Title: Your Choice Begat Mine
Pairing: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Summary: Erik went away, taking from Charles the things that meant so much to him. But it's what he left that leads to secrecy and embittered thoughts. It's their son that Erik should never know about.
Warning: Slash. Mpreg.
Rating: T - for language
—
Stubbornly ignoring weird movie canon and not calling Pietro "Peter."
Also, the title of this first chapter is simply a pretentious way of me saying that the events contained within take place between scenes of movie canon.
Chapter One: Intermingled Within Truth
The sound of his screaming as he flew through the air and into the opposing staircase rang like a massive church bell throughout the quiet manor. Logan didn't want to hurt the kid, but if Hank kept that up, he was going to.
A voice broke through the roars, however, and Charles descended to break it all up after a few more cheap throws and bouts of abuse. For the man's presence, Logan found himself grateful in one aspect. But he was also given the very quick impression that the Professor had somewhat downplayed his younger self's melancholia.
Of course, the moping barely touched that special note of indifferent frustration the guy managed to sing. Logan could tell that perhaps the Professor's positive influence had rubbed off on him more than he thought. It took a great deal of self-control to try reasoning with Charles instead of knocking him over the head and yelling.
"The Professor I know would never turn his back on someone who lost their path," he stated, watching that irritating form shrink away from him. "Especially someone he loved."
Charles stopped short. He fell back away from the stairs, open robe swaying around him like a curtain. He absently spun the drink in his hand, that unwavering ally which always promised more comfort and succor than any other vice or virtue.
"You know," Charles said, haughtily stalking back towards the stranger in his home, "I think I do remember you now. Yeah, we came to you a long time ago, seeking your help." He grinned, an insolent expression that housed only his roiling discontent. "And I'm going to say to you what you said to us then." Charles seemed to take a cruel satisfaction in telling him to, "Fuck off."
Logan grabbed Charles by front of his ratty robe and shook him angrily, what control he had over his temper slipping. "Listen to me, you little shit," he growled, teeth bared in an infuriated snarl. "I've come a long way, and I've watched a lot of people die, good people, friends." Logan knew he could have easily hit the man. It would have felt a justified compensation for the uncaring, condescending little smirk that was flashed at him. "If you want to wallow in self-pity and do nothing, then you're going to watch the same thing. Do you understand?"
He said nothing and Logan released him, pushing the coddled punk away. "We all have to die sometime," he remarked, a glib response to Logan's confession of what true heartache was.
Charles turned to go— to leave in an angered retreat and escape the world and its nonsense— but when he spun around, he saw the little boy standing at the bottom of the stairs, his small hands clinging to the banister. There was no way to know how much had been overheard.
"What's going on?" the boy asked, curiosity overcoming his natural timidity. "Who's he?"
"Nothing," Charles answered with a heavy sigh, his hand running tiredly down his face, "and no one. Go back upstairs."
The boy let go of the wooden rail, quietly stepping down onto the floor. "We never have people over," he said, gradually approaching with a bubbling interest.
"I said go upstairs!" Charles bellowed. His outburst echoed through the vacant halls and the boy jumped, drawing arms in around himself, looking startled and defensive.
Charles swallowed hard in his throat. It was obvious he hated the entire scene and wanted nothing more than to abscond back upstairs himself and disregard it all. He reached out a hand to comfort the child, but Logan pushed past, knocking him aside.
He stooped down to his level and gave the kid a little half-smile, a look he hoped might have come off as kind. Admittedly, he wasn't very good with children. "Hey, David," Logan murmured in greeting. He reached up with an awkward hand to ruffle the kid's hair, but he ducked away.
"You know my name," David observed with bewilderment. He leaned slightly closer to the stranger, his fears abating.
"I know a lot more than that," Logan said, though he was speaking almost exclusively to Charles, the teetering figure of inebriation that stood wavering and anxious. "I know you're his father. You want I should recite the other side of the family tree?"
