Belong Chapter 4: Act 3: Resurgence & Retribution (Pt 1), a x-men: the movie fanfic

Firstly, I forgot to mention that the previous act was largely inspired by Birdy's cover of White Winter Hymnal. Give it a listen, if interested.

Secondly, I split this final act into two parts for an easier read. Where I split them has no significance other than it was roughly the halfway point of this monster of an act.

Lastly, I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH YOU'RE SO KIND AND I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS

Act 3: Resurgence & Retribution (Part 1)

December 31, 1969, Arlington, Virginia

1,320 feet below the Pentagon, there was a prison cell. It was composed of concrete and industrial-grade polymers. It was heavily guarded. It was designed to contain the most powerful of mutants. And on New Year's Eve, it would be cracked open like an egg.

"No, Peter," Charles reprimanded with a slight sigh. "We're not cooking an omelet; we're performing a highly dangerous—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Peter cut him off. Charles had drilled him with all the facts that Moira had "let slip." (Honestly, Peter wondered how that woman hadn't lost her job with the CIA yet.) Peter knew a great deal about the Pentagon, what lay beneath it, and just how they would infiltrate it.

"You know, Professor," Hank said from the driver's seat, an electronic device in hand, "this extraction would be ten times easier with Raven. There's still time for her—"

"Even if she did agree to help the man she condemned to this hell," Charles cut him off crisply, "there isn't time; there's only a half hour to midnight."

"It doesn't have to be midnight," Hank said. "Just because people will be most distracted at that time—"

Charles grabbed the device from Hank. "Out of the car, Henry."

Peter grinned at Hank's unamused expression; he loved it when someone else was in trouble.

Hank flipped a switch on the side of the device, and a black-and-white screen lit up. It would be ready to detonate when Charles pressed the large red button.

"Can you see through my mind?" Hank checked. Charles nodded.

Can you hear me? Charles checked in on both their minds.

CRYSTAL CLEAR, Peter mentally shouted back.

Charles jerked away instinctively, bringing fingers to his temples.

"You said to broadcast my thoughts so you wouldn't have to go into my mind!" Peter defended.

"Yes," Charles agreed with a thin smile, "just tone it back a notch next time, if you'd please."

Hank looked at his watch. "Twenty-eight minutes. Let's go." He pushed out of the car, and Peter followed.

"And, Peter?" Charles called.

Peter looked back into the dark car.

"Please don't overdo it," Charles kindly begged, bringing out his large, doe eyes. "You've only just recovered from your shoulder's infection—"

"I'm invincible, Professor X!" Peter flashed his winning smile and then flashed around the corner to join Hank.

"You seein' everything, Professor?" Hank murmured aloud.

Yes, Charles said to both of them. Head in through the west wing's front entrance; it only has three guards tonight, and they're now sound asleep.

Sure enough, the two walked right through the entrance of the Pentagon, and all three guards were slumped unnaturally into sleep.

"Wicked!" Peter cheered with his grin.

Go left.

Those words, from Charles's voice, in Peter's mind—it brought back memories. Memories that Peter preferred caged in a box underneath the bed of his mind. So that's where he shoved them when they rattled.

Peter grabbed the back of Hank's head (to prevent whiplash, which evidently, could be a consequence of moving as fast as Peter. Hank had learned that the hard way after practicing for tonight). The two sped through the left of the building and found an elevator right where Charles said it would be.

The door opened, and revealed a guard. The man snapped to attention as he caught sight of the mutants, hand flying to his gun.

At least, that's what Peter assumed he was trying to do. He didn't give him the chance to do more than twitch before Peter whipped a large roll of duct tape from the back of his gray jeans. In the time it took Hank to blink, the guard was heavily secured to the elevator's wall, tape over his mouth. Peter had even gone the extra mile, taping the word "loser" over the man's chest.

Peter stepped back, let time resume, and snickered at his handiwork.

"I thought we vetoed the duct tape," Hank said disapprovingly as he followed Peter into the elevator and pressed for the lowest level.

We did, Charles's stern voice said. And now I'll need to wipe his memories of you two.

Peter watched in fascination as the guard's face screwed up in confusion and then slumped into unconsciousness. "Totally wicked."

"Here's the resonance frequency sensors," Hank said, handing the three small circles to Peter. "You remember where to put them?"

Peter almost rolled his eyes. "You only told me three thousand times. As if I can't shatter the glass with my speediness." He wiggled a hand.

Hank gave him that teacher look. "And for the three thousandth time I'm telling you—you're still on the mend, and we're not wasting any more of your energy than we have to."

Peter grumbled at that.

"Just remember to tell Charles when you're ready for them to be activated."

Peter nodded.

Ready? Charles asked in Peter's head.

Peter nodded again, knowing that he could see through Hank's eyes.

Remember, only speed on your way out, Charles reminded him. Walk slowly in so that I can shield you properly.

Peter nodded and quietly took a deep breath.

The elevator chimed.

Good luck.

The elevator door opened. Ten guards waited at attention, five lined up on each side of the corridor. At the end of the hall was a large, open doorway.

Peter darted a final look at Hank's encouraging smile and then took a tentative step into the hallway. He shuffled forwards a bit, looking back and forth between the walls of armed men. Seriously—every guy here had a plastic gun loaded with plastic bullets.

They can't see you, Charles assured him. Walk normally.

Peter forced himself into a typical person's pace and pretended that everyone just had those plastic water guns from Toys "R" Us. None of the guards so much as glanced at Peter. Just as he reached the doorway, Peter indulged in waving his hand directly in the last guard's face. No response. Peter grinned.

And then he turned to the doorway. His stomach painfully tightened with anticipation and a whole mix of emotions that he couldn't name. He stepped through it, noticing how dim it was. He walked further in, and he noticed the illuminated room below.

There. Right there, in the middle of that plastic-and-concrete-lined hole, was Erik Lehnsherr. He was lying on the bed with his arms behind his head, as if it was any other night. As if this wasn't one of the most pivotal nights of his entire existence.

Peter wasn't really sure what he was supposed to do. Sure, they trained and trained how they were going to break in and how they were going to break out. But they never talked about how Peter would get Erik's attention. Or what Peter would say to him once he busted his father out.

With panicked, wide eyes, Peter forced himself to just move. He dropped one of the resonance sensors on a glass window, and then one beside it, and then the third above so they formed a triangle.

He then looked to his father, realizing that he had to warn him against the soon-to-shatter glass.

Erik Lehnsherr was staring directly at Peter. Peter swallowed as those blue eyes, identical to his own, bore right into him with a honed intensity.

Peter gave his father a timid wave. Erik swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up and still staring with that piercing gaze.

Um... Peter motioned to put his hands over his ears.

Slowly, Erik mirrored the motions but kept his eyes on Peter.

DO THE THING! Peter mentally pushed to Charles. He turned away, putting his hands over his own ears. Distantly, glass shattered. And then a large, concrete slabbed dropped down where the doorway had been.

Peter forced himself to breathe normally; he was not confined here. He was not trapped in this prison. This was all a part of the plan.

A hand came down on his shoulder.

Peter whirled around at a superhuman speed. He looked up, realizing that either he hadn't grown as much as he'd thought or his dad was crazy tall.

"Pietro," Erik breathed. His blue eyes held a hint of disbelief.

Peter blinked. He hadn't heard that name in years. "H…hi!" He couldn't help but smile because his freaking dad was right here, standing in front of him, right here in front of him!

Erik's hands grabbed the back of Peter's silver-haired head and the center of his back before yanking him towards him.

Peter had a lot of issues that he wanted to throw at his father. Peter was pretty pissed that his dad had let himself end up under the Pentagon in the first place. But, right then, he was being hugged by his dad. He'd have to be braindead to not hug him back with everything he had.

As they pulled apart, Erik began mumbling to himself in German. While Peter's German had gotten seriously rusty in recent years, he caught words like "my God" and "insane children."

Peter grinned at the last part.

Ten seconds until the door opens, Charles tossed into Peter's mind.

"We gotta go," Peter said, grabbing his dad's arm and dragging him towards the sealed doorway.

Erik began pushing his son behind him. "You reckless child. Stay behind me."

Peter gave him a smug grin, a little smile that said "I know more than you do."

Erik narrowed his parental eyes at his son.

The concrete slab slid up, exposing the doorway.

"Freeze!" one of the ten guards shouted from their staggered, ready-to-shoot positions.

Whipping into super-speed, Peter reached up to support the back of his father's head. Huh. He realized that he probably should have made his dad crouch for this. Gently, Peter pushed on the back of his father's knees so he could reached the giant man's melon.

And then they shot off, flying past the guards and knocking each and every one off of their feet.

The two landed in the elevator a second later as Charles set to work on erasing the past minute's memories from the guards. With his knees bent during their flight, Erik collapsed to his hands and knees as soon as they entered the elevator. He remained there, trying to control his breathing and nausea.

With a dazed grin, Peter staggered and caught onto the wall for support. He was using all of his recovered energy on tonight, but it was so worth it.

Hank looked between the two with wide eyes and hit the elevator button. He looked stunned that any of this had actually worked.

"That was awesome," Peter said excitedly. "That was totally wicked, right? Like, did you see how those guards flew when I ran past them?!" He sagged against the wall and closed his eyes with a large smile.

From the floor, Erik was gripping the wall and hauling himself up to his feet. As soon as he was upright, he took a settling breath, and turned to face the others. He glanced at the duct taped, unconscious guard before looking to Peter.

Peter caught the look and grinned mischievously.

Erik glanced to his left and did a double take. He hadn't realized that anyone else was aboard their lift, let alone a familiar face.

