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Even in the cold drizzle falling over the grey Berlin streets, the bar didn’t look inviting. The battered front might not have been painted since the days of the blockade, except by graffiti artists. There had been windows once, but they had all been blocked up. Not the kind of place that was likely to be crowded on a night like that one.
Raven pushed open the heavy door and scanned the inside. Almost all of the light was provided by some buzzing neon signs above the bar, which was just as well, judging from what she could see. A few tables, littered with cigarette butts and puddles of beer, a chair or two overturned and left that way. Posters of old exploitation movies on the walls. The place was deserted, except for one man at the bar, propped wearily over a glass. Perfect. She had had enough of humans for the day. More than enough.
As the door shut behind her, though, her eyes didn’t move on from the figure at the bar. A few seconds later, as he turned in her direction, she knew why.
Erik.
Apparently she hadn’t been the only one who’d heard the rumors about the mutant who could walk through dreams and had fallen in with a really dangerous crowd. Too bad he’d turned out to be a Stasi agent who’d been pulled out of the city two days ago. A wasted trip, and a narrowly-averted arrest by the West German police (or worse), for both of them, then.
Erik had hardly changed in the six years since she’d seen him last. The blue-green eyes, even in the wavering light, still somehow both remote and intense; that strong jaw, with a dusting of stubble, just as unyielding. He wore a leather jacket over a ribbed oatmeal-colored sweater and jeans, rougher than usual but still too good for that bar. Still broad in the chest. Still carrying himself as if he weren’t subject to the same laws as everyone else in the room. But that was Erik’s nature, wasn’t it? Not to change.
She’d looked at him a little too hard, but it didn’t matter. In an instant, he dismissed her as no threat and turned back to his beer. Even though that only meant that her disguise was doing its job, it still piqued her ego. Until that second, she’d still thought she might turn and walk out, just to be safe, but that settled it. She came up to the bar and stood next to him. Turned away, uninterested, his face was aggressively, coldly handsome. She felt desire thicken in her throat. That hadn’t changed, either.
“Nice night,” she said, in German.
He didn’t look at her. “Excuse me,” he murmured politely, “but I’m not looking for,” he paused, “for—“
Oh. He thought she was a working girl. She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. She wasn’t even dressed for it, though from what she’d seen it was hard in this city to distinguish the streetwalkers from the artists.
“For a good time?” she finished the sentence in English. “What a coincidence. I’m not, either.”
That caught his attention, and his eyes flashed over her. It took him still another second—he must really have been tired—but then. Eyes suddenly wary. His shoulders tensing, with the knife on the plate in front of him giving a little rattle. A subtle tingle running over her that meant he’d just touched every bit of metal on her. He didn’t know what she wanted, and he was worried it might be revenge.
Good, she thought, glad she had the knife strapped to her thigh for him to sense. He should be worried. Even though hurting him was too far down on her list of priorities to even consider—he owed her that much.
But he wouldn’t admit his alarm out loud, of course. Probably no one else would even have noticed. “Then, please,” he said, voice level, indicating the stool next to him. “What are you having?”
She sat as he ordered for her. The bar was wooden, worn and scarred and carved with names and slang phrases she didn’t recognize but could still guess the meaning of. She wondered how many questionable couples had first met there.
“What brings you to Berlin?” he asked, watching her hands uneasily.
The bartender put the beer down in front of her, and she drank deeply before answering, prolonging the tension just a little. “Oh…” she said, finally. “I was hoping to meet someone new. You?”
She saw him catch her meaning, reach the same conclusion she had at the door, and relax slightly. She wasn’t there hunting him, at least. “The same. No luck, I take it?’’
“No,” she said, and let her foot graze Erik’s ankle. “I mean, until now.”
His eyes widened for a second, then narrowed. He’d had more to drink than he usually did, she realized, probably to drown whatever memories being back in Germany had stirred up. Still—or, perhaps, because of that—it only took him a few seconds to decide to play the game. He leaned closer, angling in.
“And what do you think of the city?”
She didn't try to have opinions these days; those were for talking over with friends, and she didn't exactly have a whole lot of those anymore. But she never stopped observing. He’d taught her that.
“It’s a strange place,” she said. “Strange energy. A lot of chances to get into trouble.”
He looked her up and down, appraising. “For someone like you, certainly.”
“You look like someone who knows how to find trouble yourself. In fact,” she idly drew a finger along the sleeve of his jacket where it lay on the bar, “you might’ve already.”
