Title: Your Choice Begat Mine
Pairing: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Summary: Erik went away, taking from Charles the things that meant so much to him. But it's what he left that leads to secrecy and embittered thoughts. It's their son that Erik should never know about.
Warning: Slash. Mpreg.
Rating: T - for language
Chapter Two: When Nothing Is Said or Done
One Year Later
—
It was the warmest weather an early March day would allow in New York. The contrast from recent temperatures had caused a restlessness in the small student body Charles had acquired. Ever the pushover, he hadn't the heart to deny them the opportunity for outdoor entertainment, to enjoy activities whose pleasures had almost been forgotten without the presence of coat or scarf.
"Ready?"
"Yeah."
Charles watched, perched upon the great stone balcony, as Pietro pushed David around in a playful manner on the still brown and lifeless grass below.
"No, you're not," Pietro teased.
"I am, promise!" David protested, taking the older boy's pestering as sincerity. "I want to fly."
Pietro hummed in his throat, an exaggerated drone of a noise, as he 'thought' the matter over. "Okay, go!" he exclaimed suddenly.
David pitched his arms up, and Pietro grabbed him, throwing the boy into the air. Gravity quickly began dragging him back down and Pietro disappeared completely. Then David stopped, seemingly suspended. There was a slight, almost imperceivable blur running back and forth beneath him, continuously pushing him up. To David, however, who kept his arms out flat and his eyes before him, he appeared to simply be floating there.
Charles smiled to hear the lightheartedness of David's laughter, a sound that a year ago had been on the tragic verge of being locked away forever.
Then came a sight that Charles passively observed, a movement in his vision that he dismissed to be the abusive wind whipping through trees in the distance. But when intuition had him turn and investigate, he saw standing there a form whose presence his mind had built up as an embodiment of inevitable dread.
"Erik!"
Charles gestured at once across the gathering of students nearby, immobilizing any who fell beneath the wave of his hand. Pietro materialized beneath David again, holding the boy in place. "What are you doing here?" Charles demanded, apprehension and displeasure welded into his words.
"Hello, Charles," Erik spoke.
To his credit, the man wore casual clothes, obviously not having arrived with any violent or war driven objective. But that was as much as Charles could decipher of his intentions, for Erik still wore a helmet firmly upon his head. It was a new one, of course, but no less ostentatious than its predecessors. The accompaniment of the oppressive headgear as good as negated the attempt to wear normal clothing at all. It made obvious the fact that he had still come with disagreeable thoughts in his mind.
"You could have given the students an attack at the sight of you," Charles argued, voicing his clear discontent at the other's sudden appearance.
"Don't be so dramatic," Erik insisted. He wouldn't look directly at Charles and that was most irritating.
Again, Charles asked, "Why are you here?"
Erik stood silently, a fixed statue that looked out upon the grounds as though it had been intentionally placed there as decoration. After a moment, when it seemed he could be bothered to devote himself to an answer, he gestured out, pointing to the motionless forms David and Pietro. His voice was stern and unwavering when he spoke his intent, saying, "I'm here to see my son."
"He's not your son," Charles responded at once.
"He is," Erik maintained.
Charles did not need the press of fingers against his neck or wrist to know that his pulse had increased. He did not need it pointed out that his breath had become quick and erratic. He was aware of his tells, was intimate with them in a way he knew Erik shared. "There's no way you could know that," Charles contested. His fists balled anxiously in his lap, and the sight of it brought a smirk to Erik's face, knowing he was on the right track.
"I've thought things through," the man told him proudly, "done the calculations."
"Who tipped you off?" Charles asked, his question a muttered grief that ended with a sigh. "Hank, Logan?"
"No," Erik replied, "he told me himself actually."
"Impossible," Charles argued, "he doesn't even know." His mind was at once alight, ruminating upon the brief hour the two had been in contact, wondering when such a thing could have happened and why he had been unable to stop it.
"He doesn't know he knows," Erik continued, explaining the matter with a calm flick of his hand. "Which is why he thought nothing of mentioning it to me."
"You still have no reason to be here. You think, what?" Charles laughed, a bitter sound of wretched and desperate contempt. "I'll- I'll let you take him?"
Erik said nothing for a moment. He looked again at the two boys in their unmoving play, contemplating the blissful picture it presented. There was an absence of his former surety when he turned his gaze back to Charles, as though perhaps he had a shame for his selfishness. "I would like to introduce myself," Erik assured him. "That's all."
"You've met already," he responded curtly.
"Briefly, Charles, too briefly."
Shaking his head, Charles shot him down. "No, Erik."
"Don't flatter yourself," Erik asserted. He breathed deep, a mechanism of self-control, trying to remember how to navigate conversation in which things didn't go his way. "He may be staying here, but you have no right to him."
"He's my son!" Charles shouted, livid in his offense.
Erik stopped. A look of utter puzzlement rushed onto his face. It was a disarming expression, even thrown between the menacing frame of his helmet as it was. After several seconds of careful contemplation, he slowly uttered, "No, he isn't."
Charles quickly caught the other's bewilderment. He opened his mouth, but speech was slow in following. When it came, it was with a stuttering start. "What are you talking about?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Erik countered, looking at him strangely.
"Erik," Charles asked, slowly building a more coherent and edifying question, "wh- whom are you referring to?"
"The boy," he clarified, "Pietro. When he broke me out of prison, he said something— something that made me think. I've been waiting for a chance to return so that I might speak with him."
"Pietro," Charles thought aloud, "is your son?"
