Belong

by alice.in.ink

What if Peter had the chance to be raised by Erik (and, by default, Charles)? My AU on the movie-verse with tons of Dadneto. Includes some Cherik & Raven/Hank. Covers pre-First Class and goes through some of Days of Future Past. (T for language and violence.)

2. Act 1: The Unbecoming

(Let's use our imaginations and pretend that dissimilar metals can happily meld together. [I wish this was an innuendo.])

ACT 1: The Unbecoming

February 1961, North Salem, New York

It was two weeks before Peter's fourth birthday when they realized something was… off.

"AndIlovehowbigthetreesareherebecausethey'rejustsobig!"

Erik looked down at his son as they walked around the snowy Xavier grounds. Lately, Peter had been cramming all of his words into a single breath. Understanding him required extra concentration. "Pietro, you must speak slower if you want anyone to understand what you are saying."

Peter rolled his eyes. Charles and Erik had been saying that to him a lot lately. It wasn't his fault that everyone else was just so slow.

But Peter was also easily distracted. "Ooh! Look! Look,thesunisgoingdown! It'ssopretty!" He jumped up and down and pointed at the sunset's orange and pink rays.

Erik resolved himself to his son's crammed speech; there were worse difficulties in this world. "That means it's time for us to head in." Erik took the boy's small hand and started to lead them back to the mansion.

Peter pulled ahead but let his arm be tethered behind him to his father. "Canwewatchamovie?"

"You need a bath," Erik said, eyeing the snow and mud clinging to the child. He'd taken Peter outside on account of it being an uncharacteristically warmer day, but the melting snow had created (all-too-irresistible-to-play-in) mud puddles. "And then we ought to practice your Polish."

Peter's pull on his father's hand slackened, and his walk slowed. Baths and homework wasn't nearly as fun as TV.

Erik's resolve melted at the sight. In Polish, he said, "But, perhaps, we can watch a movie after your bath tonight instead."

Peter's enthusiasm launched back in, full-force. He whooped and hopped around like a jumping bean, excitedly pulling his father towards the mansion.

Erik grinned. He wasn't really giving in; they'd just practiced Polish right now.

---

It was a few days before Peter's fourth birthday when Erik began to worry.

"I'm still hungry," Peter grumbled as he sat on the bathroom counter, swinging his feet. His speech became comprehensible when he was tired.

Erik was drawing the youngster a bath. "Pietro, you cannot have another slice of cake." His son had had a full plate of fish, rice, and vegetables—the size of it had rivaled Erik's serving, and Peter had followed his up with a slice of chocolate cake. There was no way the boy was still hungry.

Peter kicked his heels against the wood cabinet. "I didn't say nothin' 'bout cake." (Even though he wouldn't mind another slice.)

"We've talked about double negatives, son," Erik scolded lightly as he turned off the tap. He walked over towards Peter and leaned against the sink. "Did you know your birthday is in a few days?"

Peter gave a nod. "Imma be ten."

Erik frowned and crossed his arms. "Try four."

Peter's eyes lit up in delight. "Four!"

The tip of Erik's mouth tilted upwards. Yes, I suppose four sounds old to a three-year-old, he thought. "Do you know your birthdate?"

Peter danced his fingers along the marble of the sink counter. "Uh, ten!"

"No, it's—" Erik paused as he considered. Was it the twenty-third or the twenty-fourth? He'd have to consult his son's birth certificate again.

"Anyways, it's time for your bath," Erik moved on and helped the boy wriggle off his loose jeans. He lifted the hem of Peter's baggy t-shirt. "Charles and I were thinking—"

Ribs. Erik's hands froze just as the t-shirt reached the boy's neck. His eyes were glued to his son's torso. Peter was so… frail. Erik could count each, individual rib on the boy, front and back. His sternum was visible, and his abdomen was noticeably sunken. Peter looked…

Starved.

"'m stuck!" Peter whined, his arms squirming out of the shirt around his head.

Erik snapped out of his alarmed stupor to help pull the shirt over his son's head. As he did so, he couldn't help but note how bony Peter's arms were. In fact, his legs seemed scrawnier as well. And had his spine always protruded like that?

"Pietro, have you been feeling alright?" Erik asked as he helped his son stand and wriggle out of his underwear.

"Yeah," Peter answered absentmindedly, looking around the bathtub. "Where's my duck?"

Erik helped his son step into the bath before reaching and handing him the rubber duck in the corner of the room. He watched his son carefully as Peter bounced his duck up and down on the water.

Peter shouldn't be this skinny. Erik hadn't seen anyone, let alone a child, this skinny since his time in—

The shower curtain rod rattled overhead.

Peter looked up at it curiously. "Papa, are you doing that?"

Erik cleared his throat, and the rattling stopped. "Pietro, have you been feeling hungry for a while?" Erik mentally recounted every meal that Peter had eaten recently. His mind retraced every time the boy had complained of being hungry, and he thought of every medical explanation for this sudden malnourishment.

And Erik had the overwhelming feeling that he was a shit father.

Peter shrugged. "I dunno." He bobbed the rubber duck.

"And you're hungry now?" Erik checked. And he'd told the boy to stop whining about cake.

Peter nodded.

A really shit father.

"Once we finish with your bath, why don't we sneak down for a midnight snack?" Erik suggested.

Peter brightened at the idea.

And once bath time was over and the boy was clad in his favorite (and somehow baggy) dog pajamas, Erik walked his son back down to the kitchen and helped him to whatever he wanted to eat.

And Peter wanted a ham sandwich, a piece of Colby Jack cheese, a glass of milk, and slice of chocolate cake.

By the time Peter was put into bed, he fell asleep easily, sporting a smile of contentment.

A really, really shit father.

"I'm convinced he has a tape worm or something of that nature, Charles," Erik rambled as he bit his thumbnail and paced around the study.

"Where on earth would Peter have acquired a tape worm?" Charles calmly refuted. He crossed his hands and leaned back in his red armchair.

Erik shook his head. "Oh, how would I know? That child is always one step ahead of me."

Charles was amused. "He's four."

"He's three," Erik corrected because, technically, his son still had a few days left of being three. "Speaking of which, I need to see his birth certificate."

Charles rolled his eyes, reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out the official document.

Erik bent over it, looked it over (yes, the birthday was February twenty-fourth), and then did a double-take. He jammed a finger into the paper. "Maximoff?"

Charles gave him a curious look.

Erik pointed to the document look. "My son doesn't have my last name!"

Oh. That. Charles leaned back into his chair. "To be fair, you weren't exactly there to sign the certificate."

Erik scowled down at the legal document. How had he missed this before? Granted, he had only seen it once before, just after Magda's death, but it was a stark detail.

"You can always change it," Charles assured him languidly. "It does list you as his father."

"Damn right, I'll change it," Erik grumbled under his breath, tucking the paper into his jacket's inside pocket. His son was Pietro Lehnsherr, not whatever the hell a Maximoff was.

"Perhaps, you ought to ask Peter's opinion," Charles casually suggested. "He's old enough now to have his own thoughts on the matter. After all, his mother legally was a Maximoff."

Erik's polite smile was tight. "Charles, can you help me deduce what is plaguing my son or not?"

Charles gave him an eyebrow raise and pushed himself off of his chair. "A paranoid father for one." He went to a bookshelf consuming one of the walls and pulled a large volume off. "But I feel confident in saying that the boy is not housing a tape worm."

Erik caught the book as Charles tossed it to him. He flipped it over to see it was the 1858 medical classic Gray's Anatomy. Erik looked back up at the telepath, unamused. "This text is over one hundred years old."

Charles's smile was amused as he leaned against his desk. "I figured you'd want some light reading to ease your worry."

Erik's jaw clenched, but Charles noticed that he didn't put the book down.

"Erik, I will investigate your son's health first thing in the morning," Charles vowed, becoming serious. "You know he's my first priority. But there is no sense in worrying about it tonight."

Erik's nod was crisp. "Thank you, Charles."

Charles gave a small smile and nodded towards the door. "Get some sleep. We'll worry about it tomorrow."

Erik accepted that and strode out of the study, still clutching Gray's Anatomy under one arm as he left.

---

At the breakfast table, Charles couldn't help but study the two men joining him. Peter, like every morning, was groggy and sleepily reaching for pancake after pancake. (And he did look a bit skinnier to Charles.)

And with bags under his eyes and disheveled hair, Erik looked like he'd spent all night reading the entire Gray's Anatomy.

"Jesus Christ," Charles muttered under his breath at the sight of his friend.

"What?" Peter asked as he stuffed a pancake into his small mouth.

"Nothing, Peter," Charles assured him and took a bite of his own pancake. He didn't miss Erik's subtle scowl directed towards him. After he'd swallowed the bite, he suggested, "Peter, what do you say we play a game today?"

Peter perked up at that. "What kinda game?"

"Hmm… How about Simon Says?" Charles said with a grin.

Peter became excited. "OK! Howdoweplay?!"

Charles chuckled. "I'll explain after breakfast; we can't play until after we're all finished eating."

Peter nodded and hurried into his food, his fork going from his plate to his mouth and back again faster than the adults thought possible.

"There won't be any playing if you choke on your food, Pietro," Erik said and took a drink of his morning coffee. "Slow down."

Reluctantly, Peter made a conscious effort to eat slower.

---

"Simon says to open your mouth," Charles instructed once the game had been explained.

Sitting up on the desk in Charles's study, Peter immediately complied. He loved games.

Charles stepped forward with a flashlight and pressed Peter's tongue down with a tongue depressor. Using the light, he looked into Peter's mouth.

"A'e 'e 'layin' 'oc'or?" Peter asked with the stick still in his mouth.

Behind Charles, Erik pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, although I don't typically have to play doctor since I am one," Charles explained with a grin as he took the tongue depressor out.

Peter looked at him quizzically. "You're a doctor?"

"A specific type of one, yes," he confirmed. He threw a pointed look over his shoulder and added, "Although, I am still not a certified medical doctor."

Erik stepped forwards with a thin smile. "But we're grateful for your medical expertise, all the same, Doctor."

Charles ignored that and pointed a small flashlight into Peter's eyes. "Doctor Simon says look at me."

Peter obeyed instantly.

"Good to know that I'll have his immediate obedience if I add a 'Simon says,'" Erik commented with an eye roll. This fun fact could have been useful ages ago.

Charles lowered the light and picked up a thermometer. "Simon says to hold this under your tongue." Peter instantly complied. As Charles held the thermometer in place, he picked up a rubber hammer. He tapped each of Peter's knees, and each instinctively kicked in response. He took out the stable thermometer; it was perfectly normal.

Charles stepped back and stared at the boy in deep thought.

"Well?" Erik prompted after a silent moment.

Charles threw up a hand. "I can't find anything apparently wrong with him, Erik."

Erik rolled his eyes and walked up to Peter to help him out of his t-shirt. When Peter resisted (he was in the middle of a game!), Erik said, "Simon says to take off your shirt."

Peter narrowed his eyes and looked between the two men. He wasn't sure if that was allowed, but he reluctantly allowed his father to peel the shirt off.

Charles frowned as Peter's scrawny frame was put on full display. He (as Simon) instructed Peter to sit straight in order to examine his too-skinny torso. Charles's frown deepened.

After fetching a stethoscope, Charles listened to his heart. He then instructed Peter to take deep breaths so he could listen to Peter's respiratory system.

"Simon didn't say!" the boy declared in victory.

With the stethoscope posed over Peter's chest, Charles smiled. "Good catch. Simon now says to take a deep breath in."

Peter did.

"Simon says to let it out."

And Peter did.

Charles pulled away and wrapped up his stethoscope.

"Charles?" Erik prompted.

"You're right about his appearance," Charles replied. "It's obvious. And his heartrate is rather fast. But the rest of him seems perfectly normal—astoundingly healthy, even."

