A/N: To my wonderful lurkers and readers, thank you for continuing to take this journey with me.

…

Freedom of the Heart

When they stepped out of the elevator and onto the ninth floor, Erik frowned at the sounds of raucous laughter that filled the entirety of the hallway. The dulled roar of a party were certainly underway, and a few stragglers leaned against the cream colored walls, smoking cigarettes while talking in low voices. Erik pushed past them angrily, gritting his teeth at the way one man was staring at Christine. Hatred immediately coiled within his stomach like a snake, and he had to bite the inside of the stitched portion of his mouth to keep himself from smacking the man across his neat, chiseled jawline. He glared at the man instead as they passed, ushering Christine along until they arrived right outside the emerald double doors of Bruce's penthouse.

"It would seem as though Bruce has guests," he muttered while Christine bustled forward eagerly, her pale cheeks flushed pink from the moment they had spent on the staircase outside.

"I might actually enjoy a distraction," she said through a smile, a long wave of chestnut hair falling over one shoulder. She took wide strides to create a space between them – a space that made Erik oddly uncomfortable.

He forced a grimace – an attempt at a smile – but suddenly could not think clearly, for all the noises around him seemed louder than normal. The haze of smoke reminded him of a time where his eyes had been hit so hard, they were both swollen shut…and the noises, those noises…the laughter, the insane slaughtering of the human language stretched out into endless, electrical currents…and he could not shut those sickening, seething noises out of his mind…

"Christine, wait…for me," he called out quietly, moving hastily to close the space she had created between them. She whirled around to stare up into his face, her smile dissipating the fears that had – just a moment ago – gripped his heart in terror. "Erik, are you all right? Your skin is almost…white…" she reached up to touch the scarred surface of his face, but he stopped her gently with his free hand, casting his eyes away from hers. "Please," he murmured, his eyes downcast, his lips stretched into a thin line. "Please don't."

Christine withdrew her hand sharply, disappointment flashing behind her eyes. She turned away from him and stepped closer to the doors, rapping a pale, delicate hand upon the painted door. Erik softened his gaze on her as he strode up and stood behind her, the tortoiseshell suitcase still hanging from his left hand. A moment passed and stretched out as he allowed his eyes to follow the curves of her body, even prominent through her long, woolen coat. The right-hand side door swung open, shattering his tiny moment that she hadn't seen – he could not let her know of his feelings, of the pressure that pushed against his heart and made him feel painstakingly and breathlessly alive.

Bruce's face filled the gap of the doorway, his dark hair gelled and combed into a neat side part. "Christine!" he shouted majestically, holding his arms out whilst kicking the door all the way open. "And you've brought me my brother. Come in, both of you!" Christine nodded excitedly, embracing Bruce while standing upon her toes, glancing over his shoulder at the large gathering in his living room. As Bruce released her, she slipped behind him and into a cloud of smoke, turning back to look at Erik with wide, amorous eyes. His eyes were looking back at her, smoldering with a tenderness that she could not place. She ripped her eyes away from his, afraid that her heart might burst if she looked upon him any longer. For she very much longed to kiss him again, to touch the scars that riddled his flesh, to soothe the nervousness that she could see dancing in the deep of his eyes. She felt his eyes upon her still, even when she turned around and entered the apartment, burning steadily through the walls she had built around her heart.

"Erik, what have you…" Bruce stared at his brother, unmasked, his white button-down shirt laced with sprays of blood. "What the hell happened? Or should I not even ask…?"

Erik lifted his chin, sighing loudly as he eyed the throngs of people chattering in the smoke-filled living room. "I didn't know you would be busy, little brother. And if you must know, I beat the living shit out of her husband."

Bruce blinked several times, rubbing his forehead absentmindedly with a hand. "Did he deserve it?" he asked cautiously, biting the inside of his lip. "Oh no," Erik simpered, shaking his head slowly. "He was completely innocent. I just felt like playing around in his blood."

"That isn't funny, Erik…"

"Can't you at least take a bit of a joke? He was burning her neck with a fucking cigarette. I arrived just in the…nick of time."

Bruce frowned. "One of these days you're going to realize that violence doesn't always solve a problem. Sometimes it makes the problem worse. For example, our father…"

"He deserved that beating as much as that pathetic, vile little creature…" Erik cleared his throat, "Christine's husband…" the words were like poison in his mouth. "I need you to find me a lawyer. Oh, fucking hell Bruce, never mind! There's probably a dozen of them in there, now that you've got the entire building inside of your apartment –"

"You assumed I'd be alone, on a Saturday night? Oh I'm sorry, Erik, I'm not you! I don't use the evenings to get so blasted that I wreck my own things and then draw blood from my own fucking father!" Bruce snapped, his hands gripping the sides of the door. Erik narrowed his eyes, running a hand through his tousled hair.

