The young woman was watching him again.
Magneto shot a sidelong glance at her, annoyed by the way her constant attention was distracting him from the performance. It was rare for him to take an evening out of his busy schedule to do something that he truly enjoyed, and to have a human detract from that joy in any way was beyond infuriating.
He had bumped into her at first on the steps of the opera house, wrapped up enough in his own thoughts that he walked almost directly into her, sending her flying back and only keeping her upright by firmly grabbing her uncovered bicep and yanking her back into equilibrium. Realizing that he was touching a human, he had let go almost immediately, but the strange tingling feeling in his hand had taken several long minutes to abate.
She was quite pretty, with long auburn locks and soft brown eyes. She wore a long, sleeveless evening gown with long, white gloves that stretched far up her arms past her elbows, leaving only a few tantalizing stretches of pale flesh visible. She was on the arm of a man far too old for her, a man perhaps ten years younger than himself, but she seemed completely at ease.
Now, though, the opera was nearing intermission and she wouldn't stop watching him from her box seat.
This was the first evening he had had away from the stress of being an evil mastermind in…years, actually. Mystique had protested, Sabretooth had growled, Toad had looked green (not that he didn't always), but Magneto had glared at them all imperiously, donned his elegant silver cape, and rowed himself to shore to the waiting town car. He had been wanting to see this opera, an opera that he had seen only once before, before the concentration camps, when he had just been a happy boy in a happy family, for years—and this might well be his only chance ever to see it again. That thought just made him more dismal, however, so he turned his gaze back to the young woman, making eye contract with her and watching as a slow, enchanting blush crept up her cheeks. She looked away first.
The intermission was upon him almost before he realized it, the leading soprano ending the first act with a tear-wrenching aria, and he clapped enthusiastically, if politely, and thought that not everything about humankind was entirely without value. He shot a glance at the box across the way, but the strange young woman had disappeared. He settled himself back into his seat, preparing to peruse the program yet again, when he heard a quiet but firm knock upon the door to his box.
His eyebrows drew together ominously at the interruption, and he stood with a swift, angry movement, fairly stomping to the door and throwing it open. "What?" he demanded roughly, glaring at the young woman where she stood outside his door.
She frowned. "You're very rude," she informed him, her voice sweetened by a pronounced Southern drawl. She pushed past him into the box, ignoring the way he gaped at her in furious shock. "Close the door; we need to talk."
"Excuse me?" he snarled, getting ready to quietly take care of her and hide the body so that he had time to enjoy the second act. The metal items in the box seemed to hum at him.
She glared at him, then stomped to the door and closed it firmly. She leaned against it as she turned to face him, as if defying him to try to open it with her blocking it. "You're a mutant," she said bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Yes, little girl, I am," Magneto replied dangerously, stepping close to her to emphasize his height advantage. He stared down at her and wondered at her complete lack of fright.
"So am I," she said.
He was so surprised that he drew back a little, eyes widening infinitesimally.
"I absorb people's, I dunno, life forces, through touch," she explained slowly, drawing off one of her opera gloves and staring at her smooth, pale hand as if it was some strange specimen not attached to her body. She lifted her eyes to his face. "When you touched me in the hall, I absorbed a bit of you."
"What does that mean?" he asked cautiously, suddenly becoming keenly aware of how closely he was standing near her and of the threat her power made her.
"It means that I know about your past, your history," she said slowly. "And I know about what you're doing, the machine you're building—the one that'll change the world leaders into mutants at the UN summit in a month."
"And you wish to stop me?" he inquired, and there was steel in his voice.
She blinked at him as if he was a particularly slow child. "You have a machine that will kill the person who operates it on the magnitude you're planning," she said. She glanced deliberately at her hand. "I have the ability to absorb your powers to operate the machine." At his blank expression, she continued, "If this plan of yours works, then the world's gonna need you around to pick up the pieces. I haven't done much with my life; no one will miss me when I'm gone. Let me do this; let me help."
"My dear," he began, pausing as he realized he didn't even know her name.
