Gloveless, a x-men fanfic

(A/N: This is from a small round robin roleplaying session. I'm writing the part of Rogue, and UncommonCold is writing the part of Magneto. It's written in the style of forum rp. This is Unbeta'd.)

---

He was having tea in the library.

She'd spent a good three hours watchin' TV and vistin' with Max before she finally asked him to look for her. He didn't ask questions, just got that spaced out look on his face that he did when he was "lookin'"...or however he did it. She never really asked Max a lot of questions, and he didn't ask her. They just enjoyed each other's company in that unspoken way that kin do. And Max was kin just as much as Kurt was. She didn't see a ornery little kid when she looked at him, but a lonely twenty year old with one helluva grip on the shitty end of the mutant stick. A brother under the skin...and an understandin' friend.

Good people.

Rogue hesitated in the doorway, she could hear the turning of a page...leather creaking as someone shifted their weight...the tinking of a cup being set in its saucer; she took a deep breath and walked in.

There he was, fingers still resting lingering on the edge of the fine bone china saucer, head bowed slightly over the leather bound tome held in his other hand.

English Breakfast tea, by the scent. Just a splash of milk and one sugar. It was a mighty peculiar thing, knowing how someone took his tea when ya really didn't know a body. Rogue wasn't much for hot tea, never had been, least not before Liberty Island. Now she kinda had a taste for it, she pretended it was Remy's city boy influence, and would have a cup now and again.

Always with jus' a splash of milk and one sugar.

Lord, her stomach was knotted up something awful.

She crossed the room and laced her gloved fingers behind her back, "Dzień dobry." She said softly, not exactly sure why, "Dr. Lensherr, can I talk t'you?

--------

There were thousands of books in Charles' library and he'd read every single one of them at least once. Some he'd read more times than he cared to count. Over the years, through the visiting of antique stores, public library sales, estate sales, and yard sales, he'd added to the tomes.

There was little that was more precious in this world than knowledge and it was his own small contribution to the children that Charles took in, that kept him adding to these shelves.

It was strange to remember where he found them all but he still did. Every last issue, when he picked it up, he remembered the face of the individual who had sold it to him and the place he found it.

This particular volume of De Profundis by Oscar Wilde, had come from a public library sale in Wilmette, Illinois back in 1971. The particular date had slipped away with time but he still remembered the small white badge on the ladies turtleneck had read Ellen.

One of the small things that cause him to marvel at the workings of the human mind. At it's best, it put the world's most modern supercomputer to shame. No more than a collection of cells spurred by the body's electrical system, yet so sublime as to create miracles of intellect and creativity such as he held in his hands now.

"To regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's life. It is no less than a denial of the soul."

Yes.

Such profundity, each beautiful line penned by such a remarkable mind as Oscar Wilde possessed. It was truly awe inspiring.

"Dr. Lensherr, can I talk t'you?"

The soft musical lilt of Rogue's southern tinged tone called his attentions from his own musings over Oscar Wilde, to a small moment of disorientation and confusion. Charles spoke Polish, abysmally. Though it was still a rare occasion when he had call to speak it.

Yes, of course, Rogue had likely picked it up from their ... previous connection. "Well, yes. Please... have a seat."

Long fingers slipped between the pages sliding the leather marker into place before he laid it on the table beside him, "Would you care for some tea? A cake perhaps? Charles picked them up this morning from a pastry shop in Manhattan, they are quite good."

He had his father's eyes.

His father's eyes and his mother's remarkable hair.

Tiny hands pushing seeds into black earth. Mama's pale hair would glint gold in the sunlight. She would laugh and ruffle his hair at his seriousness over his task as he diligently patted the soil over each sprinkling of seeds. She smelled like lemon verbena and fine soap that morning...

Erik Lensherr's hair never darkened with age, never lost the white-blond of childhood. Tow-headed, as Rogue knew it.

Her fingers drifted to her hair---a permanent reminder of what had happened--and tucked a bit of the white behind her ear as she sat down, setting the knapsack she carried with her onto her lap. She had another, just like it, still tucked beneath her bed.

"That'd be nice." Rogue said, and reached for a pastry...though she wasn't much hungry. But one didn't refuse food. And that was kinda the reason she'd went lookin' for him...among other things. "I know this is a mite awkward...but I think we should have ourselves a talk." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I ain't mad or nothin', I know what happened wasn't your doin' and I'm sorry for it. Bein' used is a terrible thing...but I ...need t'talk, iffen you don't mind none." She almost grimaced as her accent degenerated as her nerves tensed up. Lord, but this was hard. She didn't blame him a hair if he told her to git. "I mean, if you don't want to, I'd understand."