Erik nodded. "I'm fairly certain he is, yes." He walked to the front of Charles's chair, staring him down with an expression that might have been entreating if not for the stern and lowered brow. "Now it's your turn to tell me what it was you meant," he ordered.
Charles laughed with abandon. He found strange humor in the slip, and it mixed uneasily with a sense of self-depreciation. "So much effort and I've practically outed myself." He shook his head, and when he spoke again, there was an unfitting smile upon his face. "No, Erik, I'm not telling you a damn thing."
The man straightened his shoulders, nodding his head with a mechanical motion. "Then I'll find someone who will," he said, stepping away. "Hank, your friend Logan, they could help me, yes?"
"Good luck with Logan," Charles uttered reproachfully. "He disappeared after that last fight. Either you managed to kill an immortal man whose only crime was trying to save us all… or his mind absconded back to the future. And Hank," he chuckled, "well you tried to kill him too, didn't you? I'm sure he'll be most helpful."
Charles felt the beginnings of tremors throughout his chair as it shook around him. "Tell me, Charles," Erik commanded.
"Your threats do not now, nor will they ever, carry any weight against me," Charles told him. Even with the loud screech of metal distorting, it was obvious that no real damage was being dealt, to himself or the chair. "I'm sorry, but I know you only seem to hurt me incidentally, frequent as that may be."
Metal popped back into place as minor dents of a cosmetic nature were corrected. "Then you leave me no choice," Erik stated. He took a deep breath then kneeled upon the stone before Charles, prostrating himself. "Tell me… please."
"No," Charles said, though that time he was almost reluctant to do so.
"You might as well have already," Erik contended. "Your confirmation is nothing but a mere technicality."
Charles stubbornly shook his head. "I need your doubt," he spoke. His words were weak, near pleading, but he kept a small degree firmness to them.
There was a heavy silence. The air became oppressive despite its crisp chill and unbroken breeze. Erik's gaze weighed a ton as it studied his face, searching for an otherwise muted answer. Charles knew the battle was slipping away from him. He was a poor rival when the game was one of deception and lies.
Erik saw what he was looking for. Any doubt he wouldn't was sheer baseless hope on Charles's part. "David is my son," he announced with a measure of confidence.
"No," Charles told him simply.
"Our son," he insisted.
"He isn't," Charles objected, voice forced and frail.
"Why won't you tell me?" Erik demanded, and he was himself of a different brand of groping desperation.
"There is nothing to tell."
"Charles!" Erik shouted his frustration. The outburst might have startled Charles if he hadn't been so otherwise distracted in thought. Erik stood again, though he was no more than a tower of ineffective intimidation. "I have the right—"
"You have no right!" Charles exclaimed, a fuming declaration of enduring fact. "No right at all. Just as you've no right to Pietro." He scoffed. There was a righteous feeling of contempt swelling inside of him. "They are far better off without you, my friend."
Erik had the innate ability to pick and choose what he wanted from a conversation. All else he could turn a deaf ear to. With this gift, he had led himself to the edge of fact and believed that he had not wandered blindly to his conviction. "How did it happen?" he asked.
"It's as you said before," Charles replied. And though he spoke with utmost composure and strength, he would not suffer meeting the other's gaze as it bore into him. "I met a lovely woman— Moira, actually. I know your feelings for her, so I kept quiet about it before. We- we had an evening of romance. And nine months later…"
"Oh, Charles," Erik laughed haughtily. "You really are the worst liar without your powers."
"I will tell you a thousand lies if I have to," said Charles, at last looking at the man, impressing upon him his resolve.
"And I will wait through each one until you decide to tell me the truth."
There was a determination in Erik's expression so intense that Charles knew it must have rivaled his own stubbornness. And though he did not lack empathy in the matter, Charles glared at him without reserve, every ounce of animosity he had for the man burning between them like a tangible thing.
Then he let it go, dropping to the ground and withering away without the support of Charles's ire to sustain it.
He sighed, waving his hand in a wide sweep. The students resumed their jovial movement. Pietro disappeared again and David continued in his mimic of flight.
Erik looked about them with a cautious eye. "Aren't you worried—"
"I altered their perception," Charles informed him, and the answer sounded like a tired thing, trodden in its defeat. "They can't see you. But I did feel that Pietro's arms were about to break if he held the boy up any longer."
As a testament to that observation, Pietro did indeed stop almost immediately. He caught David and let him drop down before rubbing his fatigued and aching arms.
Erik approached the edge of the balcony, his purpose obvious as he headed for the boys.
"Erik, no," Charles commanded.
"You can't stop me, Charles," he replied uncaringly, his thoughts leading to only one destination.
"No," Charles agreed, "but I would like a word with you first… in my study."
Erik stopped short. He seemed displeased but, luckily, he could also see reason at times— when he wanted to. There came a small nod of consent. "Lead the way," he conceded.
Charles's chair whirred as he spun it around, directing them inside the manor. Any children they passed made Erik rather self-conscious. All his arrogant words aside, it seemed he didn't want any run-ins with Charles's students, if for no other reason than the inconvenience it would cause. They remained calm, however, indeed under a telepathic spell.
A year ago, Charles would have been most embarrassed by the cluttered state of his office. A year ago, it couldn't even have been called such. But then, a year ago Charles had also been in an inebriated state of despondence, so the odds that he would have even considered getting embarrassed were rather minimal. There had been much time to fix all of that, however, and fix it he had. Charles housed himself once more inside of a bookish study— the sort of tidy, pretentious space that Erik took delight in mocking.
