's barely gotten his clothes off before he's on top of her, pushing her down into the bed. She opens right up for him, kissing him desperately, like she can't wait one more second. He kisses his way down her jawline, down to her neck, biting at her skin; he wonders if he can bite hard enough to make a mark, just enough to make everyone see, to prove that she's his now, that he's never going to let anyone else get to her ever again.
Thoughts are spinning in his head now, but he's not listening, he won't, he can't. He's going to overwrite all their memories with new ones; there isn't going to be anything left except the two of them, no one else living in their heads.
He kisses his way down her stomach, hot, wet kisses, all the way down until his head is between her thighs. He spreads them a little wider, his hands running down their sensitive insides. She's blue absolutely everywhere, and it's more amazing than he even imagined.
"No one's ever—" she stops, falters, and Erik realizes she has no idea if that's true or not.
"Nobody but me," he says, licking a wide, hot stripe up to her clitoris. "And it's never going to be anybody but me."
"God, Erik," she gasps.
He looks up at her. "Say it again."
He lowers his mouth to her, licking over and over, his fingers sliding inside, and all she can do is moan his name over and over again, brokenly, up until the point where she can't form words at all. She clutches at the back of his head, her fingernails digging into his scalp as she comes, all but screaming, writhing against the bed.
She finally has to push his head away; she's panting heavily, her hand stroking over his hair. He rests his head against her thigh, looking up at her. "Good?"
She nods, still breathless. "Erik, come here," she says, reaching down a hand, and he lets her pull him up the bed, on top of her. His face is wet, and she doesn't even care, pulling him in to kiss him. Her hands are grasping at him, drawing him closer; his cock is riding along the crease of her thigh and he wants her badly, so badly, wants to get inside her, wants to never have to leave.
"Wait," he pants.
She moans in frustration. "Oh god, Erik, please don't stop, please-"
"No, no, I just-" He pulls the drawer of the nightstand out with his power; the condom wrapper is hard to get a grip on, such a tiny bit of foil, but he draws it into his hand anyway. She motions for it, ripping it open and tossing the package away, rolling it onto his cock. Now there's nothing, nothing to stand in his way, nothing to keep them apart any longer.
When he finally pushes into her, her head falls back, her eyes drifting shut, and it's nothing like he's ever seen, in a memory or otherwise. Her mouth falls open, and she looks transported, gone. He moves inside her, slowly, just rocking back and forth, and she opens her eyes again. They're so bright against the color of her skin, and Erik can't stop looking, staring.
"Erik," she says, "give me more."
He leans down and kisses her, moving faster. She brings her leg up, hooking it around his waist, and he can feel the scales of her calves scratching lightly against his back. It just makes him want more; she's sublime and singular and she's letting him have this, she wants him like this, even after everything that's happened to them.
She's bucking her hips now, working up to meet his thrusts, pulling him in with her legs to keep him tight against her. She twines her hands in his hair, kissing him wildly, like she can't get enough of it; neither can he.
When she comes, she shakes underneath him, gasping against his lips. "Mystique," he says desperately, "Raven—" and he follows her over, groaning into her shoulder, clutching her like he's afraid to let her get away for an instant.
It's hard to tear himself away, even long enough to deal with the condom and lay down beside her; she turns towards him, kissing him intently, her arms wrapped around him. There isn't anything to be said, and neither of them try. They just lie there in the silence until they fall asleep.
Then they wake up and do it all over again.
August 1965
The smarter members of Emma's entourage have learned what to do when Emma's body turns to diamond; guns are suddenly drawn, and Angel's wings pull away from her skin.
Still, Emma doesn't move. She doesn't even stand up as the wall crashes in; she just lifts her highball glass, in time to keep a shard of masonry from smashing it. "Magneto," she says, "we've got to stop meeting like this."
"With any luck, Emma," he says, stepping through the ruin of the wall, Mystique and Riptide behind him, the new recruits flanking them, "we never will again."
"Oooh," she coos, shivering in mock fright, "somebody's angry today."
"I can assure you," Magneto says, "the whole Brotherhood is very angry. It's one of our common interests."
"So you're back in business, then," she says, amused.
"Yes," he says, smirking, "we are."
Notes: In this story, a character dies in childbirth and her children are given up for adoption by their father; another character's child is stolen from her by its father and given away, and she does not find it again. Though, if you know your comics canon, you know what happens to all these kids. Which may or may not help.
Summary: Two years after Cuba, the Brotherhood falls apart. It's a long time before they put it back together again.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Word Count: 8119
Rating/Contents: NC-17, memory erasure/swapping, non-con (by way of memory erasure), character death, rape recovery, oh my god so much sadness, but! A happy ending. Also, this story deals really heavily with things that might be triggering for people sensitive to parent-child issues. Click here for more information, and please proceed with caution.
Pairing: Charles/Erik, Erik/Magda, Mystique/Azazel, Erik/Mystique
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: Oh god, this story. I should wait until after everybody finishes their Secret Mutant reposting, but I CANNOT HAVE IT WITH ME ANY LONGER. First and foremost, all glory
stlkrchck, who bravely waded into this story and fixed it right up. I have Thoughts and ~feelings~ about this story, but I expect that only about four people are going to read it, which means that one person will read half the notes, so it's not really worth it. So. Here is this incredibly sad story, for your... enjoyment?May 1965
The banging on the door is so loud, and Riptide really doesn't want to answer it. He can probably make a really good excuse not to, but then he'll have to fight it out with Magneto, and he's not particularly inclined to do that today.