------

As Rogue moved to take a seat, he busied himself with pouring the tea. Rather than add the sugar or milk she might like, he simply removed the top from the cannisters and left them for her to add to her own tastes.

"I mean, if you don't want to, I'd understand."

For a long moment, he said nothing at all. Just sitting in quiet contemplation of Rogue's words. How hard had it been for her to come to him like this? How hard must it be to come to the one who forced, not only their powers but themselves onto you?

Had he been in his own right mind, it never would have happened.

The life he had lived, was nothing that someone should be forced to experience should it not be their own.

Apart from her hair, he had never been sure how much of him, that she had carried away from the encounter. It seemed, now, was the time he might find out.

Erik stood up and walked over to the fireplace with offered it's warmth and comforting scent and sounds. There was little that seemed as ... homey as a roaring fire. He had his own reasons for hating the cold but they were his own to keep.

Glancing back over his shoulder at Rogue he realized that perhaps they were not, as he had previously believed, his own to keep. Perhaps she shared them as well, some measure of them.

Did she understand the things that plucked at his dreams and haunted his memories as clouds haunted the midnight moon?

A deep breath filled his lungs, only to be exhaled slowly through pursed lips.

"Yes. I suppose it is long overdue for us to speak." The smooth baritone of his voice was quiet even with the quiet of the library. He stared at the flames before him so intently, he knew when he looked away the phantom of their light would be burned into his vision.

"What do you know? What would you like to know?" He lifted his arm to rest on the mantle, leaning a little closer to the fire. "I will answer any questions you have."

---

Rogue nodded and set to fixin' her tea as he walked over to the fire. A bit of milk, a bit of sugar. She wasn't real sure on how to start. It seemed so personal...like she'd gone and rooted through his diary.

'Ceptin' about a hundred times more invasive. Lord knows, she couldn't begrudge him what had happened, not after Carol...she wasn't a hypocrite. Maybe it was the Carol in her that let her do this now.

She didn't really know who she was anymore.

"I know a lot." She said, stirring her tea...watching the milk swirl into it. "Last thing I wanna do is dredge up ...things for you."

Might as well get to the point. She set the tea down and unzipped her knapsack. She touched the package of saltines within almost reverently. Saltine, cans of tuna and beans, tins of sardines, bottled water, packets of sugar and salt, peanut butter...things was would keep, that could be carried, that would keep her alive.

Keep her safe.

"I jus' keep 'em...and I don't know why I do it. I got me another one, all filled with the same. Beans n' crackers n' water...and I check it every night 'fore I go t'bed. To make sure it's there, can't sleep otherwise." She zipped it back up. "Yours is a box, mine's a bag..." She sighed and stood up, walking over to the fireplace, the heat felt good...comforting. "And then there's the dreams...some bad, some good." She laid her silk covered hand on his arm, "I'm sorry...about your family. About all of it."

---

"I know a lot."

Ah, there was the crux of it. It seemed she had kept a great deal of him from their encounter. Perhaps this too was God's hand, guiding them down a path they had no right to see. Where would it lead them?

"Last thing I wanna do is dredge up ...things for you."

So delicately put.

Things.

Perhaps it sounded more harmless that way.

It was the sound of the zipper, that caused him to look around.

It was if he were standing naked in front of an auditorium filled with people. It was more bare than naked though, more as if he stood without his skin and his soul was on review before the world. It wasn't the world though, it was one little girl who was confused as to the things she had seen and felt from an old man who knew far too much of the world and the people in it.

Insect or man, they crawled the surface of this planet scratching out their living amidst the refuse they left behind.

Erik, looked back at the fire as Rogue, came up beside him and laid her hand on his arm. Always kept a few millimeters of fabric from the people that lived around her. She had hated him so when he'd first returned to the mansion. Not that he could blame her in the least.

Much had passed between that time and now.

"I think... Yes, I think it's time I told you a story. It's not a pretty story but all stories aren't pretty." He reached over and laid his hand atop of hers and squeezed her fingers beneath the silk.

Releasing her hand, he turned his eyes back to the fire but even further away his gaze slipped, seeing instead those who he had loved better than anyone else. Those long since passed from this world, opening the door and welcoming his ghosts.