Erik rubbed his forehead. "What does this all mean?" He'd be damned if he lost his only family member to malnourishment.

"Could it be related to a mutation?" Charles wondered aloud.

Erik was stone-faced. "I don't think starvation is a mutation, Charles."

Charles threw his friend an unamused look. "Well, I'm inconclusive at best. I need to study more on what's physically expected for Peter's age. After I learn more, I'll examine him again."

Erik's teeth ground together. "So he'll starve until then?"

"We could take him to a proper physician, Erik," Charles suggested for the millionth time, knowing Erik still wouldn't take his son to a non-mutant doctor unless absolutely necessary. "Otherwise, we increase his food intake and frequency until I know more."

"Arewestillplaying?"

Erik turned to his son. "Pietro, we've discussed speaking too quickly. Slow your words down so we can understand you."

Consciously slower, Peter repeated his question.

"The game's over for now, son," Erik said as he hefted the boy into his arms. "Why don't we help ourselves to another lunch while Charles busies himself in research, hmm?"

Charles rolled his eyes.

"Canwehaveicecream?!"

As Erik carried his son out of the study, he rebuked speaking too quickly again.

"Ice cream? Pleeeeeeease?"

---

A few days later, it was Peter's fourth birthday. And Erik was stressed.

The increase in food intake had showed slight improvement in the boy's thin physique. Peter was up to six meals a day, and no longer complained of hunger. But his need for that much food was inexplicable at best.

And Peter still did not have the Lehnsherr name.

And Erik floundered for a birthday gift. What do you get the son who never knew you existed? Erik had already missed the first three birthdays; he'd be damned if this one went uncelebrated.

So after second dinner, Erik and Peter sat at the kitchen table while Charles lit the candles on a birthday cake. Peter leaned towards it eagerly as the match lit the final fourth.

As the men sang Happy Birthday, Peter inched closer and closer to the flaming sugar mound. Erik noticed Charles frown as the neared the end of the song, making Erik narrow his eyes at the telepath.

"…toooooo yooooouuuuu!"

Peter lunged forwards and blew out the candles in a single breath. He remained hovering over the cake while he grinned.

"Alright, let's let Uncle Charles cut you a slice," Erik said as he pulled his son away from the cake. While Peter frowned, Charles gave him a slight smile and took the cake away to slice.

"Iwannabigpiece!"

Erik sighed as he held his squirming son. They'd been working on Peter's speed-talking for weeks, and there was really no improvement. As Erik opened his mouth to rebuke the condensed words, the doorbell rang.

Charles handed Peter a large slice of cake and grinned. "That'll be Raven."

Peter's high excitement level shot up even higher. He leapt off of his father's lap, cake and all, and ran towards the door.

"Do not run and eat, Pietro!" Erik commanded. The boy moved rather quickly, all while shoveling the cake into his mouth. That child would be the death of Erik Lehnsherr.

From the other room, Erik heard his son open the front door and cheer "Raven!" around a mouthful of cake.

"Happy birthday, Peter!" she greeted enthusiastically. "I brought you a present!"

Erik thought of the present he had for his son, stashed upstairs and under his bed.

Peter led Raven into the kitchen area, balancing his half-eaten cake while unwrapping a paper-wrapped box.

"Since when do you feel the need to use the doorbell?" Charles teased as he wrapped his foster sister in a hug.

She smiled and hugged him back. "This isn't my house anymore, Charles."

"Yet you can't seem to keep away," Erik chimed in with a sly grin.

Raven turned around and playfully narrowed her eyes. "Erik. I see you're still mooching off my brother."

"And I see you're not taking full advantage of his monetary resources." Erik knew he was mooching, but Charles had insisted on it. If Peter wasn't in the picture, Erik supposed things would be different.

"I spent my whole life in this house," Raven reminded him. "And I'm enjoying my travels around the world."

"What is it?" Peter asked. He'd set his cake on the table to frown down at the box in his hands.

"They're called Legos," she explained, walking closer to him. "They're interlocking bricks that you can use to build things. They were popular in Denmark."

"Cool!" Peter gripped his box to his chest and ran into the next room.

The three adults frowned at his super-speedy exit.

"He's gotten faster," Raven commented as the sounds of Peter dumping out dozens of plastic bricks drifted over.

"Very much so," Charles agreed thoughtfully.

Erik continued to frown.

"Well, if it's time for presents, I suppose I'll go fetch mine for Peter," Charles said and exited the room.

To the sound of plastic Legos hitting stone tile, Raven eyed Erik as he continued cutting the cake. She took in his high-quality cotton t-shirt and jeans—more expensive than the run-of-the-mill Levi's. She noticed his chestnut hair was shaggier than she'd last seen it. She noticed that his hands had formed new callouses—most likely from chopping wood during the winter months.

"Are you going to say something or spend the evening staring?"

Raven drifted her gaze up to his face as he impassively laid two slices of cake on plates. "It's been a while; I was noticing the fine craftsmanship of your shirt and jeans. Charles buy them?"

Erik handed her a plate of cake. "I thought we'd established that I'm a mooch."

She kept her expression as pokerfaced as his. "And I can't help but wonder what your motives are."

Erik blinked at her and then turned to his cake.

"What drew you to stay in the mansion?" she pressed. "What drives Charles to throw his money on you?"

"I'm trying to raise my son in a stable environment," Erik answered surely, "and Charles enjoys the company. Apparently, he became rather withdrawn once his only family left him to travel the world." His eyes narrowed as he took a bite of cake.

Raven dropped it after that comment.

"Peter, come into the kitchen, please!" Charles called, trotting into the room with a misshaped, brightly-wrapped mound in his hands. At the top of the wrapped figure, a bow was neatly tied.

At Erik and Raven's stares, Charles's cheeks heated. "I've never been good at wrapping."

"I remember Hanukah," Erik said, eating another bite of cake.

"I remember a decade of your presents," Raven reminded bluntly.

Charles rolled his eyes. "Yes, well—ah! Peter!"

Peter zipped up to Charles and eagerly bounced in front of him. With a chuckle, Charles handed the misshapen gift over for the boy to tear through.

"Neat!" Peter cheered as he exposed the presents on the floor. In the paper were two baseball mitts, a bat, and three baseballs. He sprang up and wrapped the gift-bearer in a hug. "Thanks, Uncle Charles!"

Raven cleared her throat pointedly.

Peter ran towards her and held her in an immediate hug. "Thanks for the Legos, Raven!"

She smiled and hugged him back. "Happy birthday, Petey."

Peter wrinkled his nose at the nickname and turned to his father. "Canwegoplaywiththebaseballstuffpleeeeeeease?!"

Erik simply raised an eyebrow.

Peter huffed and repeated himself at a slower speed.

Erik nodded. "We'd better head out before it gets dark."

Peter squealed in delight, grabbed a mitt, bat, and ball, and bolted to the backyard.

"That kid can really haul ass," Raven remarked, staring after him in wonder.

"Lucky me," Erik commented dryly. He picked up a mitt and followed after his son.

"Where is your jacket?" Erik rebuked once he'd stepped foot outside.

"Uh…" Peter's eyes darted around.

Erik rolled his eyes and let it slide; it was his son's birthday, after all. "Just throw the ball, Pietro."

With an excited grin, Peter launched the baseball—and made it fly about five feet.

Erik looked down at where it had landed, not even halfway between them. "It seems I need to teach you how to throw a ball." He marched towards his son and had him drop the bat and glove. He picked up the ball and taught his son where to place his fingers (which was difficult for a four-year-old's hand) and then how to toss it. They practiced a few times until Peter got the hang of it.

"Canweplaycatch?!"

Erik restrained a chastisement of speed-talking; it was Peter's birthday. "Of course."

Seeing that Raven and Charles had drifted outside to watch, Peter ran towards them and invited them to play.

"I think we'll watch, just this once," Charles said with an affectionate smile. He really didn't want to break up this father-and-son moment.

"OK!" Peter ran back towards his father and picked his mitt up from the melting snow.

Erik palmed the baseball and looked at the large mitt on the small boy. "Perhaps, we should start off without the mitt."

Peter looked down at it and then dropped it back to the ground.

Erik held the ball up and pointed out the proper placement of hands in order to catch the baseball without injury.

"You know, for being the only true American here, you two seem to be big baseball fans," Raven noted, pointing between Erik and Charles.

"I'm American!" Peter declared, holding up an eager hand.

Raven grinned at him and nodded in agreement.

"I'm a fan of all cultures," Charles said.

"I'm just knowledgeable," Erik said bluntly.

Charles and Raven rolled their eyes.

"Throw it, Dad!" Peter called, holding his hands like his father had instructed.

Using just enough strength to get the ball across the way, Erik threw it to his son.

Peter caught it in a fumble of hands and then held it up with a laugh. "I did it!"

Erik couldn't resist smiling. "Alright, now throw it back."

Thinking about the throwing techniques he'd just learned, Peter tossed it back with a grunt.

Erik leaned forwards to catch it. And the two went back and forth.

Eventually, Peter backed up and had his dad throw it to him farther. He'd struggle to catch it and then run forwards to toss it back a short distance.

"Throw it far, Dad!" Peter called, running away.

"How far?" Erik called back in amusement.

Still moving away, Peter threw out his hands. "So far!"

Erik raised an eyebrow. His son had asked for it. He curled the ball close in to his chest and wound up his muscles before letting the ball soar as far as he could possibly launch it.

Peter, who had his back turned and was still moving away, saw the ball suddenly appear in front of him and hurl away. In a burst of eager excitement, Peter took off, letting his legs move as fast as they would carry him.

And they. Could. Move.

The three adults' jaws dropped as Peter took off in a literal blur, seeming to disappear in thin air and then reappear fifty feet away.

Peter held the ball in his hands, having caught it midair. And then the boy frowned as the pain of catching a full-speed baseball with bare hands caught up to him. "AH!" He dropped the ball and held up his hands with a cry.

Coming out of his stupor, Erik stumbled forwards and made himself focus on the fact that his son was in pain. Because it didn't really matter that Peter had just caught a blur of a ball, midair. And it didn't really matter that his son could move at inhuman speeds…

Peter cried out again, holding his red hands in front of his tear-stained face.

"Sorry, Pietro," Erik said as he picked his crying son up into his arms. He examined his son's hands and found nothing to be seriously wrong with them. "I thought it would hit a tree and roll towards you..." Or anything other than what had happened.

Peter sniffed and hiccupped. "C-can I ha-ave so-ome i-ice?" He hiccupped again.

Erik kissed his silver mop of hair and promised, "Of course." He carried his quietly crying son back into the mansion, staring ahead in shock.

Raven and Charles still hadn't moved; they watched, dumbstruck, as the Lehnsherrs left the backyard. They looked to one another before following the men inside.

Once Erik had wrapped ice in a hand-towel and placed it on his son's hands, he knelt down in front of the boy. "Pietro… Have you ever done that before?"

Charles stared at the boy with worry and curiosity.

Peter looked up with confused, watery eyes. "C-caught the b-ball?"

"No, son," Erik pressed. "Did you know that you could move that quickly?"

Peter was confused. "I, I just r-ran after the, the ball."

Erik nodded, taking that as his answer. He kissed his son's forehead.

"Erik, a word?" Charles beckoned with a meaningful look. Erik looked to him and then to his son. Raven stepped forwards and reminded Peter of the Lego toys. She picking up the boy, keeping the ice wrapped around his hands, and carried him to the Legos scattered in the main entryway.

"It's a mutation," Erik stated the obvious once he and the telepath were alone.

"It would appear so," Charles agreed. "He can move incredibly quickly, and his reflexes are incomprehensible. His metabolism must have increased in order to support his movement."

Erik rubbed his face in relief. His son wasn't dying; he was simply… a mutant. He very nearly smiled at the thought.