He can already tell that it's not the cops, but that doesn't mean it's good news. He walks over; someone is yelling, a woman's voice, saying, "Magneto, Riptide, open this goddamned door! I know you're in there!"
He really hopes it's not who he thinks it is.
He opens the door.
It's exactly who he thinks it is.
May 1964
And then, one morning, they were just gone.
It wasn't as if a group of revolutionaries had family breakfast or anything, but one could reliably expect them to wake up at some point and filter through the kitchen. Mystique, in particular, insisted on eating her cereal, usually while Erik drank his coffee, so her absence was conspicuous.
It was worse when neither Mystique nor Azazel appeared for the morning's strategy meeting. It was critical, and they both knew that; the governor's speech was only two days away, and they hadn't even discussed some of the finer details of the plan, details crucial for its success.
They still weren't back by the time the governor's speech actually happened, when the attempt on his life failed precisely because they weren't there; the rest of them barely got out. They abandoned the safe house and fell to their backup; Azazel and Mystique both knew that was the plan, and neither of them showed up there, either.
First Magneto was angry, then he was worried; by the time Emma announced she and Angel were leaving, he was well on into furious.
"I'll be taking a third of the money," Emma told him.
"I can't stop you from doing that," he said, which was half an admission of defeat and half a show of fairness.
"We'll be seeing you," Angel said, and they left; it was less than two weeks before news of the New Hellfire Club started filtering in through the usual channels.
And then it was just Magneto and Riptide, the pieces of the Brotherhood shattered around them.
And neither of them knew quite what to do.
May 1965
"Jesus Christ, Riptide," she says as she steps inside, rubbing her arms with her hands as she flips back to her real skin. "How long were you going to let me stay out there? It's 50 degrees, and it's not like I have a jacket."
"You should feel lucky that I let you in at all," he says angrily.
She gives him a strange look. "What in the hell is wrong with you?"
He crosses his arms. "I might ask you the same question."
May 1964
He sat down on the bed in the hotel room and carefully removed his helmet, setting it on the nightstand. «Charles,» he thought, over and over, like an incantation, like a mantra, «Charles, Charles, Charles, Charles—»
He didn't know how long it took, but then there was the inquisitive brush of Charles's mind against his own, tentative and painful. «Charles,» he thought, as hard as he could, «Charles, I didn't come to fight, I want to talk, Charles, I'm alone, use Cerebro if you think I'm lying—»
«If I come,» Charles answered, and it hurt so much just to hear him, «I won't be alone. I can't give you that.»
«It's more than I deserve for you to come at all,» Erik replied, thinking the address at him.
«Yes,» Charles thought. «It is.»
Still, Charles came. They sat in the hotel lobby, Alex seated on the opposite side of the room and looking murderously at Erik the entire time.
"Well," Charles said, "here we are."
"I'm not going to ask for your forgiveness," Erik said, without preamble. "What I did was unforgivable."
Charles sighed. "Knowing me, I will one day forgive you." His face darkened. "But I will never forget."
Erik looked down, nodding his head, unable to face the weight of it. "Nor will I, Charles."
"You'd never ask, but even if you did, I'm not going to take you back," Charles said, softly. "You'd hate both of us if I let you abandon your ideals like that."
Somehow, it felt good just to hear Charles say that, a weight off his mind, the unrecognized fear of backsliding finally pushed away. "I know."
Charles looked at him, his face serious, his eyes searching, but he kept out of Erik's mind. "What's wrong?"
Erik snorted, suddenly realizing how ill-advised all of this was. "I probably shouldn't tell you, should I? My loss is your gain, isn't it?"
"Erik, you and I will fight for the rest of our lives," Charles told him. "It doesn't mean I ever want to see you hurt."
"Everything has gone to hell, Charles," Erik said, sitting back in his chair, putting a hand over his face. "Everyone is gone. Even Mystique—Raven left me."
Charles looked at him with concern. "What did you do?"
"I have no idea," Erik said, running his fingers through his hair. "One morning she took off with Azazel."
"Erik," Charles said carefully, "far be it from me to spread people's thoughts around, but Raven is in love with you."
"I know," Erik replied. "She has been for a while now."
"Something is wrong," he said, frowning. "Azazel killed—" he rubbed his forehead—"the man from the CIA. I will forever feel guilty for not learning his name. He did it right in front of her."
"I tried to find them," Erik told him. "Short of Cerebro, how would I ever track her down?"
"Even if I would ever possibly let you do that," Charles said, though it was already clear to both of them that there was no chance of that at all, "you couldn't recognize her once you got there. And, for whatever reason, Azazel is the one person I've ever looked for specifically using Cerebro and never been able to find."
"I'm exhausted, Charles," he said. "I don't know how much longer I can do this."
"Erik," he said gently, "you left here because you had a fire inside of you, one goal that everything else had to be sacrificed for, one belief driving you forward. Has there ever been a time in your life when it wasn't like that?"
The corner of Erik's mouth ticked up. "What about when I was with you?"
"Just because you did it in a nice house didn't make it less work," Charles said, shaking his head. He put his hand on top of Erik's. "If you don't rest, you'll die. And I never want to see that."
Erik leaned over, kissing him softly, cupping his face with his hand; Charles put his own hand over it, lacing their fingers together. "Thank you," Erik said.
"I wish that I could say, 'Any time,'" he replied. He motioned for Alex, and Alex came and rolled him away. Erik walked back up to his room and put the helmet back on. He could feel the instant that Charles's mind was cut off, leaving his blank and empty.