"Rogue," she supplied. Her eyes seemed to burn with the strength of her conviction, and he found himself unaccountably aroused. "Or Anna-Marie, but I don't go by that name any more."
"My dear Rogue," he continued, wondering inwardly why he was protesting this most generous and fortuitous offer, "you cannot possibly be sure that you want to sacrifice yourself like this, not knowing only a little about me, about our cause—"
"You were just a boy when you and your family were taken to Auschwitz," she interrupted, raising a finger to forestall his response. "Your sister was killed before you even reached the camp, and you were torn away from your parents as soon as you got there." She stared hard into his eyes, seeming to see right through him, then tore her gaze away, looking at the room around them in an attempt to avoid looking at him. "They beat you, and it hurt and you were so scared and missed your parents so much, but that first night, that first night after your powers developed—all you could think about was how amazing it felt to feel the metal all around you, to know you could manipulate it. You still feel guilty about feeling that way, sometimes, but you push the feeling away, hiding it from yourself, and that's part of the reason you're so devoted to your cause—because if they're the monsters then you never did anything wrong."
He stiffened partway through her recitation, unable to stop the onslaught of memories as she tonelessly recited his innermost thoughts and feelings, and after she finished speaking they both stood in silence for a long moment. Just when he got up the strength to speak, she started speaking again.
"The first time I used my powers," she said thoughtfully, twisting her hand in the weak light of the box as if to show it off, "I put a boy into a three week coma during our first kiss. I had the confused memories of a teenage boy running around my head, my parents called me a Devil's spawn, and I was kicked out of my house with nothing but the clothes on my back and the knowledge that anyone I touched was liable to end up dead."
"You can't turn it off," he realized, reaching forward to brush his hand lightly against her cheek, feeling the slight pull of her powers now that he knew what to look for. She closed her eyes in bliss at the touch, and he thought of how much torture it must be for a person accustomed to touch to suddenly be unable to have any at all.
"My power, it's never been a gift for me the way yours has been for you," Rogue said, her eyes seeming to beg him for understanding as she watched him. "I had no idea that they could be a gift, until I touched you—and now I see a way for me to use my powers for good, to help other people who have problems like I do. I've been on the road for three months, three months of trying not to touch people, of never knowing where my next meal was coming from; tonight has been the first time I've even tried to enjoy myself since that night." She looked down, as if afraid to meet his eyes. "I have nothing to lose."
"The man you're with—" he began speculatively, his mind already racing ahead to their departure from the opera house, knowing that there was no good reason to tell her to go on her merry way, to live the life she deserved instead of sacrificing it for an old man who wouldn't do the same for her, and that there were so many good reasons to accept her offer. He supposed he was grateful.
"Is of no consequence," she smoothly interrupted. "He's not a mutant, just an obscenely rich man who saw me wearing opera gloves on a street corner and thought he could buy himself some entertainment for the night. He won't raise a fuss if I don't come back for the second half; the police might inquire why he was with a young woman wearing his daughter's dress."
"What would you have done to him if you hadn't met me?" he inquired, raising a silver eyebrow.
She shrugged, adjusting one of the shoulder straps of her gown. "Drained him a little and stolen some cash. I just wanted a night at the opera, really, not to hurt him. I thought it might be the last chance I'd have to do so."
He shuddered a little at how closely her thoughts had echoed his own.
"We'll stay for the second half, then there should be a town car waiting for me outside," Magneto informed her. "Won't you have a seat?"
She raised an eyebrow archly at him. "Why thank you," she replied, settling herself smoothly on the chair and watching intently as he seated himself next to her, neither realizing just how striking a pair they made for the people in the boxes near them.
Then the curtain rose, and both allowed themselves to be swept away by the music.
"What's this?" Mystique asked when they arrived at the fortress, staring pointedly at the elegantly-dressed young woman accompanying the older mutant.
"Don't be ridiculous," Magneto replied to the clear innuendo in her gaze. "Rogue is a mutant, a brave woman who has agreed to sacrifice a great deal for our cause. She is to be treated with respect."
"Of course," the other mutant replied, her curiosity obviously peaked as she gazed curiously at the newcomer. "Welcome to the Brotherhood," she said, before strolling away to perform some task or other.