Charles entered first, Erik behind him, shutting the door with a wave of his hand. For a man who could give such verbose speeches and argue until the sun itself grew tired and went to bed, Erik could still be rendered silent in a moment of discomfort. He paced the office, trying to allow Charles to work up the nerve to confess to him. However, he had only so much patience for peace.
"You look good, Charles," Erik stated, though he wasn't even glancing in his direction. He gazed instead through the windows and the bright outside. "Very good, much better now that you've trimmed your hair."
"Don't," was all Charles said in reply, a brief warning against intimacy. He had in him no current want to walk such a path of conversation.
There was another moment of silence, a moment of reluctance in which time was a hiding place. But Charles could not hide forever, as much as he may have wanted to. He sighed heavily before saying, "What is it you want to know?"
"Everything," Erik told him. "Everything. But if you tell me nothing more than that David is my son, I will be content." He sounded earnest, but Charles could not help laughing at him.
"No, you won't," he mocked.
"I need to know, Charles," Erik said, nearly begged.
"I say you will not be content because he is nearly eleven now and still shows no sign of having a mutation. Not unless you include heterochromia, which I doubt you do. He has no powers, Erik." If Charles took cruel delight in telling the man that, it was his own business and not to be judged by anyone else.
"He will though," Erik insisted, compelled by vanity. "With the two of us as his fathers, I—"
"You see!" Charles interrupted, cackling. "What if he never gets them? What if he's human, Erik?"
"I… I would…"
He didn't seem to have an immediate answer, and so Charles put him out of the misery of its search. "Be grateful you still have one mutant child in Pietro?" he asked. "I have dozens of justifiable reasons to keep him from you. Do not question or criticize any decisions I have made thus far, my friend."
A silence descended and Charles was of a mindset to let it grow. He knew he was perhaps being unjustly callous, but he felt himself still reeling from his forced disclosure of the matter. It was not his decision to inform the man, and he did not enjoy telling him either. So many years of trying to avoid one simple fate, wasted.
Erik would not drop his interest though. Charles would have been surprised if he did. With a small degree of hesitancy, he said, "Tell me what happened. When did you find out?"
"It wasn't before you left, if that's what you're wondering." Charles shook his head, clearing it a little. "No, I'm sure I would have joyfully told you, so in love was I then." He exhaled, and it felt as though each pause managed to take small increments of enmity from him. There was always a certain ease to letting go of past woes, especially ones he had made a tentative peace with. "I received surgery in a hospital in Florida. When I awoke, my doctor was beside me. He told me… a splinter of chipped bone had grazed my small intestine. And in his efforts to repair that damage, he saw something else, something quite out of place." Charles halted again and shrugged his shoulders as he wrapped up, saying, "I wiped his mind and returned home with the boys. Thus began the first stage of my seclusion."
Erik listened to him intently, nodding along as Charles went, reflecting on his short narrative. But when he had finished, there returned that pendulating coarseness for which the man was so well known. "You should have let me know," he said.
"Yes, I agree," Charles stated sarcastically. "With everything on my mind at the time— the loss of my legs, a school to open, a child…" His voice quit him without warning, momentarily paralyzed by past emotion. He banged his fist lightly on the arm of his chair and cleared his throat. "A child to think of— I should have dropped it all to find a man who didn't want to be found."
"You could have thought of something," Erik insisted. He did not seem angry over the lack of effort Charles had put forth, but he didn't look woefully upset about it either. Sometimes the man was an open book, other times he was a vault. The most Charles could discern was that he simply appeared to be disappointed over having been left out. It would suit him to have such a reaction, especially if it left him with the option of blaming someone besides himself.
"Or I could have spared myself one monstrous headache and dealt only with the problems before me. Which is what I did," Charles said, sighing loudly and with every bit of frustration the situation had given him over the years. "And after he was born, well, let's just say that it's far from pleasant to watch a news report of your seven-month-old's father being arrested for shooting the president."
"You know better now," Erik objected.
"But not then I didn't."
It was obvious from Erik's continuous bouts of silence that navigating through their conversation was a hardship for him. He knew it to be a minefield, with a treachery only increased by his own short tempered involvement. At any moment he could say or do something that put Charles off his flow. So again and again he would pause, carefully considering his next line of questioning.
"What is he like?" he finally asked.
Charles snorted. "Why do you care?"
"He's my son," Erik heatedly reminded him.
"No, he's my son!" Charles shouted. "Mine!"
Erik was taken aback by the unbound ferocity of his outburst, so suddenly did it attack. Then he averted his gaze, giving Charles a moment to bring himself back together.
When Charles did rebuild himself to a figure of cool restraint, he knew there was a piece missing. There was no smile or even passivity to his face. Instead he felt a heavy pull, a weight that dragged his lips into frowning. Upon his bones gravity seemed doubled and his shoulders slumped with a long existent weariness. "If I'm being honest," he admitted, slowly, sadly, "I don't know much, not in regards to his likes or- or dislikes. He won't let me in unless I read his mind. I fear he may hate me."
"That's not possible," Erik contested. The very idea that it could be seemed to offend him personally.
"It is though," Charles sullenly argued. "It really is. I," he exhaled, "ignored him… for years. It was a selfish time for me that I'd take back if I could. Like mother, like son, I suppose." Charles laughed, just once, a self-indulgent hum for levity's sake that only sounded all the more forlorn. "He bonded with Hank instead, whose support these past years has been so very, very crucial. But David and me," he shook his head, "no, I think I've missed my chance."