It hurt much more than it had the first time.
He was a little surprised to find Riptide waiting for him when he went back to the safe house. "I'm going to Germany," Erik told him.
He nodded. "When do we leave?"
Erik stopped in his tracks. "Perhaps you didn't understand me," he said. "I'm going."
"And I go where you go," he said, like it was obvious.
It was on the tip of Erik's tongue to order him out, but he looked at Riptide, studying him. "Why is that, exactly, Riptide?"
"Shaw only ever wanted two things out of me," he said. "He wanted me to look good in a suit and shut the fuck up. You actually care what I think. Nobody's ever done that."
Erik thought about it. "Do you speak German?"
He shrugged. "I get by."
May 1965
"What crawled up your ass and died?" Mystique says, putting her bag down on the table.
"Where the hell have you been?" Riptide demands.
"I was in New York," she tells him. "Where the hell do you think I was? That's where Magneto sent me, that's where I went."
He crosses his arms over his chest. "Just when did he do that?"
"Riptide, you were there when he gave me the assignment," she says. "How could you have forgotten?"
He frowns. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"That sounds like a personal problem," she says, with a little laugh.
"Knock it off, Mystique."
She rolls her eyes at him. "You knock it off."
June 1964
It was nothing and everything like he remembered.
His house was gone, his grandmother's with it; there was something comforting about that, the idea that no one else would ever live there again, that part of his life swept away. The streets were the same, but what lined them was different, unpredictable: a two-hundred-year-old building next to the new synagogue, places from his childhood unrecognizable under so many new coats of paint.
His town had had time to move on, a whole twenty years.
Erik hadn't had any.
He met her in a shop, only days after they arrived. She was sweeping up, and the first thing he noticed about her was the harsh scrawl of numbers up her forearm, heavy and black. They were a punch to the throat, like every time he saw anyone's, like every time he saw his own; but she wore them like they were nothing at all, a fact of life and nothing else, no more worthy of shame or pride or hiding or showing than any other scar.
He would always envy that.
"Magda?" he said, not quite sure that it was really her, if his luck was really that good.
She looked at him quizzically. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"It's Erik Lehnsherr," he said, feeling a little embarrassed; he'd been changed so much that someone so important to him didn't recognize him at all.
"Erik," she said, her eyes lighting up, and she all but threw herself into his arms. "I never thought I'd see you again."
He caught her, spinning her around. "Likewise," he told her. "I didn't know—" he left it to hang, what everyone knew came at the end of that sentence. "And I didn't know if I'd ever come back."
She smiled, bright and wide, just the way he remembered, the way she used to do when they were children. "Well, here you are now."
Erik looked back; Riptide stood in the doorway behind them, not sure what to do but quite aware he was interrupting. "Magda," he said, "this is my travelling companion—" He faltered; after everything, he suddenly realized he didn't even know Riptide's real name.
"Janos," he said, offering her his hand. "Janos Quested."
"A pleasure to meet you," she said. "How long will you be staying?" she asked Erik.
He smiled. "As long as I need to."
May 1965
"I really don't see what you're so angry about," she tells him. "You were fine when I left."
"You left a really long time ago, Mystique."
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Since when is two weeks a really long time?"
He looks at her strangely. "It's been a whole hell of a lot longer than two weeks."
"I know it seems like that because you love me so damn much," she says, "but I left Friday before last. It's two weeks later. Here I am."
June 1964
Her small body was beautiful over his own, the sunlight from the window spilling over her pale skin, catching in her soft brown hair. The words and moans that dropped from her mouth were like music, gorgeous in their simplicity, nothing but pure want behind them.
They made love like that all afternoon, the breeze blowing gently in, nothing else in the world anywhere near them.
Erik didn't think he'd ever been happier.
May 1965
"Mystique," Riptide says slowly, "What day is it?"
She raises an eyebrow at him. "Friday."
He frowns; it's definitely Saturday. "What month is it?"
"What is wrong with you?" she says. "Did you lose your calendar?"
"Humor me."
"May," she tells him, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah, but what year is it?" he presses.
"This is getting ridiculous."
"Mystique—"
"It's 1964, when the hell else would it be? Seriously, I want a shower, get out of my—"
"You," Erik says from behind her, and something isn't right about it at all.
August 1964
Magda looked worried, more than she ever had, in a way she never had.
"Something's wrong," Erik said, starting to get worried himself.
"I have something to tell you," she said, "and I have no idea what you're going to say."
"You'd better just say it."
She sighed heavily. "I'm pregnant. I only just realized."
Erik nodded, swallowing hard. "You'll have to move in, then."
She looked at him in confusion. "What?"
"Where else would my wife live?" he said, walking over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders.
Her eyes widened. "Erik, just because—it doesn't mean you don't have to—"
"Who says I don't want to?" he said, kissing her gently. "I love you. Of course I want this."
She pressed her face to his chest, her tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, and Erik thought of Sebastian Shaw, cold and dead; Erik almost wished he were here, just so he could see. Shaw had poured so much of himself into making Erik the perfect weapon, teaching him nothing but how to hate. And here Erik was, doing exactly the opposite of what Shaw had programmed him for.
Once again, when it came down to Erik and Shaw, Erik won.
May 1965
"Hey, Erik," she says carefully; his expression is murderous.
"Give me one reason," Erik says. "Give me one reason I shouldn't—"
"Magneto," Riptide says, holding up his hands. "There's something wrong, let's calm down for a minute—"
The metal around the edge of the table is starting to pull away, threatening to move towards her, snakelike. "You'd better hope you're faster than me, Mystique."