"That was Mystique," Magneto informed Rogue. "She is my second-in-command."
Rogue smiled a little as they continued to walk down a narrow corridor. "I know." At the look on his face, she said, "Disconcerting, isn't it? I'm sorry."
He stopped walking, forcing her to stop and face him. He grasped her gloved hand lightly in his own, then drew off the glove, allowing his skin to press against hers. She closed her eyes at the sensation, and he let out a gasp as he felt his energy being siphoned away. She pulled back first, her pupils dilated as she watched him, her own breathing heavy in response to his act. She looked away, seeking a piece of metal, and effortlessly levitated a metal bar, watching it twirl with fascination.
"Never apologize for using your gift, Rogue," Magneto said, gently but firmly.
She nodded, still breathless, still not completely convinced.
"Now come along," he ordered, leading the way to her room. "This is where you'll be staying; my room is next door, if you need anything."
She smiled a little at that. "You're giving me special treatment on account of the fact that I'm gonna die in a month, aren't you?"
Inexplicably, Magneto found himself smiling back. "Would you prefer that I not? I am not above rewarding mutants for their selfless deeds."
She shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't mind. I've just been on the road long enough...it's strange to feel like someone cares."
He settled his large hand gently on her shoulder, feeling the soft texture of his own jacket that he had, in a gentlemanly manner, given her to wear. "You will never be alone or uncared for again, Rogue. You have my word."
She looked down, as if afraid to meet his eyes, but her lips tugged upward in a grudging smile. "I don't know about never being alone again," she said lightly. "I think I'm ready to sleep, and I would really rather do that without company."
"Really?" he asked, wondering again what he was doing as an arch expression crossed his face. "You're sure about that?"
Her eyes widened, and he thought that maybe she was remembering some of his more...inappropriate thoughts from their meeting in the box.
"I'm sure," she said, looking vaguely alarmed, and before he could say anything further she walked into her room and grabbed the door. "Good night," she blurted, carefully looking anywhere but at his face in what he was coming to find was a common defense mechanism for her, then hurriedly slamming the door shut, blocking his view.
His stomach rumbled, and he turned toward the kitchen, intent on assuaging one form of hunger. For a moment he wished that his arrangement with Mystique was still in place, the arrangement in which they agreed to work together for the fulfillment of both of their needs, but that thought fled his mind as he again envisioned a younger, more innocent face, chocolate brown eyes, long brown hair...
He found himself humming as he strode through the halls.
Magneto lay in his bed uncomfortably, listening to the sound of Rogue's distress through the thin walls that separated them and wondering what the appropriate response to her nightmare was. It was the last night before the summit, Rogue's last night of life, and Rogue was dreaming his nightmares again, crying out words in German, words that he had thought often in the many years since his childhood but had long since ceased to speak out loud.
He had let her get to him, just as he had promised himself he would not. A month of knowing her had been too long, too long not to come to care about her, and he deeply regretted that he hadn't met her the night before the summit, or that they had met under different circumstances—anything to make it so that he would not be directly responsible for the death of a woman he deeply respected and perhaps even loved.
It was in the little things mostly that he had found himself slowly falling for her: the way she trained with the other members of the Brotherhood even though she would never need skill in battle; the way her brow furrowed as she tried to make pancakes for Toad on his birthday; the way her deadly skin glistened after she showered and the way she had slowly but surely ceased to wear her gloves, a protective covering that kept her from being exposed to the rest of the world in more ways than one.
He couldn't take it any more, listening to her nightmare and leaving her to suffer alone. He pulled on a sweater over his pajama shirt, put on his socks and gloves, and padded to her room on silent feet, sweeping her door open with his power. He watched her for a moment from the doorway. She wore very little to sleep, probably because after a day of being mostly covered it was a great relief to be able to wear whatever she wanted. She thrashed on the bed with a low moan, and Magneto found his feet moving toward her almost without his permission.
"Rogue," he said, hoping to awaken her. She didn't respond. "Rogue," he repeated, reaching out to shake her once. She sat up with a gasp, blinking and panting as she stared at him through wild eyes. "Look at me, Rogue," he ordered gently, watching intently as she slowly responded. "It's all right. It was just a dream."