"It's never too late," Erik assured, though it was evident that the lie was as much for himself and his own private benefit as it was for its intended.
Charles sniffed and rubbed at his watering eyes with the palm of his hand. Then he cleared his throat purposefully. "I," he stammered, "I don't want to talk about him anymore. If you have questions about Pietro, though, I will answer them as best I can."
There was a gallant defiance alight in Erik's eyes, opposition born from compassion. His face was an open book of sympathy. He approached Charles where he sat beside his desk. His hand reached out between them, marching forward in a meticulously measured progression.
"No," Charles begged.
Erik ignored his request. He leaned over him, tenderly stroking the side of his face with a gentle brush. His thumb swept over Charles's cheek, dancing upon a stage of pale skin and faded freckles. It traced the outline of soft cheekbones, rose higher to caress the lower lid of a closed eye— the skin of which was so much darker and tired than the world had right to have made it, than he had right. Charles put up no fight at all, leaning against the hand, basking in its touch like a cat in sunlight. He always loved the calm before the storm, and with Erik the cause for uncertainty would never lie in their presence, but their duration.
"He will love you," the man ensured with a whisper, his calm tone offset by the firm conviction with which he said it.
In a less cynical time, Charles might have fallen to the man's persuasion. "I fear he won't." To believe otherwise felt like magic misplaced in a time of science. Erik moved his thumb over his brow, resting it upon the side of his face, and Charles opened his eyes to the filtered sunlight again. "I've been trying for over a year," he lamented, "making such little progress."
Erik watched his face with unguarded tenderness. Then he knelt down, leaning his head forward. In a brief second of unease, Charles thought he was after a kiss, and he was more than ready to push him away if he tried. It was not the time and he was not of the temperament for such things. But Erik only dropped his head down, resting it against Charles's chest in a way that was more for selfish indulgence than a comfort, evidenced by how unpleasantly bent over he was.
"I am sorry," he murmured sadly, and his words caught in the thick wool of Charles's sweater.
Charles brought his hand up— forgoing stubborn appearances in a moment where fond desire was king— and rested it against the other's back, rubbing lightly.
"You need not apologize," he told Erik kindly. "This time… it isn't your fault."
Charles knew that Erik felt the need to comfort him more than he actually needed to be comforted, and so they did not move but for a gentle touch.
When his wandering hand moved higher, beginning a new track, Charles's fingers tenderly massaged the skin of Erik's neck until his knuckles bumped against the helmet. "Take this off," he chided.
"I can't," Erik replied.
"Take it off."
"You could wipe my memories," the man pointed out, "erase what I've learned."
"No," Charles denied, giving his head a little shake, knowing futility and defeat when he saw it. "You figured it out fair and square through my own bumbling mistake. To take that would be unsportsmanlike."
Slowly, with every expectation that he would be opposed, Charles put his hands on either side of the helmet and gently removed it. Erik didn't stop him, merely lifted his head in compliance.
He sat the insulting helmet upon his desk and Erik resumed leaning against him. It felt nice, Charles thought, stroking the soft, short hair with his fingers, unmindful if he furthered a mess that the helmet had already patterned. After a moment, Erik's hand reached up. He placed it upon the flat expanse of Charles's stomach, spreading out his fingers.
"What are you doing?" Charles questioned, looking down at the man and the small display of intensity that could be seen in his face.
"I'm imagining," Erik told him, incredibly pensive over the matter.
"Don't imagine that," Charles commanded, almost scolding. "It was a horrible sight."
Ever one to do the exact opposite of what was asked, Erik ignored him. He moved his hand in small, concise movements. His eyes closed in a concentration not often seen outside of battlefields or terrible exhibitions of power.
To say he tired of his imaginings would have been untrue, but after a moment, he did compartmentalize his thoughts and spoke on another subject, requesting, "Tell me about Pietro."
"Well," Charles began, almost as official as he would have been when speaking with any standard parent, "he's been here for seven months now. Despite what a pain he can be, I was still very grateful for his help that day, very impressed. I thought he'd be a great candidate for the school." The satisfaction of the man in his lap was near tangible and of a contradicting nature in which smug paternal arrogance both calmed and ruffled him with pride, leaving squared shoulders and a straighter back. "I traveled to D.C. again, spoke with his mother. She told me," he paused for a second, hesitating in a limbo regarding disclosed confidentiality and its consequences. "She told me that she's his adoptive mother, not biological. Pietro doesn't know."
Erik stilled, ever so slightly, then nodded his head, letting Charles know he understood his desire to preserve secrecy.
"I was told his real mother came to America in fear many years ago. She'd run from the father, a monster, she claimed." It did not go unnoticed by Charles that Erik had stopped completely, perhaps even to the point of holding his breath, no doubt anxious or troubled. "I'm rather surprised I didn't think of you sooner," Charles said, and though he meant it as a good-natured jest, it was received as anything but.
"Charles," Erik implored quietly, "please. I prefer not to think about that part of my life." He stopped, and though Charles knew what he would say next, he also wanted him to voice it aloud. After a moment he did, if only to give up midway through. "What happened to…"
"She died."
Erik's hand stopped in its press against Charles's abdomen. He clutched the soft fabric in a tight fist, an action unnoticed under the overpowering dominion of internal thought. Charles placed his own pacifying hand over it and the harshness of the grip receded.