April 1965
Magda squeezed his hand so hard that it was past painful, but Erik didn't dare move. It was nothing, nothing at all compared to what she was going through. The labor seemed like it had been going on forever; the screaming was bad enough, but the waiting was what was killing him. There was no other choice, though. He wouldn't miss this moment, not an instant of it, wouldn't shrink away from the messy parts of his life and skip to the good ones.
He'd never had that luxury, and he wouldn't start trying to enjoy it now.
"Push, Magda," the midwife said, her voice getting stern, as if she were trying to goad Magda into it. "You can do it harder, girl, push for me—"
Magda screamed again, but she did it, bearing down harder, gripping Erik's hand so tightly that he could actually feel the bones in it move. Then there was more shouting, and a wet sound, and Erik felt sort of sick but he didn't dare look away.
"A girl," the midwife said, and Erik smiled down at Magda, so widely that he felt like his face would crack. "But it looks like we're not done."
"Twins?" Magda panted. "I thought, but—" Anything she was going to say was choked off by another groan, as she pushed again.
It still sounded so awful, but at least it was faster this time. "And a boy," the midwife said. Erik laughed out loud, looking to Magda again, but she didn't look back at him. And then suddenly the midwife was yelling at her assistant, and there was blood everywhere, and Erik couldn't look away from Magda's face; he couldn't even hear, his ears filled with static, the commotion, the sound of her death not even coming through.
"Magda," he whispered fervently. "Magda, don't leave me like this, you can't, you just can't, not now, not ever—"
His name was the last thing she ever said.
Janos finally pulled him away; he didn't even have the energy to fight back, clinging to Janos limply, letting himself be dragged back.
And that was the moment when he knew it was all over, when he knew what he should have known a year before: there was only ever one path for him, and no matter how far away he ran, it would always find him.
And punish him for leaving.
"I can't stay," he said, weakly, shakily. "I can't stay, and I can't ever know where they are."
The midwife approached him. "Herr Lehnsherr," she said quietly. "If you cannot raise these children, I know someone who will take them. They will be safe."
He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, swallowing down his tears. "Riptide," Erik said, and his voice was still shaking, but the old steel was underneath it. "We're going."
May 1965
"Erik," Mystique says, her voice shaking. "Erik, you're scaring me."
He steps forward, looming over her. "Maybe you should be scared of me," he says, "because I haven't even decided yet what I'm going to do to you. I only know that I'm going to do worse to Azazel."
"Who is Azazel?" she says, equal parts frustrated and terrified.
He pauses, looking at her, unsure what the hell is going on. "Mystique, don't you dare play games with me."
"I have no idea who you're talking about," she insists. "I don't know anyone named Azazel."
Riptide steps between the two of them. "Mystique," he says, "when we left the beach in Cuba, who was with us?"
She looks at him like he's got three heads. "It was the three of us and Angel."
"How did we leave?" he asks.
"We—" She looks puzzled. "We must have—" She shakes her head. "I don't have any idea."
Riptide rubs his forehead. "Shit."
Erik glowers at her. "I swear to god, Mystique, if this is a scam—"
"Erik, all I've done is what you've told me to do," she protests. "I did it, and now I'm back. That's all I know."
"Look, I know somebody who can settle this," Riptide says. "We'll have to wait a few hours, because she only works at night, but she'll believe us, she doesn't ask too many questions, and amnesia will probably be the least complicated thing she has to work on all night."
"Fine," Erik says tightly.
May 1964
Azazel was stretched out beside her when she woke up, drawing circles on her stomach with the tip of his tail.
"You know it worries me when you do that," she said, squirming.
"I'd never hurt you, darling." He drew an X over his chest. "Cross my heart." She rolled her eyes at him, and he kissed the end of her nose. "I forgot to tell you," he said. "Erik called today."
She rolled towards him, throwing an arm across his stomach. "Erik who?"
"Erik Lehnsherr."
She looked at him in confusion. "Who's that?"
"No one important," he said, smiling. "Just an old friend."
May 1965
There's no one in the waiting room—the secret waiting room, the one Riptide only gets them into because he knows a guy who knows a guy—when the three of them arrive. Erik rings the bell, and it's only a few moments before a woman walks through the door; she's dressed head to toe in white, excepting the blue and red capelet around her shoulders.
She looks between the three of them. "I only counted two of you," she says, pursing her lips. "On future visits, please refrain from using telepathy-blocking paraphernalia," she tells Erik, looking at his helmet. "We don't have a telepath proper here, so your thoughts aren't in jeopardy, but our security systems do run on the same frequencies. You're welcome to use it once you're here."
"I'll make a note," Erik says, raising an eyebrow at her.
She raises her eyebrow right back. "Who is the patient?" she asks.
Mystique waves a hand. "That's me."
"Some preliminary questions before we go back," she says, looking at her clipboard. "Are you carrying any weaponry?"
Mystique gives her a look. "No."
"Are any of your bodily fluids more acidic than is typical for human beings?"
"No."
"Are you aware of any symbiotic or parasitic presence, physical or spiritual, inhabiting your body?"
"No."
"Is this your real form? We can offer you a screen if you'd like to change."
She shrugs her shoulders, turning blue. "It's fine."
The nurse looks up from her checklist, smiling. "That's all I need out here. If you'll come back, we'll take care of everything else."
She looks back over her shoulder at Erik, and he frowns.