"My mother was a pure-blooded German," a certain venom tinged the words pure-blooded, " and my father was a Jew. They met in Berlin, long before anyone had ever thought of the war or even heard of Hitler. Even then, it was highly unusual for a German to fall in love with and marry a Jew. Their parents were against the marriage but they married anyway. My mother ..."

The absolute adoration that he felt for her mirrored in the smile that slid across his lips, painted over with a profound sadness. "... she was a great beauty. She had hair that was pale, like mine, only more golden. Her eyes, were blue like a summer sky after a good cleansing rain. My father was strong, and when I was a child, he seemed huge. Though, I suppose in retrospect, he probably wasn't much taller than I am now. It was from him, I got my eyes and my strength. My intelligence, I am sure came from both of them. They were both very intelligent people. They met in engineering school, you see."

Pausing to take a breath, he continued, "I was the fifth of six children. My eldest brother was named Joseph, after my father. The next in line was my sister Chava, I did so worship the ground she walked on and she adored me in return. Joshua was next, he was the clown. He always had a joke on his lips or a prank in mind. Next was my sister Esther, she was the book worm. So many times I remember mother sending her on an errand only to see her trying to fetch water while reading a book and almost tumbling into the well." The memory brought a smile to his lips.

"I was next, of all of the children, I favored my mother, Ilsa, the most of all of the children. Last was little Elena. I was 4 years her senior. Of all of my siblings, she was the only other one to survive or at least I choose to believe she survived. Though I know all odds were against it, I cannot believe that she did not. You see, after they took us, my father found that they were going to kill all of the children who were not old enough to work. So, he risked all he had left to him, his life, to see her out of the camps. I still don't know how he managed it, he got his hands on her and managed to push her out beneath the fences. The last I saw of her, little Elena, she was running for the trees, beyond the burn outside the fences. I saw her disappear into the trees and I never saw her again. I know she made it. I know it."

His eyes reflected a dark intensity, if by his will alone he could make his words true. There were many times he had wanted to look, to see if he could find her but he was equally sure that if he found anything less than what he hoped, it might be more than he could take. "My father died that day. I held him as he died, the very last words he said were, 'I die a Jew.'. He was so proud of that fact. It was more than what he'd been born to, it was more than words scribbled out long ago in the Talmud, in the Torah, it was his blood, it was his existence, it was all that he had lived for and died for. It was him. Do you see?"

"Our father managed to keep us out of the hands of the Nazis for the better part of the war. My parents saw the way the wind was blowing and had made preparations to get us out. Things didn't go as well as they had planned though and we were unable to make it to Sweden, as they had intended. The front had shifted and we found the only way open to us was to the east, to Russia. Though Stalin was vile, he was a far better choice than Hitler. My father had hoped that perhaps, we might be able to go through Russia and into Finland, the Finnish were openly harboring Jews despite their somewhat tenuous alliance with the Nazis."

"It didn't last though. Nothing was sure in those days ... It was so bitterly cold that winter. My parents had saved food for us, should we have to run but we ended up being on the road a good deal longer than they had intended and it ran out. Had it not been for a Ukrainian couple, Jozef and Basia Gryzynsky, we would never have survived. They took us in and when the Nazis came, they paid for their kindness with their lives. Even as they died, they tried to save the children. It did little good though, their sacrifice. We all, with the exception of my eldest brother Joseph, were taken to Auschwitz. Joseph, had gotten frost bite and was lame, they shot him as he tried to board the truck."

"On that truck was the last time I ever saw any of my family, with the exception of my father and the last glimpse of my sister. I know the fate of my brother Joshua, I came upon him in one of the mass graves when I had been assigned to black work. That's what they called it when you dealt with the disposal of the dead, black work. It's amazing what you can bring yourself to do in fear for your life. It wasn't so much fear though, I did not fear death. I just couldn't bring myself to give up as so many did. I almost died thousands of times there but I always found a way to live. I know it was not coincidence, it was not fate, it was God's hand that brought me through when others did not. God had a purpose for me, you see? I lived because it was his will."

"The food," Erik gestured over to her bag, "is something I will likely always do. Even now, though I know that I can likely keep myself safe, even though I have more money than I could have ever dreamed of at the time, even though I have these powers gifted to me, I know. I know there is no country safe enough, no government trusted enough... Charles knows, though he didn't experience it for as long or lose as much... He was in Dauchau. He was picked up as a British student in France when the war came. He was about to be sent to the gas chambers when he spoke and someone realized he was British and instead he was sent to the prisons for P.O.W.'s. Charles, believes it was luck. It was God's hand that caused him to speak. It was God's hand that caused him to be heard. God knew that these children would need him, or else they wouldn't survive this new world."