"I'm sorry," Charles spoke. Erik shook his head in a clearing, dismissive way. His breathing resumed its routine tempo. His hand folded out flat again, pushing harder, as though trying to feel life against it. "The woman I spoke with said that much of what she'd learned in her brief acquaintance with the mother was kept secret from Pietro. The only reason she even mentioned your abilities to him was so that he would feel a little less out of place with his own powers." Charles sighed, long and heavy, clearing the air of fouler memories. "He's adjusted well here. An annoyance, to be sure, but an endearing one." He hesitated briefly, then shared, "David loves him, he does. Sometimes I think even more so than he loves Hank."
"That's good," Erik remarked, saying it in a way that one might think it was the end result of a long constructed plan.
"I thought they simply clicked," Charles admitted, "eager playmates. In a hundred years, I'd have never credited the cause to their being brothers."
"And yet you would deny them knowledge of their relationship," Erik spoke, displeased and judgmental.
"I care, first and foremost, over the mental impact such knowledge could have," Charles replied. "They act like brothers already. Telling them would change nothing."
Grateful when no further words of argument were voiced, Charles took a deep breath, contemplating further matters, weighing the risk of aggression.
"There's one other thing you should know," he began, most unsure of himself but finding it too late to stop. Erik could obsess upon secrets like a dog with a bone. "It took Pietro a very long time to confess this to me, so I want you to respect my breech of trust and not mention it to him unless he does first."
"What is it?" Erik asked, but Charles would not continue until he had agreed to play ignorant on the matter.
Precisely, haltingly Charles informed him that, "He has a sister, Wanda… a twin sister."
Erik jerked up at once, pushing against Charles and quickly sitting back on his heels. He stared him in the face, looking suddenly very serious and in no mood for verbal delays. "Where is she?" he questioned.
"She's not here," Charles answered, making himself appear calm and sincere. "Despite how much I would like her to be, she's not."
"Where is she?" Erik repeated. The question had already begun to lose its beseeching tone, replaced instead with one of command.
"The only reason Pietro admitted it to me at all was so that I could find her and look into helping her," Charles continued, allowing himself the delusion that a levelheaded conversation was taking place.
Erik stood, under some false impression that height or looming anger could intimidate him. "Where is she, Charles?"
Though it was a typical and most infuriating response to come from the man before him, Charles could understand his sense of urgency. Erik may have been new to parenting, but a parent he was nonetheless. Calmly, Charles told him, "She's in an institution, Erik."
The satisfaction of a definitive answer did not seem to quell Erik's anger. If anything, Charles's response had fed it. Few other things could have been expected from such a revelation, however, and Charles knew that.
"Where?" Erik demanded.
"I can't tell you," Charles stated, and he took special care to maintain his composure. The absolute last thing needed in that moment was another shouting match.
"Why?"
"Because," he explained, very succinct, "I fear you may do something rash, like breaking her out, for instance."
"That's none of your concern," Erik snapped. But Charles knew that it was, as much as he knew that liberating Wanda was the immediate thought harbored in the other's head. He didn't even need his power to discern such an obvious fact.
"It is very much my concern. She has powers, Erik, strong, wild abilities." He paused in his speech, feeling as though he were in class, trying to explain a tricky subject to a troubled student. "She needs to be there, for now."
Erik growled, turning his back. "At the mercy of humans," he hissed, "their experimentations?"
"At the mercy of myself, Erik." Though slight, the man turned an eye back to him. "I'm overseeing her care. It may be a misuse of my power, but I ensure that none of her caretakers ever have it in their mind to hurt her or allow entrance to anyone that would." His assurance did little, if anything, to put the other's mind at ease, but Erik did turn back around to face him, shoulders still raised high and rigid in his ire. "I visit her once a week. We're making progress."
Still the man argued, "You mean to suppress her abilities."
"Erik!" Charles yelled. It was only with an unfortunate understanding of how badly their arguments could escalate that he, almost reluctantly, dragged himself back under control. "She needs this," he told him, slowly, imploring. "I am teaching her control, the same way I helped you so long ago." He cast his eyes, large and beseeching, upon the other, his underhanded advantage gained through past familiarity. "I wish only what's best for her, to have her here one day. Knowing that she is your daughter… Well, now I feel a whole other layer of protection towards her."
"I would like to speak with Pietro now."
Charles was cautious to hear such an abrupt change of subject. He knew better than to believe Erik would ever drop a matter so fast, not one that he had lost. A plan was already formulating behind his eyes, laid out clearly like a blueprint. Charles would not deny him his futilities, but he would be more careful in the future with any matter involving the girl.
"First you need to calm down," Charles said. "Sit."
He pointed to a chair beside his desk. After a moment Erik obeyed, sitting straight and proper, no longer residing in the mindset of ease that had so recently had him resting over Charles's lap.
"I'm sure this has been quite a shock for you," Charles stated. His tone was one of amusement, but it was more the sort of imposed levity in an awkward situation than one of genuine delight. "Here you come, parading into my school, hoping to meet with your son. Then you learn of two more children you didn't even know of. I hope we needn't worry about anymore turning up," he jested.
"No," Erik said, halting in a distracted way that revealed he was thinking the matter through in real time. "No, there shouldn't be. Not that I can think of."
"You're right when you say I can't stop you from talking to Pietro," Charles affirmed, serious once more. "But I want you to understand what a shock this might be to him. If you insist on upsetting the world as he knows it, you must do so kindly, calmly."
Erik nodded solemnly. "And when may I speak with David?"
"Never," Charles answered, turning most strict. "That I do have a say in. Never, Erik."
"He's my son," Erik argued.