"When I overheard his thoughts earlier, I thought he was simply overexcited from the sugar…" Charles mused.

Erik turned his stare on him. "His thoughts are quickened, too? And you didn't think to tell me?"

"It happened less than an hour ago, Erik," Charles defended with a pointed stare. "I planned to tell you tonight."

Erik ignored that. He didn't like the idea of others knowing more about his kin than he did.

"Don't you see what that means?" Charles pressed with barely contained glee. "Peter has remarkable abilities! His powers will only grow, and his thought-processes are already nauseatingly quick. In the future, he will be able to solve problems faster than you or I can comprehend them. He'll be able to outthink anything."

Erik looked to the doorway where the sound of Raven and Peter playing with Legos drifted in. He let the smile come to his lips. "He's extraordinary."

"And his physical speed!" Charles continued, standing close to Erik as they looked to the doorway. "He must've moved faster—"

"That might become an issue," Erik muttered with a frown.

Charles looked at him with confusion.

"A child that can think and move faster than his parents can look at him?" Erik looked to his friend and shook his head in muted horror.

Charles didn't let himself dwell on the plurality. He cleared his throat and looked fondly back to the doorway. "Peter is a considerate child. Surely, he wouldn't purposefully inflict too much grief."

Both men stood very still as the sound of Peter squealing and crushing Lego buildings echoed around the halls.

---

"It's time for bed," Erik repeated for the millionth time. He held a pair of airplane pajamas in his hands, but the birthday boy continued jumping around the bed in his underwear.

"I'm not tired!" Peter smiled gleefully as his floppy, silver hair bounced with his speedy movements.

Erik stared his son down. The boy really needed a haircut. And to have his last name legally changed. They'd have to go into town soon.

"Thisbedissobouncy!"

"Speed-talking, Pietro."

"Sorry!"

Erik huffed and threw the pajamas onto the bed. "I suppose you don't want your birthday present from me, then?"

The bouncing came to a screeching halt. Peter turned with wide eyes and instantly morphed into an obedient, angelic child, sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed. "A present?"

"If you want it, you'll have to put on your pajamas."

Peter snatched up the jammies and yanked them over his head, over his arms, over his ankles, over his legs. He stood in front of his father once they were pulled up, instantly at attention.

Erik withheld rolling his eyes and, instead, pointed to the bed. "Sit there. I'll go get it."

As Peter obeyed, Erik stalked out of the boy's room and across the hall to his own. He reached underneath his bed and pulled out a shiny, silver cardboard box.

Peter squirmed in his seat as Erik brought the present in front of him. In a flash, the boy had the lid off the box and was tearing through the tissue paper. He reached the present before Erik could even finish sitting down.

"A cape!" With a large smile, Peter pulled the clothing from the box. It was the perfect length for a four-year-old and tied at the neck. Erik had it specially made from one of Charles's good friends. The article was made of silver satin with a large, black satin "P" stitched in the middle. It was lined and tied in the front with more black silk.

"I recall a certain boy constantly complaining that he didn't have 'cool powers' like his father or Uncle Charles," Erik remarked with a smirk. "Although, I don't suppose that's necessarily true anymore."

Peter hopped up in front of his sitting dad, holding the cape out. As Erik smiled and started tying the shimmery cape around his son's neck, Peter asked, "Was I really fast?"

"Yes," he replied. "Your speed is a remarkable gift, son." He tied off the bow and released the cape.

"Can I do it again?!" With a delighted smile, Peter ran around the room at a quick, trackable speed. His cape billowed out behind him as he ran.

"Only if I or Uncle Charles are around," Erik cautioned.

Peter's smile enlarged just before he took off around the room in a streak of silver. In no time at all, he was stood in front of Erik, breathing heavily through a grin. "WOAH!"

Erik blinked. Perhaps encouraging the speed had been a bad idea.

"Youweresoslow!" Peter pointed at his father, still smiling. "I was running, and youdidn'tevenmoveatall!"

Rather than go into the physics of speed relativity, Erik simply nodded and offered a small grin.

Peter laughed and zipped around the room, faster than Erik could see.

After a full minute, Erik called for his son. Peter appeared in front of him, winded, tired, and elated.

"We can show Uncle Charles tomorrow, hmm?" Erik offered, picking his warm four-year-old up and laying him in the large bed.

Peter nodded enthusiastically. And as Erik's nimble fingers went to untie the cape, Peter held his dad's hands. "Can I wear it tonight? I'm a superhero now."

The cape had been intended to console his power-less son, but Erik supposed this would do. Reluctantly, Erik nodded. After all, it was still Peter's birthday.

Peter smiled, yawned, and closed his eyes.

"Would you like a story?" Erik offered, as he did every night.

"What d'you think Mama is doing?" Peter asked, keeping his eyes closed.

Erik's hands stilled, halfway through pulling up the bed covers. "She's… in the afterlife, Pietro."

"Do you think she's happy?"

Erik paused before answering, "Yes. Yes, I think she looks down on you and is very happy." He wasn't sure if he believed his words, but he would say anything to comfort his son.

Peter thought about that and then said, "She used to sing Happy Birthday to me when I was going to sleep on my birthday. She sang really pretty."

Erik didn't move as he considered that. He'd been so caught up in celebrating his first birthday with his son that he hadn't thought of it being Peter's first birthday without his mother.

"I want a story about robots!" Peter declared suddenly, blinking lazily up at Erik. "And I fight them with my new fast powers, and you and Uncle Charles and Raven are there and you help me with your powers, too!"

Erik grinned and laid down beside his son, tucking Peter into the crook of his arm, as he did every night. While the ritual had started to smother the boy's nightmares, it was now an easy, comforting routine.

"Once upon a time," he began in a soothing, deep voice, "there lived a brave, strong, quick, silver-haired boy. His name was Pietro, and he was the fastest in all the land…"

By the time Erik wound his valiant tale down to a close, he looked down to see his cape-wearing superhero sound asleep and curled into his side. Erik smiled softly.

"Happy birthday to you…" he sang quietly to his son. "Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday, dear Pietro… Happy birthday to you…"

---

A couple of days after Peter's birthday, Raven said her goodbyes.

"Keep me updated on him," she'd told Charles with a subtle nod towards the four-year-old. Peter ignorantly played with his Legos on the floor of the study.

Charles smiled softly, his hands in his pockets. "If I had a number to call or an address to which I could write…"

She rolled her eyes, grabbed a scrap of paper, and scribbled down a PO Box address in the Bronx. She handed the paper to Charles with a meaningful look.

"We'll alert you of any changes," Erik assured her coolly. He stood over by the bookshelves, simply observing his son and glancing to the adults.

And once Raven had given her final waves, she took the summoned cab at the front gates for the airport, ready to explore Mexico City.

"Peter, would it be alright with you if I studied your abilities today?" Charles crouched down in front of the child as Peter carried on with his Legos.

"I guess," he said as he speedily stacked the blocks.

"Excellent. Would you allow me to enter your mind for a quick minute to observe your thought processing?"

Mildly interested now, Peter nodded and sat up in front of his pseudo uncle. As Erik stood aside and watched with a hard stare and crossed arms, Charles smiled at the boy and gently pressed his fingertips against his own temple.

Is he listening to my thoughts yet if he can read thoughts he should do that all the time because that's so cool but then he would spy on people when they're naked and Dad wouldn't probably like that but Dad doesn't look like he really likes anything he looks really angry he always is not smiling but he loves me because he said so and he bought me ice cream at that park and gives me so many meals like before breakfast and breakfast and after and before lunch and lunch and after lunch and I'm so hungry I want that ice cream that we had—

Charles jolted out of the boy's head and dropped his hand from his head. With a staggered breath, he struggled to regain his bearings.

Erik took a step forwards and worriedly prompted, "Charles?"

Charles marveled at the child as Peter looked on. Slowly, the telepath smiled. "Extraordinary. His mind moves so quickly that I feel positively nauseous."

Erik was beside them now, staring down between them in equal parts concern and wonder.

"Whatdoesnauseousmean?" Peter looked between the adults.

Erik picked his son up from the ground and stared at him. "It means you're incredibly smart, Pietro. You're so smart that Uncle Charles can't think as fast as you."

Peter grinned at that.

Still smiling, Charles playfully narrowed his eyes at his friend and pushed up from the ground. "Let's go outside where we can watch you run, Peter. And afterwards, we'll let you have that ice cream."

"YES!"

---

Charles had taken detailed notes of the boy for the past few days. He listened to Peter's mind, tested Peter's reflexes ("Remarkably fast! Erik, look at your son!"), noted how many calories Peter ate and at which points he became hungry, and scribbled furiously in a notebook upon studying Peter run.

The silver streak reappeared before the men with a bright smile. Panting slightly, he asked, "Howfastwasthat?!"

"Incomprehensibly fast!" Charles praised with a wide smile.

Erik couldn't help but grin when the boy whooped and continued running a streaking circle around the adults. "Don't go far, Pietro."

"OK,Dad!" His son's voice echoed all around them.

"How fast is he, Charles?" Erik asked, stepping closer to the geneticist.

Charles continued jotting into his notebook as he answered, "I can't even calculate it without a large distance. But my guestimate is somewhere more than double the speed of a train."

"Cool!" the boy's voice echoed all around them.

Erik rolled his eyes fondly. He hoped this high-paced exercising would tire the boy out.

"He's amazing, Erik." Erik looked to see Charles staring at him with a genuinely astounded, reverent gaze.

Erik couldn't help but agree. His son was awe-inspiring. But these feelings couldn't muddle Erik's fatherly instincts. "Are there dangers we should be aware of?"

"His mutation is just manifesting," Charles explained, closing his notebook. "By adolescence, he should be much faster than what he can do now."

Erik couldn't even imagine that.

"But, to answer your question," Charles continued, "we'll need to monitor his metabolism because it's obviously much higher than a typical child's. It should continue to increase with age and plateau at puberty, along with those powers."

Erik nodded and turned back to watch his son zip through the trees and back again. "We'll need to keep a closer eye on him."

"Oh, most definitely!" Charles agreed wholeheartedly, back to writing in his notebook.

"Dad,doyouthinkIcanwalkonwater?!"

Lord, save me, Erik thought as he began his march into the trees. "Pietro, do not—."

Splash!

Charles did all he could to restrain his smirk as a dripping-wet, stone-faced Erik hauled his soggy son out of the woods and back into the mansion.

---

The following day, Erik had borrowed one of Charles's cars to bring his son into town.

"Dad,Icanrunwayfasterthanthecarcan'tIjustrun?!"

It was a decision he was currently regretting.

"No, Pietro," Erik answered as he kept his eyes on the road. "And if you stay by my side once we're there, I'll get you a present."

Peter, who had been straining against the bonds of his booster seat, instantly became angelic. Erik did a quick check of the metal seatbelt to ensure that the boy was, in fact, still bolted in.

"Ihavetogotothebathroom!"

Luckily, Erik was pulling the car into the town center's parking lot. As he got out, he began unfastening the metal seatbelt with his powers. "Pietro, how many times must I tell you to slow your speech?"

Peter huffed, finding the whole speed-talking ordeal just as frustrating as his father.

Once out of the car, the men found the nearest bathroom. Erik then dragged his son into the city office, holding a paper in one hand and Peter's hand in the other.

"Where are we?" Peter asked as they stepped into a short queue.

"We're changing your name."

Peter looked up with wide eyes. "Why?"

"Because we don't share a familial name."

Peter went quiet. As they moved forwards in line, Erik enjoyed the sudden quiet—until he realized the boy had gone too silent. He looked down at his son and instantly became alarmed at the quivering lip and tear-rimmed eyes.

"I like my name," Peter said softly. His tears were dangerously close to rolling down his cheeks.

Erik's brow furrowed. "What?"

