Marie doesn't know how to play chess.

Erik knows how to play, of course, but she still doesn't ever win. It's always the same game.

She rolls the knight slowly between her fingers as she stares at the board. Dark cherry wood, cool and smooth to the touch even through her gloves. She is black, naturally (*we go all out with the symbolism here*).

Last night she dreamed again of a country she's never visited and dead people speaking in a language she doesn't know. She doesn't like these dreams much, but they're among the better ones. There are ones from the war that she's only read about; she wakes from those wanting to throw up. There are the ones that are all flashes, cold and labs and experimentation and things she doesn't understand. She wakes from those and stares at the ceiling, shaking, for a long time afterward.

She places the piece back down, Erik guiding her to one of the colored squares. She places it in a different one.

Marie has lost count of how many games she has played here. Every second Wednesday she comes to this room and plays this game.

The professor (*Charles*, Erik says) watches her while they play. He doesn't see her. She doesn't blame him.

Not for that, at least.

He moves his piece quickly, barely even looking at the board. He keeps his gaze on her.

Her mouth still tastes of alcohol, bitter strong aftertaste of the evening's martini.

Marie hates martinis.

Yesterday it was beer, and then as many shots of whiskey as she could take. More, really. Logan's tolerance is pretty much infinite. Marie's isn't.

Erik says the professor's name again, and Marie can feel his pleasure and something else, all twisted around, slimy little tendrils moving across her mind.

She reaches out and catches the professor's hand in hers as he lifts it away from the chessboard. His breath catches in his throat, and his eyes change a little.

He doesn't see Marie. She doesn't want to know all this. She dreams of this, too.

Logan's dreams about Jean are easy, just straightforward porn, images of Jean's mouth, her breasts and stomach and pussy. Those dreams make her uncomfortable, but they don't shake her like Erik's do.

She doesn't have the professor's voice invading her, but she knows what she is to him, anyway.

("I love you," Charles says in her dreams, and she kisses him till she tastes his blood in her mouth.)

Marie breaks her grip on his hand and stares back down at the board. Erik tells her which piece she should move. She ignores him and moves her pawn, instead.

It's pointless, but sometimes the pointless things are all she has.

"Tell me this won't be forever," she says in a soft voice.

The professor doesn't even pause as he says, "It will fade, given time."

He moves his hand towards the board again, and Marie closes her eyes and tries to not hear the doubtful sneer in her head.

"Your move," he says.

She wraps her finger on the bishop (*Pawn*, says Erik) and moves it quickly.

He stares down at the board for a few moments, and pushes the piece slowly. "Checkmate."

She doesn't look at him as she stands and gathers her things.

It's almost a routine now, written in stone. They have their lines.

"Fix me."

"I can't."

"Or don't want to?"

He says nothing.

"Tell me you don't want to."

Marie has lost track of how much of her day she spends wanting to scream.

"I would, Marie," the professor says.

"I don't believe you," Marie says.

He looks struck, and guilty, and he's silent once more.

Erik chuckles in her mind.

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