"David," Charles repeated, a stuttering call as he swiped at his nose and breathed in a sniffling breath, "I said go upstairs." Hank approached and Charles took a hold of his sleeve, pushing him at the boy. "Hank, make him go upstairs." There was a frantic desperation in his voice and demeanor, the ripples of what some might have called a panic attack, but to Charles was simply the acknowledgment of impotence as one more facet in his life came crashing back in his face.
Then Charles fled up the stairs, unwanting of reminders, of time travelers, or of confrontations. He retreated into the physical cocoon of his bedroom, the mental one of oblivion.
Little feet shuffled along the rug as David stepped to Hank's side, grabbing his hand in his own smaller one. "Hank," he asked, burying his face in the man's side, "who is he?" He pointed vaguely in Logan's direction.
"I'm still trying to figure that out," Hank told him. "He's a friend though."
Despite Charles's order, Hank took David outside to the one bit of the estate that he managed to keep maintained himself. The boy ran around with an energy that only the young possessed, splashing the cold water of a fountain and throwing rocks into it, knowing full well he shouldn't.
"Kid seems a lot happier than the David I knew," Logan said in conversation as the two of them paced the encompassing sidewalk.
"Don't let appearances fool you." Hank chuckled, but it was an empty sound devoid of humor. He dragged his feet morosely as they went. "You said you knew the truth— the truth about his other parent? Well, prove it. What's her name?"
Logan snorted, shaking his head slightly. "Trick question, bub. We both know it's Magneto."
Hank's eyebrows rose, oddly impressed. "You seem to take such an oddity in your stride, Mister Logan."
"Just Logan," he asserted. "And I've seen enough lifetimes of weird mutations for this one to rank pretty low on the list." He gave a little shrug of indifference. "Even when the Professor told me, I didn't think much of it. I reacted more to the Magneto part, if we're being open and honest."
"I wish we'd had your calm approach to it ten years ago," Hank sighed. He sounded amused by the memory of it, but his eyes shined with a different expression, revealing a past dread that had nearly been forgotten.
"Not everybody gets to be so lucky."
David ran up to them, breath heaving from him in the cool January air. He said not a word, but held out his hand expectantly. Hank responded in action more than thought, reaching into his pocket to take out several coins. He surrendered them to the boy and David was off again.
"It wasn't always like this," Hank spoke. He watched from the corner of his eye as the little boy scrunched his eyes shut and made a wish before throwing coin after coin into the fountain. "I mean," he said, looking back to Logan, "one of the reasons I initially agreed to give Charles so much of the serum is because he said he wanted to get up and play with his son." He sighed miserably. "How do you deny a guy that?"
"You don't," Logan told him, trying to assuage any shame or guilt.
"Now," Hank said in thought, "days pass where he might not even say a word, to me, to David."
"That's gotta bring the kid down," Logan said, but looking to the boy that challenged fate with a smile and walked along the edge of the fountain, one might never think it did.
"Like I said," Hank reminded him, "he's not as happy as he looks. Sometimes I think he'd do anything for some of Charles's attention."
"Yeah," Logan agreed, "what sorry son of a bitch wouldn't kill to get a little more normality going with their folks?"
"I take it you don't have a good relationship with your father," Hank observed.
"Nah," Logan replied, the very essence of nonchalance, "killed the bastard."
Hank stumbled in surprise, nearly falling if not for his heightened sense of stability. "Oh," was all he said aloud.
"I know there's no statute of limitations for murder," Logan acknowledged jokingly, "but it was over a hundred years ago from this time. You gonna turn me in?"
"Uh," Hank drawled before giving his head a light, clearing shake, "no, no."
"So catch me up here so I don't go running my mouth," Logan said, pointing over at David. "Does the kid know about his father?"
"No." Hank rapidly shook his head, thoroughly denying even the existence of a possibility to such a thing. "No, Charles has always insisted that neither of them ever find out."
"Yeah," Logan snorted, "that don't last forever."
"Oh, god," Hank groaned. His arms dropped heavily to his sides and he looked to the overcast sky above as if asking it for answers or an exemption from fate. "I knew— I always knew it would happen one day. Both of them find out?"
"Yep."
"When?" Hank questioned anxiously. He turned and grabbed either shoulder of Logan's jacket, giving him a pleading shake. "Can I stop it?"
