sirenspull_logs | Backtagging a late night

Entry tags:

enjolras,
magneto

Backtagging a late night

Who: Magneto and Enjolras
What: Two sleepless souls and a late night
When: After the gift exchange but before Grantaire's arrival
Where: House of Awesome, Kitchen, Zero Dark Thirty
Warnings: Discussion of nightmares, PTS, battle scars, survival guilt, and other deaths... FUN FOR ALL AGES!

Enjolras sits bolt upright in the bed.

He's acutely aware that it's never his own death, it's never standing against the wall, facing his own executioners that does this to him. His neck itches as tendrils of blonde hair stick to the sweat, and his breath comes hard and ragged.

It's never his own death. Not once has he ever dreamed of that.

Seeing his friends, comrades... no, that's wrong. Seeing his brothers cut down one by one as the barricades feel. That is what keeps him in fevered dreams. The sheets are twisted around his legs, and he fumbles gracelessly as he fights his way off of the futon.

Water... maybe milk... Just anything to be up and doing something. He's dimly aware that it's an instinct to leave that's driving him out of the room, rather than hunger or thirst.

Barefoot he walks down the hallway to the common kitchen in the HoA. The pajamas he's acquired he found to be too short. But, the ones that were long enough were too wide in chest and hips, and bunched around him and made him hot as he slept. So he stood with his feet bare and his wrists and ankles well exposed.

Then, light. He almost blinks at it, coming out of the darkened bedroom and hallway. The sound of cooking... dishes moving, utensils striking, seem a little comforting, and he feels some small relief that he is not alone.

"Excuse me?"

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Enjolras almost seems to take this as a sort of invitation. He raises his eyes and looks fully at Magento's skin. He's almost statue-still as he seems to take in every mark, every scar.

Some of them he can identify, gunshots, knife wounds, something that looks like multiple bayonet wounds. Others, he cannot begin to guess what made them.

His eyes look stormy, and troubled. Then, he raises them to meet Magneto's.

"I believe I may understand, Monsieur. To endure... so much... is indeed something to wear with honor."

It's an invitation as much as he ever gives one. Magneto himself, is likewise still, only moving so that the ones hidden by his posture are laid bare. It's not until Enjolras raises his eyes that Magneto moves to meet his eyes.

"Indeed it is."

"What is..." as he moves to make sure all the markes are

Enjolras covers the distance between them in a few strides. Feeling leave to be bold, and perhaps taking more leave than he should, he takes Magneto's hand in his, turning his wrist to examine the mark on the inside of his arm.

Magneto lets him turn his arm - it's not the first time someone has looked, it won't be the last. "A tattoo. When I was very young, they used these to replace our names. To keep a count of when they had killed every last one of us. I was the only member of my family to survive."

For some things, there are no words. He manages to not understand. Surely his understanding of what was said isn't right. It can't be.

"Excuse me? I'm sorry. What do you mean."

Unconsciously he runs a finger over the numbers.

Magneto tenses and pulls his arm away, pulling it to him. "I mean evil men who gain power will do evil things, and that it's important for those who seek power to never let themselves become the evil they fight."

Enjolras isn't stupid - but Magneto knows it takes time to digest the words.

Enjolras meets his eyes at the gesture. It's the look of someone who's used to being hurt, and has come to expect it. He's seen it before, but he did not expect to see it here and now.

Their eyes lock, and there's a glance of recognition and sympathy, which Enjolras manages to twist into one of of respect.

"Forgive me. I should not have been should not have been so bold. I beg your pardon."

He moves back, giving the other man some space. He knows how powerful respect can be to people who have not always been shown it. And it's expressed, but not acted.

"Of course that happens. But I believed that progress was also happening; that we were on the verge of something new. In nearly two-hundred years that such evil would still exist..."

He's breathing softly, but it's quick. It takes him a few minutes to calm down but the space, the posture, the tone - it helps.

"It's all right. I know you didn't mean-" Offense or harm. Nightmares are just too close tonight.

He exhales slowly, and goes back to tending the soup pot for a bit. "Evil men will always exist - look at this place, those in charge."

"I know that evil men will always exist, Monsieur. I am not so innocent as all that. But, the truth is that men only rule when the people allow them to. Evil does not frighten me, I expect it. It is when people stand by and do nothing and allow evil to hold a place of power, that frightens me."

"It's not always that simple. Occasionally people have to decide between the safety of their children and the safety of strangers. I don't consider them lacking in moral character for choosing the former." He took the towel off his shoulder and started meticulously cleaning his hands.

"I would not place women and children in harm's way. And, I would not accept men sacrificing themselves who were responsible for either. We have a responsibility to protect that which makes us civilized, and the republic is not wealthy enough to squander souls.

But, all of that is for naught if the men in power are evil. We have no hope of preserving safety if men are not willing to fight for it.

Then again, I learned too hard that too many are willing to stay silent. The ones who risk their safety seem so few..."

