Fic: Of Love, Pain and Passioned Revolt (First Class; Emma)
X-Men: First Class. Emma, Erik, Raven (and Sebastian). PG.
A/N: Title is taken from Charles Mingus' "The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady", recorded in 1963. The full title of the movement is "Of Love, Pain and Passioned Revolt, Then Farewell, My Beloved, 'til It's Freedom Day".
Of Love, Pain and Passioned Revolt
She wasn't entirely sure what she had been expecting to feel at seeing Sebastian again.
Anger, perhaps. Disappointment. This was, after all, a man she had believed herself in love with. She had warned him not to underestimate Erik Lehnsherr; understandable, how easy it was to fall complacent, given their shared history as doctor and subject. But those warnings had been shrugged off - Oh, my lovely Emma, you don't know him like I do - and now look at where it had gotten him.
When the body had been brought back to the CIA for autopsy, she had forced herself to watch, to endure the first fifteen minutes of prodding and staring, hoping to glean some clue. An answer to what had happened to reduce him to this slab of meat.
The moment she realised how he had died - and what part Charles Xavier must have played - she had snapped back so violently into her own mind, three floors down in a bolted cell, that she had had to fight the urge to retch. Thinking of Sebastian, conscious but immobile. Completely, utterly defenseless in the face of the weapon he had created.
Fear, she could identify with, but not this singular hatred that consumed reason and anything else that stood in its path. Erik's emotions had an intensity that was alien to her.
There was something to be said for the triviality of small minds. Against the buzz of their tiresome, repetitive thoughts --
What's for dinner? -- When can I get off work? -- Do my parents know?
-- minds like Erik's could never hope to make themselves obscure. She would feel the magnitude of their dreams, like cool, dense stars made up of ambition and fury, pulling her in.
It was a constant reminder that, while they may be on the same side for now, she and he were nothing alike. Ironically, it was her businesslike dispassion that made her useful to his cause.
'As far as looks go, you'll pass,' she said, circling Raven as she inspected the girl's imitation of Sebastian. His three-piece suit cut in the British style. The arrogance and predatory gleam in his eye. 'But how good is your speaking French?'
'Je voudrais faire un retrait,' said Raven in slow, but unaccented, French.
She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but what she felt was nothing at all.
'Perfect,' she said, and smiled as if pleased.
13 June 2011
This entry was originally posted at http://the-grynne.dreamwidth.org/937423.html and has
comments.
A/N: Title is taken from Charles Mingus' "The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady", recorded in 1963. The full title of the movement is "Of Love, Pain and Passioned Revolt, Then Farewell, My Beloved, 'til It's Freedom Day".
Of Love, Pain and Passioned Revolt
She wasn't entirely sure what she had been expecting to feel at seeing Sebastian again.
Anger, perhaps. Disappointment. This was, after all, a man she had believed herself in love with. She had warned him not to underestimate Erik Lehnsherr; understandable, how easy it was to fall complacent, given their shared history as doctor and subject. But those warnings had been shrugged off - Oh, my lovely Emma, you don't know him like I do - and now look at where it had gotten him.
When the body had been brought back to the CIA for autopsy, she had forced herself to watch, to endure the first fifteen minutes of prodding and staring, hoping to glean some clue. An answer to what had happened to reduce him to this slab of meat.
The moment she realised how he had died - and what part Charles Xavier must have played - she had snapped back so violently into her own mind, three floors down in a bolted cell, that she had had to fight the urge to retch. Thinking of Sebastian, conscious but immobile. Completely, utterly defenseless in the face of the weapon he had created.
Fear, she could identify with, but not this singular hatred that consumed reason and anything else that stood in its path. Erik's emotions had an intensity that was alien to her.
There was something to be said for the triviality of small minds. Against the buzz of their tiresome, repetitive thoughts --
What's for dinner? -- When can I get off work? -- Do my parents know?
-- minds like Erik's could never hope to make themselves obscure. She would feel the magnitude of their dreams, like cool, dense stars made up of ambition and fury, pulling her in.
It was a constant reminder that, while they may be on the same side for now, she and he were nothing alike. Ironically, it was her businesslike dispassion that made her useful to his cause.
'As far as looks go, you'll pass,' she said, circling Raven as she inspected the girl's imitation of Sebastian. His three-piece suit cut in the British style. The arrogance and predatory gleam in his eye. 'But how good is your speaking French?'
'Je voudrais faire un retrait,' said Raven in slow, but unaccented, French.
She wasn't sure what she had been expecting, but what she felt was nothing at all.
'Perfect,' she said, and smiled as if pleased.
13 June 2011
This entry was originally posted at http://the-grynne.dreamwidth.org/937423.html and has
comments.