When Erik thinks of solace, he thinks of home, and of the soft touches ghosting over his cheek, long gone fingers running through his hair, laughter in a distant part of his mind-and then it's gone, torn away with the piercing crack of a bullet, the frantic screams as he lost his grasp, drowning in the sea of people, hundreds of stars sewn onto jackets.
When he thinks of happiness, he thinks of Charles, and the moment that he decided to trust and be trusted, and the fading days as a part of the team, a part of something so much bigger than himself. He thinks of late night chess and the euphoria at finding other mutants, concrete proof that he was not-for once-alone.
When he thinks of sadness, and sorrow and grief and heartache, he shoves the memories of his childhood down, down, down-and finds himself thinking of the sadness in Charles' face, the dimmed light living within his blue eyes, the pained scream that had stopped the earth in a single second, the heavy press of a bloodied bullet still felt upon the palm of his hand, like it was yesterday.
When he thinks of hatred, of darkness and bitterness and bloodlust, he thinks of Shaw, and of all the humans that had aimed those missiles, and of all of the people that looked at him with hatred, like they were better than him-and he feels a flare of indignation, a moment of pure rage, at the fact that they're wrong, at how he's so very superior to them, how all of the humans in the world couldn't possibly be better than any one single mutant.
And when he thinks of comfort, and the rush of something that could be something so much more, he thinks of Mystique, with her patterned blue skin resting against him, her fiery hair brushing against his cheek, her glowing eyes absently flitting from person to person, watching each mutant of their Brotherhood mill about around the room, her sharp smile wickedly lovely.
Absently, he curls a finger around a lock of her red hair, and marvels at the sight of her, so captivated by her breathtaking beauty, and completely baffled at the notion of her hiding herself from the world. Glancing up at him, her smile softens, and she looks as if she's seventeen again-a swirl of innocence and shame and the simple desire to be loved. Her youthful face is unchanged, her physical appearance the same as it was when he met her, and yet her voice is deeper, the light tone it once held long gone, the smile tugging at her lips more precise-calculated.
Because that's what Mystique is; calculated, and cold and distant and cunning. Her eyes, though, are what make him stare, for within her yellowy gaze he sees all the years behind them, all the blood splattered on her blue hands, the cruel way she regards everyone around her. She reaches up, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts, to snake a hand over his shoulder, resting her palm against the side of his neck, wrapping her other arm around his waist, to press herself to him-a possessive gesture she's adopted of late.
"You look distant," she observes quietly, her voice husky, her smile sharpening into a teasing upturn, and he tightens his hold on her.
He shakes his head, smiling softly. "I was just thinking."
Disbelievingly, she frowns, and snuggles closer to him, aware of and electing to ignoring the small glances the show of affection gains from the rest of the crowd around them, and Erik's helmet shines in the light, resting atop a table behind her. It glows as if lit from the inside out.
"Are you planning our next attack?" Mystique asks seriously, excitement flashing in her steady gaze, and she shivers eagerly, the feel of her shaking against him making him feel suddenly so very burdened with something. Nodding, he lies, blue-grey eyes fixed on her as he steadies his pounding heart.
"Of course."
With that, she relaxes, smiling contentedly, the ghost of earnest slithering through her, and her body feels warm against his as he runs a hand down her arm, intoxicated by the feel of her skin.
And not too long after, Erik-or Magneto, because he hasn't been Erik in years-notices that the burden, heavy and looming over his shoulders like an omen, is her-and it breaks his heart all over again, knowing that he can do nothing but watch as her eyes get darker with the hour, helpless to take action, and helpless to let her go (because he loves her, and he doesn't care enough to tell her, and so, he doesn't really love her at all).
...
Mystique doesn't regret, and she doesn't cry, and she doesn't love.
Those are her rules, because she knows that if she breaks even one of the essential three, then she'll break herself.
What would regret get her?
A devastated heart, a river of remorse and memories and more remorse, lost flashes of Charles and his love and his pain, the betrayed look on his face that he desperately tried to keep hidden from her-the tragic loneliness in his eyes when she saw him a few years after, imprisoned in a wheelchair as he gazed longingly out the window, far too overcome with grief to fight them off.
What would crying get her? More tears, most likely, and an unneeded notice from Erik, who still watches her as if she'll defect, who still gazes over at her as if he can see the girl she used to be.
Erik.
He makes her laugh, and he hurts her when he's angry, as if his rage is still out of control after so many long decades of running free, and she slaps him when he deserves it, a direct result of him crushing her feelings, her heart.
And so, she's cold, and is careful with him, and soothes him when he wakes with the memory of fear shining in his eyes, like the most horrible truth that's unable to be kept away. She doesn't care about how weak he thinks he is in those moments, and just wishes to take his fright and his pain from him for as long as she can, and she manages to distract him for a night, moonlit darkness filled with tangled limbs and soft sighs, and the next day finds them back in their places-him a strong leader, she his steady right-hand.
And it works, for years and years and years, and when it doesn't work, she pretends as if it does. She pretends as if her heart doesn't soften around him, and she acts as if he doesn't melt her where she stands, and she plays at looking past his ever aging face, managing to come off as distant instead of the overly admiring way she wants to be.
And when it all comes down to it, Mystique breaks all of her rules, in reverse order.
She loved, maybe foolishly so, and sacrificed all she had to save the one man that was everything, and she cried, betrayed and shaking and utterly alone in that truck trailer, and she regretted, lost in the memories of her youth, the faces she can barely remember now, the voices that have long since left her.
Mystique-or Raven, because she no longer wears her blue skin-can't find the willpower to ever stop loving-be it Charles, or Hank, or mutants, or Erik-and the pain in her heart is far greater than any the humans could inflict upon her.
And even still, no one will accept her-and that breaks her down more than anything else in the world.
And what did love get her?
Nothing-nothing at all.
Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)
Prompts, ships, and ideas are welcome.
Some Erik/Raven requested by TheEmoVanity.
All rights go to their respectful owners.