"Sorry, kid," Logan answered. He brought a hand up between Hank's outstretched arms to brush him off. "I only minored in the study of David Xavier's screwed up origins."
"I'll just have to be extra careful then," he said, nodding his head with loyalty-born conviction.
"Yeah," Logan replied, ears perking slightly at the sound of an approaching party. "Good luck with that." He patted Hank on the back and turned to face the shaggy professor, the man who stood upon the cold cement in his bare feet.
"I'll help you get her," Charles conceded. His shoulders quivered with a shaking breath that belied spoken resolve. He turned around to go back inside the darkened house. "And Hank," he called, "take David upstairs like I told you to already."
Logan breathed a sigh, half humor and half exasperation. "Must be so fun playing nanny to that guy."
Hank whistled to draw David's attention and motioned for the boy to follow them back in. "Let's just say the past couple years haven't been the best and leave it at that."
—
As instructed, Logan parked their car on the curb of a side road. Between the small, planted trees that ran along the sidewalk, there was view of the Pentagon. Visibility existed in both directions but the distance negated suspicion.
Pietro, a restless addition to an already unnerved car ride, was the first to step out. He had closed his door and secured a suspicious looking roll of duct tape to his belt before Logan even turned off the engine. The rest followed in a much slower display— especially Charles, who stood in front of his open door, kneeling on the pavement.
"Look here now, darling," he spoke, picking up the small hand of the boy sat in the backseat. Charles gave him a watch before pointing out its function and purpose. "There's a thirty minute timer set. I'm starting it now." He clicked a red button on the side, and a digital countdown began its slow course. "If we aren't back when it gets to zero, I want you to get out of the car and find a police officer or a soldier."
"I want to go with Hank," David cried, his little voice sounding distressed and pleading.
"No," Charles told him, "Hank has a job to do, and it's too risky to take you with him in case he gets caught." At the denial of his request, David looked forlornly to the pale blue carpet lining the floor of the car. But it wasn't the time to indulge such listlessness. Charles put a hand to his chin, tilting his head back up. "Do you understand?"
The boy pulled away slightly and nodded. "Yes, sir."
"And you'll stay in the car?" Charles confirmed.
"Yes, sir," he said again.
"Good boy."
Charles leaned into the car and gave him a kiss on the head. Then he stood, closing the door behind him.
The building before them was daunting in its presence, only outdone by the horrifying thought of what lie beneath: a tortuous reminder of the fall of great men.
Needing some spur of confidence or reason, Charles looked through the window, desiring a smile or encouraging gesture from his little boy. However, David did not see him, sullenly fixated on the watch as he was.
—
Alarms blared mercilessly and their droning siren echoed through the vulnerable ears of the lawn full of people outside. The gathered crowd made the objective of blending easier, even with half of their group soaking wet or still wearing a prison uniform.
The escape from the government facility itself went adequately well, even with the end result, of course, being a freed Erik Lehnsherr. It wasn't all bad news, however. Charles had managed to get one good punch in, a hit that still stung in the split skin of his knuckles.
Charles loosened the tie around throat and doffed his jacket while stepping through the myriad of cars, their drivers so taken with the commotion that the street had almost turned into a parking lot.
Spurred in haste by the happy thought of boundless earth, Erik was one of the first to reach the car, second only after Pietro, who leaned against the door waiting. He shooed the boy out of the way, wanting for himself a seat in the front. When he took a cursory look inside, Erik saw something that took him by surprise.
"You've chosen the wrong car to steal, Charles," he said to the man who had at last caught up. "There's a child inside."
"Get in and shut up," Charles ordered, opening his own door in the back. "It's not the wrong car."
Erik obeyed, though still perplexed. He pulled open the car door, and when he began to sit down, an indistinguishable blur brushed past him. Pietro appeared in the middle of the seat, situated between Logan and Erik himself.
"Buckle up," the boy quickly cautioned, "safety first." Erik looked down and saw the swift clasping of his seatbelt. He gave Pietro a withering glare. The mischievous expression on his face said so much more about messing with Erik's head than it did actual safety.