And Enjolras falls silent, deep and thoughtful. His smooth skin and pure features make him much younger than 22, yet his expression is weary and very old.

"Where are they? The ones who did fight with me. Where are they?" There's something childish and strange in the question. "They're all dead. I know that. But, I mean, I died and I'm here, and the girl Eponine too. So..

Where are they?"

"Occasionally those are the types who understand, fully, what they are risking and why. I'm father, and a grandfather. When situations call for it, I lead the charge, and occasionally with one or more of my children beside me. Given some of my grandchildren, I suspect one or more of them will also take up the banner and join me as well in a few years. It's not what I'd wish, but I won't refuse them the honour." He's learned, the hard, personal way, that if you banned a child from joining, they would anyway - this way he could monitor and protect them, as much as he was able.

He sighed softly. "I don't know. I truly don't. I'm not sure I would want to."

"It is wise to let them make their own choices. And it takes strength to let them decide for themselves the risks they will take..."

He shakes his head slowly. "I'm so sorry. I should not ask such things. But truly, for your family and your country, you have whatever condolences I can offer.

Where were you from?"

"Wise but perhaps not most kind." He wanted them far away for that world, but he himself had brought them into it.

He swallowed and idly picked a spoon up off the counter, spinning it around and bouncing it off his knuckles. "Thank you."

"I was born in Germany. We fled to Poland, but the war followed. I've moved around since them."

"Germany and Poland? That's not very far from France.

Wars make monsters of us all, and it's in war that the evil rises to the surface and all becomes black and corrupted. But, while I may hate war sometimes we must make use of it."

He watches the spoon, distracted momentarily from his moodiness.

"What's that you're doing there?"

"No, it's not. Less so now, with modern transportation." He didn't add his father ha fought there - he didn't want to give him those images. "There is a series of verses, ones I read an ceremony when I was young, about there being a time and place for everything, including war."

He keeps bouncing the spoon. "Kinesis. Power to move things without touching them."

"Is it from the Bible, Monsieur? What kind of ceremony?" His tone is level now, curious. There's something candid about him as he watches the spoon openly as he speaks.

After a moment, he puts his hand out as if to touch it.

"Does this core thing let you do that? Curious. Why doesn't everyone get the same thing?"

"Ecclesiastes Three, yes. The ceremony is called a Bar Mitzvah, it's a coming of age ceremony for boy, required in Judaism. It marks the end to our childhood and the start of our lives as men."

The spoon stills, but there's a weight to it, as if it's being held by someone's hand. "No, I born able to do this. Some people, in the world I am from, are born with powers." It was more complicated than that but no reason to overwhelm him. "Powers tend to suit us. Be something that fits who we are as people."

Enjolras has only met a few people that he knew were Jewish, and those not well. He was aware that people told stories about them; everything ranging from the fact that they horded money all the way to they had horns and were the devil on earth.

While he could not claim any cultural knowledge of Jewish people, he called people who repeated such stories fools. And he would not stand by while anyone was singled out for persecution. He responds to the information with nothing more than interest and some mild surprise.

He's more interested in the spoon which he gently pushes with the tip of his index finger.

"Mine doesn't... or does it? All I know is that they said my voice can make people believe things. I didn't think... I don't know... If that were the case things might have been different."

He pauses as if an idea occurred to him.

"Wait... you said your family... your people... is it because... please excuse me for asking but..."

Enjolras is frank and open by nature, but he's trying now.

The spoon doesn't yield, in fact it pushes back gently. Playing, almost.

"I think it does. Although psychic abilities don't work on everyone - almost none work on me, for example." He wanted to study Enjolras' powers more but he wasn't going to push it.

"Yes it was. Six million give or take a few Jew were killed during the war. Some like me, disappeared after. Others where children who were hidden. So precise figures can't be determined." He swallowed hard, for all his voice is even and clear. "And around six million others, various groups, like the Roma - Gypsies you likely know them as. But we were targeted most."

Enjolras focuses on the spoon while he speaks, seemingly fascinated in the push back. He removes his finger, then taps the spoon firmly.

"I know they try to run Gypsies out of Paris. They say they steal things, but I always thought that if they were treated decently and allowed to work and live, they'd be as honest as the rest of us."

His brows knit. The numbers seem too big to swallow.

"I'd dreamed of progress, and of a world where such things were impossible. I dreamed of a better future... now you tell me it's grown even worse. I don't know what to make of it."

He takes a breath and still focuses on toying on the spoon.

"Psychic? Like fortune tellers? No, I don't think that is what I do now. I... why doesn't it work on you? I'm sorry. I know I sound like a fool I just don't understand this place."

Magneto has a small smile on his face and the spoon taps back, though it's softer.

"The Roma - Gypsy isn't a term they like to be called - are like anyone else. Some are good, some are bad. Most that I've known are wonderful people. They are clannish - they dislike ad distrust outsiders - but they took me in." For all his marriage had ended badly, he had fond memories of his time with them.