It hung between them in the air for a minute. “Are you here by yourself?" he said at last.
“I’ve been on my own for a while now.”
He tilted his head at the emphasis in her tone. “Bad break-up?”
“Messy,” she said. “Very messy. It’s a miracle we didn’t kill each other.” She swallowed more beer. “What about you?”
“I move around too much these days to get attached.”
She rubbed her instep once, twice, against his calf. She felt his leg twitch, trapped it against the leg of the stool. “That’s too bad.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is it?”
She worked her toes. “It just seems pretty bleak.”
“My work is everything to me,” he said, a touch breathless.
“I know exactly what you mean,” she said, holding his gaze, “but don’t you ever feel the need for a little company? Just for the night?”
He dropped his eyes. “Mystique,” he said, under his breath, half-warning, half-pleading.
He’d broken first, and it made her smirk a little. “Sorry?”
It cleared the tension. He straightened up. “Whoever he was, he was obviously an idiot,” he declared. “I think you should let me make up for his mistakes.”
Decision point, but really she’d made the decision the instant she’d seen his face. Of course she had. She half-rose and murmured in his ear, “You can try.”
The cab reeked of cigarette smoke, and the seats were sticky. Raven gave the driver the address of her hotel and leaned back against Erik, feeling reckless from the drink. He put his arm around her, and she turned her face into his neck, breathing him in. Same faint sandalwood cologne as always. So strange that she still associated it with safety when they’d always been in danger together. When the last time she’d smelled it she’d been holding a pen against his carotid ready to kill him before he could kill her.
His hand cupped her breast, and, after a few careful strokes, his thumb found the nipple. She could feel it hardening almost instantly, and she tossed her head against the seat, wanting more of the sensation. He grinned a little. His other hand slid up her thigh, pausing just above the hem of her skirt, his thumb moving in teasing circles on the more sensitive skin there. The thrill immediately radiated upwards, making her gasp. He slowed down, and she nipped lightly at his skin.
He swallowed, and she could see his throat trembling with restrained hunger. “Here?” he murmured into her hair. She answered by dropping her hand onto his and giving it a nudge.
The driver cleared his throat. She looked up and met his eyes in the rear view mirror. For a minute, as she always did, she thought of what they must look like: a gorgeous couple, not the pretty young wrecks that staggered through the streets here but a million miles from the stolid bürgers of the rest of the West, too. All over each other. In love? Just met? In West Berlin, who knew? “If you two are looking for somewhere to go…” he started.
“Just the hotel,” Erik said firmly, shifting back away from her to address him.
“Perhaps some speed, some smack, I have a friend…”
“No, thank you.”
The driver didn’t say anything more, but Erik’s hand was gone, and Raven groaned silently. She didn’t particularly care who watched, but Erik had always been more private.
“Erik,” she leaned in and sighed almost inaudibly against his throat in English, “if you let this idiot distract you from making me come, I will never forgive you.”
She felt rather than heard his slight intake of breath. “I wasn’t aware forgiveness was on offer,” he answered, and curled towards her again.
Hooray for alcohol, she thought. His fingers worked their way inch by electrifying inch upwards, making her pulse race. They paused just short of her pussy--she imagined she could feel them there, in the dark, making her throb for them.
She rubbed her forehead restlessly against his shoulder. “Come on, Erik…”
He obviously took that, and the disappearance of her panties, as sufficient consent, and pressed inwards. She was already slick, and he swirled his index finger around for a few agonizing seconds before slipping it inside her.
She clamped down, seeking further friction, toes curling. He chuckled. His thumb sought the hood of her clit and she cheated just a little, making it easier for him to find. When he made contact, she bit down hard on her lip and ground down against him.
He was relentless. The movement of his finger set off muffled echoes inside her of the sharper thrill of his thumb working her clit. Beyond his profile, she could see the city sliding by, flat black buildings, bright neon, computerized signs scrolling, graffiti lit up in the sudden glare of a street light, young people everywhere despite the rain, a restless energy like no other. She could slide through the streets like this forever, she thought, with Erik urging her on, now, finally, kissing her roughly.
She ought to feel smothered or trapped, but Erik’s intensity of focus only felt galvanizing. They had been together in a dozen different cities--the memories had faded, but suddenly she was living them again as if they had all been one night, and all like this. She was absorbing his energy, reshaping herself around it greedily to take it all in, the rhythm of it building in her until it spilled over and she was pulsing hard against his hand.