"I like being called Pietro and Peter," he cried, letting a tear roll down. "I don't wanna be called Erik!" He said that name like it was mud.

Erik fought to keep his grin at bay. "Pietro, we're changing your last name. You'll still be Pietro to me and Peter to everyone else."

Peter thought about that, as his eyes cleared. "What's my last name?"

"Maximoff. Your name is Pietro Django Maximoff. And we're changing it to match mine."

"You're not Maximoff?"

"I'm Erik Lehnsherr," he explained. "And you're about to become Pietro Django Lehnsherr."

Peter processed that. "Was Mama Lehnsherr?"

"She was."

"Oh. OK."

"Next!" a busty woman at a desk called.

Erik walked his son over to her.

"I'm gonna be Pietro Lehnsherr!" Peter declared excitedly. The woman looked in amusement at the boy then up to his father.

Erik didn't restrain his proud, shark-like grin at that.

---

After Peter became officially a Lehnsherr, Erik tucked the revised birth certificate into the car before walked him over to the local toy store.

"Arewegettingmypresent?!"

Erik looked down at the energetic boy. "We are."

Peter sang excitedly, pulling against his father's grip as he bounced and bounced and bounced towards the toy store.

Erik.

Erik jolted at the sudden, intruding voice in his mind, but he quickly collected himself. Charles. You know—

Please pick up the phone.

Riiiing! Riiiing!

The phone booth alongside the toy store began ringing, drawing Erik's attention.

"Come ooooooon!" Peter whine, pulling his father closer to the entrance.

Erik held fast to his son's hand and marched towards the phone booth.

"Dad!" Peter protested.

Erik threw his son a look before yanking the receiver off the hook. "What do you want, Charles?"

"Ah, thank you for answering," Charles replied breezily. "Do you have a moment?"

"Dad!" Peter was using his body weight to lean towards the toy store.

"Make it quick," Erik barked, eyeing the child.

"Would you mind making a couple of stops on your way back? I have a parcel that just arrived at—"

"Dad!"

"Yes, yes, Charles," Erik snapped. He let go of Peter's hand so he could reach into his leather jacket pocket for a pen and back of a receipt.

Peter began inching towards the toy store's doors.

"One moment, Charles," Erik said and crouched down to the boy's level, the handset resting against his shoulder. "Pietro, you may go inside and wait for me there—but do not leave the store. I'll be in in a moment."

Peter turned and dashed into the store before his father had even raised the handset back to his ear.

Toys. Toys everywhere. Peter looked around in a wonder, grinning widely and wondering where to start. Bouncy balls and action figures and blocks and trains and—

ROBOTS.

Peter marched in a trance towards the giant display of Super Robot. The silver, gleaming action figure sported a black cape and a victorious stance upon the stacks of Super Robot boxes. Peter reached for it, mesmerized by the robot arms and knobs and lights and that cape.

"Hey!" The robot was abruptly snatched from Peter's hands. Peter looked up to see a tall and pudgy salesclerk glowering down and holding Super Robot. "What do you think you're doing, kid?!"

Peter instantly felt bad. "I, I was looking… at the…"

"You can't handle the merchandise!" the man scolded with a pointed glare. "Do you even have any money to pay for this?!"

Peter shrank. "Um, I…"

The man made a sound of annoyance as he slammed Super Robot back onto the display. He then whirled on the boy and spat, "If you don't have money, that's stealing. Bad kids steal. And bad kids go to jail! Are you a bad kid?!"

Tears welled in Peter's eyes. He really, really didn't want to go to jail. He shook his head.

"Well, if you try taking what isn't yours, that makes you a bad kid!" the clerk reprimanded. He jerked his hand towards the doors. "Now, scram!"

Peter stumbled back before sprinting out of the store. He was in tears by the time he reached his father.

"I know what a fucking return address is," Erik bit into the receiver. His gaze traveled down to the silver-haired child at his side. "You don't—" It was then that Erik noticed the blubbering state of his son. "Charles, I'll get your damn package." He slammed the phone back onto the receiver and crouched down in front of the boy.

No obvious injury, Erik assessed in relief. He wrapped his hands around the child's shoulders and asked, "Pietro, what happened?"

With a quivering lip, Peter gasped in air. The tears continued to run as he wailed, "I don't wanna be a bad kid!"

Steel in Erik's blue gaze hardened. The metal lining the phone booth creaked. "Of course you aren't, son. Did someone tell you that you are?"

Peter nodded, squinting through his tears.

"Who did?"

A repressed sob escaped Peter's lips before he launched into what had just happened in the toy store.

The phone booth creaked louder.

Wordlessly, Erik straightened and took his son's hand. He walked him to the front entrance of the store and then released him. "Pietro, I want you to stay right here while I go and speak with this employee. Do not move. Do you understand?"

In a trembling voice, Peter affirmed, "Y-yes."

The metal door opened for Erik as he strode into the store—and snapped locked behind him.

Peter stood on the street, taking deep breaths and letting his cries ease away. Distantly, he could hear a few shrieks of terror and his father's low voice. He couldn't make out what anyone was saying. He turned to peer into the window, but the toy boxes and displays blocked his shortened view.

The metal-lined glass door suddenly unlocked, and the bell above dinged as the tall and pudgy employee wobbled out. Erik was right on his heels with a piercing stare locked on the man.

"I'm s-sorry," the employee stumbled out an apology to Peter. He clutched a box in his hands and continued, "Y-you're a good kid, a-and I, um, w-wanted you to have this." He held the box out for the boy. "Free of charge."

Peter tentatively took the box. An image of Super Robot shined up at him, and he let himself smile.

The employee darted a fearful look at Erik as he backed himself into the store. Erik's steely gaze followed him. When the trembling man made it over the threshold of the store, the pointed edge of the metal employee name badge was finally eased out of the skin over the man's heart.

"Dad, it's Super Robot!"

Erik looked down at his son. Peter's tear-stained face was already lightening at the sight of the toy. Good.

"Let's go home and show it to Uncle Charles."

---

July 1961, North Salem, New York

The heat came in full-force by mid-June. By July, it was blistering. The night air was the only welcome reprieve from the pressing swelter of summer.

Which brought the three men of the mansion to sit in the study, all the windows wide open.

Charles worked at his typewriter with mounds of books swarming his desk. In front of the unlit fireplace, little Peter danced Super Robot on his Lego city. In the armchair, Erik nursed a glass of Scotch and watched the television report repetitious news.

And Erik. Was. Bored.

He didn't have a right to these feelings. His son was well-cared for. He didn't work a real job, aside from maintaining the mansion and its grounds. But as the past year had gone by, Erik couldn't resist a building itch under his skin to do something.

Something meaningful.

Erik threw the remaining drink to the back of his throat and stared at the television.

From the desk, Charles sighed but didn't look up from a thick book. "I can't help but hear you when you project your thoughts."

Erik let his eyes train on his friend. "Would you prefer to hear me whine out loud?"

Charles snapped the book closed and leaned his arms on the desk. He met Erik's eyes and said, "What's eating you, Erik?"

Held under that compassionate gaze, the metal-bender admitted, "I want to do more with my life."

"Then do more with your life," Charles said simply as he leaned back into his chair.

As if it were that simple. "I need him to have stability," Erik said with a look towards Peter. The boy obliviously continued with his game.

"He'll start school in the fall," Charles reminded him.

Yes. Yes, they'd discussed it at length. Although Peter was a year too young for school, they were going to enroll him early. Peter's mind was already rolling with mutant-driven intelligence, and, honestly, the poor boy needed to make friends his own age. Super Robot could only entertain him for so long.

Erik was still training Peter to keep his super-speed out of the public eye.

"You could work, not that you'd need to," Charles offered easily.

"Nothing drives me anymore," Erik admitted begrudgingly. He still hated being a grateful mooch.

"You could work in an auto mechanic shop," Charles continued. "You enjoy priming the parts to—"

"I don't want to cater to people's car problems," Erik bit out bitterly. While Erik liked to work with machinery, he was still as abrasive towards people as ever. He glared at the carpet, hating that he sounded like a spoiled brat.

Quietly, Charles spoke. "This isn't about hobbies, then."

Erik fought to reign in his suddenly ragged breathing. "He's still out there, Charles. And I, I've been—sitting."

"You've been raising your son," Charles countered firmly. He waited until Erik met his gaze before he continued, "You aren't alone in this, Erik. I've been keeping tabs—"

"It isn't good enough!" Erik exclaimed suddenly, drawing the worried blue eyes of his son.

"If you go after him now," Charles said softly, "you won't be able to beat him. And then he'll come after everything you hold dear again, Erik."

Peter.

Erik looked down at the boy, and his churning rage was doused with a wave of guilt and fierce protective instincts. He wouldn't let Shaw take one more goddamn family member from him. Never again.

"Papa?" Peter asked, his worried eyes becoming wary and curious. Super Robot hung limply in his hand.

"It's time for bed, Pietro," Erik said through a thick throat. He held out a hand and helped his reluctant son up from the rug. "Grab your toys."

"Leave them," Charles said with a wave of his hand. "They won't bother me; I'm going to be trapped at this desk all night, as it is."

Letting Charles resume his work, Erik led his son down the hall to his bedroom. He let Peter pick out his pajamas and dress himself, and he leaned against the doorframe to ensure Peter didn't lie about brushing his teeth.

Once Peter was tucked into bed and heard his story, he asked, "Were you talking about that bad man? That killed Mama?"

Erik ran a large hand through his son's silver hair. "Don't worry about that, Pietro. He'll never be a part of our lives again, I swear it."

Peter still frowned. "Why didn't he go to jail?"

Erik ground his teeth and searched for an answer. "He had powers, too. Like mine and Uncle Charles's and yours. A jail cell… would not contain him."

Peter's frown didn't relent. "But he killed Mama."

"I know, Pietro." Heaven above, Erik knew.

"So how come he isn't in trouble?"

"He will be," Erik vowed solemnly. "I swear it; that man will be punished thoroughly when the time is right. You'll have to trust me until then."

Peter looked down with his frown. "OK."

Erik ran his hand through that mop of silver hair again. "Get some sleep, son."

Peter let his unhappy eyes close.

Erik got up from the bedside and left his son's room. He walked into the hallway and across the hall towards his room, but his hand paused on his doorknob. Part of his soul ached against the leaden weight that Shaw's existence bore. Erik couldn't sleep—not with these rampant thoughts.

So he walked down the hallway, into the study.

Charles still sat behind the stacks of books, but the only light on now was the desk lamp. He didn't even glance up as Erik reclaimed his usual seat in the armchair.

Erik let the ever-present Nazi coin from his pocket flicker in between each of one his knuckles in turn. He watched the telepath as he did so, noting the way the moonlight streamed in through the window behind him. It made Charles's chestnut hair seem to glow along the edges, as if he wore an actual aura.

Fitting, Erik thought broodingly, for the savior of my existence.

Charles let a pencil fall flat to the desk and looked up. "As much as I appreciate the Jesus allusion, I think it's best to let you know you're shouting your thoughts again."

There's an open invitation to the chaos of my mind tonight, Erik mentally stated. He continued twirling the coin through his fingers.

Charles glanced at the coin; he knew all-too-well what it was. He looked at Erik questioningly.

In response, Erik pushed his pressing thoughts of the evening into the telepath's mind—the desires to hunt and filet Shaw, the abrasive truths he was forced to confront with Peter. The worry that Shaw would lead a life of victorious luxury for all his days.

"We're going to stop him, Erik," Charles promised soothingly.

"When?" Erik pressed.

"When you're strong enough in your powers," Charles said. "When we have the allies and resources to stand a chance."

The coin stopped. "I am strong enough."

"Would you bet Peter's life on it?"

Erik jerked himself up and stalked to the desk to snarl, "I would never jeopardize my son's life!"

