Fic: M/R, "Brave New World", Rated PG13.
Title: Brave New World
Author: Sionnain
Verse: Movie
Rating: PG
Summary: She knows what is in the leather portfolio on the bookshelf. One night, she opens it anyway.
Word count: ~900
AN: My fic entry this week for the demented_allure weekly challenge: For you I’d burn the length and breadth of sky.
There are nights when she wakes from a dead slumber with her heart racing and her mind spinning like a top. She lies in the bed and clutches the sheets in her cotton-covered fingers, and it is impossible for her to go back to sleep.
It Erik is still awake, she will go down to the study and curl up on the chair in front of his desk with a blanket and a book, finding a strange comfort from the strong lines of the metal beneath her. They rarely speak in these moments; rather, he works and she reads. At length he stands up and stretches, then looks over at her. “Time for bed,” he says, and she puts her book away and follows him back upstairs with the blanket trailing behind her like a veil.
He never asks what brings her to the study, and she never offers this information. Though she thinks he probably knows.
There are some nights, though, where she wakes up and he’s asleep beside her, breathing deep and even. Sometimes she thinks about waking him up, asking how he manages to sleep with all those nightmares in his head. She confuses his dreams of the camps with her own of twisted metal and a great tearing pain, and in those moments the moonlight shining off the metal in their room makes her shiver unpleasantly. Everything looks foreign, sinister.
There is no place to escape this, no way to escape him. She doesn’t want that, despite the nightmares. She’s made her choice. That doesn’t make it any easier to sleep, though.
One night when the nightmares reach their zenith, she climbs out of bed and goes downstairs to the study even though he’s still asleep. She pulls her gloves off and runs her fingers over the slick surface of his metal desk, seeking some comfort from the cold steel.
There are a lot of papers on the desk, but she ignores them and tries to find something to read. As she searches through the books on the shelf, she sees a dark leather portfolio resting next to a copy of Brave New World.
There is a flash of sensory memory; the leather folder between her ink-stained fingers, rough yet smooth. She draws it out slowly and carries it to his desk, lying it down and turning on the banker’s lamp. The light throws strange shadows on the surface of his desk as well as in the large cavernous room. She doesn’t want to open the folder because she knows what’s in it.
She does anyway; the lure of it is too strong to resist.
Inside is a sheaf of papers with notations she doesn’t understand but recognizes, written in his neat, precise script. There are drawings with mathematical formulas circled on the side.
In the center of the drawing is the letter X. Her fingers lightly touch the mark.
The X is me.
“Marie? What are you doing?”
He’s standing in the doorway, half in shadow, watching her as she turns the pages. The machine grows from preliminary drawings to a more concrete shape, complete with the restraints she remembers so well. She rubs her wrists, as if she can still feel them. Sometimes in her nightmares, she can. “I couldn’t sleep. I have nightmares, sometimes.”
She turns another page, her eyes traveling over physics notations. Occasionally he’s scratched something out; she wonders what it was. She’s still there, still an X in the center of the machine.
On the very last page the lines are crisp and clean, and nothing is scratched out. The ink is very dark on the white paper. The design of it is very elegant, much like the fortress itself. Strong and sturdy, though beautiful in functional, understated way.
“I never meant for you to see that,” he says quietly, and she looks up at the tone in his voice. It’s not regretful-she wouldn’t expect it to be-but it’s vaguely apologetic. It’s not something she’s used to hearing from him.
He reaches out as if he’s going to close the folder. She stops him with the lightest brush of her bare fingers on his skin. “No. May I have a pen?”
There is a moment where she thinks he will say no, but he doesn’t. He opens a desk drawer and hands her one, his expression unreadable. She removes the cap and writes, very clearly, her name above the X.
Rogue.
She looks up at him. “I don’t want you to forget what I would have done for you,” she says softly.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he says, and his voice is as quiet as hers. His fingers lightly trace the white in her hair, brush over the column of her throat. She wonders if he remembers her screaming. “And I don’t want to.”
She nods, and her mind settles down. Drowsiness settles around her, pulls at her eyelids. This time when he tries to close the folder, she lets him.
“Time for bed,” he says, placing his hand on her elbow. His touch burns beneath the cotton of her shirt and suddenly she’s not so tired anymore. She leans into his warmth, and he smiles down at her. His eyes look silver in the darkness.