He remembered, knew exactly the pressure to apply and where to wring the last aftershocks of pleasure out of her before she became too sensitive. Then he slowly withdrew his hand. She shut her eyes and buried her face in his chest, content to take the moment not to think while her breathing slowed.
The cab bumped to a halt. “Bristol,” the driver announced irritably. She separated from Erik with reluctance, pulling down her skirt to a more respectable length. While waiting for his change, he eyed her, amused and hungry. She let him help her out of the cab and slip his arm into hers as they went into the hotel.
She liked it, for just a few minutes after that, pretending to be respectable. It was familiar—they’d pretended to so many different relationships to so many people, they synchronized perfectly even after all that time. Smiling at the doorman. Crossing the lobby and nodding to the night manager at the desk. Standing in the elevator with a businessman who’d clearly been having a little too much fun. He’d slipped his arm around her like a solicitous husband; she’d leaned against him as though she wanted the protection.
The minute the door to her room closed, he slammed her up against it. She let herself drop back into blue and wrapped her legs around his waist, shutting her eyes and feeling him grind against her. “You have never been so filthy,” he growled in her ear.
“It’s been years, Erik,” she gasped.
“I know. Perhaps I was stunting your development.”
“Maybe you should find out.”
“I think I will. God, I need to taste you.”
She let him lift her away from the wall and carry her over to the bed. He laid her down with her knees over the edge, flung his jacket to the floor, and knelt down between them, his expression ferocious.
“Do you want to know about the others, Erik?” she asked teasingly.
He focused on his hands as they rested on her thighs. “Did any of them mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Then by all means, tell me what I started.” He grasped her leg and pulled the knife from its sheath to toss it away. Then he began mouthing his way down her skin.
“There was this businessman in London,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “I was ripping off his bank at the time. He couldn’t get enough. He was sleeping with his secretary, and his girlfriend, and his mistress. And they were all me.”
“Good thing he didn’t try for a threesome,” Erik, now well on his way, paused long enough to comment.
“I didn’t mind, though, because he was so good that sometimes while he was fucking me I’d forget which one I was supposed to be. It was so hot being all of them at once. He was different with each one. Sometimes right after I left I’d call him as one of the other ones so we could do it again.”
While she was talking, Erik had arrived at her pussy. He cupped her and dragged his tongue upwards between her lips, looking for her clit.
“Then there was this dancer at the Bolshoi—fuck”—he’d found it—“oh, he was gorgeous, Erik. Strong and lean and so graceful. You forget sometimes how amazing a human body can be, all on its own. I could hardly see him naked without wanting to blow him. It just felt like the natural response.”
The rhythm of Erik’s tongue sped up. He hadn’t been, back then, jealous or possessive. Not indifferent, either, though it had taken her a while to understand. He’d just had an unshakable belief that any relationship you might have with him was of an entirely different kind than one with anyone else, and so there was no point in comparisons. But a lot had happened between then and now. To her benefit, apparently, she thought, as she curled her fingers into the sheets.
“And—mmmmf—a pretty East German boy, a hacker I was using to get into KGB records. Tall, skinny, pale…he worshipped me. I think I could have told him and he wouldn’t have cared. He might even have wanted me more. He liked to do just what you’re doing right now, Erik, and he got very, very good at it—”
She grabbed at his head. With the edge already off, this orgasm was smoother, like being worn away with pleasure, and went on for a remarkably long time. When it was over, she looked down. Erik was watching her with a quietly self-satisfied smile.
“Better than me?”
“Less smug,” she said, pushing herself backwards on the bed, onto the pillows.
“All these men in your bed,” he said, unbuckling his belt, and crawled up to join her. “None of them knowing how beautiful you actually are.”
She would’ve laughed at the old line, except for the fact that it was still true. Erik had been the first one in her whole life to tell her she was beautiful as she was. He was still one of the very few who’d even had the chance.
“I guess that makes you the lucky one.”
“Yes,” he said simply, and there really was something to be said for how direct he could be. “Do you need…?”
She shook her head. That, at least, was easier than in the old days.
He braced himself above her, then leaned down to kiss her. He said into her ear, “Those others have had their chance, but, tonight, I’m fucking you.”
“I think you’ve earned it,” she said. “Go ahead.”
She was so relaxed and wet that he slid into her easily. He made a noise in the back of his throat and held still, adjusting. His forearms were trembling on either side of her and she wondered how long it had been for him.