She looked at him, unseeing, for a tense moment before abruptly relaxing back against the headboard of her bed. She was shaking. "It was so real," she murmured, rubbing the coverlet on her bed with one hand. "The dreams are always so real." She let out a little nervous laugh. "I guess I won't have to worry about that any more, will I?"
It was the first time he had heard her voice any dissatisfaction with their plan. "I suppose not," he said guardedly. He didn't know what else he could say. He hovered over her for a moment, suddenly all too aware of their awkward position, he fully dressed, she nearly undressed, before he roughly said, "Try to get some more sleep."
"Wait!" she said as he turned to go. He turned back to her. "Please don't leave me alone," she begged.
He moved back to her, not quite reluctantly, and sat on the bed next to her. She scooted over to allow him some more room, and he seated himself completely, leaning against the headboard and gently pulling her to rest her head against his chest. She settled herself against him with a sigh, her eyes closed as he began stroking her hair with his gloved hand.
He thought for a moment that she had gone back to sleep, but then she began to speak. "I'm so weak," she said, her accent more pronounced than usual from her emotion.
"You are not weak, Rogue," he rebuked her firmly. "You have to be one of the strongest people I know."
"I'm so afraid of tomorrow," she persisted. She glanced at her clock. "Today, I guess."
"You're afraid of death?" he asked, cringing inwardly as he asked the words; of course she was, who wasn't?
He felt her shake her head against his body. "Not death—but dying. I don't mind the idea that I'm just not going to exist any more, but I'm afraid of how it's going to feel." He drew in a breath to speak, but she continued. "You can't lie to me, Erik. I've got you in my head. It's not going to be quick, or painless. It'll be drawn out, and every moment of it will be agony." She shuddered. "It'll be over soon enough, but the waiting—it's hard."
"I'm sorry," he said. The words seemed inadequate. I'm sorry you are going to die a painful death instead of me. I'm sorry that one of us has to die.
She didn't respond, inhaling his scent deeply as she snuggled into him, burrowing her head into his chest. Again, he thought she might be about to fall asleep, but then she turned her head to look at him, and then she pushed herself away from him so that she was nearly upright, and then she leaned forward and kissed him.
The kiss did not last long, not long enough for him to be seriously drained, but he found himself feeling dizzy and unsettled nevertheless. She rested her hands on his shoulders, obviously a little unsteady herself. "Rogue..." he said breathlessly, trying to control the sudden, all-consuming need coursing through his body.
"Shhh," she replied, placing her index finger directly above his lips, carefully not touching him. "I know you want me, and, well, I've wanted you for a long time, too. This is what I want." She blushed as she spoke.
He hesitated a moment longer before he remembered, she's going to die tomorrow. This time, he leaned forward and kissed her, running his gloved hand down her body, feeling her breath hitch as his fingers danced lightly over her erect nipples before continuing down to rest lightly against the apex of her thighs, rubbing her through her shorts and underwear.
She let out a surprised moan, her eyes opened wide at the foreign sensation, before rubbing herself against his fingers. He swallowed.
"What now?" she asked breathlessly, uncertain in her inexperience and very aware of the restrictions imposed by her power.
"This could be tricky," he said, his voice deep with desire as he looked down on her, flushed and in disarray and very alluring. "I have condoms in my room." Driven by his all-consuming need, he swept out of the room and back, the package clenched in his hands. He had to take off his gloves to remove the condom, and he couldn't keep himself from gently stroking her with his bare hand, reveling at the feeling of silky flesh beneath his fingertips, admiring the way she writhed beneath his attentions. Her eyes fell shut at the pleasure, staying that way even as he removed his hand and hurriedly turned his attention to the condom, although her hands reached out to clutch the material of his sweater, stretching and bunching the material as she searched for something to hold on to.