"In some places it has. In others...it's better. But I've seen a great deal of what wasn't good." He'd seen quite the opposite really - horror and death and violence.

"No. Psychic as in having abilities that deal with people's mental states - their thoughts, emotion, memories, so on. Clairvoyance is a part of it though, yes." He shook his head. "You don't sound like a fool, far from it. There's no reason you should understand this place any more than if you had been suddenly dropped into China."

Lazily, he spun the spoon around in a circle. "I have what are call 'mental shields' - that is I know how to block people from accessing my mind."

Enjolras blinks, and almost laughs as the spoon taps back. The amusement is welcome given the nature of the conversation.

"Roma then, and I beg your pardon, Monsieur. One cannot blame a people that has been badly treated for not trusting. A dog that is kicked will bite, and people that have been starved will steal and have been cast out will strike back. It is the way of nature and nothing more. It doesn't make anyone cursed or damned."

He knows that many of his day would disagree with him, but he's never cared much about that.

"I want to understand." he says resolutely. He tries to catch the spoon as it circles. Then he smirks again. "I might have done better in China. I did not do so well here."

It is, which is why he's indulging it. "It's nothing - I don't expect most to know their customs." The Roma were more maligned than the Jews, he didn't blame them for their unwillingness to let outsiders in.

"I don't mind teaching. In another life..." He probably would have made a career of it. The spoon is easily caught but tugs. "Ack. Many have done far worse."

"I'm not quite certain I believe that. I can't imagine too many have done much worse than I have. I may have martyred myself in Paris, but here I haven't even managed that. This is far worse."

He tugs at the spoon, then lets it go again. It's as though he's placing it in the air.

"If I wouldn't be a bother to you, Monsieur. I have precious little else to do with myself here. I may as well learn as much as I can. How is it that you can understand powers here?"

"There are thousands enslaved by AGI - some in far worse situations than you. And what SERO does is worse." It's quite, but firm. He wasn't going to indulge in a pity party.

The spoon drifts away and then pokes Enjolras' knuckle.

"You aren't a bother. I about powers here because I worked in Skye Medical for a while and I studied them back home. They are my specialty, really." Of one of them.

"And I tried to do something... I really did but I..." He shakes his head and seems stiffen his resolve. "There is more that I can do. You have shown me a different way. Perhaps I am not without hope."

He blinks at the poke and shakes his hand. He flicks at it with his index finger, still interested, still amused.

"Then, I would like to know what I can do.... if what they said is true. If I have it I might as well understand it."

"A friend of mine keeps telling me that as long as life exists, we have hope." Magneto didn't believe it, not really, but he'd attempt to preserve it in others.

It flicks back, loops it's self, and the bowl hangs on his finger.

"I know ways of running tests. Other than fatigue and a headache, the risks are low."

He allows the spoon to hang for a moment before setting it down gently on the table.

"Hope? I am in the process of deciding if hope is beautiful or terrible... perhaps both. Yet, it doesn't matter. We hang on to it."

He shrugs. That doesn't sound like much. "This place makes me weary as it is. I don't think that you can do worse. I'll submit to any tests you would like. It would do me good to understand, I think."

"Both, I think, yes." He knew the feeling.

"I think it would be, yes. Safer for you, certainly."

He sighs, throwing up his hands. "Whatever you say. It isn't as though I'm overwhelmed with work or goals here. I might as well learn. So, I would consider it a favor."

"You know - there was another of your countrymen here before. Had a similar ability." That had just dawned on him - and it was amusing.

"One of my countrymen? With a similar power? Could you tell me about him, Monsieur?"

"Francis, his name is Francis. A rather accomplished swordsman, and a brilliant chief. I was quite honoured to be called his friend. He used to stay up with me, like you are now, or check on me when he would come in the mornings, see if I was still up, or if I had slept. He was an artist. When he left, he left a will behind to sell his artwork and donate the money to the Newcomer Fund - a charity for Newcomers, to help those who have just arrived get on their feet or start businesses. He's a good man." Francis' patience with some of his personal space issues had been a even greater support, but Magneto didn't detail that.

Enjorlas seems to smile a little at the description.

"He sounds French, indeed." There's a dry note of humor in the patriotism. "It's a good thing to have such a friend. I am very glad that you did. What happened to him? Is he no longer in the port?"

"He vanished about a year ago. I miss him, but I would not want to wish someone to be returned here." His face clouds - he's lost many, so many. That doesn't just apply to Francis.

Enjolras knows the look, the look of longing for someone who cannot return. He recognizes, and understands. He doesn't say anything, but lays his hand on the older man's shoulder.

Magneto pats Enjolras' arm, sighing softly. "Not sure this topic will settle either of us." It's a direct request to change the topic, as polite as he could mange.

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Backtagging a late night

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