Hank brought back his fist and slammed it into Erik's face.

Erik fell to the floor in shock, and Peter stared at them in shock, but no one was more shocked than Hank himself. "Oh, God!" Hank hurried to help up the metal-bender. "I'm so sorry! I, I have Charles in my head, and he must've just reacted—"

Erik stood and held up a please-stop-talking hand. Peter had missed that hand.

The elevator doors slid open, and Peter reached towards the men's heads.

"I don't think we'll need the speed," Hank cut him off, turning a bit green at the idea.

"We'll walk," Erik agreed hurriedly.

Peter frowned.

Erik grabbed onto his son's arm, and the three bustled (or crawled in slow motion to Peter) out of the elevator.

The three guards remained asleep as the mutants made their escape out of the building.

Hank led the way towards the black car parked alongside the street.

"I wanna drive!" Peter volunteered, pulling forwards.

Erik pulled his son back to him so that his son could see his horrified, reprimanding look.

"For the last time," Hank said with a pointed finger, "over my dead body."

Peter scowled and crawled into the backseat. As Hank took the driver's seat, Erik faltered. He didn't know if he should follow his son into the back or slide into the passenger's seat. He looked to the passenger's side and made eye contact in the side view mirror with the man already occupying that seat.

Get in, the telepath ordered.

Erik obeyed. The car roared to life, and Hank took off just as Erik flicked his hand to make the metal door close. He'd missed using his powers.

The car became tense. Peter looked at his father, at Charles, at Hank. They all seemed entirely focused on staring ahead. Peter decided to do likewise. Outside of the car, the sky began erupting with fireworks and cheers.

Peter pressed his nose to the window to watch the New Year's spectacle for their short drive. He was almost enjoying himself.

Until they missed the turnoff for the airport.

"Uh, Hank?" Peter said. "The airport was back there."

"We're not flying back, Peter," Charles said crisply. "It'll draw too much unwanted attention."

With horrified eyes, Peter looked to the speedometer. "How long is the drive?" The indicator limply hovered over sixty-five miles an hour.

"Five hours," Hank responded.

"Five hours?!" Peter cried. He'd have to sit still in this cramped box for five hours? His breathing sped as he thought about that. That was a long time in a confined space. It felt like a prison, being this cramped. Like… like…

Deep breaths, Charles privately coached the boy. In and out…

Peter forced himself to follow Charles's instructions.

Beside Peter, Erik was staring. He watched his son hyperventilate at Hank's words until he finally laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Pietro?"

Peter blew out a sturdy, final breath and looked to his dad. "What?" He could feel Erik's piercing gaze dig into his skin, trying to understand the underlying meaning of Peter's calming panic. And that was not something Peter wanted to delve into right now.

"I could help you to sleep…" Charles looked back at Peter, motioning his hand to his temple.

"Absolutely not," Erik cut in through gritted teeth, not giving Peter the chance to respond. His glare settled on the telepath. "You will not be invading—"

Erik's eyes rolled back, and he slumped against the car door.

Peter looked at his father with wide eyes and then at Charles.

Charles glanced back and bitterly grumbled, "I'm not quite ready to listen to his anti-telepathy nonsense."

Peter smiled at that. "Uh, I guess sleeping might help."

Charles gave him a slightly-forced, affirming smile and raised his fingers to his temple.

Then sleep, Charles's soothing voice echoed into Peter's mind.

And so Peter did.

When Peter awoke, it was dawn of the next day, and he was in his bed at the mansion. Which meant that Charles's magic was really strong because Peter's active body only ever needed five hours of sleep.

He wasn't surprised to find himself in his bed. Peter's body shut down when he was asleep, so Hank could've carried him into a volcano, and he'd be none the wiser. Peter accepted that it'd probably get him into trouble one day.

Using the stored energy that hours of uninterrupted sleep brought him, Peter jumped out of bed and rolled his joints. He smiled as he remembered yesterday. He'd busted a prisoner out of the freaking Pentagon.

Who was his dad. His dad was here. Peter's smile faltered at the feelings of nervousness and anticipation. He wasn't sure what this all meant.

Peter shoved the feelings down, deciding to meet the situation head-on by zooming down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Charles was blearily nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. He blinked up at Peter. "Why am I unsurprised to see you here at," he checked his watch, "five fifty-three?"

"Is my dad up?" Peter asked with a grin, zooming around the kitchen. "Where's Hank?" He grabbed a carton of orange juice and five eggs from the fridge before kicking it shut. He slammed open the bread box and fished out two slices of wheat. He zipped over to snatch the butter dish, and then some silverware, before gently dropping everything onto the island. "And how come you're up?"

"It's rather early for speed questioning, Peter," Charles said, rubbing his forehead and rolling towards the island. He set down his mug and pointed to the boy. "You may use the toaster and toaster only."

Peter became confused. "How do I cook an egg in a toaster?"

"You don't." Charles grabbed a frying pan from a low cabinet and ignited the stove burner. "Would you like them in an omelet, sunny-side up—"

"Scrambled!" Peter declared with a dark grin.

Charles glanced at him and focused on Peter's grin with a frown. "Alright. You cook your toast. I'll take care of the eggs."

Peter zipped around in obedience. The kitchen held an air of comfortable silence as the men cooked separately.

As soon as Peter's toast was buttered, Charles slid five scrambled eggs onto the boy's plate.

"Thanks!" Peter said, digging in immediately.

Charles nodded and returned to his coffee.

Overhead, a resonating thud shook the ceiling. As Peter looked up, a loud crash echoed from above.

"Your father is awake," Charles noted dryly, taking another sip of his bitter drink. "And he's not thrilled about his forced slumber."

Peter tried to smile at that, but he was too nervous. And wasn't that weird? Why would being around his dad make him nervous?

Erik's thunderous steps clattered down the staircase. He stormed through the foyer and straight into the kitchen. He threw a murderous look to Charles before his eyes roamed over Peter. "Go get your things."

Halfway through his breakfast, Peter stopped eating. "What?"

"We're leaving," Erik said crisply. Which was a little weird because he was trying to be authoritarian while wearing a prisoner's jumpsuit.

"What?! I don't—" Peter cried at the same time Charles protested with "Erik, you're being irrationally—"

"Don't you tell me what I am!" Erik snapped at Charles with a pointed finger. "You don't get to play God with my mind and then tell me I'm being irrational."

"I rescued you from that prison!" Charles shot back with narrowed eyes. "If my intention was to turn your brains inside out, believe me, I would've gladly done so by now."

"And why should I trust that?" Erik demanded. "I don't know your motivation behind my extraction—"

"And, frankly, neither do I!" Charles shouted.

"Which is why my son and I are leaving, effective immediately," Erik said sharply. "Pietro, say your goodbyes."

"Hey!" Peter protested with a furrowed brow. "I'm not leaving!"

That caught the adults' attentions. While Charles looked on, Erik turned to his son with a slow, firm stare.

"You haven't even been here!" Peter protested. "I've been taking care of myself for years, so you can't just come in and rip me away from the home I've made!"

Charles looked impressed, but Erik looked sinisterly calm. "I won't ask you again, Pietro."

Peter had just about had enough of his father's disciplinary threats. He was ready to go grab his stuff and leave, all on his own.

"That won't be necessary, Peter," Charles said, fingers to his temple. "Please, sit down."

"Don't contradict me," Erik hissed at Charles.

Charles glared harshly right back. "I'm preventing your son from running away. Or, perhaps, you would like to go chasing him across the country?"

Erik's sharp, questioning gaze turned on Peter.

Peter pouted and crossed his arms. "I'm not gonna run away. I was just thinking about taking a few laps…" Around the country…

"Please, sit," Charles pressed the boy as he rolled up to the kitchen table. Peter grumpily obeyed. Charles looked politely up to Erik. "Would you please join us?"

Erik looked between the two of them with a scowl before dropping into the seat beside Peter.

Peter glanced at his dad. His heart sped, seeing the man this close to him. He hated that this made him thrilled. Because Erik had left him. Erik didn't deserve Peter's enthusiastic affection… right?

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" Charles inquired. "Erik, the three of us helped you escape from prison because we recently learned of your innocence in the matter. Had we known of your true verdict sooner, I would like to believe we would have acted sooner."

Erik stretched his balled hands onto the table. "So you know what happened, then." He glanced at Peter.

Peter scowled at the table.

"Yes," Charles said. "Emma let it slip."

The metal in the kitchen rattled. "You've been in contact with her?"

Charles looked fleetingly at Peter, but Erik caught the gaze; he looked to Peter immediately.

"You've missed a lot in recent years," Charles told Erik calmly. "Perhaps, we can start from the beginning."

Erik grit his teeth and focused on not melting every bit of metal in this mansion. "They'll know I've broken out by now. It's not safe for Peter and I here. Not anymore."

"I don't want to leave," Peter told his father angrily.

"You may not care for your own welfare, Pietro," Erik snapped, "but I do. If we don't—"

"Are you kidding me?" Peter spouted in disbelief. "You ditched me for six years—"

The metal rattled. "I did not ditch you! I was protecting you—"

"Well, you did a fan-fucking-tastic job at that!" Peter shouted. Charles and Erik stared at him in unholy horror. Peter rolled up his shirt sleeve and exposed his scarred, left wrist. "I didn't have your stupid link to protect me back then. I sure as crap don't need you now."

Erik looked like he'd been slapped in the face. His hands shot out and latched onto the boy's left forearm, dragging it closer for inspection. Erik's eyes roamed over the lines and lines of scars, there mentally tracing just how the bracelet had been forcibly gnawed off the flesh.