June 1964
They sat across the table from each other; it was a little restaurant, the kind that were becoming more and more popular in the city, one where a bright red man who happened to have a tail could dine with his blue companion without a second glance.
"That was quite a heist we pulled, my love," he said, leaning towards her.
She shrugged modestly. "You did most of the work."
"But as ever," he told her, "you made quite the stunning distraction."
She ran her foot up the inside of his calf, smirking. "I'd like to think I'm a bit more than that."
He smiled. "You are useful to me in more ways than you know, my little pet."
May 1965
Mystique finally reappears. Seeing their faces, she holds up a hand. "I don't know anything, so don't ask. She's waiting for results."
"How was it?" Riptide asks.
"She touched me in ways I've never been touched before," Mystique mutters; he laughs, turning it into a cough when he sees Erik's expression. "And how weird is it that the strangest thing that happened to me today wasn't going to see a nurse who wears a cape?"
Erik snorts. "I'd think you'd be used to things like that by now."
It's a long, tense time before the nurse reappears; Riptide pretends to be really, really interested in Life Magazine while Erik drums his fingers on the end table and Mystique resists the urge to slap him for it.
The door finally opens again. "I'm ready to talk about your results now," the nurse says, and her face is very serious.
Mystique turns, clutching Erik's arm. "Erik, please come with me."
"Mystique," the nurse says gently, "you have a right to confidentiality. And I'm going to have to ask you some questions that you may not want anyone else to know the answers to."
She pulls him. "Erik, I know you're angry at me right now, and you don't believe me," she says, "but please don't make me do this alone."
He looks at her, and something about her face stops him from saying no. "I'll come."
The nurse nods. "You can come on back."
July 1964
It was hot in Monaco, but that mattered little when they were holed up in their hotel room, the only breeze provided by the air conditioner.
Mystique put on a tall brunette to answer the door; she blocked the waiter's view of Azazel with her body, which wasn't that hard considering what her body looked like. He didn't even seem to notice when she pushed him back into the hallway, his tip fluttering to the floor.
"Dinner," she said, pushing the cart towards the bed.
Azazel looked her up and down. "It'll wait."
She grinned, going over to the bed. She slid beneath the sheets, straddling Azazel's hips. "Let me just slip into something more comfortable," she said, her blue skin trickling all the way down her body.
May 1965
"Thanks to Stark Industries' scanning technologies, the first thing I can tell you is that the amnesia is definitely telepathy-related," the nurse says. "There's no evidence of brain damage, foreign object implantation, or anything like that." Mystique lets out a labored sigh, reaching for Erik's hand; he laces their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly. "Unfortunately, without the aid of another telepath, there's no way of knowing how far it goes, how much was taken, or what was taken."
"They took enough," Mystique says.
The nurse looks to Erik, then to Mystique. "You're certain you don't want to be alone? Because this is where the hard part starts." Mystique shakes her head resolutely. "Okay, then. First, I have some reassuring things to tell you. I didn't find any evidence of forced sexual contact, either in your natural form or in the other forms you had me examine."
Erik hadn't even thought of things like that; he wonders what else he hasn't considered, what might be worse. "Thank god for that," Mystique says, sighing.
"Likewise, you have no sexually transmitted diseases, no evidence of toxins, nothing like that." The nurse sighs. "And this is the one that might be nothing," she says, "or it might be very, very bad."
"Go on and tell me," Mystique says.
"How long has it been since you had the baby?"
Mystique squeezes his hand so tightly that Erik has to shut his eyes. "What baby?" she says.
For a moment, all the metal in the room shakes.
April 1965
"It's a boy," the doctor said as he stepped into the lobby, pulling off his gloves. "A boy what, I can't tell you."
Azazel took another drag on his cigarette, his tail flicking back and forth. "How is she?"
"She's fine," he said. "It was fairly easy, all things considered." He gave Azazel a look. "Which of them do you want back?"
"Give me her," he said. "Do what you want with the baby. I need it to live, but I don't care where it is."
The doctor shrugged. "Fine by me."
Azazel gave him another hundred-dollar handshake. "There's no one quite like you, doctor."
"I certainly hope there isn't," he replied, smirking. "I don't need anyone cutting into my business."
May 1965
Erik shoulders his way through the door into the lobby. "Riptide, get the car."
He stands. "What—"
"Don't ask questions," Erik snaps. "Get the car. And give me your coat."
"I'm fine," she protests, but whenever she tries disguise herself to leave she just flashes blue again. Riptide wordlessly passes his jacket over and leaves; Erik helps her into it, smoothing it over her shoulders.
"We'll go home," he says. "Everything is going to be fine," he tells her, though he doesn't believe it for an instant.
At any other time she'd be fighting him off, because he's aware that he's smothering her a bit right now; it's bad sign that she's just letting him do it. She's not even crying, just standing there looking dazed.
Erik hurries her out through the back entrance; there's a time and a place for grand gestures and forcing people to take notice, but this definitely isn't it.
It would be so much easier if it were. Erik's much better at that.
April 1965
"Azazel," Emma said, crossing her long legs. "It's been a long while since we've heard from you."
"A shame, of course," he told her, kissing her proffered hand. "But today, I have a little bit of work for you."
Emma smiled. "The same as last time?"
He shrugged. "My plans have come to fruition."
"And what plans they were," Emma said. "Pull one pin and watch the Brotherhood collapse."
"Two pins," he pointed out. "I took Mystique out, but I did also take myself."
