Erik Lehnsherr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sorrycharles) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ataraxion2015-12-17 07:41 am
sorrycharles) wrote in ataraxion2015-12-17 07:41 am
Entry tags:
009. text. username: MAGNETO
is there anyone still in need of materials or labour to build a shelter up off the ground
no subject
I was a Victor.
[Statement of fact, not particularly happy or unhappy, despite that grin. Gladiator doesn't mean anything to her. Victor does.
She picks off another splinter and flicks it down toward the ground, and the fire, and Erik.]
So what's a Nazi?
[This is the kind of deep getting-to-know-you they should have maybe done a long time ago. It never seemed necessary. It doesn't exactly seem necessary now. The Nazi thing is something Johanna has been thinking about, ever since she watched Erik methodically dragging old skeletons to be burned. Methodical. That's the kind of thing you tend to remember.]
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He doesn’t immediately answer her question. To be fair, many of those from other universes already seem to have some idea. ]
A cog in a totalitarian machine. [ A splinter flicks past the back of his tattered ear, and he pulls patience in from the dark before he angles back at the hip to look at her. ] They built camps to exterminate us. [ Matter-of-fact. ] I only have one eye left. [ There’s no break in tone for this friendly reminder, everything on the same sandstone level of delivery, feeling drawn back from the surface.
His teeth stay parted, aggravation subdued by scruffy whiskers and the dark. Could you not. ]
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[The one eye. Her smile is bright enough to carry all the way down to the forest floor. It's kind of a nice smile. Genuine. She really does mean it.
She flicks down another splinter, pointedly directed a little to his left.]
Who's "us"?
[A little insensitive maybe. Extermination, camps. They're familiar in their way. It's nice ("nice") to know that some things are universally the same. She watches from on high, and does not do any more splintering for the moment.]
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Their own kind.
[ It’s taken time for his ego to convince him the smile is genuine, prickling friction soothed over in stages. He’s seen himself in the mirror. He agrees that he is still handsome.
Enough so that he’s able to focus on the question at hand despite the flight path of that last splinter past his periphery. ]
I was fourteen when my family was taken from me. [ The most concise (and personal) summary for someone lacking the cultural context, broomed along with the oppressive sense that there’s plenty he’s leaving out. His anger is kept low, smothering warm in the pit of his throat. ] It’s by my grace that your friend still has a tongue to wag about ‘feelings.’
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[Implication being, then: how could he ever handle that. She flicks another splinter downwards, one so small it's actually more of a wood shaving.]
And it wouldn't be very nice if you did that. I like that tongue.
[It would come of no surprise to Johanna if he were to ignore her protests, all of which are barely registering as protests. For the record, she might volunteer that she wouldn't like it. Another thing that would be of no surprise: Erik not caring about her feelings on any of it. Nor would she blame him, really. Maiming can be cathartic.
Fourteen. It's the Hunger Games she's thinking of. Not the same. Except it's all different forms of isolation. Being alone.
She chips off another splinter.]
You're not human.
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Yet.
Argument is distinctly received, rather than ignored -- processed, acknowledged and addressed in a glare that would quail an eagle. In that moment, it’s difficult to say where Johanna’s feelings weigh in. It’s possible they already have.
He used to be more fun. ]
I didn’t know what I was.
cute cat face tho
And the Nazis didn't either? Or was everybody in there like you?
[Actually. She lets her mouth curl into a little smile.]
This is the part where I say, "but there's no one like you".
[Exaggerated flattery that might actually be true. It's not like she's ever met anyone particularly like him. Fun version or unfun version.]
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[ Austere inflection is all the difference between a simple answer and an evasive one. To the point. ]
You look like you’re thinking of killing me right now.
[ He’s dry, when he says so, a little too on the nose. He has that look Charles does sometimes, when a sneaking suspicion is more like a sneaking certainty. Prying. Invasive. Until her last remark sinks in, and he huffs at both of their expenses.
After that, he’s the first to break off his stare, easy enough despite everything to sink into a sit on a log near the fire, angled to where he can lean back and keep an eye on her, in her tree. ]
Did you have lots of fans.
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I think about it.
[Right now? Maybe. It's a pretty accurate guess. Whether or not she would defend Kate from him would have to be tested. Whether or not she'd kill over that--well, maybe to that too. Right now she smiles, pointedly, and her teeth gleam in the dim light of the forest and whatever light makes its way up to her from the fire.]
Not usually too hard. Usually, I like you. Lucky you.
[She follows that declaration with a breezy sigh.]
I probably had more fans than you. [Just a guess.] Not at first. But after I turned out to be a real killer? They couldn't get enough of me. It was a little disgusting.
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There isn’t much wind to be taken out of his sails by the thought.
His blind eye gleams back, pale yellow in the firelight, steady on while she speaks. He keeps his teeth to himself. ]
Were you disgusted?