Her eyes opened again as she watched him pull himself out of his pajama pants, his member long and hard and dripping from his excitement, and she stared in fascination as he pulled on the condom. "Take off your shirt," he commanded, watching as she slowly, hesitantly pulled off the tank top, leaving her naked from the waist up. He moved on top of her, resting his weight on either side of her body on his legs and hands as he lowered his mouth to her right nipple, tasting it with quick, short bursts of contact. She whimpered and writhed under his attentions. He pulled himself away from her long enough to remove the rest of her clothing, his own breathing labored as he admired her nude form.
His gloved fingers moved towards her wet core, and he carefully pushed one, two, three fingers inside her, stretching her gently as she moaned and twisted, watching him through lust-glazed eyes. Then he was pulling his hand away, and she grunted at the loss of contact. He repositioned himself with his hands on either side of her head, staring straight into her eyes as he positioned himself outside her entrance, rubbing himself oh so lightly against her.
"Erik," she moaned, desperate, and he closed his eyes at the sound, pushing slowly into her, giving her time to adjust to the sudden intrusion before pulling himself out and pushing in further, working his way in carefully until he was completely inside her. She pulled him into her as far as she could, wrapping her arms and legs around him in her passion and letting out a little sob of relief when they were finally joined.
She experimentally squeezed him with her internal muscles, and he groaned, "Oh, God, Marie." He drew out of her slowly, then thrust forward, enjoying the way her eyes rolled back in her head at the feeling. He began thrusting rhythmically, setting up a steady pace, kissing her intermittently. He grasped her hands in his own, their fingers interlocked above her head as his thrusts became more urgent.
"Erik!" she screamed, pushing back against him, tossing her head from side to side as her orgasm overtook her.
The sound of his given name coming from her mouth a second time was enough to send Magneto over the edge, and he cried out her name again as he climaxed, giving her everything he had to give.
They stayed like that for a long moment, neither moving, still joined, before he reluctantly pulled out of her and lay down beside her, pulling her to curl up against him again. He began stroking her hair again as their breathing began evening out again, and he refused to allow himself any regrets. Before he knew it, they were both asleep.
It was just the two of them at the very top of the Statue of Liberty, standing in front of the machine that would establish mutant supremacy in the most powerful country in the world. Rogue wore a t-shirt and jeans, and she had insisted more than once that at least she would get to die wearing comfortable clothes. Magneto had donned his helmet, designed for the purpose of keeping Charles and his x-men from learning about their plan until it was too late.
Rogue glanced at her watch. "It's time," she said, her voice resigned but not bitter.
"Marie," he said, watching as she made eye contact with him. "I—"
"Shh," she whispered, stepping close to him, pressing her body against him. "It's all right."
He couldn't stop himself; he leaned forward to kiss her again, one last time, pressing his lips forcefully against hers and pushing his tongue into her mouth, dueling with her own. They stayed that way, locked together in an embrace as intimate as the one they had experienced the previous evening, for as long as they could, until he tore himself away, suddenly overcome by a doubt he could not shake.
He turned to face her again, and the expression on her face was not entirely friendly. "Don't even think about it," she hissed, stepping towards him again. "You can't sacrifice yourself; the mutants can't afford for it to happen."
"I can't do it," he said, astonished by his own weakness. "I cannot allow myself to be responsible for your death, Marie."
Rogue nodded, as if in acceptance of what he had said. Then her hand struck out, quick as a darting viper, and latched onto his arm. "And I can't watch you die," she said firmly, her grip growing stronger even as his attempts to pull free became weaker, his strength deserting him as she drew more and more of his life force into herself. She released him only moments before he would have fallen unconscious. "I'm sorry, Erik," she said regretfully, watching him as she backed toward the machine. "In any other circumstance, I would have lived for you—the way things are, the best I can do is die. You'll be all right, though. You always are." She sat in the machine. "Erik," she said, and this time her voice wavered just a little, "I love you."
She placed her hands on the controls and the device began whirring and despite his best efforts to force himself to stand, to stop her, he found himself being drawn into oblivion. And as he yielded to unconsciousness, as the light around the machine began to expand outwards, he knew that when he awoke it would be to a new world. A better world. Yet, for him, it would be a world empty of the one thing he valued the most.
And it was so.
Fin