"I have plenty to thank you for," she said, indicating the sumptuous surroundings, "but it'll still cost you." She smirked. "Despite what you might have heard, I don't come cheap."
"Oh, I am more than prepared to pay," he says, smiling. He nodded to the telephone. "Call your bank. You know which one."
She picked up the receiver, dialing and having a short conversation. "Very generous of you," she said as she hung up.
He opened his arms. "Only the best for the best."
"Where is she?"
"Waiting in the lounge." He motioned to Angel, who left; moments later, she appeared with Mystique.
"Emma," Mystique said, smirking. "How long has it been?"
"Too long," Emma replied. "But it's about to get a lot shorter, honey."
Mystique collapsed.
"I will leave you to it," Azazel said, giving her a little bow.
"Don't be a stranger," Emma said, smiling. When he had gone, she walked over, crouching down and placing her hand on Mystique's forehead. She shut her eyes in concentration; it was a few minutes before she opened them again.
She stood up, rolling her neck this way and that. "Take her to a nice hotel," she told one of her assistants. "Get her a room, leave her a pistol and five hundred dollars. Do it fast. She wakes up in two hours."
Angel walked over, looking down at Mystique. "What are you doing to her?"
"I'm sending her back to Magneto." She laughed. "I never liked Azazel."
May 1965
It's quiet and tense in the car on the way back to the house. Riptide is silent; Erik knows he must have a hundred questions, but he's staying out of it, like he should. He's reliable like that, or Erik wouldn't have kept him around for this long.
Erik sits in the back seat with Mystique, and she doesn't say a word either. His arms are around her, but she's stiff, laying against him, unmoving. When they arrive, she lets him lead her out of the car; he takes her to the kitchen and makes her eat something, drink some water, and still she's doing nothing.
He does the only thing he knows to do; he takes her to his bed, the only one in the house beside Riptide's, and lays her down, tucking the covers in around her.
When he goes to leave, she finally moves, grabbing hold of his arm. "Erik," she says, her voice frail and thin, "don't leave me."
"Of course not," he says, leaning over and kissing her forehead. He climbs into bed next to her, and she curls up against him, clinging tightly. She falls asleep almost immediately, as if she's exhausted, and somehow Erik does too, long after she's gone.
Her crying wakes him up in the middle of the night; she's facing away from him, curled up on herself. Her hand is over her mouth, as if she's trying to keep it quiet, keep him from hearing.
"Raven," he says, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close to his chest. "It's going to be okay, Raven."
"I don't know what to do," she says, through her tears. "I don't know what to do, I don't know—"
"You don't have to do anything right now," he tells her. "Just breathe."
"It's gone, Erik," she sobs. "My child is gone and I'll never—I'll never even know—I could pass my child on the street and never know—"
Erik's heart is breaking all over again, for Raven, for Magda, for the children, for himself. He's powerless again, left with nothing, unable to even begin to help any of them. "I know, Raven," he says softly. "I know, I know—"
She turns, clinging to him. "Erik," she says, pressing her face to his chest, "Erik, Erik, Erik—"
"Anything you need," he tells her, and now his eyes are watering. "Anything at all, Raven. Things will get better. I promise you that."
She tilts her face up, and suddenly she's kissing him, and Erik has no idea what to do, no idea at all. Her kisses taste like salt; they're slow and a little clumsy, and she puts her small hand on the side of his face, holding him still.
She lets him go, after a moment, resting her head against his chest again. Erik holds her closer, his arms wrapped tightly around her, and she starts sobbing again.
He has no idea what to do about anything.
--
"You're probably going to be mad at me," she says, several days later, after long, sleepless nights filled with too many tears. "I talked to Charles."
Erik stares at her. "How did you get in touch with him?"
"It's called the telephone, Erik," she says, raising an eyebrow at him. "He says he'll do it. Not at the mansion, obviously, but there's a place."
A few hours later, Erik isn't surprised to find himself in the same hotel he was in a year ago; they're in a private room this time, at Charles and Mystique's insistence. Erik hadn't argued; if it goes like he thinks it will, then no one else should see.
He and Mystique sit on the edge of the bed, Charles across from them in his chair. Charles looks at her gravely. "I need to know that you're absolutely sure about doing this."
She swallows. "Yes."
Charles nods, lifting his fingers to his temple. A few moments later, he pulls them away sharply, sucking in a breath. "Oh my god, Raven."
"What did you see?" Erik says.
"I didn't see anything but the very surface," he tells them. "I don't—should I really be doing this?" He gives Mystique a worried look. "Is that really what you want?"
"I want you to do it," she says.
"We have to know," Erik says. "We have to know to fix it."
Charles gives him a look that says he knows very well what Erik's definition of the word "fix" entails. He shakes his head, lifting his fingers again. He takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes.
It's a long time before he opens them again, and he's crying by then, shaking from it. "Raven," he says, fumbling for her hand. "Raven, I'm so sorry."
"Why can't I remember, Charles?" she says.
"I haven't put it back," he says, shaking his head wildly. "I don't know how much of it you want—"
"Who did this?" Erik demands.
"It was a hatchet job," Charles says, breathing heavily. "She wasn't even trying not to get caught, she just—she didn't even take it away, she just locked it up, she knew—"
"Emma?" Mystique asks.
Charles nods fervently. "She wanted someone to find out."
"Show it to me," Erik demands.
"Erik," Charles pleads, "I can't, it's too much—"
"Don't you say that," Erik snaps. "You know what I've been through—"
"No," he says, shaking his head. "Too much information, have a whole year in here, it hurts, Erik, it's hurting me, you can't—"
"Goddammit, Charles," Erik snaps, "give it to me."