"Then love him," Charles pleaded. "Understand that his life has been difficult enough already. Don't add to it by letting him know his father is a terrorist who hates humans. Especially when he may be one."
"He will be old enough to understand one day," Erik tried to reason.
"If such a day ever truly comes," Charles told him, "I hope you would be a good enough father to let it pass by." He gave Erik a moment to consider his small request, to commit it to memory, then he put his fingers to his temple. "I'll call Pietro now, if you're ready."
"Do it," he stated simply, giving a slight nod of his head.
It took what must have been no more than two seconds for Pietro to appear. The door slammed open with a forcefulness born more from haste than actual strength. When he came to a stop in the middle of the room, he was holding an excited David in his arms, head held firmly to his chest. The two boys ceased in their revelry the second they laid eyes on Erik.
"What's he doing here?" Pietro asked suspiciously. He readjusted the boy in his arms, holding him closer in a way that could have been taken as incidental from the heavy weight or as purposeful and protective.
Charles felt his breath catch in his throat. His chest ached with a weight of pure anxiety. He looked between each occupant in the room before speaking to Pietro in a way that he felt was closer to yelling than he meant for it to be. "Why did you bring David?"
"Sorry," Pietro responded, looking affronted but standing his ground, "didn't know it was invite only. What's he doing here?" he questioned again.
"David, darling," Charles spoke, not purposefully ignoring Pietro's inquiry, but not addressing it either, "I need you to go back outside and play."
Pietro sat the boy down, but instead of David leaving as requested, he approached Erik with purpose.
"You're the bad man," he said.
"I'm not," Erik replied, in no way speaking down to the boy like the child that he was. He kept his head up high and David did the same. "You'll understand when you're older."
"You hate humans," David remarked, sounding judgmental.
"I could never hate you," Erik promised, and there was affection in his voice.
David said nothing. He took a step closer, then he closed his eyes and exhaled before opening them wide, staring sharply at Erik.
Charles watched the boy, unnerved by the display. "David," he questioned uneasily, "what are you doing?"
Suddenly Erik released a tormented cry. He held twitching hands to his head as if in pain, doubling over in his chair.
"What are you doing?" Charles shouted, but it was a question whose answer he was disastrously aware of. "Stop! Get out of there."
He put his fingers to his head, watching the physical concentration on David's face, the intense but vacant stare of a blue eye beside its mismatched twin of green. Charles quickly felt the third presence in Erik's mind, searching aimlessly, heedless of damage caused. He couldn't pry the boy out.
"Pietro," Charles ordered distractedly, "take him away."
The aggressive presence retracted. David lowered his eyes and left him alone in Erik's mind, either satisfied or finally brought back by Charles's voice.
"You're my father," David stated bluntly, still looking at Erik but regarding him with the passive curiosity of a scientist upon a rat, deliberating on the possibility of potential.
Erik fell heavily against the arm of his chair. "Yes," he groaned in response, still in pain with head aching. He looked like an unfortunate torture victim whose bindings had been cut loose, leaving him to fall boneless and exhausted.
"No," Charles objected, pointless as it may have been, "he isn't. Pietro, take him outside."
Pietro stepped forward, looking confused and shaken by the episode that had taken place before him. He grabbed David's hand and led him out, closing the door behind them.
Erik slumped forward with a moan, relinquishing his last bit of composure, feeling no need to maintain a façade of strength in front of only Charles. "You said he had no powers," he muttered, taking deep breaths as Charles moved his wheelchair around the desk.
Bending forward as much as he could, Charles put his hands against the other's head. Erik leaned into them as if they were a cool rag against a fever. The damage was minimal, more physical anguish than psychological. Charles fixed what lay within his realm of skill, realigning broken thoughts and memories. Anything more would have to fade like any other unpleasant headache.
"I didn't know," he whispered soothingly, apologetically. He rubbed Erik's head all over, petting and calming. "I didn't know." Seeking more, Erik moved forward, resting his head as best he could against Charles's shoulder.
There was a purposeful silence as the telepath went about his mental work, but when the distorted pain and blurred thoughts ebbed, so too did the quiet. "Your son lacks a certain finesse, Charles," Erik murmured against him, lips catching on his sweater.
"My son?" Charles laughed mockingly. "Suddenly he's my son."
"The telepath?" Erik pointed out. "Yes."
"And yet it's you and your brood who typically seem to be lacking in control," Charles countered. He had mostly finished any mending by then, but continued weaving his fingers through the other's shortened hair out of odd indulgence. "Barging through a mind like a wrecking ball feels like all the proof of paternity we could ever need." He hit Erik lightly on the head, ordering him to, "Stop smiling."
"You can't even see me," he remarked.
"No," Charles said, "but I know you."
The arrogant grin could almost be felt, its presence biting through clothing, pressing against bare skin. "He has powers," Erik stated, and there was a great mirth that danced corruptly in those three simple words.
"He does," Charles agreed, still reeling from the news of it. "But he was also fine the way he was before. This changes nothing."
Erik scoffed. "You're telling me to not be proud of my son."
"I'm telling you to be proud for the right reasons. You still know nothing about who he is," Charles debated tiredly, "and yet suddenly you seem to love him."
"I already loved him," Erik confessed, and if there was truth in that alone, it was a small blessing in Charles's favor. "I loved him when he was only your son. I loved him more after discovering he was mine as well."
"And now you love him entirely," Charles surmised, feeling slightly bitter.
"Yes," Erik confirmed.
"Now that he's a mutant," he clarified cynically.