"How pitiful, little brother. Are you trying to give me a philosophy lesson?" Erik dropped Christine's suitcase, tossing his head back as he laughed. "God, it was so good. I mean, both of them were good, I'll give you that…I've never felt more powerful in my entire life! Oh Bruce, you should have seen the second one, that deplorable little bitch of hers…I gave him a little, oh, shall we call it a gift?" he pointed a finger to the stitches on the side of his mouth. "Now we match, little brother! Don't you think that's thoughtful of me? My, your ethical nature is really pulling me in! I think I'm changing, don't you?"

Bruce's mouth fell slightly agape as he stared up as his brother. "You're sick. You're fucking sick, and if you don't start changing, you're never going to be able to get what you truly want. Christine…"

Erik shoved his scarred up face mere inches from Bruce's nose, sneering with wild, golden eyes. "Do not even attempt to understand how I feel about her."

Bruce's stance wavered slightly, but he did not falter in the shadow of his brother's imposing form.

"I'm not attempting anything, Erik! Jesus Christ…I want to help you! But you can't go around showering the city in bloodshed, just because you're angry about the past! It won't solve anything, and it will push her away from you. You cannot live as a volatile man one minute, and be her knight in shining armor the next!"

Erik stood silent for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut at the fury that crawled inside of his heart, just beneath his skin. He let out a long breath, leaning down to grab Christine's suitcase from the floor. "I would never hurt her."

"Erik," Bruce said softly, settling a hand upon his brother's shoulder. "I know you would never lay a hand on her. But…your temper, your mouth…you let them run rampant, sometimes. Especially to those you claim to love. And I see the way you look at her, I do…but you must learn patience. You must be able to feel peace…about everything. Not even just about the war, or the torture…which I'll never understand," he grimaced, feeling defeated. "But to forgive yourself, Erik…that is what will grant you her love. You cannot hate yourself and love another. It is not possible."

Erik was quiet for another moment before pushing past Bruce, the suitcase clamoring against the side of his legs. "I'm going to use your bathroom to clean myself up," he muttered bitterly, ducking his head down before entering into the chamber of smoke. Bruce stood in the open doorway, his hands shaking, and he bit hard into his lip to stop the tears from falling down his flushed cheeks. "One day I hope you can understand," he whispered, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "One day I hope you can find peace, big brother."

…

Christine found herself seated comfortably on a long chaise, a lit cigarette in hand. She sipped from a crystal glass, savoring the bourbon's sting upon her tongue, listening to the women around her chatting in a small semi-circle. She glanced up as Erik marched past through a cloud of smoke, his eyes full of darkened resentment, disappearing down a small hallway. "Oh my, I've never seen him without his mask, you know," one of the women remarked; she was dressed in beiges and pinks, with a white fur collar at her throat. Diamonds glinted on the lobes of both ears, and her light blonde hair was cropped into the newest fashion of gelled waves. "Though I've heard he's quite the lover…"

"Shush, Ivy, you don't know what you're talking about. Those are just rumors," another woman retorted, sipping a martini that was packed with olives. Christine took a long sip from her glass, pushing a wave of hair over her collarbone, straightening her back.

"I think she might be right," Christine added lightly, smiling at the warm simmer of comfort that was spreading heat across her face and neck.

"I've kissed him before."

The entire semi-circle of women seemed to lean forward, their eyes tearing greedily at Christine's visage. "Well I'm not surprised," Ivy said finally, adjusting her collar as she sat up straight. "You are a beautiful young thing."

"So he is in love, then?" One of the older women quipped, crossing one leg daintily over the other. "He'll have to give up his prostitutes, then…oh, come now, everyone has heard that one!" She pursed her lips. "But you are a vision, child…and from the looks of it, he might need you. That man needs a whole lot of love, let me tell you…I heard he beat up his own father," she leaned forward, "at the Opera House Gala. They hushed it, true, but I still heard murmurings…so I'd be aware of that temper if I were you," the woman finished, downing the rest of her drink.

"I'm not afraid of him," Christine said boldly, taking a long drag of her cigarette. "I'm not afraid of anyone."

"Tell me then, child," the older woman continued, her blue eyes crinkling with mischief, "how you got those two marks on your neck?" Christine paused – she had almost forgotten that merely an hour ago, she had told her devil of a husband goodbye…but even still, she bore the mark of the beast. She touched her collarbone instinctively, her cheeks flushing red as she searched for an excuse. "It…it was from a long time ago," she lied, "when I lived as an orphan. My headmistress caught me singing in a lone corridor, and…and she burnt me twice…so I might never forget."

The group of women seemed to gasp audibly, sipping their drinks while shaking their heads. "You poor thing," the older woman said sadly, twisting her cigarette around in its holder. "Perhaps that's why he's so…enthralled with you. You both carry scars of the past…scars that can never be healed or taken away. Oh, the tragedy of it all…I just cannot even fathom what you've been through. Tell me, what was the headmistresses name?"

As the name flashed within Christine's mind, she realized she could not say it out loud. She hadn't said that name in years…she had buried it within the repressive confines of her soul, never to be brought back to the surface again…until…

She felt a strong hand upon her shoulder.