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[Unflinching, she keeps on looking at him. Admitting that, she should probably feel the creep of shame somewhere under skin, but she's never felt ashamed of it before. Why start now.]
I loved it. I hated it, and I loved it, too, because it got me everything. They fucked me over. I didn't let that stop me. It was too late anyways. I kept on hating them, I would've killed any one of them if I had the chance--but their shit was all I had left, so why not.
[There's a brief pause before she snorts. Conversationally, she tacks on:]
Of course, then they decided to try to kill me again. That one changed everything.
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He knows about hate.
It fades a little when he remembers his conversation with Raven -- the one about palling around with humans. Gradually, he pushes one boot deeper in towards the fire, so that the heat begins to sting through the sole. Then he thinks about that instead. ]
They must not have done a very good job.
[ Given the obvious. ]
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[Johanna grips at the toothy edge of her floorboard. This is something that she made, for herself. Cut down trees because she wanted to, not because anyone told her to, or because she had to have a marketable talent for a photoshoot. This is the closest that she's come to freedom, ever. Isn't that sad.
In her chest, it feels like something is punching to get out. She swallows down the feeling and curls her fingers, tighter, around the board.]
They did a really good job.
[Punctuating this admission is her decision to heave herself to her feet. Nimble, she twists so she can start her descent, sure of her grip on each and every peg driven into the trunk, without really looking to find them. It's something to concentrate on, something other than stupid feelings.]
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He’s just conscientious of her proximity, is all.
And sitting up a little straighter, maybe, by the time her feet have hit the ground, one knee drawn in to put the ball of his heel beneath him while he watches her. ]
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But hey. She's not dead.
She stops when she's beside his nice fire and sticks her hands out, to warm them. It's pretty balmy out. Still.
When she smiles, it looks pretty sweet.]
How many times did they try to kill you?
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[ “Zero” isn’t technically the truth, if they’re accounting for the human species in its entirety, run ins he had with loyalists hiding in south america in later years, and so on, operating outside the parameters of their total control. It’s not the same.
His eyes typically wander more than they are now, restricted to a level look above the waist. His bent knee doesn’t open out to her the way it should when she smiles.
He keeps his hands to himself. ]
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[Just kidding. After all, she's no stranger to the torture of being pointedly and deliberately kept alive. Marked by scars and by no scars, and by her struggle to take showers that has now, thankfully, pretty much been lifted from her.]
This fire's too hot.
[An abrupt announcement. Abruptly, too, she grabs hold of the bottom of her t-shirt and shucks it off in one smooth quick motion, and discards it in the dirt with a sigh. Same old black sports bra underneath, a little glisten of sweat. She keeps on smiling. How about a level look above the waist now?]
I forgot to ask you. Do you have a treehouse? You've got to, since you're so generous about helping everyone else.
[After all, it's not like she asked him here only to help move walls around. Partial motivation.]
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Johanna pls. ]
It’s bigger than yours,
[ sounds remarkably like stop it. ]
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I bet it is.
[w i n k
But with a sigh that's more than a little self-satisfied, she sinks down to a crouch and sticks her hands out closer to the fire again. Whatever complaint she had about being too hot has been dealt with, apparently, by the act of partial stripping.]
Because you've got all kinds of advantages. I'd still like to see it.
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You’re welcome to stop in anytime,
[ he says. Polite. Only a little terse.
She might as well be. Telling her otherwise isn’t likely to matter. ]
Or were you hoping to see it tonight.
[ What time is it Charles probably isn’t even there. ]
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Invitations are still nice. She smiles, all sparkle-eyed. That might be the firelight.]
Can I? You don't have plans or something, do you? I cleared my schedule for you.
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[ Despite little variance in the rough of his voice, something about his delivery is skeptical of her optimism on that account. The look in his eye goes sidelong -- suspect of flattery. The blind one looks through her, flat and sallow in the firelight. Surely yet is a success, with charms like these.
He doesn't have plans. He’s already pushing to his feet. ]
What about the fire. [ Her fire, burning her wood, on her land. Is she just going to let it go to waste. ]
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[--She says, positively cheerful. She watches him stand but doesn't follow suit just yet. The vantage point of a crouch is a nice angle to consider him at.
Does she want to see his big ol' treehouse? Sure. Does she like to spend time with Erik? Sure. At least part of Johanna's good cheer is because she knows she's being a little over-the-top, all right, yes, that's true, but even so: he's good company. Unimpressed stare, requests to stop disrobing, discussion of holding camps and torture and all.
The fire gets a glance and a little hff of breath. What about the fire. She considers it a second, then scuffs her foot out and kicks some loose dirt toward it. The flames flatten and scatter. She repeats the movement.]
You can make a new fire. At your place.
[Lumberjacks are conscious of fire safety in the woods. Give her a few seconds to put this one out.]