He began moving. He sighed, “You feel fantastic.”
She curled her hand over the back of his neck, urging him on. Since she’d already come twice, he could only stir up the occasional lazy spark for her, but that was enough. It felt good, having him there over her, taking all the solid masculine force of his body, feeling all his power, and knowing everything was focused on her. Her, really her, not having to try to be anything but what she was. She could hardly remember the last time that that had been true. Not even with him.
She found herself trying to memorize the weight of him, the feel of her fingers buried in his hair, the exact pressure of his lips against her neck. When she mimicked people, it was by instinct—she didn’t think through skin tone or hair texture or how they stood, she just was them. But she wanted to consciously store up all the details of him as he was in that moment. It might be the last time for a long time.
“I used to think about you,” he said, raggedly, his thrusts getting rougher. “In prison. Wondered if you had given up. Let them tame you. I should’ve known—”
“I didn’t,” she said. “I couldn’t.” That was what he had done for her: set something free in her that could never be shut up again. Something that he didn’t control, any more than Charles could. But he had at least wanted her freedom, no matter how it had worked out. She felt unexpected tears glazing her eyes, but she wasn’t going to turn her head away.
“No,” he said. “You’re mag—magnificent, Mystique. Magnificent.”
He drew in a sharp breath and came. He waited til his breath slowed, then kissed her temple and let himself down next to her.
Automatically, she turned towards him and let him put his arm around her. Almost like lovers.
He was still there when she came back from the shower. She hadn’t been sure he would be. His clothes were piled on a nearby chair and her knife was on the bedside table. She slid back into bed, feeling the peculiar satisfaction of sheets that were still warm. As she looked drowsily up at his face, she was reminded of something she’d seen earlier.
“No scar,” she noted, raising up on her elbow to touch the side of his neck.
“No. I met a healer in Iceland. I could give you the address…?”
He’d obviously noticed her scar earlier. “No. I’m keeping it.”
He didn’t ask why. Maybe, as someone who never forgot an injury, he understood. He covered her hand where it had dropped again to his chest. “I am sorry I shot you.”
She sighed, falling back on the pillow. “You and Charles. Both always so convinced that the big dramatic gesture will save the day.”
It was the first time either of them had spoken the name that evening, but Erik didn’t visibly react to it. “Yours did help.”
“Not enough, or neither of us would be here.”
He tilted his head, accepting the point.
“For the record,” she said, “I’m not sorry I shot you.”
He smiled ruefully. “No. I had it coming.”
“You certainly did.”
“Does this mean we’re even?”
She considered it. “For now. I can’t make any promises about the future.”
“If I could…”
She shook her head. Only one person had made her promises she’d trusted, and too few of them had come true. “That’s not our world, Erik.”
He was silent for a minute, then said, “Should I go?”
Sending him away now was probably the smart thing. She had a train to catch in the morning. She didn’t need any complications. And Erik had never slept easily. But she didn’t want him to go. She’d been foolish enough already. Shouldn’t she get all the benefit of the risk she’d taken? And with him there to deal with any unexpected staff, she could sleep without having to worry about maintaining her form—bliss. “Not unless you want to.”
“You’re not worried?”
She laughed sleepily. “Erik, you’re the most wanted man on the planet, in a city riddled with spies, any one of which would make their career by finding you. You’re in no position to sell me out to anybody.”
“Your trust is touching,” he said drily.
“I must be getting soft.”
He kissed her hair. “Impossible.”
“Well, then,” she mumbled, burrowing into his shoulder. “Turn off the lights?”
There was a click, and then darkness.
“Mystique—” he ventured after a minute.
She cut him off. “Erik, tomorrow you won’t even recognize me.”
He accepted it as a change of subject. “Stay like this for the night, though?”
“That’s why you’re here,” she yawned.
He didn’t say anything else. They’d slept in hotels better and worse than this one, on trains and crouching behind cover, waiting for time to pass. Erik had never been much for pillow talk, and that apparently hadn’t changed. He had to have had his fair share of encounters over the years, but actual intimacy still seemed to be a mystery to him. Not that she was much better. As she let him pull up the sheet over her, she realized that she’d missed that odd hesitation and delicacy, as if he were carefully performing a foreign ritual that fascinated him but even now he didn’t fully understand. It was something no other lover would ever give her.
Nonetheless, as an afterthought, she discreetly put her hand out and slipped the knife underneath her pillow. If he sensed it, he’d understand.