"Ladies," Erik's voice cut through the thickening smoke, both smooth and sharp within its timbre. "Do you mind if I steal Christine from you?" The women seemed to freeze under his unmasked gaze, yet Ivy was the only one who looked away, her light eyes seemingly glued to the carpet. Several of the women nodded politely, and the older woman smiled, winking at Christine. "I suppose we must, hm, ladies? It was lovely to talk with you, my dear."

Christine smiled, touching Erik's hand with her own as she stood up. His hand fell from her shoulder as she turned around to face him, the chaise filling the only space between them. He had changed into a black dress shirt and combed back the waves of his hair with some gel, and his eyes glimmered out from the heavy scarring of his face, a coy smile poised upon his lips. "Would you like to get some air?" he asked, pushing both hands nervously into the back of the chaise. Christine nodded, holding out her now empty glass for him to take.

"If you'd be so kind as to get me another drink, then yes," she answered gently, making her way out of the semi-circle of women, following his great form through the billows of smoke and into the kitchen. She rested her body against the frame of the door, watching the muscles in his back move through the silken fabric of his shirt. He poured another drink for her, turning slightly as he offered it, while pouring himself another as well. "The balcony is this way," he stated plainly, motioning down the hallway with a hand. "And it's hot as all hell in here, with all these…people."

"Yes, it was starting to get a bit warm, wasn't it?" Christine pondered as she padded down the hallway, feeling his energy as he walked behind her. They entered into what seemed like the master bedroom, draped in empty canvasses and portraits of women. "Is Bruce an artist?" she asked, sipping her drink, watching Erik move around the bed to the double doors that were dripping with silvery curtains. She longed to dive into the comfort of this huge bed, to fall into its magnificent folds with him at her side, holding her…kissing her…

Touching her in places that she only dreamt of.

Erik pulled both of the doors open, throwing the curtains aside. He turned to look back at her, his expression seeming both anxious and perplexed. "What are you so worried about?" Christine asked, making her way through the small arch and out into the chill of the autumn night. "Your face, it…"

"Yes, my face…" Erik sighed, placing himself beside her as he rested against the railing. The night sky was foggy above them, mirroring the ocean-like tides of smoke that had made up the atmosphere of Bruce's penthouse. "It should be covered."

"No, that's certainly not what I meant," Christine objected, her eyes falling across his hunched over form. "I meant that you looked worried…and I'd like to know why, I suppose."

Erik stayed silent, sipping his drink as he looked out over the city. "I'm not worried," he sighed, "I'm…just thinking. I was a bit callous to Bruce when I came in."

"Oh?" Christine lifted her eyebrows, turning her body toward him. "Why?"

Erik mirrored her movement, turning himself toward her while still leaving a bit of space between them. "I'm not a good brother," he said finally, closing his eyes as he did so. "He…he does a lot, for me. He always has. I used to be…so much closer to him. Before the war. And now, it just seems as though..." Erik shook his head, keeping his eyes shut, "as though no matter what I do, I treat him poorly. I blame him for things that aren't his fault."

"We all find someone to blame, sometimes," Christine answered tenderly, reaching out to settle her hand over his. "Sometimes it's…it's frightening to realize that it is us, it is ourselves that must take part in the blame, even if only a small piece…we cannot put it all onto one person, or one event…sometimes it's just," she sighed, her eyes filling with melancholy as his forehead crinkled and his stitched mouth became a thin line.

"Sometimes we must take ownership over that piece. However small it may be."

"What are you saying, Christine?" His voice cracked, his eyes still squeezed shut. "That it's your fault? That he hurt you because you weren't good enough? Because I can't stand to know you even think that…I can't stand here and –"

"Fear keeps us frozen, like statues made of glass, Erik. Sometimes we stay in situations we know we shouldn't…and that is a choice," she whispered, gripping his hand against the chill of the wind. "I chose every day to return home. I could have ran, I could have…done anything but return to him. We ensnare ourselves with lies, with truths that will never see the light of day again…and blaming a small piece of ourselves doesn't mean anything…bad. It just means that we can choose whatever we like, in life…We chose to do certain things, and those things brought us immeasurable pain. But we can also choose to be free. We can forgive…not only the ones we blame, but ourselves. We can forgive our own hearts for going back…for staying when we could have run." She moved closer to him, laying her head against his chest, the light of the moon glittering against the tears on his ruined cheeks. She wrapped her arms around him slowly, holding him in the bitter cold of the night as he sobbed silently into her.

"I…want…so badly," he whispered into her, "to be free of this. Of all this hate inside of me. I just…can't let it go. I don't know how…"

"It's all right that you don't know how," she soothed, pressing her head into his chest. She could hear his heart thundering in her ear, and she held him tighter, hoping the love within her heart would calm him. "One day, you will know…I promise. And I'll be with you every day until then. And then after that day…I'll still be with you. And we can be free. Together."

…

A/N: A little glance of what's to come between these two…

Please do review and leave your thoughts and/or emotions…I absolutely LIVE to read them. And as always, thank you, my dear reader, for reading. Love, L.