Peter's heart felt thick and ashamed at his father's guilty frown. Peter zipped to the other side of the kitchen before either men could blink. "Don't worry about it," Peter mumbled to his father. "It doesn't matter anymore." And then Peter vanished from sight.

Erik immediately leapt to his feet and called, "Pietro!"

Charles waved a weary hand. "He's in his room, Erik. He's perfectly fine."

"He damn well is not fine!" Erik spat back, banging a fist on the table. "He doesn't speak with childhood innocence. His damn wrist is—" He stopped himself to take a deep breath through his nose when the fridge groaned and the frying pan on the stove warped.

"I don't know how long it will take for him to open up to you," Charles said plainly. "But I believe that that child needs his father right now, and you cannot be the best father possible if you do not understand your son."

"He'll talk to me," Erik said assuredly, thinking back to the boy he had known all those years before.

Charles gave him a disbelieving look. "Alternatively, I was thinking I could show you Peter's past few years."

Erik frowned down at the telepath. He didn't like his mind meddled with.

Charles rolled his eyes. "But if you believe your pride is first priority, rather than your child's emotional wellbeing, by all means—"

Erik slammed himself down into the chair across from Charles. "Show me, then."

Charles raised a hand and then hesitated. "Perhaps, I should warn you about the major plot details—"

"Show me," Erik ground out with narrowed eyes.

So Charles raised his fingers to his temple and showed Erik all that he had missed.

Peter had avoided his parental guardians all morning. Any time he thought he heard footsteps or wheels rolling, he bolted to the opposite side of the mansion. Because he did not want to have any of the conversations that those two wanted to have.

But a growing boy could only stay away from food for so long. So by noon, Peter was preparing six ham and cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches.

Footsteps and a yawn sounded behind him, and Peter whirled around with his mayonnaise-covered butter knife. (Because who wouldn't hesitate to stab their father with a blunt object if feelings were about to be discussed?)

Hank held up his hands and gave Peter a confused look. "Good morning…?"

Peter returned to sandwich-making. "Hey."

"Why were you ready to stab me with mayonnaise?" Hank asked as he padded over to the fridge. He ruffled his bedhead hair and rifled through the shelves.

"Because I'm not gonna have a heart-to-heart with Cherik," Peter grumbled.

Hank shut the fridge and gave the boy a curious look. "Cherik?"

"It's a new way to talk about their collectively parentalness at the same time."

Hank raised understanding eyebrows before stopping in front of the stove. He held up the warped, dirty frying pan from earlier that morning. "Wow. I have not missed living with a metal-bender."

Peter shoved the lid back on the mayonnaise and tossed the sandwich ingredients back into the fridge. "If Cherik asks, you haven't seen me, ok?"

Hank manhandled the frying pan back into its (roughly) proper shape and gave the boy a nod. "You do realize the only reason you haven't been frozen to the spot is because Charles hasn't wanted to stop you, right?"

Grabbing all six sandwiches, Peter muttered, "Just play it cool" and dashed out into the snowy backyard.

It wasn't snowing today, but it was pretty cold. Peter figured he could hide out here for a solid hour before his limbs would cry to go back inside. So Peter plopped down onto a snow-covered bench by the frozen pond and started in on the sandwiches stacked on his lap.

He sighed after the fifth. Really, what was the point in eating if the meal didn't conclude with a Twinkie or a Ding Dong?

"Pietro?"

Halfway through his last sandwich, Peter jolted and choked. He coughed against the bite, ready to zip out of there. But when he went to move his feet, he found that they were frozen—and not in a way that anything to do with the cold.

"I don't approve of Charles's methods," Erik said with his arms behind his back, "but I felt that these… restraints were necessary."

Peter collapsed against the bench in defeat. Stupid Cherik with their stupid parental ideas.

Erik lowered himself onto the bench beside Peter. "Firstly, I would like to point out that sneaking into the Pentagon was reckless and idiotic. I've already spoken to Charles about your reckless endangerment, but if I find out that you do anything like it again—"

While breaking into the Pentagon seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime thing, Peter found himself protesting, "But what if Charles got kidnapped and—"

"Never again, Pietro," Erik told him sternly. "For anyone."

Peter scowled at the snowy grounds and tested his still-restrained feet. "You're welcome."

"Thank you for your bravery," Erik said in lieu of commendation.

"Can I go now?" Peter pleaded desperately.

"We're not finished," Erik replied. His eyes zeroed in on Peter's frame. "But we may move indoors; you're too scrawny to be sitting out in the cold."

"I'm not scrawny!" Peter cried indignantly. He held up one arm to flex his bicep. "I call this one Hostess." He held up the other. "And this one's Little Debbie."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Let's step inside."

"Nooooo," Peter groaned. "If you're gonna bit—" Erik's steely eyes narrowed. "—terly say stuff, let's just do it."

Even if Charles wasn't mentally trapping Peter, Erik's honed gaze could. "Pietro, I am not here to 'bitterly say stuff.' We need to discuss… what's happened."

Peter bit his lip and went back to staring at the snow.

"Do you like living here?" Erik asked gently.

Peter thought about that. "I didn't before. But that's because some kids sucked. But I…" He looked questioningly up at his father. "How much do you know?"

"Everything," he replied solemnly.

Everything. Peter swallowed at that. "Anyways, I came back because I was, like, dying. And I like it here because a sucky place with family is better than a cool place with no family. So."

Erik's hand rested warmly on his son's shoulder. "You'll always have family with you, Pietro. No matter where we choose to go."

Peter kind of smiled at that. "I like it here. It's where our family has been together the most, so it feels the most like home."

Erik huffed. "And how would you feel if we were to leave?"

"Well, we wouldn't have all of our family." Peter looked up at Erik. "Charles is a part of our family, too."

Erik blinked, and Peter found that he could mostly move his feet. Still, he remained grounded to the bench.

Erik muttered a Russian curse under his breath and rubbed his face. "Emma Frost will be targeting us more than ever, Pietro. I'm worried we'll be sitting ducks here."

Peter scowled. "I'm not afraid of her. I can take down all of those stupid traitors if they come here."

"No," Erik said sharply. "Mother of God—did we not just discuss your reckless endangerment?"

"You said I can't break anyone else out of the Pentagon! What does protecting myself from Emma have to do—"

"There is a line," Erik said, cutting the air with his flexed hand, "that divides protecting oneself and pointlessly endangering oneself. Do not cross beyond the side of protection, Pietro. Do not even toe it."

Peter's face scrunched as he thought about that. "Like… vengeance?"

Erik's expression clouded with a self-made darkness. "Vengeance. And sadism, and greed for power."

Peter somewhat followed, but this was all pretty abstract for him.

Erik turned to fully face his child. "I was a victim to vengeance. I chose to go after Shaw, and it tore apart everything I held dear. That was because I pursued stopping others; it wasn't defense. Do you see the difference?"

Peter squinted. "I… guess…"

Erik sighed into his palm. "My prison years have made me philosophical."

Peter looked at his shoes. "So… are we done talking now?"

Erik barked a laugh and turned his unamused smile on Peter. (That smile had too many teeth; it made his father look like a shark.) "No. I want to hear every detail of your life since I last saw you."

Peter knew it would be hopelessly naïve to assume Erik was referring to earlier that morning. "Wait. So did you kill JFK?"

Erik gave him a dead stare. "JFK was a mutant; what do you think?"

Peter's eyes widened, and he mouthed "holy shit."

Erik's glare narrowed in. "And if your cursing is not curbed within the week, you will be happy to help clean the mansion whenever Charles or I ask."

Peter's eyes lit up. "So we're gonna stay?!"

"Unfortunately, we have allies here," Erik said, resigned. "Even if they aren't deserved."

Peter grinned. And shivered.

"Let's continue this conversation inside," Erik said, rising off the bench. When Peter stood, he wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "You've gotten taller."

"But I'm still short for my age," Peter grumbled. "Hank keeps giving me food and protein shakes to help me reach a growth spurt with my weird-fast metabolism, but I kinda suck at keeping the protein shakes down ever since…" Images of his years with Stryker flashed in his mind, and his voice became too hollow to use.

Erik's stiffening hand on his shoulder was both comforting and foreboding. But he decided not to press it. "So I believe I told you to stay in that abandoned warehouse and to wait for Charles. What happened then?"

Peter blinked, trying to remember what had happened a lifetime ago. "Well, you stuck me to the wall. And then Emma came. And she had Azazel zap me out of it. And because I had no fu…ndamental way of knowing that you guys weren't friends, I believed them when they said they were there to help me."

"Never trust telepaths," Erik grumbled darkly as they reached the backdoors of the mansion. He held it open for Peter and then followed him in.

"So I stayed with them in Florida for a couple of weeks, and they were super nice to me," Peter recounted as they walked down to the private TV room.

Erik's brow furrowed at that statement.

"But then I wanted to look for you," Peter explained. "Because nobody told me where you'd gone. Including you." He glared at Erik and then walked into the TV room. He plopped onto one of the plush, massive couches.

Erik followed his son onto the couch, using his powers to rotate the door's hinges and shut it. "I should have when I turned myself in. I'm sorry for that. I was… afraid of what Emma might do to you if she knew that you were spreading slander about her to others."

"Yeah, well," Peter continued, staring at the couch's dark fabric, "I looked for you. For weeks."

Erik's expression became taut. "How did you live?"

Peter's face tightened in concentration. "I don't remember. Begging for food, I guess. I remember sleeping on that suitcase you gave me every night."

