AN: As a writer, I have taken the liberty to choose and use various facts and tidbits from both the X-Men Comics and X-Men films. I will attempt to have everything make sense in the realm of my story, but there will be things that are not accurate in one world as they would be in another. This note is to appease any readers that find something is not "canonically correct," and choose to point it out. I'm aware. Thank you.
The Devil's In The Details
It had been weeks since Erik Lehnsherr had involuntarily recruited his son to join his mutant cause. It had also been weeks full of inane chatter, persistent headaches, and constant eye rolling. Erik's mental state was, without a doubt, fragile after enduring his son, and all of said son's antics, for several days. The metal bender was convinced he was beginning to develop a permanent tic in his jaw from all the physically demanding attempts to keep his mouth shut. The same could be said for the twitch to his eye as he fought to keep his hands away from the teen's pale throat.
Erik's tight grip on the black steering wheel slowly lost its tension as the rambling teenager began rubbing at his eyes with his knuckle. He stifled a wide yawn with his free hand. Peter stretched his arms out, and accompanied the movement with another wide, and obnoxious yawn. He shifted in his seat for several minutes before finally lifting himself up, and shoving his lean body into the back of the car. His sneaker-clad foot clipped the tip of Erik's ear as he twisted and adjusted himself.
Despite his aggravation, Erik took a deep breath and focused his tired eyes on the black asphalt road before him. It wasn't long before the teen's heavy breathing evened out, and he succumbed to his evident exhaustion. Erik glanced in the review mirror, and couldn't help a fond smile from upturning the edges of his lips. The sight of his sprawled out son sleeping soundly in the back of their stolen vehicle wasn't a common one. He turned back to the dark road ahead, and stifled his own yawn.
The rhythmic rumble of the nondescript black Chrysler, coupled with the soft snores from Peter, and the caressing coolness of air from his cracked window threatened to lull the bone-weary man into a deep sleep. The smooth, black pavement gave way to desert sand when Erik finally forced himself to admit his fatigue, and pulled the car off the road. He coasted the vehicle around a small, rust-riddled shanty made from slabs of thin steel. It was the only building in sight for miles, and Erik didn't believe he'd have to fight anyone for the right to crash there for a night.
He put the car in park, before he turned the ignition off. Without the purr of the engine, the car ceased its mild vibration, and brought with it a sudden stillness and silence. Said silence was punctuated only by the mild snores from Peter, and the steady breathing from Erik himself. Erik closed his aching eyes, and rested his forehead against the warmth of the steering wheel he had only just let go of after hours upon hours of relentlessly tedious driving.
When he felt himself drifting off in his hunched over and uncomfortable position, Erik forcibly pulled his head up before rubbing at his eyes with the palms of both his hands. He suppressed a deep groan at the minimal relief the kneading wrought out. He turned his head to peek at the back seat, and was barely able to make out the dark lump that was his son with the aid of the moon. With his son sleeping relatively comfortably, and no immediate detectable threats, Erik allowed himself to push his seat back as far as his son's prone form allowed, and finally closed his eyes for much needed rest.
"Wakey, wakey, old man."
Erik slowly peeled back one lid, and then the other, before blinking rapidly to rid himself of the bleariness that clouded his vision. He craned his head to the right, and was met with a wide-eyed, grinning teenager with a loudly growling stomach. Despite the obviously hungry boy, Erik turned his head away, draped his forearm across his eyes, and tried to resume his sleep with a gruff, "Five more minutes."
Peter frowned, and began prodding his father's side with his finger. "Hey, man, c'mon." When the poking didn't rouse the man into action, Peter clambered back into the rear and placed his feet against the driver's side seat. He used his speed to vibrate the chair as fast and as hard as he could manage. The older man visibly started, before he pulled his arm away from his face.
"Knock it off," he grumbled in his sleep-heavy voice.
"I'm starving," the teenager petulantly whined.