"Then be better!" Charles shot back. "Strengthen your abilities! Meet allies! Because the moment we go to meet Shaw again, we'll need to be stronger than we were before."

Or we'll lose everything.

Erik knew it. He couldn't imagine Peter in Magda's bloody, bullet-ridden place on the docks of a year ago. And now, now that he's gotten to know Charles, Erik didn't… He couldn't…

Charles placed his consoling hand over Erik's and said, "You're not alone in this, Erik. This burden isn't solely yours."

And Erik believed him. The savior of his life had come and swooped in again, hefting up the lead weight that Shaw had left on Erik's soul.

When Erik managed to draw his gaze back to the present, Charles was staring at him with earnest support. Erik managed out, "I couldn't do this without you, Charles." He couldn't verbally confess how deeply he saw Charles as his personal Jesus; this statement would have to do.

And it did. Charles's cheeks heated. "I'm sure you'd manage."

"Not happily." Erik's stare was unwavering and honest—it was open.

Charles turned and began stacking up his papers with a soft sound of annoyance. "I'm never going to refocus on genetic coding tonight." He flicked off the light, bathing the two of them in moonlight.

Erik let himself begin to reform his barriers as the guilt of that fact trickled in. "I'm sorry. I—"

Abruptly, Charles turned and kissed him. Erik went stone still and silent, and his eyes widened in shock. When Charles pulled away and saw Erik's expression in the moonlight, he scoffed. "Please don't be as surprised as you look right now."

Erik blinked. Then he grabbed the back of the telepath's waiting form and pressed it to him, forming his mouth to his in a returning kiss.

And, as planned, both men didn't sleep that night—just not for the reasons they'd intended.

---

September 1961, North Salem, New York

"Do I have to go?"

Charles frowned at Peter's whining. The boy hadn't even gone to school yet, and he was already dreading it. Erik must have fed him lackluster ideas about it because Charles had certainly been nothing but enthusiastic about education.

"Of course!" Charles responded eventually. He pushed Peter on the wooden tree swing by the Xavier pond. "Every boy and girl attends schooling eventually. It'll be very fun!"

"Dad said they'll make me do lots of work," Peter grumbled.

Oh, heavens, Charles thought with an eye roll. Leave it to Erik to kill the dream of education before it'd even sprouted. "It'll be very interesting, I promise."

"I guess," Peter muttered. He gripped the sides of the swing and stared at his shoes as they glided above the ground.

"Your exercises with your father are work," Charles patiently reminded as he continued to push the boy. "Yet, those can be fun."

Peter couldn't deny that.

The adults were proud of the progress that Peter had made. Mainly, they'd focused on control. Peter now rarely spoke faster than a typical child, and he only moved at superhuman speeds when he desired. He was extraordinary in Charles's opinion.

"When's Papa coming home?"

Charles's attention was drawn back to the present. "After supper." Erik had gone into the city today to ensure that Peter had everything ready for his first day of school tomorrow. He had also been sent to pick up groceries and put gasoline in the car and pick up a few of Charles's books and recklessly inquire on leads concerning the whereabouts of a certain Nazi, cold-blooded killer—

But Charles tried not to think about that.

"Can we have ice cream for supper?"

---

The first day of kindergarten had been full of anxiety on all three's parts. Peter had never been away from Charles and Erik for an extended period of time. Peter had never been left to hide his mutant identity by himself. Peter had never made real efforts to make friends his own age. But Peter went to school—

And came home in an exuberant mood.

"There were so many kids!" Peter chattered happily, eating an after-school snack of a ham sandwich, carrots, a hot dog, sliced apple, and pudding. "And they thought my hair was so cool! And Ms. Bradley was so nice! And it was so fun! And there was one boy who talked to me, and we went and played on the slides at recess and pretended to be pirates and…"

Charles and Erik exchanged amused looks over the boy's head as he blithely rambled on.

Peter had obviously loved kindergarten. And Erik had made progress finding leads on Shaw's whereabouts while Peter was at school.

Perhaps, their fears were unnecessary.

---

January 1962, North Salem, New York

Or so it seemed.

After that first month, Erik had hit dead-end after dead-end concerning Shaw. Contacts either had little information to offer on the Nazi, or they were too frightened to give what they knew.

And the shiny newness of school had dullened considerably by the end of the first semester. By January, Peter was almost miserable.

"They keep making fun of my hair," he grumbled as he picked at his meal-sized snack.

"Perhaps they're jealous that their hair isn't an interesting color," Charles offered sympathetically.

But Peter didn't want interesting. He didn't want the other kids asking him why he grew it silver, and he didn't want the other kids asking if he was already a grandpa.

He wanted to be normal.

"I wanna be like Raven," Peter mumbled with his head in his hand.

The men exchanged a look before Charles pressed, "Raven?"

"She can look like anyone she wants," Peter said. "Then I wouldn't have stupid hair."

Erik had had quite enough of that. He got off his wooden chair and marched up to his son's before kneeling. "Pietro, I want you to listen to me, and I want you to listen to me carefully."

Peter's sullen eyes looked to him as he obeyed.

"You will never be like those children," Erik said. "And none of those other children will ever be capable of all that you can do. You think Johnny or Anna or Stevie can run as fast as you? Can talk as fast as you, can think as fast as you?"

Peter reluctantly shook his head.

"Do you think other men can read minds like Uncle Charles or manipulate metal like me?"

Peter, again, shook his head.

"Because we are different," his father said. "Because you are different, and you are better than them, Pietro. You are mutant, and we are mutants, and we have nothing to be ashamed of."

Charles's hand rested on Erik's shoulder in silent support.

Peter reluctantly accepted that speech and turned back to his food.

Charles and Erik looked to each other before returning to their seats and coffee.

"So what'd you learn at school?" Charles asked as he sipped on his mug.

"We made family trees," Peter said as he began tearing off pieces of his sandwich. "Uncle Charles, what are you?"

His eyebrows rose as he took another drink of his strong coffee.

"What do you mean, Pietro?" Erik asked as he lounged against his chair.

"Is he really your brother?"

Charles sputtered, sending coffee out his nose and into his lungs. He slammed down the mug as he choked up the bitter warmth.

"God, no," Erik muttered with a frown. The men exchanged a look. They'd kept their relationship a secret for months, just to protect Peter if things didn't work out. Perhaps now was the time to come clean…?

"So he's really my caregiver?" Peter repeated the word he'd heard his mother and father use for the man when they were away.

The men exchanged another look, and Erik said, "I suppose…"

"OK." Peter returned to eat his sandwich.

The men relaxed. Peter would have to learn about their personal tie soon, but, luckily, that conversation could be postponed; the boy really did not need another reason to be teased at school.

That night, Peter had been tucked into bed, and Charles found himself wandering the halls to the mansion's enclosed gym.

Erik's wrapped knuckles pounded into the punching bag, again and again and again and again—moving so fast, it was no wonder that Peter was his son. He'd worked up a sweat and discarded his shirt, allowing his toned, tanned skin to display his working sweat.

And Charles enjoyed the view. He watched as Erik continued punching at a vicious speed, whirring until—

"Are you going to watch me all night?" Erik stepped away from the bag and began unwrapping his knuckles. His steely gaze pinned Charles to the spot.

But Charles didn't mind. He continued leaning against the wall, taking in the sight for all it was worth. "Are you planning to exercise all night?"

Erik softly snorted and threw the wrappings into a dark gym bag. "I've only done half of my exercises. I still need to manipulate my powers."

And so had this routine gone every night for the past few months. Peter would go to bed, Charles would work on his research in his study, and Erik would train himself against any (especially Nazi) threats.

"Perhaps, I'll join you," Charles offered.

Erik raised an eyebrow.

How fully can I infiltrate your mind? Charles mentally pushed to Erik. How long before I have you on your knees—

"Have you come to pester me into bed again?" Erik's typically stoic mouth betrayed him with a smirk.

Charles grinned and stepped forwards. "Can you blame me?"

Hours later, the men laid in tangled, warm sheets as the snowy, winter moonlight filtered in through the window.

"We'll have to tell him at some point, you know," Charles said after a while.

Erik didn't need to know to whom Charles was referring. "Yes." He lazily trailed a finger down Charles's back.

Charles shivered. "I wish school wasn't so difficult on him. He's so bright; I'd hate for his brilliance to become uncultivated because he's in an uncomfortable environment."

Erik offered mute agreement. Part of his steel heart warmed at Charles's genuine care for his son.

"I… I was considering…"

Erik looked to Charles's face. The telepath was rarely bashful.

"I want Peter to have a safe environment to learn in," Charles said in a rush. "And I want children like him to feel comfortable to explore the world while embracing who they are. And if they were to find companionship with each other because of their shared genetic abnormalities—"

"Spit it out, Charles."

"I want to turn the mansion into a sanctuary," Charles blurted. "I… I want to turn it into a school so that mutant children may earn their educations in an accepting environment. And, perhaps, those without the X gene can join it once mutation becomes more widely accepted—"

Erik laid a finger over Charles's lips and softly encouraged, "I think that's a wonderful idea."

Charles's cheeks bloomed with a happy heat. "It's not too far-fetched for this old geneticist to pursue?"

Erik chuckled and rolled onto his back. "Nothing is too far-fetched for you, Charles. You're the most powerful man I know; you could take over the world if you wanted it."

Charles smiled and buried the side of his face into his plush pillow.

With his eyes closed, Erik added, "Besides, how hard could it be to corral tens of superbeing children into learning?"

---

June 1962, North Salem, New York

But the plan didn't have time to move past the dreaming stages.

For one, it had become increasingly difficult to keep Peter willing to attend school. The other kids still avoided him when they could, and Peter was excelling beyond a typical kindergartener's abilities. The school year had just come to a close, but the boy was already reading chapter books. Erik and Charles couldn't very well enroll him in a higher grade when he has only just-turned five.

For another, Erik had become consumed with locating Shaw. He found his days spent speaking with his anti-Nazi contacts to find Shaw. His nights were spent training to fight Shaw.

And, for a third, Charles had been finishing up his second PhD. It was only a couple of weeks ago that he had turned in his thesis on genetic mutation, earning the doctorate from Oxford.

And, to celebrate, he lounged on a tree-shaded blanket in his backyard while Peter played on the grass and Erik hunted down information on Shaw in Argentina.

What a gaudy celebration.

"How about 'celebration,'" Charles called out from behind his sunglasses.

"Uh, s—"

"C."

"C-E-L-E-B-R-A…"

"What's the group of letters that makes the 'shun' sound—"

"T-I-O-N!" Peter finished enthusiastically.

Charles grinned. This boy really was extraordinary.

"It's hot, Uncle Charles," Peter complained from his sun-exposed spot on the grass. He moved Super Robot around in the air, rustling the silver cape around his neck.

"You could take off the cape," Charles suggested, already expecting the answer.

"I'm a superhero!" Peter replied indignantly. "I have to wear it!"

Charles nodded sagely. "Yes, of course." Had they already taught the boy to swim, they could be wading in the pond. And without Erik here, he didn't want to try teaching the super-speedy boy alone.

"Uncle Charles, since you're a doctor, can you fix Rob?" Peter held up Super Robot.

Charles flicked a glance over. "What happened to him?"

"His knee bends funny."

A beat of silence. "Were you dropping him from the balcony again?"

"…No…"

"Peter."

"He wanted to fly!"

Charles rolled his eyes in fond amusement. "Perhaps a repairman in town can save our friend's bad knee."

"Neat! Can we go now?!"

"How about we wait to go into town until your father returns to the States," Charles proposed as he pushed himself up off the blanket, "and we go inside for ice cream right now?"

"YES!" Peter shot up and appeared at Charles's side in a silver streak.

Charles smiled at him, grabbed the blanket, and then took the boy's hand. As they strolled towards the mansion, Charles asked, "Can you spell 'robot?'"

