Why had he stopped, when victory was within his grasp? When with just one more push, another exertion that would throw the molten metal core of the planet into greater revolt, he could have been rid of humanity forever? No more taking, no more pain, no more enemies, a world fit for him to live in at last. Not Charles' voice in his mind, for sure – the telepath had a certain amount of sway with him, but not enough to throw water on the boiling fires of this rage, not enough influence to push through the agony that was fueling this assault.
What had stopped him? A scream.
A sound that was full of outrage, and horror, and agony. The noise a gazelle might make when a lion had it caught in its jaws. Another that followed, wrenched up from somewhere full of astonished hurt. He'd looked and seen the newly-risen god holding Raven aloft with one hand, but he had barely seen her – the woman who had been his closest confidante suddenly seeming irrelevant in comparison to the little bundle at Apocalypse's feet. Anger that ran him through like a red-hot blade – why did he think of Nina, in that moment? In motion before he had even paused for thought.
I'm here for my family too…
My Mom knew a guy who could do that once…
It made sense, suddenly why that arrogant little boy had been so insistently pushing on his force-field, why he had followed him to this battle. Why, despite him being a tiny, vulnerable creature with no combat experience, he had joined the force that was trying to stop him.
The boy had tried so hard to be brave as they had finally loaded everyone back onto the jet to return home. Ashy-white with the effort of holding in his pain, left arm gripping his broken right to immobilise it against his shuddering body. Eyes squeezed tightly shut. There was blood in his hair, an awful claret-black against the silver, and he had bitten his lip open in the struggle to keep from crying. Everybody else got morphine before Hank dressed their injuries, but the doctor was unwilling to give the boy any, not knowing how his particular mutation would react to it.
"Hold him" Hank had growled at him, "And don't let go"
Erik could see the jagged end of a bone as Hank had quickly cut away the boy's pants leg, fresh whimpers of strangled agony when he probed the wound delicately. Erik gripped as hard as he could round the boy's ribcage, feeling short, fast breaths and a hammering heartbeat. He was so delicate then, Erik could have crushed him if he had held any tighter. Despite exhaustion he could feel the boy trying to escape his grip, locking eyes with Hank as he prepared to set the bone.
"Take a deep breath" Hank told him. The boy was too afraid to hear him. A scream that rattled the windows of the jet and echoed shrilly in Erik's ears as Hank pulled and the jagged end of bone popped back into place. He had let go of the tears then, no longer able to hold them back, sobbing in agony against Erik's shoulder as he had gathered him up in his arms. His fault, Erik had thought, all this pain and terror and danger was his fault. At last the boy had exhausted himself with tears, raised his head a little, and Erik had asked the most stupid, futile question possible
"Are you alright?"
Huge brown eyes bloodshot and puffy looking up at him. He thought of Nina again. Sorrow stabbed at him. The boy's lips were trembling, he looked about ten instead of mid-twenties
"I want my Mom," he'd whimpered, "And I wanna go home"
Then he was violently sick, and thankfully following that he had passed out.
Erik had kept him pressed against him for the entire journey back, wrapped in a blanket. He weighed virtually nothing, hardly stirred on Erik's lap for hours. Winced a little when Hank had set an IV line in the back of his hand, certain the boy was in shock and would need to replenish his fluids and energy, and that had been Erik's fault too. He held the little bundle as tightly as he dared, rocked with him slightly, he could feel the boy's ribs moving under the blanket, still breathing too fast even in sleep. He was only a child, and Erik had let him come to harm.
Since that day he'd sworn that no harm would ever come to him again whilst Erik was around. That had proven to be a harder task than he'd thought, given Peter's propensity to get himself into trouble. Once recovered he had been able to see the young man in him, but the memory of that poor hurt child he had cradled in his arms was too much to override. Nobody was ever going to hurt him that way again.
Then Charles had told him how he, Erik, was causing the boy pain. How hard Peter wished that though they were in so many ways abnormal, his family could be normal in at least one way. How his flippant attitude concealed the longing for his mother and father not to fight over him any more. The first time he had tried to fix that, it hadn't gone well, and he had tried instead to be a good father and to forget the woman he could not get along with even for his beloved only son.
Then Magda had called one day, told him she was coming to Westchester, and asked him to meet her.