The metal hinges and handle on the door, the metal light fixtures, the metal screws in the TV stand, the TV itself—all of them vibrated angrily.

Peter looked up in wonder. He'd always thought that his dad's powers were kind of the best.

"Please, continue," Erik requested once he regained control of himself.

And so Peter did.

Hours later, Charles rolled into the TV room. He found Erik and Peter stretched out, side-by-side, Erik's arm around his son. Both of the silent men had tear tracks down their blotchy cheeks.

Charles cleared his throat, causing both to look up. "Hank has a shake for you, Peter."

Peter scowled. "I don't need those anymore."

"You'll have to convince Dr. McCoy of that yourself," Charles said, holding up defenseless palms.

Peter groaned and vanished from the room.

The room became instantaneously too tense. "Well. I'm happy that you were able to sit him long enough for a proper conversation." Charles began to roll out of the room.

"Thank you," Erik said quietly, making Charles pause. "For helping him listen to me. And for being there for him when I was not. I'll never manage to thank you enough for that."

Charles gave a stiff nod. "I love him as if he were my own. I will always do all I can for Peter."

Erik swallowed. "Then, perhaps, we'll take you up on your previous offer of letting us stay. If it still stands."

Charles cast a brief, appreciative look over his shoulder. "Of course. However, I won't permit you to leach off of me any longer."

Erik patiently waited.

Charles turned just enough so he could watch Erik's reaction as he said, "Congratulations, Professor Lehnsherr. Class begins a week from Tuesday."

Erik's expression clouded over instantly (which rather pleased Charles). "I have no experience with children, Charles."

"I believe Anya and Peter would beg to differ."

Erik's steely eyes became dangerous. "If this is a monetary concern—"

Charles snorted. "This is a faculty concern; I doubt these mutants' parents would like a strange man loitering around their children's school."

Erik crossed his eyes. "And I doubt these parents would like a notorious assassin teaching at their children's school."

"Accept the position, and I will convince the parents otherwise," Charles responded. "I've been told I can be quite persuasive."

Erik almost frowned. "And if I were to accept this position, what would I be teaching?"

"An art position has been recently vacated," Charles said, grinning at how much he knew Erik would detest teaching children to experiment in art.

And he was right; Erik immediately glowered.

Charles's smile was good-natured. "I've seen your mind, Erik; you're a genius. You can teach anything you desire to focus on." He considered that. "Well, other than the areas that are already being taught. I teach science and literature, Hank teaches math and engineering, and Alex teaches PE and woodworking. But I would be more than happy to switch—"

"I thought you were teaching Pietro German."

"Raven was. She—"

"Figures," Erik scoffed. "I'll be taking over German. And you don't believe the students need to learn history, then?"

"Raven liked to call her class 'Art History.' They learned while making correlating art pieces."

Erik rolled his eyes. He had never been an appreciator. "I'll take it over, without the art."

"Aw," Peter whined in disappointment, appearing between the two men. "Her class was the best one!" Feeling both men's glares, Peter quickly amended, "Not that yours don't rock, Charles. Or that you won't rock, Dad." He looked between the two before darting to the couch on the other side of the room.

"We look forward to your contribution, Erik," Charles said crisply. Erik gave a nod.

"Hey, Charles, can I teach art?" Peter asked as he fiddled with an electronic handheld device.

"Of course," Charles responded. "You can have an after-school position. Your salary will go towards your room and board." He grinned at the boy.

Peter stuck his tongue out at him and went back to messing with the device.

The metal in the device sang out to Erik. He narrowed his eyes on it. "What is in your hands, Pietro?"

"Um…"

A floor below, a resounding explosion vibrated through the walls of the mansion.

Peter's eyes widened. "Shit." At the parental looks, he panicked and spat, "I meant shoot! I still have a week!" He zapped out of the room.

Erik and Charles shared a look and then hurried out of the TV room.

Hank charged down the hallway towards them, an angry expression coloring his skin blue. "Have you seen Peter?"

"What has he done?" Erik demanded.

"He took off with the remote control activator of the core to a ray gun I was building! And then he shot the damn thing off!"

"Are you alright?" Charles asked, looking his friend over.

"No!" Hank ranted, pointing at his left eyebrow—or what was remaining of it. "The stupid thing singed off half of my eyebrow!"

Peter's snickering echoed around the mansion.

Hank balled his fists, turning noticeably bluer as he looked around for the twerp.

"I'll speak with him," both Erik and Charles assured Beast at the same time. The men turned to each other with similarly suspect looks.

"If I catch you in my lab without my permission, I'm going to double your math homework for a month!" Hank shouted at the mansion.

Charles cringed. In his studies of child development, he knew that that particular punishment was a strong deterrent for genuine learning.

But Peter appeared in front of them before Charles could say so. With a wicked grin, the boy taunted, "You'd have to have to actually be able to catch me for that." And then he vanished with a trail of laughter.

Hank's eye twitched.

"Your lab will be safe from his hands," Erik assured Beast as his eyes ghosted over the direction his son had gone.

Hank huffed. "He should be able to stop the protein shakes in a few days. If he keeps these down."

Erik didn't move, so Charles nodded and thanked the doctor.

Hank marched back down to his lab, leaving the two to silence.

"Your fears are warranted," Charles said softly, "but his bouts with PTSD are rare these days."

Erik snapped his head in Charles direction and grimaced. "Stay out of my head."

Charles's stare was stoic. "You're projecting; I can hardly help overhearing just as you could hardly help hearing a scream."

Erik scowled and turned away. Charles rolled his eyes and began to roll away.

…until things return to how they used to be…

Charles stopped rolling to scoff at the overheard thought. "You're more naïve than I've been led to believe if you honestly see our lives returning to how they used to be." When Erik didn't respond, Charles brought his hand down on his joystick and rolled out of the hallway.

January 1970, North Salem, New York

Time flew by in a flurry of uneventfulness. Peter noticed that Cherik spent the majority of their time actively avoiding each other; Charles was always in his study, and Erik was always in his bedroom. The only time that the parental unit came together was for meals.

"Did you ever actually apologize to Charles?" Peter asked one day as he swung across the bedposts of Erik's bed.

Erik gave him a disgruntled look before returning to marking a map spread across his desk. "Of course I did."

"With, like, flowers?"

Erik's head snapped up at that.

Seeing his father's honed look, Peter quickly said, "What?! I know you guys were, like, a thing back in the day."

Erik scowled. "We didn't tell anyone."

Peter gave him a look. "I was four, not stupid."

Erik slowly returned to his work on the map. "Flowers are given with an intent of romantic affection; I have no inclination to do so with Charles."

Peter gave him a roguish smirk. "You sure?"

Erik glared at his son. "I crippled him, Pietro. I abandoned him. And then to top it all off, I demanded that he raise my child." He turned his glare to his map. "This is how things are; another apology isn't going to resurrect a relationship, romantic or otherwise."

Peter pouted at that. Still, he wouldn't give up his dim hope that his parents would be unstoppable together. He swung to the other bedpost.

"Stop swinging off of that before you hurt yourself," Erik ordered. He circled a spot on the map.

With a dramatic sigh, Peter did a final spin off the bedpost and landed on the carpet. He then zipped over to his father and studied the map. It covered the north eastern states, detailing connecting highways and major cities. A few of the cities were circled. "Whatcha workin' on?"

Erik turned his parental stare on him. "I'm working. Have you had a protein shake recently?"

Peter paled and unenthusiastically fiddled with the drawer of the mahogany desk. "Hank said I didn't have to take 'em anymore."

Erik set his pencil down, put his hand on Peter's shoulder, and sat against the desk. "You won't have to take them for that much longer, Peter. Just until your body has reached its healthy weight."

Peter scowled. "I'm fine." He had taken care of himself for years, after all.

But Erik, of course, knew that wasn't true. He had heard the details of Peter's past few years two times over. "I've found that when I talk about what's plaguing me with someone I love and trust, I feel… eased."

Peter glanced towards the exposed numbers tattooed on his father's forearm. "I already did talk about it."

"I know." Erik ran a hand through Peter's silver hair. "But if you ever want to tell me again, I will listen."

Peter stared at the carpet and considered that.

"Go find Hank," Erik said, patting his son's shoulder and returning to his map.

Peter pressed his lips together but zipped out to find Dr. McCoy.

And then school started, that week from Tuesday. All of the students returned to the mansion, and all were surprised to find a swap in professors.

Especially when the replacement was an unparalleled killer.

"They all think he's super scary, so they totally respect me," Peter rambled as he sat on the edge of Charles's desk and swung his feet.

Charles was busy filling out another letter to parents, explaining that Professor Lehnsherr was an innocent victim of mutant persecution; their children were perfectly safe with him aboard. It was moments like this when he wondered why on earth he was housing Erik Lehnsherr again.

"But I think they'd still respect me now because I have street cred. And I can totally steal their wallets before they even see me comin'."

Peter's speed kicking was rattling Charles's desk, making writing rather difficult. Taking a calming breath through his nose, he asked the boy, "Perhaps, Erik would enjoy your company after the third day back at school?"

Peter shook his head. "Nah, he's busy. He said I should come see what you were doin'."

Of course. Because Erik was the one running a school and teaching and responding to letter after letter complaining about him. Charles resisted the urge to roll down to him and chuck something at his head.

"Are you writing letters?" Peter asked, nosily peeking at his work. "Got a secret pen-pal?" He grinned mischievously.

Charles spared him an almost amused smile. "Peter, have you completed all of your homework for the day?"

He scoffed. "It took me, like, ten minutes."