"Logan, straight to the air terminal," Charles instructed, closing his own door with a quiet bang.
"On it."
The car cranked up, roaring with the impotent ire of a gas peddle being depressed while in park, demanding for the stationary onlookers to remember their roles as motorists. The surrounding cars began moving again, and Logan pulled out to join them.
They took several sharp turns and fled down many narrowed streets to avoid being followed. It seemed almost like an overreaction as anyone who had witnessed them leave was no doubt either still unconscious or scratching their head over the whole matter.
The car slowed to a normal inconspicuous pace once their success was something to be assured of and not hoped for. Of course, with the meager thrill of speeding gone, that was when Pietro began to shuffle like any other hyperactive kid in a car. He slid down in the seat, prodding absently at the rearview mirror until Erik grabbed his wrist and brought it back down to his lap.
"You're recruiting young now," the man said in a vague attempt at passive conversation, keeping his eyes upon the road before them.
Charles huffed in agitation, then replied saying, "The boy is none of your concern."
"I didn't think you were the type to so recklessly endanger children," Erik remarked nevertheless, momentarily disregarding the implied demand for silence.
"And if I had any other option," Charles stated, "I wouldn't be."
Erik turned in his seat, throwing his arm across the back and pushing Pietro further against Logan. He looked at the small boy in the backseat with a curious, roving eye, as though sizing him up. "What's your story?" he asked.
David dipped his head timidly, staring at his lap.
"I told him not to talk to you," Charles informed, almost throwing a protective arm around his son.
"Your power?" Erik continued to question, bound perhaps by genuine curiosity or a longing for any new information after ten years of isolation.
"He doesn't have one," Charles snapped.
"Not yet," came an ominous remark from Logan, though its direct implication remained as nothing more than varied supposition amongst each man.
Erik hummed in his throat, a contemplative sound. "No guarantee of powers but you took him in anyway?" he asked, confused and skeptical.
"Yes," Charles said, troubled by the entire line of questioning, "because not everyone hates humans. Now," he stated, slowly and insistently, "shut up."
There was a slight pause, broken by a quiet, hesitant voice. "You hate me?" David asked, looking up at Erik. "But I don't even know you."
"Don't worry about him," Hank said encouragingly, rubbing the boy's shoulder. "He's wrong."
David continued staring at Erik, his small face looking shamed. "I haven't done anything to you."
"Everyone shut up!" Charles yelled, thoroughly upset by the whole proceeding. "Erik turn around!"
David jumped in his seat, startled by the outburst. Hank consoled him as Charles turned to look out the window. After a second, Erik obeyed, twisting back around in his seat. Pietro gratefully sat back upright.
The rest of the ride was silent as the grave.
—
"Pietro," Charles expressed as they stood outside the plane, damp jacket hanging on his arm, "thank you very, very much." He extended a hand of gratitude, which the boy shook with an atypical maturity. Hank stepped away to do a brief walk around of the aircraft as Charles teetered hesitantly on the edge of a request. "I have just," he paused, "one more favor to ask."
"More jailbird friends?" Pietro teased. "Gonna be tough to beat the Pentagon break."
"No, no," Charles assured with a grin and a shake of his head. "I'm not going to put you into anymore harm. I only ask," he looked to the boy at his side, "that you take David with you, let him stay at your house until we get back."
David was of the immediate inclination to be offended. "I wanted to ride in the plane!" he whined. Charles watched his brow fall in a piteous demand for leniency. His freckled cheeks puffed and his eyes grew as big as his quivering lower lip. They had poor effect on Charles, given the gravity of the pending situation.
"David," he remarked, bending down closer to the boy's height, "it's too dangerous where we're going."
"I can wait in the car again," David asserted, rubbing his shoe into the pavement.
"I said no," Charles repeated, keeping a firm tone. "You're with Pietro." He cleared throat, standing back up to look at the teen. "If he'll agree."
Pietro pondered the matter for a second, which was a short time for most, but a small internal conference for him. "Sure," he consented. "Yeah, why not? Kids are cool. I got a sister about his age."
"Thank you," Charles said, feeling a small weight lifted.