"R-O-B-O-T!" he confidently replied.

Clever boy.

---

The following day, Erik returned from Argentina with intel on Shaw's current base of operations. He was scheming out when and how to best infiltrate the ship, when Peter came in, asking when they could go into town to fix Rob.

Erik had looked down at his son's large, pleading blue eyes, and his vengeful heart softened. The plans on Shaw could wait… a day. For him—for Pietro.

So, hand-in-hand, father and son strolled around the shops on Main Street so that Rob the Super Robot could have his plastic knee mended.

It was a shame it wasn't made of metal, Erik mentally griped.

"There are ducks in the pond!" Peter exclaimed, pulling on Erik with one hand and gripping the newly-fixed Super Robot in the other.

"I'd hope so," Erik commented dryly. The duck pond ahead was a duck pond, after all.

"I gotta pet 'em!"

And before Erik's bellowed "No!" could reach Peter's small ears, his son's hand disappeared from his. In a silver blur, the young mutant was gone.

Panic shot through Erik's chest, although he tried to rationally work through this. Peter was a mere few hundred feet ahead, somewhere. Erik's feet hurried along the cement path, telling himself that his son couldn't get into too much trouble in a mere minute.

Erik's mouth tightened as he considered his son's overly-bubbly, inquisitive nature. Moving at impossible speeds, that boy could make a minute an eternity.

Erik rounded into the open space of the pond, looking around for the familiar silver hair. There were park benches, people tossing bread to the ducks, and large trees shading the water.

But. No. Peter.

"Pietro?" Erik called out, whirling around to find him. Small girl, coddling parents, group of teenagers, flirtatious couple—

"Ah!"

Erik snapped to attention and turned towards the cry of pain. And there—there he was.

Peter was on the opposite side of the pond, lying belly-down on the sidewalk. A large, rubber-soled boot pressed into his back, pinning him to the pavement. Erik tore his eyes away from Peter's frantic, unharmed face to look at the man stomping on his son.

The large man was tall, muscled, and impassive. His bulky arms hung at his sides as he stared at Erik. And upon looking at that man's buzzed hair, and thick, scarred face, Erik instantly recognized him.

It was The Hound. The Bloodhound, one of Shaw's command. Erik had heard of this monster for months, learning how he tracked down anyone who tried to escape Shaw's wrath, using his mutant abilities to smell a person's scent and follow them to the ends of the earth—

"Hello, Erik," the Hound said.

Peter writhed in a burst of energy, but he remained trapped under that foot. The Hound looked down at him and dug his boot in deeper until the boy stopped moving to cry out in pain.

"Let him go," Erik snarled, taking a step closer to the edge of the pond.

Around them, people's silver watches and gold rings and metallic zippers rattled with energy. The ducks quacked and hurried to fly away. The small family and teenagers and lovers shrieked and scurried away from the stand-off.

"There's no metal for you to work with here," the Hound said. "We made sure of that."

Erik remained stone. "Let my son go."

"You know who I am, don't you?" he continued. "I am speaking through the mouth of my trusted friend, thanks to Emma's abilities. But you know who these words belong to."

Shaw.

Erik hadn't realized he'd spat the name aloud until the Hound said, "You were always so bright. Couldn't perform on cue, but we all have our faults—"

"LET PIETRO GO!" The air thrummed with energy at Erik's furious bellows, no metal to manipulate.

"I've come to give you a message," the Hound said. "If you find me, we will kill your son. If you think you've almost found me, we will kill your son. If you keep looking for me, we will kill your son."

Erik could barely hear the repeated threat over his own ragged breathing. Rage twisted through him like a hot snake, coiling in his lungs and threatening to demolish this whole city in a second.

"Dad!" Peter cried out, his desperate face pleading for the man across the water.

Erik's hands began to shake. He thought of Anya, the same age as his son now, begging him for help at the hands of merciless men.

"We look forward to your compliance," the Hound said. The edge of his mouth had the nerve to creep up.

Suddenly, Peter shot his arms out and up, latching onto the Hound's leg. His hands flew under the material, and he lodged his nails into the flesh there, using his super-speed to shred the man's leg like a scratching post.

The Hound jerked back with a glare and a curse. His boot instinctively came off the boy, allowing Peter to scramble up. But the Hound had been trained to expect his opponent's moves; he kicked Peter in the face before the boy could make it up. Peter collapsed onto his back with a scream.

And Erik. Saw. Red.

The Hound's pointed glower on the child froze. His reaching, thick hands froze. His mid-kick legs froze. He couldn't move; he could barely breathe under the invisible grasp that now held him.

Across the water, Erik had his hand outstretched as he used everything he was to protect his son.

Slowly, the Hound's rigid body was moved away from the trembling, bleeding five-year-old. The Hound was dragged across the sidewalk, pulled across the pond. His rubber-soled boots skimmed the water's surface as he slid closer to Erik.

But Erik stopped him in the very center of the pond. His face was burning with rage, and his outstretched hand shook. "You will never take him from me. You will never again take away those who I hold dear. He is mine! And you. Are. Too."

Erik's fingers curled inwards, forming a fist as he used all of his thrumming power to pull.

The Hound's eyes were permitted to widen just enough to show that he was shocked, afraid, and tortured. Erik relished in that small sign of pain before he pulled his hand backwards.

And all the blood's iron, all of the bones' calcium, and all of the metal making up this man's human existence was yanked from his very body. Erik opened his hand, and the metal splashed into the water. The Hound's withered and crumpled corpse splashed in next, bobbing at the pond's surface.

Erik's thrumming power dulled, and his ears rang. He stumbled a step backwards, and he was dimly aware that his nose was bleeding.

The small sob is what snapped him back to the present.

Erik looked across the water to where his son had wrapped his arms around his knees. He walked around the pond, never letting his eyes stray from the crying boy.

When Erik reached him, Peter looked up at him in fear. Erik's heart chipped, hating that his son saw him as the villain.

"Dad," Peter sobbed, not knowing how to process what he had been forced to witness. His left eye was bloodied and throbbing, his back was bruised, and his father had just killed a man.

Slowly, Erik knelt and gathered his son into his arms; Peter let him. With his child in his arms, Erik allowed himself a fraction of relief. He stood up as the two clung to one another, and he couldn't dismiss how hard Peter was shaking.

Erik took his son home.

---

"My God!" Charles hurried out from behind his desk, dropping his glasses onto them. He stared in horrified shock as Erik stoically carried the silver-haired child into the study. Charles's eyes skimmed over Erik before latching onto the bloodied, silent boy. "What the hell happened?"

"Shaw."

Charles's heart clenched, and he snapped his gaze up to look at Erik again. Erik's face was emotionless.

Charles pulled his stare away and tried to think rationally. "Let's, let's take him to the kitchen." He led the way as Erik trailed behind with his son.

Once there, Erik sat Peter on the island, but they didn't let go of one another. Charles scrambled around, pulling the first aid kit out from under the sink and an icepack out of the freezer.

"This may sting," Charles cautioned the child as he dabbed an alcohol swab at the cut above his eye. Peter winced and frowned but otherwise didn't respond.

"Tell me everything," Charles demanded as he cast Erik a firm, worried look.

And so Erik told him everything. He gave every detail as Charles tended to his son's injury.

After cleaning and bandaging the head wound, Charles had Peter hold the icepack to his eye. The boy's cheek and eye would be a horrific purple soon if the swelling and redness was anything to go on.

"Erik, we're not ready to face him yet," Charles said quietly as he faced his partner. "We finally have the information we've needed thanks to you, but we don't have the alliances. After today—"

"Today ensured that Shaw is my top priority," Erik hissed, finally showing any sign of life.

Charles stilled. "Perhaps, you need to reprioritize then."

The blood from Erik's face drained as he realized what he'd said.

Charles looked to Peter with a small, forced smile. "You'll feel better in the morning, Peter." He stepped away and walked out of the kitchen, not bothering with a proper goodnight.

Erik let out a small sigh and leaned against the island. He looked at Peter; his son was slumped, limply holding the ice to his face.

"Let's head to bed," Erik said softly, picking his child back up and carrying him out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and to Peter's bedroom.

"Which pajamas would you like tonight?" Erik asked as he walked to the ensuite bathroom to start a bath.

Peter just shrugged.

Erik felt a mix of relief at receiving a response and pain at seeing his son's dismal expression. He grabbed the first pair of pajamas and underwear that his hand touched and brought Peter into the bathroom.

During his bath, Peter moved at a normal child's speed. He didn't use his super speed to make his shampooing go faster (and sudsier) like he usually did. He didn't touch the bobbing bath toys that Erik had placed in the water.

Erik didn't really blame him; the floating toys reminded him of the Hound's floating corpse.

After the boy had been bathed and dressed, Erik turned out the lights and carried Peter to bed. Neither one of them wanted to let go, so Erik laid down on the mattress with his son sprawled across his chest.

They lied in silence until Erik asked, "Where's Rob?" His heart sank as he mentally retraced to where he'd last seen the Super Robot.

"He fell into the pond," Peter replied. His soft voice was nearly absorbed by Erik's flannel shirt.

Erik closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Pietro. We can buy you another."

"I don't want one."

Erik waited a beat before saying, "I'm sorry that that man grabbed you today. And I'm sorry that you had to watch… what I did."

"It was kinda scary," Peter murmured. "But it was kinda cool."

Erik wasn't sure if he was relieved or horrified.

"I'm not cool," Peter mumbled, so soft that Erik almost didn't catch it.

"Why on earth would you say that?" Erik demanded in a gentle voice. Did Peter want to kill people? Did he honestly envy what Erik had done?

"My powers didn't help me," Peter said. "I tried to run away, but I couldn't."

"Pietro, if that monstrous man hadn't had the unfair advantage of his size and sneaking up on you, you would have easily outrun him."

"But what's the point of being a superhero if I can't beat the bad guys?" Peter wondered aloud.

He had a point.

"You will one day," Erik assured him. "Once you're older."

So softly that Erik wasn't sure if he properly heard him, Peter said, "I'm not a superhero."

---

September 1962, North Salem, New York

Weeks past. And as Peter's bruises faded from purples to blues to greens to yellows, he slowly came back into himself. He let himself leave Charles's and Erik's sides to speed around the mansion. He became perfectly happy to roam the grounds as he had before. From a distance, the boy seemed perfectly, happily normal.

But Charles and Erik noticed how the boy no longer carried his Super Robot. He no longer wore his cape. And he no longer claimed to be a superhero.

Charles slowly relented to Erik's insistence that the Shaw being top priority had been a slip of the tongue. Lord knew how much Erik had cared about the two of them.

So the three remained based at the mansion. Peter started the first grade. Moira MacTaggert accepted their pleas for government assistance in mutant matters (seeing as how she wanted to stop Shaw almost as much as they did). And Charles and Erik looked for mutants to help unite against Shaw.

"How was first grade today, Peter?" Hank asked enthusiastically as he walked into the kitchen.

From the table, Erik glanced up before returning to scour the newspaper for possible mutant sightings. Hank's presence had become routine at this point.

Peter lolled his head to look at the mutant who was known to drop by. "It sucked."

"Pietro," Erik reprimanded from behind his newspaper.

"Well, it did," Peter mumbled to himself as he picked up his sandwich.

Hank leaned against the island beside Peter. "Elementary school can be tough. Just focus on learning and being kind, and you'll get through it." He smiled.

"That's what Uncle Charles always says," Peter grumbled at his sandwich.

Charles strolled into the kitchen with an "And Uncle Charles is always right." He smiled at the men before focusing on Hank. "Dr. McCoy! To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Yes, Hank," another Charles asked as he strode into the kitchen. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" This Charles looked over at Peter and winked, making the child giggle.

"Raven, if you could kindly take off my face—"

Blue scales rose and matted across the second Charles's form, leaving behind the blonde version of Raven.