"Would you like more?" Charles raised an eyebrow.

Peter could take a hint. With a pout, he clambered off the desk and slowly trudged towards the door. "Fine. I'll just go find someone else that appreciates my wit and charm."

Charles smiled and returned to his letter. "Stay on the grounds, please."

Peter rolled his eyes, muttering, "…zaps the fun out of everything…"

A few days later, Peter was rifling through Hank's lab. Because if he found another one of those ray gun explosion things, he could totally make all the girls scream at breakfast tomorrow morning.

And then Peter heard Hank stomping around the corner.

In a panic, Peter looked around for somewhere to hide. He saw a set of silver drawers over at the other end of the medical area. He bolted to them and pulled one open. It was long and deep. It was for dead bodies! (And perfect for hiding!)

Peter pulled a long drawer open, scrambled onto the slab, and then pulled his drawer closed.

He laid in the dark, listening to Hank's old man shoes squeak across the tile, just outside of the drawers. Peter evened out his breathing and tried to relax—at least until he realized that he was in an enclosed space. He was trapped in here. He pressed his hands against the freezing metal, realizing he couldn't even fully extend his arms in here.

Tears pricked at his eyes, and he pressed his hands against his coffin. Instinctively, he kicked against the metal and beat at it with his fists. Because he couldn't be trapped in here. He couldn't live in here. He couldn't… He couldn't…

The drawer was yanked open, and Peter found himself blinking tears away as fluorescent lights flooded his vision.

"Peter, what the hell!" Hank's hands were on his shoulders, trying to calm his twitching, shuddering body.

"It… it was too small," Peter murmured, his voice breaking on the final word. He pushed the backs of his hands across his wet cheeks.

"First of all," Hank said when Peter had calmed, "you can't go through my lab and then try hiding; I can smell and hear you, you idiot. Secondly, don't hide in a refrigerator, for Christ's sake."

Peter nodded hurriedly as his tears finally stopped. He pushed the wetness away.

"Come on," Hank said, hefting the boy out of the drawer. When Peter stood on stable feet, Hank asked, "Why were you even in here?"

"Uh… looking for you." Peter looked up at him with innocent, wet eyes.

Hank cut him a break. "Well, I've got work to do. Jean's powers have been erratic lately, and I was hoping to study her X gene with the Professor."

Peter frowned. Everyone was always so busy. "Fine."

"Why don't you go see what Gabe is up to?"

Peter gave him a look of disbelief. "He's, like, eleven!"

"And you're, like, twelve." Hank shut the refrigerator drawer and then headed over to a glass refrigerator. He opened it and began pulling out vials of blood.

"He's probably hanging out with his brothers," Peter grumbled. "Why didn't my dad decide to have more kids? I wanna sibling."

Hank threw him a slightly horrified look before marking on the blood samples. "Either way, I'm busy, kid. Maybe you could go join the Summers in whatever they're doing."

Peter huffed and sped out of the room. He appeared at Gabe's door, knocking quickly before letting himself in.

Gabe looked up before returning to his math homework. "Hey, Peter."

Peter looked over Gabe's shoulder at the homework. "Ha. That stuff's so easy."

Behind his bulky glasses, Gabe glowered at Peter. "Then why don't you do it?"

Peter quieted after that. He didn't want to face Charles's wrath when they got caught for cheating. Or his father's.

When Gabe refocused on his mathematical struggle, Peter flopped across the boy's bed and groaned. "I'm so booooooooored. Let's go do something fun."

Gabe frowned. "Alex said that if I don't finish this before dinner, he's gonna make me run extra laps in PE tomorrow."

"Psh, running is easy," Peter said as he zipped around the room.

Gabe stared unhappily at the streak of a mutant. "Whatever. I'm not fast, and everyone stares at me in PE. You have the cool powers."

Peter gave him a mystified look as he rummaged through a stack of papers. "Your powers are cool. You can, like, control bombs and stuff."

"Yeah, but I can't use 'em all the time like you can," Gabe grumbled. His pencil drifted over the math problem.

"Here, you have to divide the four to both sides," Peter advised, pointing to the equation.

Gabe glanced at him before obeying. He quickly solved the rest of the problem. "Thanks, Peter."

Peter grinned. "So how 'bout playing cops and robbers, huh?"

Gabe gave him a weird look. "Dude, you lived cops and robbers."

"Yeah, that's overdone," Peter agreed. "How 'bout a round of good guys versus bad guys, using our powers?"

"Maybe later." Gabe started working on the next math problem. "But you don't even have to play pretend with that stuff; you could totally go beat up real bad guys if you wanted to."

Peter scoffed and began throwing a ball in the air that he'd found on the floor. "I'm not a cop."

"You're better than a cop; you're a super speedy ninja, basically."

"Huh. Really?"

"Totally. You're a superhero."

Peter scowled at that term. "No, I'm really not."

Gabe shrugged. "Whatever. You can outrun bullets and make bad guys punch themselves. Sounds exactly like someone from that Batman comic we were reading the other day."

Huh. Peter thought about that. He never wanted to be a superhero, but Batman was pretty cool. Maybe… Maybe he could…

"Maybe you could even beat up Cole tomorrow in PE." Gabe pushed his heavy glasses back up his nose as he grinned at that thought. "Hey, can you help me solve—" Gabe looked up from his math, but Peter was already out of the room.

That weekend, Peter was, once again, crazy bored. He'd even gone so far as to clean out his room of the crap he didn't want.

Which was why his silver cape was hanging over the side of his bed. Peter stared at it, debating whether he wanted it as a keepsake or to just leave that memory in a dumpster.

He snatched it up and zipped down to his father's room. "Dad, I—"

Erik was buckling a suitcase. He glanced up when Peter walked in.

Peter frowned. "Where are you going?"

"Business." He floated the suitcase towards the door. "I'll only be gone for the weekend."

"What business? You live and work here."

Erik's sigh was harsh. "One of the parents requested to meet with me in person to ensure that I am not a risk to their child's safety."

"Oh. Can I come?"

"No."

Peter scowled. He was going to go stir crazy in this stupid mansion. "I thought you said being off the grounds wasn't safe—"

"It isn't," Erik said as he gathered papers off his desk. "But this is important."

Peter gently kicked the leg of the bedpost.

Erik stopped moving and looked at his son. "What's in your hand?"

Peter glanced down at the silver cape and shrugged. "It's that cape you gave me for my birthday that one year. I was wondering if I should get rid of it or not."

"Get rid of it?"

"Well, it's not like I can wear it anymore," Peter said, holding the small cape up. "It's freaking puny. And I'm pretty sure someone would beat me up if they saw me running around in a cape."

The edge of Erik's mouth twitched up. He extended his hand. "I'll hold onto it, then."

Peter gave it a final look before handing it off to his father. "When are you leaving?"

"Tonight."

"Oh. When are you coming back?"

"Sunday night."

"Oh."

Erik leaned across his desk towards Peter. "Pietro, it's a quick trip. In the meantime, I expect you to listen to your superiors while I'm gone, understood?"

"Even Raven? If she comes back?"

"I think there will be larger issues at hand other than authority over you if Raven returns," Erik commented dryly.

Peter sagged against the side of the desk.

"I'll check in with you tomorrow night," Erik promised, giving his son's shoulder an affectionate squeeze before striding out of the room, his bags floating behind.

The following day passed by uneventfully. By the time dinner and been served and cleared, Peter was one hundred and fifty thousand percent done with sitting in a house forever.

He had to get out.

"Gabe!" Peter called as he flew into the younger boy's room. "You wanna do something?"

Gabe looked up from where he was stuffing pajamas in his backpack. "I wish." Gabe's half-lidded eyes showed his unhappiness. "Alex is taking…"

Peter mirrored the look. No one could ever do anything because everyone else on this stupid planet had jobs and work and hobbies and families and life-long callings—

Peter could get a hobby. Something that involved using his powers. And getting out of the house. Which kind of left using his powers out of the house. Like… helping people?

He was going to help people outside of this mansion by using his powers.

"…me and Scott home to spend Sunday with our parents," Gabe finished, not realizing that Peter had check out for a split second.

Peter was grinning largely. "That sucks. Have fun!"

"Squirt, you ready?" Alex checked, walking into the room. He look to Peter. "Hey, Peter."

"Hi, bye!" Peter said, zooming out of the room. His first mission was set: find a map.

He flew down to his dad's room and began searching his desk for a map. Because he had to have one of those around here. Peter tried the drawers, but they were all locked. Peter stood straight and frowned until something in the trashcan caught his eye.

He pulled it out—a map. Bingo. He spread it across the empty desk and saw a detailed map of New York. So now came the second mission: find somewhere to go.

Obviously, it had to be somewhere where people needed to be helped. So, somewhere where there was a lot of people. A city.

New York City. Peter pointed to it, realizing he was about fifty or so miles from the city. If he used his powers, he could be there in a minute, use his powers, and then sprint back in a minute. Easy.

With giddy anticipation thrumming through his overactive muscles, Peter sprinted up to his room. He grabbed his coat, his dark beanie, and active snow boots. He threw all three on and then zipped out the window, his path to NYC already memorized.

He was right: by taking a slower pace, he made it to the city in fifty-three seconds. This left him with plenty of energy to help people and zip home when the time came. Peter grinned as he looked around the tall, New York skyline.

Except his current parental guardian was a telepath. Peter dropped his frown. But that telepath never entered Peter's head because it was too fast for him. So as long as he wasn't obvious, Peter wouldn't get caught sneaking off the grounds. He hoped.

"No! Stop! He took my purse! Stop him!"