"But, uh," Pietro drawled, "maybe some money for a pizza later?" Charles sighed and took out his wallet, giving Pietro a ten dollar bill. "And some burgers on the way back to the house?" he added with an arrogant hope. Charles complied, giving him more. "Kids," Pietro went on to say, looking as though he was merely thinking aloud, "they need entertainment. We might have to go to the movies."
"Yeah!" David agreed with overflowing enthusiasm, at last looking intrigued by the idea of going with the teenager.
Charles gave him a twenty and put his wallet away as an indication of finality. "That should cover any other expense you can think up," he reasoned. Then he leaned back down beside David. "Now you be a good boy for Pietro and his mother. We should be back to get you in a couple of days."
"Yes, sir," David replied obediently.
Holding out his arms, Charles waited for a hug goodbye, but David seemed to completely ignore him once Hank could be seen walking back around. He ran instead to him, wrapping his arms around Hank's waist.
"I'll miss you," he told the man.
"Yeah," Hank said, patting his head, "I'll miss you too, buddy. Now go with Pietro."
"Okay."
He marched back over and took his spot beside Pietro. David tried taking the hand hanging by his side until the teen finally opened his fist and grabbed back.
"And Pietro?" Charles said, feeling the need to voice the matter.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"Take it slow," he pleaded.
"What?" Pietro exclaimed in offended shock. He quickly picked David up and rubbed a teasing hand all over the boy's head, tousling his hair and making him giggle. "Speed? With such precious cargo? Never."
David leaned against his ear and conspiratorially muttered, "Let's drive really fast."
"Okay," Pietro whispered in reply.
"No!" Charles objected promptly.
—
Erik watched him over the chessboard in an obvious, unhidden way. It was clear he considered the game not a mere opportunity for sport, as they so often had, but as an excuse to leverage conversation.
As the pieces fell, however, so too did their voices— or at least the courage to verbalize their thoughts did. It felt like a small blessing to Charles, words having dredged up old memories and sensations.
In regards to Erik, it seemed obvious he was biding his time, waiting for the nerve that came to him artificially from his drink. And when it arrived, silence broke down with two simple words of inquiry: "The boy."
Charles shook his head simply. "I believe I said he was no concern of yours, Erik."
"I understand why you took him in," the man said, voicing an unwanted reply.
"No," Charles insisted, "you don't." He took a knight from Erik that he had been sparing out of some form of leniency and hoped the other would focus on the game once more. However, Erik had always proven to be a master at balancing multiple tasks.
"Don't worry," he stated calmly. "I've no ill thoughts that you seek to brainwash the next generation of humans into accepting us."
"All right," Charles said haughtily, trying not to be offended by the implication of such a thing. "I won't worry about that."
"Once we got out of the car, though," Erik continued, tone banal with words that struck, "I could see it plain as day."
Charles could feel an unsettling charge creeping up his neck, an insect that brushed against him with its disturbing legs, a tickling and cautioning knowledge that something should be dreaded. "See what?"
"Oh," Erik remarked casually, "the hair color, the little—" he tapped the end of his nose— "rounded nose, the big eyes that seem to grow when he doesn't get what he wants."
"I'm not sure what you're implying," Charles responded, a forced calmness in his voice that was probably more obvious than it was meant to be.
Erik looked at him with a pity outdone by his skepticism. "He's your son," he said in the simplest of terms.
"No," Charles denied, shaking his head.
"He is," Erik insisted. "Oh," he put a hand to his chest, a gesture of offense, "but don't try to spare my feelings, Charles. Given his age, I'm sure you waited a full week before jumping into bed with the first woman you saw."
"Spare your feelings? Jumping," Charles paused, a cruel snarl of a laugh bubbling in his throat, "into bed?" He sighed amusedly, coming down from the forced humor he found in the other man's words. "You spin such wonderful jokes."
Erik refused to look at him, callously arranging each metal chess piece into a neat line along either side of the board. "I'm afraid the only real joke is my mistake in ever thinking our time together meant something to you," he argued, returning his gaze, but with a bitter eye.
"A mistake we seem to have shared," Charles agreed.