"He's perfect." There was an ill tasting pride in his words, difficult for Charles to swallow without anger.
"Well," he muttered, "thank goodness such a decision was made easier for you. I would hate having to see you struggle through loving a human."
"I love him," Erik claimed with a sigh, somehow identifying himself as the insulted party. "Why should anything else matter? Let me speak with him."
"No."
"He knows now, Charles. There's no point in hiding it."
"Perhaps you shouldn't have been thinking it so loudly," Charles reprimanded, resolute in his stance that knowledge on both sides did not merit an acknowledgement or introduction.
Erik braced his hands against the armrests of his chair and sat up, looking dizzied with a head that was obviously still throbbing. "He was in the room, talking to me," he defended, pressing a firm hand against his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. "What else was I supposed to think of?"
"A million other things," Charles lectured. "You've gotten sloppy, I think. Relying too much on that ridiculous helmet."
"I could have used my helmet just now," Erik said. He dropped his hand from in front of his eyes and held it out. The helmet drifted to him.
"I hate that thing," Charles muttered, quite aware of how childish he sounded.
"I hate telepaths wreaking havoc inside my brain," Erik retorted. Out of a mutual respect between just the two of them, however, he did not put the helmet back on. Instead he allowed it to rest like a loaded weapon in his lap.
"Oh," Charles quipped, "but a moment ago you were so proud."
"Teach him control," Erik instructed. "Then I shall be most proud indeed." There was a small comfort in knowing that when he said that, he was speaking with the utmost sincerity. He would be proud, as Charles would be proud, if still for different and warring reasons.
"I'm not sure how unrefined his abilities are actually." Charles spoke slowly, more thinking aloud than making actual conversation. "He knew he had his powers, yet I haven't sensed him in anyone's heads. I think he knows where my mind is, has avoided me expertly." He nodded his head absently, arriving at a conclusion that felt obvious and undeniable. "He may know what he's doing."
"Then what was that?" Erik questioned, gesturing around the room.
Charles chuckled. It was mostly out of genuine mirth, but it also held a trickle of proud mockery. "Have you considered the option that he just doesn't like you?" he asked. "The big, bad man who attacked his father, his only friend, and the president all on television. He saw, Erik. He watched it with Pietro. But then," he hummed and presented a bittersweet smile, "that was what you wanted, wasn't it? To reach out to all mutants, all people?"
"I wasn't aware you were there at the time," Erik stated, but it was a cowardly and subject changing defense.
"Do not try to fool me— or yourself," Charles said, leveling the other with a look that judged and absolved. "You wore your helmet. Not to mention surely you must have known that wherever Hank and Logan were, wherever destruction and years of setbacks were occurring by your hands, that I couldn't have been far behind."
Erik said nothing, knowing he had not a single leg to stand on. But to apologize for his actions that day would have been out of character to him, not to mention a lie. "It's in the past now," he said.
"And yet," Charles replied, "a little boy seems to remember it very clearly."
"I would like to speak with him," Erik urged, "to set the record straight."
"Then I wish you luck," Charles said with a laugh. "Because, as you said, he is my son. And he sees the benefits of humanity and allying with them as well as I."
His continued push for coexistence seemed to offend Erik, raising small traces of ire to his composed face like bubbles in a pot of boiling water. "Even after you learned of that future?" he sneered.
"Especially after having learned about it," Charles affirmed, already hopeful that they had been set on a new path that evaded ruination. "But even if David were susceptible to your clever speeches, there is still the fact that you have no right to speak with him. Should I find you've gone behind my back," he warned, "I believe you will see in me a wrath most powerful."
"I am his father!" Erik exclaimed.
"You keep saying that so defensively," Charles remarked, sitting high in his judgment, "and yet you only learned the fact today. I suggest you take some time to evaluate the responsibility that comes with the position and get back to me."
"I'm unable to stay in one place for too long," he said. "It's not as though I can sleep on it and report my conclusions to you in the morning."
"And therein lies some of the problem, Erik," Charles explained, honestly wishing that it wasn't true. "You're nothing but an errant fugitive, blowing through by chance. Fathers are supposed to raise their children."
Erik chuckled cruelly, a quick sound that droned deep in his throat, finding his own amusement in the other's words. "Or of course," he taunted, "pass the responsibility off on their furry little assistant."
The displeasure in Charles was immediate, manifesting in a glare that he knew conveyed more grief than anger.
"I apologize." Erik's eyes fell at once in shame, but Charles cared not for his penance. He directed his chair across the room instead, waiting before the door. "That was out of line," Erik confessed, and his voice seemed to beg for a pardon that Charles wanted to deny him. He gave it anyway, through no more than a simple nod.
"I will send Pietro to you," he said, "as agreed. You will stay away from David, as told."
"He will surely ask after me," Erik reasoned, acknowledging the undeniable fact. "Now that he knows, he will."
"And I will take care of it," Charles replied with a sigh.
Erik spun in his seat, looking fully at him, his brow falling low and casting shade upon his eyes. "Don't bury it, Charles," he said, a plea that came growling with bared teeth. "Don't you bury me in his head. You say you're for fair play. He found out on his own. Don't make him forget that."
Charles wanted to laugh at the absurdity, to laugh about how quickly those with underhanded methods suspected the same from others. "I was simply going to talk with him," he told the man, assuaging fears that might have done him good to keep. "Don't give me ideas, especially not ones that sound so appealing."
"All I want is to know my son," he restated.
"Then be happy and not greedy in the one that you have access to," Charles tried to reason. "Does Pietro lose his appeal simply because you're more distracted by my saying 'no' about the other one?"