Peter ran in the direction of the woman's shrieks. He saw a middle-aged woman with a shawl around her hair (sooooo 1950's) pointing down the street. There, at the end of the block, a man was running with a pale, leather purse. People gaped at him in horror as he shoved them out of the way and ran.

Peter almost laughed at his run. Everyone was so slow. Peter zoomed down the street, grabbed the purse out of his unsuspecting hands, and then rushed it back to the woman.

The woman stared at Peter with a mix of terror, confusion, and gratitude.

"Here you go, ma'am!" Peter said, handing off the purse with a cheeky smile.

The woman slowly took back the purse and stuttered out a thank you.

Peter saluted and then took off again, yanking the confused criminal's underwear up into a wedgie as he passed.

Peter laughed as the man fell behind him. He'd been here a minute, and he'd already helped someone! And he was out of the mansion! Peter threw out his hands and squinted as he let the wind smack him completely. He felt alive.

"No, please," someone begged as Peter sped passed an alley. "Just, just take our money. Please, don't hurt us."

Peter stopped to see a middle-aged couple being held at gunpoint. Peter dashed over, grabbed the gun, unloaded it like his dad had taught him, and tossed the gun down. He then ripped the criminal's belt off of him and tied his hands behind his back.

When he resumed normal time, the couple jolted backwards in fear at the silver-haired boy that had just appeared.

The gunman writhed against the snowy pavement, fighting the knot securing his wrists together.

"Call 911," Peter advised them politely before offering his parting, cheeky smile.

He then zoomed away, ready to take on another Big Bad.

Peter laughed into the wind as he ran. (Also, maybe, he'd need to invest in some goggles.)

By the time Peter returned home that night, everyone was getting into bed. Peter jumped into his ensuite's shower and rinsed off the freezing snow that had seeped into his skin. And when he was in his pajamas, getting into bed, Hank popped his head into Peter's room.

Peter froze. Hank rarely came to find Peter. Did he know?

"Hey, have you seen Charles anywhere?" Hank asked.

"Uh, I haven't seen him," Peter answered honestly.

"Thanks," Hank said absentmindedly, shutting the door behind him.

Peter sagged against his pillows in relief. He was in the clear. And he felt actually tired. Peter grinned, having not exercised his zealous muscles that much in… well, since the Pentagon, at least.

With a smile on his face, Peter fell asleep, thinking of what Big Bads he would stop the next time he went out.

When Erik returned from wherever the crap he went, Peter figured he'd have to be more cautious. Because his dad might suspect something if he went to look for him and couldn't locate him for hours.

And maybe the fear of his dad's wrath should have struck fear into Peter and stopped him. Or maybe it was some small part of him that hoped his dad would notice and care.

Which was stupid. So that obviously wasn't true.

"Do you have goggles?" Peter asked the next Friday evening.

Hank glanced up from his microscope. "Like swimming goggles?"

"I guess." Even though Peter had never learned to swim, he had a good enough idea as to how those worked.

"What for?" Hank adjusted the slide.

"I was gonna run around outside, but the wind dries out my eyes. And, ya know, bugs."

Hank straightened and considered that. "That's a good point. I might have some lying around." Hank turned and began searching through the drawers in his metal desk.

Peter appeared behind him and angled his head to watch.

"This is all I have," Hank said, pulling out a large pair of safety goggles. "You can adjust the straps to make it fit your head."

"Thanks!" Peter snatched them up and tried them on. After they were secured, they felt a bit bulky. But they'd do.

Hank assessed them. "I'll work on making you a new pair. Some that won't be quite so… big."

"You're the best!" Peter cheered, zipping out of the room.

Peter ran outside and tested them out. He smiled as his eyes were protected from the breezy cold. These were a great idea, if he did say so himself.

He ran around for a bit longer before being outside without a jacket got the best of him. With freezing arms, he flew back into the mansion and into his room.

From the bed, Erik stared at his son and crossed his arms.

"Hey!" Peter greeted, pulling off the goggles with a grin.

"Why are you—"

"They're safety goggles," Peter enthusiastically rushed to explain. "They won't dry out my eyes when I run anymore! How neato is that? Hank let me borrow 'em while he works on making me a better pair."

Erik almost smiled as he swiveled his feet off the bed and back to the carpeted floor. "And how are your classes coming along?"

"Uh… good? I guess?" Peter tossed the goggles onto his nightstand.

"Have you finished all of your homework?"

"It's Friday, man."

Erik stared expectantly.

Peter rolled his eyes and plopped down onto the bed. "Yeah, yeah, I did all that crap."

Erik gave an approving nod. "And how are you… generally?"

Peter gave his father a confused look. "What's with the twenty questions?"

Erik folded his arms again as he stared down at the boy. "I'm your father; I'm checking in."

Peter shrugged and darted towards the tape deck on his dresser. "I'm good." He poked at the buttons until Led Zeppelin sang loudly from the 8-track.

Erik winced from the sound, not sharing his son's refined musical tastes. "Well. I am going out of town for the weekend, and I just wished… to make sure you're cared for."

Peter appeared in front of Erik instantly, peering closely at his father's face. "Why are you talking like a robot?" He squinted at Erik's frown. "Are you a robot?" He poked his cheek.

Erik gave him a disapproving look and slapped his finger away. "I have business to attend to, but I don't want you to believe that I'm consistently abandoning you."

Peter laid across his bed in a flash. "Well, technically, aren't you consistently abandoning me?"

Erik scowled. "No."

Peter became confused. "Wait. What work do you have to do? How come you're the only one who goes away on business? Are you going on some secret rendezvous with Charles?"

Erik looked heavenwards. "No. Another parent has complained about my presence, and I offered to meet with them in Connecticut."

Well, this would make it easier for Peter to sneak out. "OK," he said. But Peter did find it suspicious that his father never offered for him to come along.

Erik nodded once more. "Listen to Hank and Charles. Alex if you must."

Peter smirked. "What'd Alex do?"

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Be good, Pietro."

Peter titled his head and offered his most angelic smile. "Aren't I always?"

Erik muttered a German prayer and exited the room, pulling the door shut behind him without a touch.

Sweet. Peter grabbed his goggles and readjusted them to his face. As soon as his dad was out of the mansion, he would be able to run over to New York City and stop all kinds of bad guys. Tonight was gonna be awesome.

But, first, he needed his jacket.

Peter, dinner is being served, Charles mentally tossed into Peter's mind.

And, maybe, a quick bite to eat.

The Following Night, New Haven, Connecticut

Screams echoed around and around the dingy, abandoned warehouse.

Then they would cut off abruptly.

And then a low, menacing voice would follow. "Tell me what you know about the others, and you will not be sliced into pieces."

Riptide's left knee was bent unnaturally. He had a bloody gash stretching open his forehead, a blossoming black eye, a dislocated left shoulder, and a steel pipe jutting out of the flesh and jeans of his right thigh. Anytime he so much as began to use his powers, the pipe would writhe painfully through his muscle there.

"Names. Places."

Riptide glowered up at his torturer and spouted a filthy curse.

The pipe dug in deeper, and the screaming resumed. When it finally stopped, Riptide was panting and sagging against the concrete wall behind him.

"We're getting closer to your femoral artery, Janos. I would suggest telling me what I want before you sit in a pool of your own blood."

Riptide glared up at him. "Is this because of your shithead son? Because I didn't do anything to that kid. It—"

"You aided in his near murder." Erik leaned forwards with a dark menace in his eyes. "I hold you equally responsible for the crimes against him. And me."

With a burst of energy, Riptide shot an angry swirl of air towards Erik. But Erik was ready. He used his powers to divide the end of the pipe, sending sharp, tentacle-like tendrils of steel through Riptide's thigh. Riptide immediately stopped, dropping Erik, to clutch at his thigh and shriek.

Erik pushed himself off the concrete floor and smoothed his hair. "I'm running out of patience, Janos. Tell me where Frost is based."

A manic pain flashed through Riptide's eyes as he shook his head and held his bloody jeans. "You're going to kill me. Just do it. Peter got off easy; Emma will brainwash me if she finds out I betrayed her."

Erik kept his gaze even as a wrath boiled in his veins. Without moving a muscle, he began dragging a tendril of the steel through Riptide's muscle.

Riptide screamed at the sudden, unexpected pain and writhed against the floor.

"Tell me."

Riptide continued to shriek. Erik continued to slice through him.

"Tell me—now."

Through panting screams, Riptide managed, "Ge—Georgia!"

"Where?"

As the steel continued to pull at an agonizing rate, Riptide continued to cry out. "I don't know! I swear to God—just fucking stop!"

Erik then did stop moving the steel. He waited expectantly.

Riptide breathed heavily, his long, dark hair sticking to his sweaty, bloodied face. "She, she picks me up when she needs me. I work around here 'til then."

"What do you do for her?"

"I blow people away," Riptide answered with a vicious sneer. "Same as I did for you."

Erik wasn't visibly affected at all. "Where does she take you?"

"Atlanta, College Park, Miami, Jacksonville," Riptide bit out. "She doesn't always say where the hell Azazel zaps us; he just zaps us! All I know is that she's been sticking to the lower eastern states ever since you busted out."

Erik considered that. Something dark in him purred at the idea of Emma trying to run from him. She was afraid.

"Get this thing out of my leg," Riptide demanded through gritted teeth.

Erik refocused on the bleeding man before him. He gave a nod. "Thank you, Janos."

Then, all at once, he ripped the pipe through Riptide's flesh and out of his leg. And as Riptide began to scream, the steel pipe stabbed its way through his throat. The screaming was replaced with that sickening, wet crunch. Warm blood bubbled from his twitching lips.