Erik turned and looked into Rogue's eyes, reaching up and placing his hand on her cheek, "And now you know, don't you Rogue? You understand. I would not have cursed you with such a thing and could I take it back I would but ... " He took a deep breath and pressed his warm dry lips to her forehead, "At least you remember my family. I am sure my mother would have adored you."

---

Rogue had to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep the tears at bay. They stung the back of her throat when he looked at her, his eyes were so...tired. She felt akin to a strange mirror...her emotions a tangled reflection of what had to be going on behind, and god, how it ached. Her chest was so heavy with his burden.

The remembed hatred she'd felt for him was bitter on tongue now, making her heartsick. She thought she knew what loneliness was,..until his life was burned into her that night. She had to carry ghosts of a people who died long before she was born..and now what haunted him haunted her.

Where he ended and she began had blurred...

With the gentle touch of his hand over hers--warm through the thin silk--he began.

Everything. She had everything. Every word, every ache, every laugh and all the tears. Pain and hunger and loss and fear and love and peace and...oh God, faith. Faith in God, in providence...alien...so alien.

But hers now.

Images. Images of horrors beyond her imagintion twisted her guts and nearly bent her double. God, the sheer madness of it all. Death all around, death and hunger and cold. Always so very cold.

He put names to the faces that loved her in her dreams. A mother and father, brothers and sisters. A loving God. Something to believe in. Now she knew, she knew how it was supposed to be, what it felt like...unconditionally. And Oh, God, how she mourned for them. She wanted them back more than she wanted her next breath.

Magda.

Anya.

It just never ended. On and on...and it could happen again. Oh, Charles knew...no matter what he said, no matter how beautiful his 'dream' was...

His father had died a Jew.

Proud, his father's eyes...so like his own, the light fading from them...

Candlelight reflections...singing the Sabbath in...

Her eyes welled and spilled over. Her cheek, he'd touched her cheek. She almost hadn't felt it, and then he'd kissed her forehead. Touching her, always touching her...

"I miss them." She whispered, her voice cracking, "I know them...I'll never forget. I swear to God, I'll never forget." She began to sob, her breath coming in great gulps as she hastily pulled off her glove. How it was possible she didn't care, she cupped his cheek and leaned close, "I'll never forget them." She said, her eyes blazing with intensity, "I promise."

---

"I know them...I'll never forget. I swear to God, I'll never forget."

Rogue wept his tears, his pain. She had taken something so personal to him and found herself within it, found her own lessons, her own path. Her words and the import behind them were so very precious to him. She would not forget what he could not forget and she would hold them as dear to her heart as he did.

Most naturally, he put his arms around her as she cupped his cheek and bowed his head so his closely shaved cheek pressed against hers. He said nothing, merely held onto her as he had not held another in more years than he arms could remember.

No one, in all the years since his childhood, had ever seen him cry but for Charles and even then, his tears were lubricated usually by either too much time on his hands or booze. Though he did not weep, two silent tears crept down over his cheeks as he buried his face against her neck, his embrace tightening to something almost painful.

Finally, he whispered, his voice thick with emotion and unshed tears,"Thank you. Thank you for everything."

---

She just held him, she was given her strength so he could hold her as tight as he needed to. She buried her hand in his hair, cradling the back of his head as she cried. "Shhh." She soothed, amazed at how warm his skin was against hers.

How precious life was.

"Thank you. Thank you for everything."

"It's all right, honey...it's all right." She was keenly aware of feelin' so much older than her twenty-seven years. She didn't know how she was gonna let him go. She could stay there forever. He was part of her...always would be. "I got ya."

And he wasn't the only one grateful.

"You gave me somethin'...somethin' I needed." She pulled away only so she could look in his eyes. Her bare thumb gently stroked his cheekbone. "I know what family is now...I know who God is." She smiled, "I believe. I ain't never did before. In anything really. Thank you." She nodded, "My mutation. It ain't curse. It's a gift from God. I didn't know. I can't say I know what purpose it has yet, and God, it is so damn hard..." She laughed, frsh tears spilling from her green eyes, "But, I'll know...someday, I'll know why."

Somehow, she thought human contact would be more...dramatic. But it wasn't. It was like she'd always been able to touch him. Rogue closed her eyes and laid her head against his chest, lowering his hand to twine her fingers with his.

Gloveless.