"Of course not," Erik refuted, shaking his head at such nonsense.
"Then know him if you're so eager to be a father suddenly. And perhaps one day David will be old enough that he shows interest in you, doesn't want to crush your mind," Charles said, forcing a smile. "Until then, respect my wishes and stay away."
Erik paused, genuinely contemplating the matter, deep confliction quarrelling within.
"Very well," he agreed after a moment. "I am patient. I will wait."
"Good," Charles said, blowing out a great sigh of relief, feeling a substantial weight lifted. "Are there anymore matters we need to clear up before I call Pietro back?"
"I would like to accompany you on a visit to see the girl— Wanda," Erik answered, wasting not a second to put in his request.
"That I cannot allow," Charles said, sorry that it had to be the way of things.
"I would leave my helmet in the car," Erik vowed, "an act of good faith."
"But still remember the institution's location for future reference and escape attempts." He shook his head, imploring the other to understand his reasoning, his warranted trust issues. "No, Erik. Like David, this is simply one you shall have to wait for."
"You give me one child of three," he argued, his temper devolving into that of a sullen child.
"Then appreciate your one all the more dearly," Charles counseled him. He hesitated, knowing that when the conversation ended their time together would die soon after. That moment of solitary relief was the sweetest inevitability Charles had dreaded the promise of in a long while. "I'll go now," he said, "leave the room for you and Pietro."
"Charles."
Erik crossed the room in long strides, conquering the divide in little more than a second. He leaned over Charles, his intention obvious and screaming in his mind. Charles turned his head to the side, but Erik pursued. Surrender came quick after the forfeiture of denial. Strength of will was absent, passed over in a headcount, and Charles turned shamelessly back into it.
The kiss was the most tempting of dark promises, and Charles felt himself a younger man for having fallen to its corruption. A dozen years melted away. He felt his legs, he felt hope, felt passion. There was tenderness and there was love.
Then Erik pulled away, revealing his spell as illusion. He rested his forehead lightly against Charles's. The intimacy remained, but all else lay broken. Once more, Charles was forced to accept ignored facts. He was in a wheelchair, and there was a distance stretched between himself and Erik that no amount of steps or touches could close.
"I have truly missed that," Erik whispered, still enthralled by his fantasy or in denial of its collapse.
Charles himself dwelled long in silence, feeling the gentle touch of callused fingers worship him, appraise him like a fine work of art. "Yes," he agreed simply.
Erik nipped lightly at his lips, left soft kisses in the corners. "Perhaps after I've spoken with Pietro we could—"
"No."
Touch stopped, but the presence remained in one second of doubt, hoping vainly to have heard wrong. "I understand," he said, and there was a sincerity in his voice that reflected in his face when he pulled away.
He stood. Charles backed away, further approaching the door. Erik opened it for him.
"Leave the helmet off," Charles told him. "You look far more approachable without it."
"Anymore recommendations?" Erik asked.
He looked genuinely eager for it, and Charles could not deny him what he had. "Don't pause when you have trouble getting something out," he cautioned Erik. "He has a hard enough time paying attention as it is. When people slow down even further, they lose him completely. Just spit it out and talk things through."
"Noted," the man replied, seeming to take the advice to heart.
"Erik," Charles said, "I really do wish you luck. He may not be understanding. Remain patient."
He nodded, and Charles put his hand to his head.
Pietro took slightly longer to appear that time. But even dragging his feet, the boy still managed to show up in under five seconds. He was, thankfully, alone.
"Still here, huh?" he questioned, looking at Erik.
"Yes, uh," Erik faltered, clearing his throat, "I'm still here."
Charles moved his chair closer to Pietro. "Erik would like to speak with you," he said, gesturing at the man, "if that's all right."
Pietro shrugged. "Ain't joining no evil organization," he told them.
"That's not what this is about," Charles said, though he would have been blind to miss the look in Erik's eye that said it still very much could be. "Right, Erik?"
"Of course," the man agreed, and Charles hoped he wasn't lying.
"I'll leave you to it," he said, putting the matter in Erik's hands. "I believe I have much to discuss with David."
"Boy, I'll say," Pietro confirmed. He tagged on a whistle at the end to convey his own surprise in the matter, and it made Charles grimace further. He could only imagine how David was reacting to the news.
"Erik," he urged with a sigh, "don't leave when you're done here. I'd like to escort you out so that no one is startled." Erik nodded his head, and Charles hoped he could depend on that as a trustworthy answer. "All right then." He directed his chair out of the room, not looking back, despite temptation.
Erik shut the door, and when he turned around, Pietro had disappeared. Instead the boy was sitting in one of the chairs by Charles's desk, propping his feet up on the surface. Erik felt a need to scold him, yell at the boy for his disrespect, but he ignored the impulse. His shoes didn't look that dirty anyway— worn down and smoothed, yes, but not dirty.
"Your speed is very impressive," he spoke, flattering the other.
"Yeah," Pietro replied smugly, "you should tell me something I don't know."
Pausing only for a second, Erik took a breath. Then he went straight for Charles's 'quick to the point' strategy.
"Well, for starters, I'm your father."
The mention of Wanda in an institution is something I took from the X-Men: Evolution plot with her. I know they most likely didn't include her in the movie because there simply wasn't enough time to get into her character and all, but this is my own excuse. I think it's better than continuing to ignore her altogether. Not that I'm giving her a big role either… I'd like to. Can't I just write about their children forever? That sounds nice.