Through decaying eyes, Janos watched as Erik Lehnsherr turned and breezed out of the abandoned warehouse.

The Following Monday, North Salem, New York

Ever since the weekend, Peter was riding a high. He had stopped, like, five muggings, and two murderers, and, like, a whole bunch of physical attacks. He was awesome. No, he was badass. Better yet—he was invincible.

He was jogging as a blur through the mansion, burning off his energy now that classes were done for the day. He thought about going into the city tonight, but with his dad just getting back last night, he doubted he'd be able to sneak out for that long.

Speaking of his father, where was he?

Peter zoomed through the mansion, overhearing Gabe groan at his homework, Scott and Jean making out (ew), Hank and Alex jabbering about some students, and—ah yes, Erik. Peter skidded to a stop, realizing he was outside of Charles's study. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Those two were always avoiding each other these days.

Too curious to know what was bringing Cherik back from the dead, Peter pressed his ear against the solid, wooden door.

"It's no bloody excuse, Erik!"

"I'm doing what must be done. Emma needs to meet her justice. As do Azazel and Angel."

"And what of your justice, hmm? Only you're allowed to murder and then forget about it?"

"I won't apologize for what I've done. I just assumed you would appreciate hearing about this from me rather than a paper."

"I don't appreciate hearing about this at all! I understand that Emma must be stopped, but, God, Erik! This is too far! You're always going too bloody far!"

"It was the only way!"

"It was not—and, Peter, for God's sake, I can feel your mind whirring right outside the door!"

Peter jumped in a panic, but the metal door handle was turned and pulled inwards before he could even consider moving his frozen feet.

Charles and Erik stood a couple of feet apart, similarly glaring at the boy.

Peter tentatively smiled and waved. "Hey, guys. I was just gonna get a snack, and I thought 'hey, that'd be so badass if I offered one to you two.' But, of course, I didn't think 'badass' because I totally gave up any kind of cursing, like, a month ago."

"What did you hear?" Erik demanded, crossing his arms.

"Uh… You, like, murdered somebody…?"

Charles looked entirely done with this all, and Erik's expression was disapproving.

"Hey, that's totally cool!" Peter defended. "We all have our quirks, and yours include killing bad guys for the greater good and all that crap. Who am I to judge?"

Charles's expression twisted into confused disapproval. "You aren't murdering anyone, are you, Peter?"

Peter's eyes widened. "Holy crap, no! I just—wait, do you think I could murder someone? Like, not physically could, but do you see me as a potential murderer? Because that seems like a character trait I should know about—"

"Pietro, this was a private conversation," Erik cut him off sternly, "and I would appreciate your immediate discretion."

Peter smirked. "You want me to hide the fact that you're secretly Batman." Huh. This all felt weirdly familiar to Peter.

Erik stared at him while Charles groaned and said, "He is not bloody Batman! He is Erik, and better yet, he is a public figure of this school!" Charles turned his fierce glare on Erik. "No more of these sadistic expeditions. While I can support your search for Frost, she must be brought to civilized justice."

Erik glared back at him. "She didn't just target my family; she's slaughtering innocent Homo sapiens that you hold so dear—"

"Yes, which is why I support putting a stop to her! But can you imagine the image painted of mutants if we leave death and destruction in our wake as we pursue her?"

Erik quirked a brow. "We?"

Charles's stare was flat. "Yes, I believe we are in cohorts with one another on this matter now."

"Sweet!" Peter cheered, eating a chocolate bar he found stashed in the desk drawer. "How we gonna stop the bitch?"

"Pietro, the next curse I hear from you will send you over my knee," Erik threatened with a dark glare.

Peter nervously gulped his bite of chocolate. "My dad, the murdering Batman, just threatened to spank me. Noted."

Charles was pinching the bridge of his nose. "Peter, you are not a part of this operation. This is highly dangerous, and you must stay out of it."

"I helped with the Pentagon!" Peter protested around a mouthful of chocolate, pointing an accusatory finger at his father. Erik's stare burned him.

"Because it was a dire situation," Charles countered evenly. "This isn't, and it will be left to the adults with mastered control of their powers."

Peter frowned and finished the candy bar. "I have a mastered control of my powers."

Erik stepped forwards and held his son's shoulder. "She hurt you, Pietro, and I can't forgive that. But your presence in this pursuit will distract me." He glanced at Charles. "Us. It would worsen the situation rather than help it."

Peter scowled at the carpet. Everyone was always busy. Everyone had things that they were doing that he couldn't be a part of. Well, they could all eat it; he didn't need them anyways.

Erik gave Peter's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Have you finished your homework for today?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "No. That German stuff you assigned sucks major ass." His eyes widened as he realized his mistake. In the time it took Erik to narrow his eyes and begin to tighten his hold on Peter's shoulder, Peter ripped himself from his father's grasp and sprinted out of the room.

He dashed up to his room and locked the door. Because maybe that would delay that metal-bender for a split second. Maybe.

Peter waited by his open window, letting the cold air hit him and blow through his room. He waited, focusing on his door to see if the lock would turn.

It didn't.

Eventually, Peter relaxed and slid his window shut. He plopped down on his bed and began tossing a baseball into the air. (He'd found it in the back of his closet when he cleaned the place out.)

So. Cherik wouldn't let him be a part of their operation. Well, that would be just fine with him. Because he had his own Batman vigilantism going on, and they weren't invited.

And now, in order to protect the good citizens of New York (and the world), Peter had a villain to target: Emma Frost.

"So that's why I think you should help me Batman the hell out of New York City," Peter concluded in a hushed voice, sitting beside his friend on the bed.

In his dark room, Gabe's oversized eyes blinked behind his thick glasses. "I think that was all unbelievably stupid."

"What?! It's badass!"

Gabe rolled his eyes and whispered, "You do realize that this whole place is filled with telepaths and eavesdroppers, right? Talking louder than this is a dead give-away."

Peter rolled his eyes this time. "It's the middle of the night, Gabe. Besides, all of these oh-so-observant eavesdroppers would've noticed me sneaking out if they cared."

Gabe rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. "So you don't think Professor X cares about you?"

Peter shrugged and rolled onto his back as well. "Well, yeah, probably. But he's too busy for… anything. So."

Gabe gave him a dirty look. "So I'm second choice?"

"What? No! You're, like, my only friend, man. Of course I want your help. I came and told you about all of this, didn't I?"

Gabe settled back into his mattress and resumed staring at the dark ceiling. "I don't know why you even wanna help people. They all suck."

Peter frowned. "Not… all of them…"

"Didn't you get, like, kidnapped and tested on for years by some crazy guy?"

Peter winced away from his friend. "Shut up. That doesn't matter. It, it doesn't affect this, like, at all. Besides, I'm going to stop the bad guys. Like that crazy guy."

Gabe kept quiet.

"And I'm gonna go after Emma Frost," Peter announced resolutely. "She's totally the worst, and I owe her some butt-whoopin' payback."

Gabe gave him a look. "You're gonna go after her? Isn't she some super powerful telepath?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm fast. I'll beat her." (Not that he even knew where to start on that front.) "But I would totally kick her ass if you'd help me out, Gabe."

Gabe scowled and didn't respond.

"What about the people like Scott and Alex?" Peter tried again, rolling to his side to look at his friend. "There's people that are cool like them that get attacked pretty much every day."

Gabe shrugged. "They've got people that look out for them."

"But we could be those people!" Peter pled. "With my speed and your crazy-cool, bomb-and-bullet-holding powers, we could—"

"I'm not helping you, Peter," Gabe said and crossed his arms. "So shut up and save whoever the crap you want yourself."

Peter fretted and rolled back to his back.

"I don't get why you'd wanna be the next Batman," Gabe grumbled as he picked at his nails. "You save people, and you never get the recognition, because people don't really care—"

A shrieking cry pierced through the boys' skulls, severing the conversation. Peter and Gabe rolled to their knees and clutched their heads with cringes.

And then the scream dropped.

"What was that?" Gabe wondered aloud.

"I dunno," Peter said, leaping off the bed. "I'm gonna go find out." Peter flew out of Gabe's room and sped around the mansion, listening in to each door before pinpointing the agonized groans.

Peter flew into Jean's room. She was writhing against her linen sheets, bunching them around her legs. Her face looked like she was asleep. And in pain.

"Jean?" Peter asked cautiously. She was probably having a nightmare. He reached out and touched her shoulder. "Hey, you're dreaming. Wake up!"

With her eyes still squeezed shut, Jean flinched from his touch. And then she went completely still.

And then her eyes flashed open, an amber blaze coursing unnaturally through them. His hand on her wouldn't move, and he suddenly felt on fire.

"I can feel you dying." Her layered voice echoed into every cell of Peter's mind, reverberating again and again against the inside of his skull.

All of Peter's constant energy was suddenly being sucked away. Through his shoulder, down his arm, and out of his hand, everything that made him feel alive was released into Jean's arm. He felt his breath leave his lips, and he couldn't get it back.

And then he was wrenched away. He was suddenly lying on the carpet, gasping up at the ceiling that mirrored Gabe's.

"Pietro? Pietro, are you alright?"

Peter lazily focused his eyes on the dark figure hovering over him. It was… it was his dad. "H-hey, Pops."

Erik briefly closed his eyes in relief. "Are you hurt?"

Peter slowly blinked and thought about that. No, nothing hurt. He just felt drained. Like all of his insides had dropped out of him, leaving his mind with a shell of a body. "'m tired."