The folder is still on his desk, but it no longer matters.
Author: Sionnain
Verse: Movie
Rating: PG
Summary: She knows what is in the leather portfolio on the bookshelf. One night, she opens it anyway.
Word count: ~900
AN: My fic entry this week for the demented_allure weekly challenge: For you I’d burn the length and breadth of sky.
There are nights when she wakes from a dead slumber with her heart racing and her mind spinning like a top. She lies in the bed and clutches the sheets in her cotton-covered fingers, and it is impossible for her to go back to sleep.
It Erik is still awake, she will go down to the study and curl up on the chair in front of his desk with a blanket and a book, finding a strange comfort from the strong lines of the metal beneath her. They rarely speak in these moments; rather, he works and she reads. At length he stands up and stretches, then looks over at her. “Time for bed,” he says, and she puts her book away and follows him back upstairs with the blanket trailing behind her like a veil.
He never asks what brings her to the study, and she never offers this information. Though she thinks he probably knows.
There are some nights, though, where she wakes up and he’s asleep beside her, breathing deep and even. Sometimes she thinks about waking him up, asking how he manages to sleep with all those nightmares in his head. She confuses his dreams of the camps with her own of twisted metal and a great tearing pain, and in those moments the moonlight shining off the metal in their room makes her shiver unpleasantly. Everything looks foreign, sinister.
There is no place to escape this, no way to escape him. She doesn’t want that, despite the nightmares. She’s made her choice. That doesn’t make it any easier to sleep, though.
One night when the nightmares reach their zenith, she climbs out of bed and goes downstairs to the study even though he’s still asleep. She pulls her gloves off and runs her fingers over the slick surface of his metal desk, seeking some comfort from the cold steel.
There are a lot of papers on the desk, but she ignores them and tries to find something to read. As she searches through the books on the shelf, she sees a dark leather portfolio resting next to a copy of Brave New World.
There is a flash of sensory memory; the leather folder between her ink-stained fingers, rough yet smooth. She draws it out slowly and carries it to his desk, lying it down and turning on the banker’s lamp. The light throws strange shadows on the surface of his desk as well as in the large cavernous room. She doesn’t want to open the folder because she knows what’s in it.
She does anyway; the lure of it is too strong to resist.
Inside is a sheaf of papers with notations she doesn’t understand but recognizes, written in his neat, precise script. There are drawings with mathematical formulas circled on the side.
In the center of the drawing is the letter X. Her fingers lightly touch the mark.
The X is me.
“Marie? What are you doing?”
He’s standing in the doorway, half in shadow, watching her as she turns the pages. The machine grows from preliminary drawings to a more concrete shape, complete with the restraints she remembers so well. She rubs her wrists, as if she can still feel them. Sometimes in her nightmares, she can. “I couldn’t sleep. I have nightmares, sometimes.”
She turns another page, her eyes traveling over physics notations. Occasionally he’s scratched something out; she wonders what it was. She’s still there, still an X in the center of the machine.
On the very last page the lines are crisp and clean, and nothing is scratched out. The ink is very dark on the white paper. The design of it is very elegant, much like the fortress itself. Strong and sturdy, though beautiful in functional, understated way.
“I never meant for you to see that,” he says quietly, and she looks up at the tone in his voice. It’s not regretful-she wouldn’t expect it to be-but it’s vaguely apologetic. It’s not something she’s used to hearing from him.
He reaches out as if he’s going to close the folder. She stops him with the lightest brush of her bare fingers on his skin. “No. May I have a pen?”
There is a moment where she thinks he will say no, but he doesn’t. He opens a desk drawer and hands her one, his expression unreadable. She removes the cap and writes, very clearly, her name above the X.
Rogue.
She looks up at him. “I don’t want you to forget what I would have done for you,” she says softly.
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he says, and his voice is as quiet as hers. His fingers lightly trace the white in her hair, brush over the column of her throat. She wonders if he remembers her screaming. “And I don’t want to.”
She nods, and her mind settles down. Drowsiness settles around her, pulls at her eyelids. This time when he tries to close the folder, she lets him.
“Time for bed,” he says, placing his hand on her elbow. His touch burns beneath the cotton of her shirt and suddenly she’s not so tired anymore. She leans into his warmth, and he smiles down at her. His eyes look silver in the darkness.
The folder is still on his desk, but it no longer matters.