Erik felt his body tense, and couldn't help the enraged tinge to his reply. "You don't know what starving is, boy." Despite this, he did pull himself upright, and pulled the driver's seat back into his original position with jerky and sharp movements.
Peter, aware that he had once again angered his father, adopted a mild pout before hefting himself into the front, passenger side seat. He squinted as the blinding sun pierced their unprotected windshield, and bore it's white, hot heat upon them. He lifted a hand to cover his brown eyes, and then risked a glance over to Erik.
The older man was unbuttoning the white polo that he wore; trying to pull the fabric away from his sweat-slicked skin with a grimace. The heat was becoming unbearable; especially trapped inside what was essentially a furnace, and without any noticeable breeze to move the stagnant air. He opened the car door, and pulled his long body out from the confining space. Peter watched as his father stretched, before he turned round and poked his head back into the car.
"I'm going to relieve myself," he stated. "Don't do anything stupid."
Peter opened his mouth to protest, but the sight of pale blue eyes zeroing on his neck gave him pause. The man looked like he was contemplating murder. His murder. So, instead of an ornery remark, Peter gave him an eye roll with accompanied mock salute.
When Erik returned, the teenager had placed his feet on the dashboard, and was dangling his arm out of the now rolled down window. Despite wanting to shove the kid's sneakers off the dash, Erik just ignored the slight rebuke of authority, and simply buckled his seatbelt instead. He rolled down his own window all the way, turned the ignition, and rolled the car forward.
They weren't on the road for long when the teen pulled his arm back in, and began drumming a random cadence against his thighs with the palms of his hands. He grinned up into the glaring sun, and closed his against the gentle caress of wind that tousled his silver locks.
"So," he began, "We grab some grub, and then what?" When no response was instantly forthcoming, Peter risked a peek at his father's impassive expression. His left arm rested on the door; his elbow nearly out of the vehicle's window as he propped his head against his closed hand. Their steady speed down the desert highway kicked up a dry mixture of air and dust that coated the crinkles around the older man's eyes. "Erik? What's the game plan, here?"
"The game plan, Peter, is to leave the planning up to me." The scathing remark was lessened by the man's lack of expression. However, a slight bend in the normally straightforward road angled the sun directly into his eyes. He grimaced at the sudden sharpness, and pulled his head away from where he had been resting it. "Sunglasses, kid."
Peter rolled his eyes. "Would it kill you to say please?" He pulled his legs off the dash, and began to rummage in the glove box. He pulled out the now familiar Dita Legends Carbine. His father had a taste for fashionable glasses.
"Yes. It would." Erik plucked the offered object from his son's hands, and slipped the frames onto his face. He resumed his head-propped position.
The teen scowled, and slouched further in his seat. He and his father had been traveling for weeks, and the most information that the teenager had managed to gather was that the two of them were going to recruit mutants for their cause. He didn't know how they were going to find them, convince them to drop whatever life they had been living, and then join their "rebellion against the humans" cause. But apparently he didn't need to be included in on the plan.
Peter's scowl deepened. He crossed his arms over his chest, and turned his head away from Erik. He didn't care if the man saw him annoyed or frustrated, but hurt or upset wasn't something he was quite willing to share just yet. The teen huffed soundly.
Erik, having noted his son's wounded demeanor, ground his teeth as he mentally argued with himself. He didn't mean to exclude the boy from everything, but he wasn't used to being open or inclusive with his plans or emotions. Ten years ago, maybe. But that was another time; another life.
"Look, Peter," Erik started with a heavy exhale, "I'm barely sure what I'm doing. I don't like working off the cuff, and admitting that I don't." He pulled his head away from his hand, and let his arm graze the exterior of the sun-warmed car. "I'll try to include you more, okay?"
The teen perked when Erik started talking, but had refused to meet what he assumed was a steady gaze behind those purple-tinted glasses. When Erik grudgingly admitted his failings, he looked over and fought off a grin. "Yeah, okay."
TBC...
Please Review.