"Thank you," Charles said, although he didn't hide his amusement. He turned back to Hank.

"Well, at the Division X Facility, I was able to create a kind of amazing device," Hank said enthusiastically. "I'm calling it Cerebro, and it…"

As Hank went on, Peter tugged on Raven's hand. "Do me! Do me!"

Raven smiled at him before the blue scales shifted once more. In a blink, the woman had shrunken down to a mirrored image of the silver-haired child.

Peter cheered. Ever since Raven had come to stay with them last week, she had become Peter's favorite toy in the afternoons and the X-Men's tool during the nights.

"Your powers kick ass!" Peter yelled with a smile.

Erik dropped the newspaper to the table and barked, "Pietro!" He wondered when the boy had started cursing.

Peter blinked at him innocently. "I heard Raven say it!"

As Erik's turned his sharp gaze to her, the Raven-as-Peter clone gave Peter a look. "And I told you not to say it."

"No," Peter defended innocently, "you told me not to say sh—"

Raven-as-Peter clamped her small hand over his mouth. "Let's just go play, alright?" As Peter cheered, Raven-as-Peter uncovered his mouth to grab his hand and drag him out of the room.

Erik stared after them as they disappeared, thanking every god out there that his son had not been a twin.

"That's extraordinary, Hank!" Charles praised, drawing Erik's attention back to their conversation. Charles turned to Erik with bright eyes. "This will increase our mutant-searching abilities tenfold!"

"If it works," Hank threw in with a hesitant look.

Charles turned back to him and clapped his shoulder. "Of course it'll work. I have no doubt that you'll be able to make this fantastical idea a true reality."

Erik tried to stifle the surge of possessiveness at seeing Charles's hand on another.

Charles, oblivious to Erik's feelings, let go of Hank and turned back to his discrete partner. "Should we go tonight?"

Erik stood up, stretching after sitting for so long. He tossed the paper on the table and said, "Raven will bite off my head if she's on babysitting duty again. We should go now; Peter can miss a day of school." Tomorrow would be Friday after all; it'd be a long weekend for all of them.

"I'll ready the jet," Hank cheerily announced.

Charles squinted at him. "Hank, did you park it on the lawn again?"

Hank looked around before quickly backing out of the room.

Charles was frowning as Erik came to his side. "If he ruins the grass again, he's paying for it."

Erik grinned and kissed the side of his head. "I'm sure he will."

Charles huffed, knowing that he never would. He patted Erik's chest and said, "Go get Peter ready; I'll pack our bags."

Erik obeyed, striding out of the kitchen and searching for his son; he had a conversation that he wanted to have with Peter before they left anyways.

Peter wasn't in his room, and he wasn't on the main level. Erik heard a distant child laughing, and he followed the sound outside.

"How can you do that?" Peter asked.

Erik looked up to see his Peter sitting on a tree branch, watching Raven hold herself onto a different branch by her toes alone. Except, Raven was still the mirror image of his son, causing Erik's heart to stutter in fear.

"Trapeze artists taught me," Raven-as-Peter replied breezily.

"Can you teach me?!"

"No," Erik said, marching forwards and looking up at the tree. "Come down, Pietro. We need to talk."

Peter whined and groaned, but he began pushing himself off the branch.

Raven grinned and turned back into her naturally blue self. She kicked off her branch, grabbed another, and blithely swung to land on the lawn. Her feet dug holes into the grass as she landed.

"Stop ruining the lawn!" Charles's voice called from somewhere in the mansion.

Raven grinned.

"Blue suits you," Erik told her. Raven looked to him, quickly checking how serious he was. But he was completely serious, and she knew it; Erik had been trying to convince her to embrace her naturally mutant form since they day they met.

"I gave up traveling to help you," she said. She turned and walked to the mansion, calling over her shoulder, "Don't comment on appearance again."

Erik raised an eyebrow. That woman was always so damn insecure.

In a blur, Peter swung from branch to branch to— open air. His fingers skimmed the last branch before he tumbled into a fall.

Erik, luckily, had been standing right below and caught him easily.

Peter grinned in a daze. "Whoa."

Erik's stare was disapproving.

Peter's grin turned sheepish as he hopped out of his father's arms.

"We're heading out to the CIA facility; Hank has something to show Uncle Charles," Erik said.

"OK."

"Which means we won't be back in time for you to attend school tomorrow."

"WOOHOO!" In dizzying circles, Peter gaily ran around his father.

Erik looked to the heavens for strength, even as an amused smile came to his lips. "Pietro, I have something for you as well."

Peter came to an abrupt halt in front of him, looking up with greedy, blue eyes. "What?"

Erik knelt in front of the boy and pulled a thin strip of metal out of his jeans pocket. "This is a special kind of metal. I've been working on it for a week so that it would be like no other."

Peter peered curiously down at it. It had lots of different colors melted together, swirling and blending into a sheet.

"It has gold and platinum and silver and sterling silver and iron and copper and aluminum and steel and tin and titanium and brass."

Peter's eyes widened.

"And I would like you to wear it," Erik continued. "I know exactly how these combined metals feel with my power, and I could track it anywhere in the world. If you wore it, I'd always be able to find you."

Peter scrunched his nose. "Like a bracelet?"

"Like a link," Erik amended. "A link from you to me."

Peter slowly held out his hand.

Erik gave him a small smile before using his powers to size the band. Peter watched in fascination as the strip curved and locked itself at his wrist.

"Not too tight?" Erik checked, moving the bracelet around on his son's wrist.

Peter shook his head, still staring at it.

Erik's hands rested on it. "You'll never be alone in this world, Pietro. When you wear this band, you'll know that I can feel it."

Peter met his father's eyes and saw the sincerity there.

"So, if you're ever afraid or in danger," Erik said, "you can look at this and know that I'm coming to help you."

Peter nodded and looked back at the bracelet.

Erik kissed the top of his head and stood up. "Now, let's go fly Hank's jet."

---

October 1962, Classified Location

Another week passed with success. The three men and Raven had ended up staying with Hank at the Division X Facility to locate mutants and test their powers. They were making good progress with Alex, Angel, Sean, and Darwin. They were making good progress with the development of Cerebro.

And Peter didn't mind taking a week off from school.

"Read these," Charles said as he dropped a small pile of short books on the table, "before we return."

Peter groaned and slumped his head to meet the table.

Charles grinned and ruffled the silver hair. "Missing out on valuable learning has its consequences."

Peter looked up at him with defeated eyes. "Can't I just be stupid?"

Charles chuckled and tapped the boy's nose. "Never."

Peter's head returned to the table.

"Don't worry," the blonde Raven said with a smile, coming into the sitting room, "I'll make sure that our favorite little genius reads every single word." Her amused, predatory eyes landed on the boy.

Peter looked up at her in misery.

"We'll be late, Charles," Erik announced, quickly walking into the room.

Charles nodded, bidding Peter and Raven goodbyes. If they were to intercept Shaw and Frost in the USSR, they would need to move quickly.

Erik knelt down in front of his son. "Listen to Raven. Do not go running where she can't find you. And do not leave this facility. Understood?"

Peter slouched. "Dad, I—"

"Understood?" Erik repeated in Polish.

"Tak," Peter mumbled glumly.

Erik kissed the side of his head and stood. "We'll be back in two to three days, depending on how this goes," he told Raven before checking his watch. He marched for the door and called over his shoulder, "Be good, Pietro!"

Charles slowly backed towards the door. "Thank you so much, Raven. Really, we wouldn't feel comfortable with any of this, had you not been able or willing—" The back of Charles's shirt was yanked by Erik's hand, dragging the telepath out the door and around the corner.

After a moment, Erik's unhappy face popped back into the doorframe. "Thank you, Raven." He was out of sight before Raven could reply.

Raven turned to Peter in amusement. "If Charles asks, you read every word of these damn books." She grabbed the boy's hand. "Let's go annoy Hank."

---

On the jet, Charles and Erik piloted as Moira slept out on an armchair. The quiet dark melted around them as they shot through the night.

From his steering position, Charles looked over at his companion. Erik stared at nothing, silently dancing his Nazi coin in-between his fingers.

"Erik," Charles said with a sigh, "before we get there, I think we should reestablish boundaries."

Erik remained silent.

Charles took that as an urge to continue. "We can't kill anyone. Even Shaw. He and any mutant siding with him must be turned over to the proper authorities. We—"

"You can't ask that of me, Charles." Erik's voice was as quiet and dark as the night.

Charles pursed his lips. "We can't start playing God, Erik. If we kill Shaw, then we might as well kill Emma, and then anyone else that follows him. It won't end. Shaw can be maintained by the proper prisons—"

"And if, behind bars, he sends his minions after Pietro?" Erik snapped. "What then?"

Charles paled. "If we cut off his ties with—"

Erik scoffed.

Charles frowned. "We can't do this, Erik. We're not murderers. Deciding who gets to live and who gets to die—it'll consume us."

Erik returned to silence.

"Please," Charles said. "I know… I know you killed that man already. But your powers were uncontrollable; you can't even recreate what you did that day. And you were defending Peter—"

"I'm defending Pietro further by ending Shaw," Erik growled.

"Please," Charles pled, casting desperate looks to his partner. "Please just—promise me. Promise me that you won't kill him. That we'll take him to the authorities."

Erik didn't speak.

"Promise me," Charles begged, his voice breaking.

Erik's hard heart softened enough to relent. For Charles's sake, he would force himself to accept only Shaw's immense pain and incarceration as supplement for all of the trauma he had caused. "…I promise."

Relaxing a bit, Charles redirected his attention to the skies.

The two remained in silence until Charles asked, "Do you think Peter will be alright while we're gone? There are plenty of guards, but—"

"Those guards are nothing against Shaw," Erik grumbled. "But I trust Raven to keep him safe."

Charles nodded. "You're right; she'd do anything for him."

Erik leaned back in his seat. "Besides, with Peter stuck inside and full of energy—I worry for the guards and recruits."

Charles grinned.

---

At the CIA facility, Peter spent the day with Raven playing games, reading those damn books, and plaguing Hank whenever possible.

By the time night rolled in, Hank snapped, "I can't focus on this research if you keep feeding him sugar and then letting him loose in my lab."

From her position on a stool, Raven casually looked over and watched as the silver streak of a boy zoomed around the room. Metal bowls were knocked onto the tile and papers were sent flying as Peter sped past. "What? I thought you'd be glad to document his speeds after varying sugar intakes." She smiled sweetly.

Hank gave her a dead stare. "Get out of my lab, Raven."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. Take a break. You've been working all day."

He pointed an accusatory finger at her. "Because you keep messing up my lab!"

Peter appeared in front of Beast. "Hank, do you wanna play pinball with us?!" He smiled enthusiastically.

Raven slid off her stool and sauntered up to Hank with a playful smile. "Yeah, Hank. Don't you wanna play pinball with us?"

Hank glared at her before looking down at the eager boy. Peter's large blue eyes were so innocently pleading… "Ugh. Yeah, sure. Let's go play some pinball."

"Yay!" Peter grabbed Hank's hand and began yanking him out of the lab.

Raven folded her arms and trailed after them with a smile.

---

Peter was speeding through pinball game after pinball game as all the recruits sat on the couches. Peter had tried playing with Raven and Hank at first, but everyone was much happier to let the boy work his super-speed magic by himself.

"I want to be called Mystique," Raven said after announcing a need for code names.

"Damn! I wanted to be called Mystique," Sean complained.

"Well, tough," Raven said. "I called it." Her blue scales shifted, transforming her blonde-haired form into an exact replica of Sean. "And I'm way more mysterious than you."

They went around the room, each mutant taking a turn to declare their desired code name. After Alex gave off an impressive display of his fiery power, Hank turned to young Peter and asked what he wanted to be called.