Charles lifts his fingers again, and so many things are forced into Erik's mind all at once. Erik barely reaches the wastepaper basket before he throws up from the sheer vertigo of it, all the things careening through his mind.
Charles was right.
Finally the shaking stops, and Erik's head stops feeling like it's going to burst open. What's next might be worse; once his mind stops spinning, he can see everything, a whole year of memory right at his fingertips, and he hates every bit of it.
"Azazel," he says, shutting his eyes.
Mystique looks at the two of them, her face drawn. "If it's that bad," she says, "then just tell me. I don't want to see. I don't need to."
Charles sighs, his shoulders slumping. He looks to Erik. "I'm not sure where we should begin."
June 1965
Life in the house goes on, because there's not really much of a choice. Bills are paid, contacts are kept up, threats are assessed- there's nothing to be done about them, yet, but surveillance is always worth it.
And every night, Riptide goes to his bed, and Erik and Mystique go to Erik's, and no one talks about it. There's not even anything to talk about; they sleep wrapped around each other, but that's the extent of it; that's what they need from each other right now.
And then one night, she climbs into bed beside him; her hair is still damp, her body warm from the shower. He knows it's different, just by the way she looks at him; and when she leans over, putting her hand on his shoulder and kissing him, he doesn't hold back. He pulls her toward him, and she wraps her arms around his neck, kissing him over and over again. He's been wanting this, wanting her, ever since she came back, since before she left, maybe since that night at the mansion when she slipped into his room. His hand lingers over her hip, sliding up onto her waist, her scales smooth underneath his fingers—
And he sees red skin, a hand in the same spot, skimming up her side—
He shuts his eyes tighter, shoving the image down; he's not going to let that interfere, not now, not when they're so close. He kisses her harder—
And it's hard like he used to do it, when he would hold her down, laughing as he—
Erik pushes her back, wanting suddenly to get as far away as possible; he sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, feeling sick to his stomach.
Mystique moves behind him, her hand coming to rest on his back, rubbing circles there. "What's wrong?"
"Every time I touch you," he says, and he has to stop and swallow. "Every time I touch you, I can see Azazel. I can see what he did to you."
Her hand goes still. "What I let him do to me," she says quietly.
He grabs her by the wrist. "Don't ever say that again," he snaps. "Don't ever even think that. What he did to you was wrong, Raven, and you had no choice at all." She's looking away from him, but he can still see that she doesn't believe him. "Come and lie down," he says gently, letting her go. "Everything will be fine," he tells her, just like he keeps saying, even though he's still having a hard time deciding if he believes it or not.
It's a long time before either of them sleep.
They don't speak about it again.
But life still has to go on.
--
"I have an idea," Riptide says, three weeks later.
Erik looks up from his book. "What sort of idea?"
"There's some chatter on an anti-mutant gathering in Graeve next week," he says. "Nothing big. Maybe fifty people."
Erik lifts an eyebrow. "That's fifty people who are certainly superfluous."
"I thought you'd see it that way," Riptide says, grinning.
"Do you have a plan?"
"I'd settle for setting it on fire, honestly," he says, with a shrug. "I just want to get out of the house."
It doesn't escape Erik's notice for an instant that this is something that, a year ago, would barely have rated his attention. He was going to set the whole world on fire, but now he's down to fifty people, a bunch of backwater hicks who'll barely be worth it.
But if this is what it takes to get things going again, to get him moving down the path he was made for, then so be it.
"Let's do it, then."
--
She's never asked about the picture on the dresser, the one in the small wooden frame; but when Erik comes in that night, she's looking at it, her finger trailing along the side.
"Who is she?" Mystique asks quietly.
"Magda," he says, picking it up. "Magda Lehnsherr. My wife."
She shakes her head. "You don't have to explain anything to me."
"It was while you were gone," he tells her. "We were living in Germany, and." He sighs, suddenly weary of it. "She died in childbirth." He runs his thumb over the image of her face. "Aside from my mother, she is the only human I will ever love." He puts the frame back down. "But like all humans, when I needed her the most, she failed me."
Mystique's breath hitches in her throat. Erik keeps his eyes on the photograph; it's better if he doesn't see her reaction.
But then she wraps her arms around him, ducking her head under his chin, and holds him like that for as long as he'll let her. He shuts his eyes, holding her close. Something in him relaxes, something that's been so tense for so long that he'd forgotten what it was like when it wasn't.
"I can't replace her," she says, when they part.
"I know," he says. "I trust you enough to know you'd never try." His hand clenches into a fist. "If anyone ever did—"
She puts a hand on his chest, calming him. "It's okay."
He shakes his head. "I can't change anything that happened to you."
"Nobody can," she says softly. "But we can move on, Erik."
"And do what?"
"Exactly what we started out to do. We left two—" she winces—"three years ago with a goal. It's time to get back to it."
He kisses the top of her head. That's it. That's it exactly.
--
The mission is, of course, a success. Very few people actually get set on fire, though it's not accurate to say that no one does. Rather more get thrown into a nearby lake, several up against trees, and at least one of them ends up with the bumper of a Ford wrapped around his neck.
Just enough of them get out, though. Just enough of them to let everyone else know that the evil mutants, the one they're so scared of, are real.
And they're watching.