The worst of mental tortures came from the sincerity of Erik's next words. "I do love you, Charles."
"And I loved you, Erik," Charles answered, putting as much emphasis as he could spit into the past tense of the word. "But you have a funny way of reciprocating."
"You say that," Erik stated, his voice in a casual affair with condescension, "and yet you immediately went out and made yourself a son."
"Perhaps I needed something to help forget you," Charles snapped bitterly. Then he looked back at the board, much more taken with the bound rules of chess than those of errant feelings and wayward arguments.
Once more, they played in silence. The drone of the plane's engines was only occasionally disturbed by the clattering of passive aggression as a chess piece was claimed.
So loath was Erik of the silence, however, it did not take long for him to speak again. It was with a moderately contrite voice that he asked, "What's his name?"
"Who?" Charles questioned, sipping at his drink, eyes fixated upon the board.
"Your son," Erik answered obviously.
"Why do you even care?" Charles chuckled. He found an odd, sort of inexplicable humor in the man's fixation.
"Because he's your son." Erik took a pawn, reaching out to claim it physically, rather than with his power. He held the piece in his hand, as if contemplating it and the role it played. "He could be a powerful mutant one day."
"Or," Charles countered with a sardonic raising of his brow, "if he's lucky in this future we're headed towards, he'll be a normal human."
"What's his name?" the man asked once more.
There was silence. It was a brief moment in which Charles filled a scale— each side teetering, the negative against the positive— in why he should give the man such privileged information. He relented, knowing it would be considered his right to withhold, but also thinking the petty act as one of suspicion. He dared not cast such thoughts upon the fragile situation.
"David."
Erik looked a little besotted. "David." He tried the name out as though it were unique and unheard of. In his mind, it was deconstructed from past assignments and rebuilt only in reverence to the boy.
"But as I've said," Charles continued, "he's of no importance to you." He cleared his throat with an overly exaggerated cough. "So none of this really matters, and I'd much rather not talk about it." Drinking down what remained in his glass, Charles dropped it on the table before reaching for the bottle to refill it.
"You can't blame me for showing an interest in the boy," Erik reasoned.
"No," Charles said, "but I can ask you not to voice it." He avoided eye contact in an obvious way, pouring his drink slower than necessary, watching as the drops decanted.
Erik placed his hand over Charles's and took the bottle from him. He made a show of pouring some into his own glass, but it was evident from the way he placed the bottle on the shelf behind him that he was cutting Charles off.
"Why are you so defensive?"
"I have my reasons, Erik," he was told. "Don't pretend they aren't obvious. You—" Charles paused, taking a deep breath and running a weary hand down his face, pulling at tired skin and settling over his mouth before falling back down altogether. "You're a fugitive, a murderer, pushing for the extinction of a species that currently includes my son."
"You speak as though I would ever cause him harm," Erik objected, looking angry in his offense.
Charles shouted his reply, saying, "Every man is someone's son, Erik!"
"Hey!"
They looked to the other side of the cabin, Erik turning in his seat, and saw Logan in his chair, seeming displeased. He opened only one eye, but it held the irate potency of both. "You two bickering idiots wanna shut the hell up?" he groused. "Some of us are trying to get some sleep over here."
"Our apologies," Charles said, waving a repentant hand of dismissal.
"Chess is supposed to be a quiet game anyway," Logan continued, shuffling down in his seat as he tried to get comfortable. "Leave it to the two of you to screw that up."
"I believe you said you were going to sleep," Erik reminded crossly.
Logan extended a bone claw, just one, from the middle of his right hand. Then he dropped it and tried to sleep.
The rest of the chess match was much more quiet. Nothing substantial was spoken of and what was remained grounded in hushed tones. Charles didn't remember falling asleep, but then, as inebriated as he usually found himself, the concept wasn't exactly novel. The only real surprise was the stiff blanket draped across him when he woke up.
—
When all was said and done, when Erik had once more absconded to destinations and designs unknown, Charles felt himself a proper hero when David couldn't stop going on about the heroic victory that he had seen on the television. It felt good, Charles thought, to have gained something amidst the sea of lost opportunities and loved ones.