Peter looked confused. "Peter. Except my dad calls me Pietro 'cause that's my real name."

The group chuckled, and Raven elaborated, "What do you want your superhero name to be?"

Peter blinked. "Um… Super robot… ultra… ninja spy?"

"Speedy?" Alex suggested with a shrug.

"The Bullet?" Darwin chimed in.

"How 'bout Quicksilver?" Hank said. They looked to him, and he pointed to Peter. "His hair is silver, he's fast, and his dad is the god of metal."

"Yeah!" Peter agreed readily.

Raven grinned. "Quicksilver it is." She put a hand on his small shoulder and guided him to sit beside her on the couch.

Peter smiled as he looked around at all the mutants; he felt like one of the team.

And then screaming started.

In the distance, shrieks of agony and death wafted to the mutants. The team looked at each other and stood, listening to pinpoint what the hell was happening.

"What is that?" Peter asked in fear.

"I don't know," Raven said. She pushed Peter behind her and faced the open window. "Stay behind me, OK?"

The screaming grew louder as the villains made their way closer and closer to the group. Suddenly, bullets shot off, shattering glass and ricocheting around the room. The young mutants took off out of the room, trying to take cover.

"Don't let go of my hand!" Raven told Peter with frantic tears in her eyes.

Seeing her fear heightened his. Peter gripped her hand and wished his dad was there to stop all of the bullets.

The guards wouldn't let them through the hallway, and then the villains were upon them. The mutant group took off, back the way they had come until they locked themselves in a room.

"Why are they dying?" Peter asked in a tight voice. His eyes were locked on the bodies lying haphazardly in the center area.

Raven knelt down in front of him with her hands on the tops of his arms. "Peter, hey. It's gonna be OK. I'm gonna get us out of this, I promise." When Peter still stared in fear at the bodies, Raven called, "Peter! Look at me." He did. "Don't look at them. Just look at me. None of them are here. It's just us."

Slowly, Peter's panic calmed.

And then the door flew open.

Shaw strode in with a breezy, clean smile. "Good evening! My name's Sebastian Shaw. And I am not here to hurt you."

Raven stood and faced the man, pushing Peter behind her. Hank took a step closer to them.

Shaw commanded Azazel to kill a remaining guard in the open area, and he was stabbed before their eyes. Peter let out a soft whimper.

Shaw then launched into a soft-spoken speech, playing on their fears and enticing to their vanities. He invited them to join his ranks.

And Angel took his hand.

"Angel…" Raven said with a furrowed brow.

"Are you kiddin' me?" Sean spat in hurt disbelief.

Angel encouraged them to come with her.

From behind Raven's legs, Peter peaked out. Angel had been nice to him. She had pretty wings, and she was different, too. She had been a part of them. And now she was just… leaving?

"What about you, young man?" Shaw offered in a sure voice. He stared directly at Peter and said, "I know you have Lehnsherr blood in you, but you're just like us; you're a mutant through and through. I think you should get to decide what happens to you."

"He's not going anywhere with you," Raven snarled through a thick throat.

Shaw dismissed her and looked to Peter. "Pietro?"

Peter frowned and took an instinctive step back. No one ever called him that. Only his father. And to hear another, especially his father's enemy, say his private name?

"You killed my mom," Peter accused with hateful, hurting eyes.

As Angel looked down, Shaw became distantly amused. "No; your father did that all on his own." He then turned, taking his mutants with him.

Darwin shared looks with his friends before calling out for Shaw.

Raven and Hank bustled Peter out of the room before they could overhear Darwin's plans. Before they could see him turn to ash and then fire and then nothing.

---

After her capture, Emma Frost was brought to Langley. It was there that Charles had called to check in, and Raven filled him in on everything that had happened.

So Erik was perfectly ready to shred the world apart when the jet landed at Division X.

"Where is he?!" Erik demanded as he hurled himself off the just-landed jet. Charles followed him at a slower pace, but his expression was entirely concerned. Moira quietly followed the men into the ruined CIA facility.

"Dad!"

Erik turned to his right, seeing his silver-haired son streak towards him and ram into him for a hug. Erik grunted at the high impact but held his son tightly to him.

"Are you hurt?" Erik asked, crouching down to worriedly look at his son. He ran his hand through that silver hair as he looked him over.

Peter shook his head. "I'm OK. Raven and Hank took good care of me."

Charles looked to the two. Raven and Hank glanced at one another, realized how close they stood, and awkwardly shuffled apart.

Erik didn't even glance up at them. "Come on. We're going home." He stood and took Peter's hand.

"We need everyone to stay and answer some questions," Moira protested gently.

"Ask them at the mansion," Erik growled, heading back for the jet.

"My men are dead," Moira said with a glare. "Show the courtesy—"

"Your men were useless," Erik snapped back, stopping in front of her. "You promised me that my son would be safe, and Shaw cut through them like tissue paper."

"They were unprepared and innocent!"

"They are insignificant."

Moira bristled at that and opened her angered mouth when Charles cut her off.

"Moira, please," he cut in gently. "We can answer your questions just as well in a much safer location."

Moira and Erik glared at each other, and she tried not to focus on the hint of triumph in Erik's eyes. "Fine. Let me call my superiors to fill them in."

"Call them on the jet," Erik snarled before walking his son into the aircraft.

Charles's shoulders slumped as he sighed. What a mess.

"I'm calling them here," Moira snapped, marching past the telepath and into one of the offices.

"Hank, take anything that you might need," Charles called to his friend as he stuffed his fists into his pockets. "The mansion will serve as our new base of operations."

"But Cerebro—"

"Can be recreated," Charles intercepted. He raised an eyebrow. "Or are you not up for the challenge?"

As Hank's expression clouded with determination, Charles grinned.

---

October 1962, North Salem, New York

Three weeks passed at the mansion. Peter (unhappily) returned to school. Hank transported the materials needed to recreate Cerebro in the mansion. He created devices to improve the powers of the team, and the team of mutants worked on fine-tuning their abilities.

But some were more difficult to work with than others.

"Focus, Erik," Charles encouraged.

Erik's outstretched hands shook as he reached his powers towards the satellite. He pulled with his power, pulled, pulled, pulled—

Erik collapsed against the railing, red-faced and panting.

"You know, I think true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity," Charles commented with his hands in his pockets. He strode towards Erik. "Like that day in town with Peter. You were able to use your powers to pull all of the metal from that man. What did you think of then?"

Numb by the memories, Erik slowly shook his head. "I just wanted my son to be safe."

Charles nodded. "And you wanted to retaliate against the man who had hurt him."

"Yes."

"Go there," Charles said. "To that day. Feel what you felt at that pond—how furious you were against the Hound. How much you loved Peter."

Erik stared at nothing, trying to remember.

"Would you mind?" Charles offered, wiggling his fingers towards his temple. "If I…"

Erik shook his head.

Charles pressed his fingers towards his head. With a slow blink, he entered Erik's mind. He quickly rifled past the memories that flooded by and found the one he was looking for. He drew the images to the surface of Erik's mind, reminding him how close the Hound had been to crushing that boy into nothing. How much he loved his son.

With tears in both of their eyes, Charles dropped out of Erik's mind.

"You have a possessive power that no one can match," Charles said softly, looking into his eyes. "You can access it through your memories; you can remember what Shaw took from you. You can remember what you now have."

Erik looked past Charles, letting the stirred emotions sweep over his soul.

"Come on," Charles encouraged with a hand on his arm. "Let's try again."

With new determination, Erik turned back towards the satellite dish. A single, shaking hand stretched forth, pulling on the faraway metal. He held it, pulling and pulling as the dish began to groan. The satellite loudly protested as it shifted towards Erik. Erik's hand turned with it, turning it to face him completely.

Erik smiled in triumph before collapsing to the railing with laughter. Charles held onto him, laughing alongside.

The men held each other in a relieved delight, feeling like, together, they could face anything in the world.

---

October 28, 1962, North Salem, New York

And then they found Shaw. He had been using the nuclear sources in Cuba to further his abilities, and he had to be stopped.

Erik had had no choice but to leave his son at the mansion, in the hands of three, highly trained CIA operatives—not that Charles approved.

"I think you ought to stay here," Charles said heatedly. Standing in the foyer, the two mutants had been bickering about the matter for nearly ten minutes.

"I am not staying behind while my parents' murderer is finally brought to justice!" Erik barked.

"He will be caught with or without you!" Charles returned with a scowl. "I'm worried that you'll take things too far once we locate him, and we can't risk this."

"I know that!" Erik snapped. "And there is nothing you can do to stop me from being there, Charles."

"Think of Peter," Charles pleaded in a last-ditch effort. "You don't want him to stay behind with the CIA agents. He'd be safer—"

"You are not his father!" Erik shouted angrily, rattling the metal throughout the mansion like a shockwave.

And there it was. Charles blinked and forced his face into neutrality while the hurt washed over him.

Erik faltered a step back from the telepath, as if his mouth was a fired gun and he had been smacked with the recoil. He instantly regretted the statement entirely, making grief claw at his chest. "Charles… I didn't mean—"

"You're right," Charles cut him off in a calm voice. "You're free to make your own choices. And you'll be free to live with the repercussions of them."

Charles turned and headed out to the garage to board the jet without another word.

Erik stood in the foyer for a few moments, trying to regain his bearings as shock and self-hatred rolled through his limbs. He eventually managed to bark firm, sickened orders at the three CIA operatives before going to board the jet.

Because Erik had had no choice but to go as the X-Men went to meet Shaw. He had had no choice but to slice through Shaw's mind with the very coin he'd been tormented with as a boy. He had no choice but to kill Sebastian Shaw as Charles distantly raged and screamed about broken promises.

He had had no choice but to separate himself from those that claimed to be peaceful, hippy X-Men. He was a cold-blooded killer now, and he knew it. He was Magneto now, and he would create a Brotherhood of Mutants. He offered for anyone to join him. His eyes bore into Charles as Azazel, Riptide, and Angel did follow.

Erik had had no choice as Moira shot at him. He deflected the bullets as best he could; he had had no say in the matter as one lodged itself into Charles Xavier's spine. Even as Erik's shaking fingers pulled the bloodied bullet into his palm, he knew he was out of options.

He had had no choice but to leave.

---

October 29, 1962, North Salem, New York

He didn't want to be an X-Men anymore. He didn't want to feel anymore. During the entirety of the plane ride and the taxi ride, Erik told himself again and again that he hadn't meant for this to happen.

But what had he expected, when he walked onto that beach, knowing full well that he was to break Charles's promise?

He hadn't meant to break his spine. Had he meant to break his heart?

Erik marched in through the mansion's massive front entrance. He wasted no time in jerking the guns out of the CIA operatives' holsters and pistol-whipping them into unconsciousness.

As the men dropped to the ground, Erik distantly cursed himself for leaving his son in the hands of such worthless Homo sapiens.

"Dad?" Peter stood half-way down the stairs, staring at the dropped men anxiously. He looked up to his father then and noticed the weird, metal helmet he wore.

"Grab your things," Erik said. He marched up the stairs, straight past Peter, and headed for his room.

"Where's everybody?" Peter asked with a frown. He trailed after his father and didn't go to grab his things.

Erik slammed his clothes into the suitcase stashed under his bed. Each bed had one, in case they needed to make a speedy escape.

Erik hadn't expected to need this escape.

"Where's Uncle Charles?" Peter asked.

Erik's wince was involuntary. "Pietro, go grab your belongings. Pack them in the suitcase underneath your bed."

"Dad—"

"Do it!"

Peter recoiled at his tone and backed out of the room with tear-filled eyes. Erik's shattered heart fractured further at the sight.

Erik took a breath to try to collect himself before shoving more clothes into the suitcase.

The Lehnsherrs were gone before the CIA operatives awoke and, more importantly, before Charles returned to the empty mansion.