Their escape is clean, too much commotion for anyone to follow when they split up, and the three of them regroup at the safe house. Riptide takes one glance at the way Erik is looking at Mystique and says, "I think I'm going to turn in. We can talk strategy tomorrow, right?" No one even answers him. "Right."
The door hasn't even shut behind him when Erik steps towards her, taking her face in his hands, tilting it up to kiss her. "I want you to go get in our bed." Her eyes are wide with surprise and so hungry. "Now."
He only just restrains himself from slapping her on the ass as she goes; there's something thrilling about the way she does it, too excited to try to be sexy about it, just trying to do it as fast as possible so she can get to the good part.
His cape seems like an incredibly poor fashion choice right now, the way it's so damn hard to get off; he just manages, throwing onto the table and weighting it down with his helmet- and, of course, he stabs his hand with one of the horns. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all, because nothing is going to ruin this, short of a full scale attack.
She's waiting for him when he walks into the bedroom, laid out on the sheets, and as he undresses, it's almost impossible to keep his eyes off her. She's always naked, something he knows in sort of an abstract way, but he's really reminded of it now; she's biting her lip, staring at him like she doesn't even know what she wants first.
He's barely gotten his clothes off before he's on top of her, pushing her down into the bed. She opens right up for him, kissing him desperately, like she can't wait one more second. He kisses his way down her jawline, down to her neck, biting at her skin; he wonders if he can bite hard enough to make a mark, just enough to make everyone see, to prove that she's his now, that he's never going to let anyone else get to her ever again.
Thoughts are spinning in his head now, but he's not listening, he won't, he can't. He's going to overwrite all their memories with new ones; there isn't going to be anything left except the two of them, no one else living in their heads.
He kisses his way down her stomach, hot, wet kisses, all the way down until his head is between her thighs. He spreads them a little wider, his hands running down their sensitive insides. She's blue absolutely everywhere, and it's more amazing than he even imagined.
"No one's ever—" she stops, falters, and Erik realizes she has no idea if that's true or not.
"Nobody but me," he says, licking a wide, hot stripe up to her clitoris. "And it's never going to be anybody but me."
"God, Erik," she gasps.
He looks up at her. "Say it again."
He lowers his mouth to her, licking over and over, his fingers sliding inside, and all she can do is moan his name over and over again, brokenly, up until the point where she can't form words at all. She clutches at the back of his head, her fingernails digging into his scalp as she comes, all but screaming, writhing against the bed.
She finally has to push his head away; she's panting heavily, her hand stroking over his hair. He rests his head against her thigh, looking up at her. "Good?"
She nods, still breathless. "Erik, come here," she says, reaching down a hand, and he lets her pull him up the bed, on top of her. His face is wet, and she doesn't even care, pulling him in to kiss him. Her hands are grasping at him, drawing him closer; his cock is riding along the crease of her thigh and he wants her badly, so badly, wants to get inside her, wants to never have to leave.
"Wait," he pants.
She moans in frustration. "Oh god, Erik, please don't stop, please-"
"No, no, I just-" He pulls the drawer of the nightstand out with his power; the condom wrapper is hard to get a grip on, such a tiny bit of foil, but he draws it into his hand anyway. She motions for it, ripping it open and tossing the package away, rolling it onto his cock. Now there's nothing, nothing to stand in his way, nothing to keep them apart any longer.
When he finally pushes into her, her head falls back, her eyes drifting shut, and it's nothing like he's ever seen, in a memory or otherwise. Her mouth falls open, and she looks transported, gone. He moves inside her, slowly, just rocking back and forth, and she opens her eyes again. They're so bright against the color of her skin, and Erik can't stop looking, staring.
"Erik," she says, "give me more."
He leans down and kisses her, moving faster. She brings her leg up, hooking it around his waist, and he can feel the scales of her calves scratching lightly against his back. It just makes him want more; she's sublime and singular and she's letting him have this, she wants him like this, even after everything that's happened to them.
She's bucking her hips now, working up to meet his thrusts, pulling him in with her legs to keep him tight against her. She twines her hands in his hair, kissing him wildly, like she can't get enough of it; neither can he.
When she comes, she shakes underneath him, gasping against his lips. "Mystique," he says desperately, "Raven—" and he follows her over, groaning into her shoulder, clutching her like he's afraid to let her get away for an instant.
It's hard to tear himself away, even long enough to deal with the condom and lay down beside her; she turns towards him, kissing him intently, her arms wrapped around him. There isn't anything to be said, and neither of them try. They just lie there in the silence until they fall asleep.
Then they wake up and do it all over again.
August 1965
The smarter members of Emma's entourage have learned what to do when Emma's body turns to diamond; guns are suddenly drawn, and Angel's wings pull away from her skin.
Still, Emma doesn't move. She doesn't even stand up as the wall crashes in; she just lifts her highball glass, in time to keep a shard of masonry from smashing it. "Magneto," she says, "we've got to stop meeting like this."
"With any luck, Emma," he says, stepping through the ruin of the wall, Mystique and Riptide behind him, the new recruits flanking them, "we never will again."
"Oooh," she coos, shivering in mock fright, "somebody's angry today."
"I can assure you," Magneto says, "the whole Brotherhood is very angry. It's one of our common interests."
"So you're back in business, then," she says, amused.
"Yes," he says, smirking, "we are."
Notes: In this story, a character dies in childbirth and her children are given up for adoption by their father; another character's child is stolen from her by its father and given away, and she does not find it again. Though, if you know your comics canon, you know what happens to all these kids. Which may or may not help.
(no subject)
Date: 2012-01-09 03:56 am (UTC)