Peter turned his head to see Charles sitting in his wheelchair, entirely focused on Jean. Jean's wide eyes flickered to Peter before staring back at Charles. Huh. Her eyes weren't on fire anymore. They looked boring normal again.

"Take him back to bed, Erik," Charles said softly over his shoulder. "He'll be alright in the morning."

Erik gritted his teeth because he hated being told what to do. But he still slid a hand behind Peter's back and helped him sit up.

Blood rushed through his head, making Peter dizzy. He swayed with a "Whoa."

Erik easily supported him. "Are you able to walk?" He threw Jean a look.

"Yeah," Peter answered faintly. He struggled to his feet with his dad's sturdy help. Once he stood, he limply waved to the others. "Night, Chuck. Hope you feel better, Jean." He shuffled towards the door.

Erik shadowed his every move. Because Peter was walking slowly. Peter was most definitely not alright.

"How'd Jean get into my head?" Peter mumbled his thoughts as they walked down the hallway to his room. "Charles said it was gross fast in there."

"Charles can get into your head," Erik explained, keeping his hands ready to catch the boy if need be. "He just prefers not to make himself sick by doing it. And Jean is a powerful mutant." He frowned.

Peter grunted his acceptance of that and stumbled into his room. Mmm. His bed looked heavenly.

Erik turned his frown on his son. "Why aren't you in pajamas?"

Peter glanced down at his jeans and t-shirt. "I only need a few hours of sleep, remember?" He yanked off his shirt and messily stumbled out of the jeans. He landed across his mattress and face-first into his pillow.

Erik pursed his lips and fetched a pair of pajamas from the dresser. He yanked the jeans off of Peter's ankles and helped him step into the pajama pants.

Weakly, Peter pushed himself onto his elbows so he could pull up the pants. He then flopped back into the pillow with a groan. "Oh my god, is this was normal people feel like all the time?! Everything's so sloooooooooooow."

Erik rolled his eyes but slightly smiled. He grabbed Peter's torso and flipped him onto his back. "Sit up." Peter groaned as he obeyed. Erik helped him maneuver into the soft shirt before Peter folded back into the bed.

"Are you really alright?" Erik pressed, running a hand over the silver hair over his son's ear.

With half of his face stuffed into the bed, Peter kept his eyes closed and muttered, "Yeeeeeesssssss."

"I'll check on you in the morning," Erik vowed as he slowly stood. When he didn't get a response from the boy, he anxiously prompted, "Pietro?"

"Ssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeep."

Erik fondly grabbed the sheet and comforter and pulled it over his zombie son. He probably told his son "goodnight" and maybe a sappy phrase or two, but Peter was out before Erik had even stepped towards the door.

When Peter eventually woke the next morning, it was eleven. Peter did a double take before yanking his alarm clock off his nightstand. He held the analog hands up to his face, not believing that he had been asleep for eleven hours.

Peter blinked and set the clock back down. He felt perfectly normal. Like, really crazy hungry, but he always woke up hungry. He jumped out of bed, sped into jeans and a t-shirt, and zoomed down to the kitchen.

With a grimace, Peter realized that all of the breakfast food had been put away since school had already started. And then Peter realized: school had already started. Looked like he had the day off.

With a smirk, Peter zipped through the fridge, looking for something delicious and easy. He grabbed a carton of chocolate milk and, ooh, a can of whipped cream. He then went to the freezer and was about to reach for the frozen waffles, but the ice cream was right there. So he grabbed the carton of ice cream and tossed it onto the island.

Peter grabbed a spoon and set to work on the ice cream while he went into the pantry. He searched around and then the most blessed blessing was blessed upon him: he found his confiscated stash of Twinkies and Ding Dongs behind the cans of vegetables. Peter held out his shirt and began sliding the delicious goods into his make-shift basket. He ripped into one for good measure, inhaling the Twinkie in one bite. He carried the ice cream and pile of Hostess goods out to the kitchen island. He'd already inhaled three Ding Dongs before all of the snacks even hit the counter.

With a content smile, Peter picked up the can of whipped cream and laid across the island. He cuddled into the snack desserts, ripping open a Twinkie with one hand and spraying whipped cream directly into his mouth with the other.

"Oh, for God's sake."

Peter tilted his head to look at who was speaking. Low and behold, his father was standing in the doorway with crossed arms and a disapproving look. Peter didn't move—except to spray more whipped cream into his mouth.

The can was yanked from Peter's hand, and it flew to Erik's hand.

"Good morning!" Peter greeted with a mouthful of the Twinkie.

Erik rolled his eyes and set the whipped cream on the counter. He marched towards his son with that Parental Look. Peter swallowed the rest of the Twinkie and calculated how long he could outrun Erik if he took off now.

But Erik had already reached his son, and he grabbed him by his ear. With pitiful whines, Peter scrambled off the island as his father pulled his ear towards the kitchen table. Erik shoved his son into the chair and then silverware floated out of a drawer and towards Peter's feet. The forks bent themselves into circles and wrapped around Peter's ankles, effectively securing him to the wooden chair.

"I just got them baaaaaack," Peter whined, looking desperately to his displayed Hostess stash.

Erik gave him that stare. "Hank confiscated your sugar supply for a reason. How many did you eat?"

Peter winced as he considered. "Like half of one."

Erik rolled his eyes and walked towards the fridge. "Then you'll find that you can sit still for the entirety of a meal, considering you only consumed half a treat."

But the sugar was already coursing through Peter's veins, making him jittery. "Yeah. Cool." He drummed his fingers against the kitchen table at a vicious speed.

Erik pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge. "Hank said you'll be back to normal after you eat a proper meal. How do you feel?"

"Hungry," Peter answered, training his eyes on the tens of snack foods.

Erik turned his back to Peter to start cracking eggs into a pan on the stove. "Do you still feel weak? Or light-headed or nauseous at all?"

"Nope," Peter said, popping the P. He began slowly, quietly pulling his chair closer to the island with his toes.

"Apparently, we're supposed to be lucky that Jean attacked you," Erik muttered sharply as he continued to tend to the eggs. "If it had been another student with a lower energy supply, they would be dead."

The metal in the room thrummed with energy, and Peter looked down to the vibrating metal around his ankles. "Yeah, well, lucky me." He continued to crawl the chair.

Erik straightened his back and took a calming breath. The metals stopped thrumming. "I don't want you going near her again, Pietro."

"OK," Peter agreed as he reached towards the island. He could just reach the treats. If he just stretched a little… farther…

Erik turned around right as Peter got his hand on five of the Twinkies. In a flash, Peter yanked them towards his lap, frantically tearing into the first one at the same time.

"Pietro!" Erik rebuked, jumping towards him and grabbing the Twinkies off his lap. But he only had three to grab; Peter had already scarfed down two of them. Erik glared at his son. "You're going to choke, you brainless child!"

Peter's mouth was entirely full as he chewed. He just stared up at his father with innocent doe eyes.

Erik tightened his jaw and grabbed onto the back of Peter's chair. He dragged the chair across the floor, planting him at the kitchen table, the wood hitting Peter in the chest. Erik then turned and marched back to the eggs.

When Peter had chewed enough of the Twinkies, he asked, "Why does this feel like an interrogation?"

With a stern glare, Erik brought the plate full of scrambled eggs in front of his son. "Eat."

Peter swallowed the last of the Twinkie and said, "I need a fork."

One of the forks flew out of the silverware drawer and into Peter's hand in a flash. It flew so quickly that Peter was impressed by its speed. "Wow. Can you do that again?"

Erik's answer was to turn towards the kitchen sink and turn on the faucet. And then he turned on the garbage disposal. In the middle of eating his eggs, Peter froze and watched in horror as Erik opened Twinkie after Twinkie and fed them to the garbage disposal.

Charles chose that moment to roll into the kitchen. "Good morning, Peter! How are you fairing?"

Peter dropped his fork into his eggs to point in horror at his father. "He's killing them!"

Charles blinked and looked over to Erik. He watched as Erik stoically continued feeding the garbage disposal. Charles turned back to the boy with a cringe. "Peter, how many did you eat?"

Peter slumped his forehead to the table and cried, "Not enough!"

Charles raised his eyebrows and rolled up to the table. "Yes, well, I'm glad to see you're feeling more like yourself." He grabbed the newspaper off the table and shook it open.

Once Erik had disintegrated each and every perfectly good Hostess snack, he turned back to his son. "Eat your food before it goes cold."

Weakly, Peter lifted his head and began shoveling the eggs into his pouting mouth.

"Have you read the paper this morning, Erik?" Charles asked, looking up with bright eyes.

Erik nodded and sat down beside Peter with a mug of black coffee. "I do every morning."

"Did you see the mutant sightings column?" Charles pressed with a point to the paper.

Peter continued eating his eggs as he idly listened to them talk like old men.

"Yes. I was intrigued."

"Powers of speed!" Charles raved with a smile. "They sound remarkably like Peter's!"

Peter choked on his eggs and looked up in confusion. "What?"

"Someone in New York City has powers that mimic yours closely," Charles explained with his fascinated eyes glued to the paper. "He's been running around, protecting citizens from harm."

Peter felt the blood drain from his face.

"Yes, extraordinary," Erik murmured calmly as he took a drink from his mug. He glanced over at Peter, and then he narrowed his eyes on his son.

Peter looked back to eggs and made himself eat another bite—even though his stomach felt twisted with cement.

"We should recruit him!" Charles suggested enthusiastically. "His powers will be a great help for Peter."

Erik hadn't taken his eyes off of his son. "What is it?"

Charles looked up, confused by that question.

With both sets of parental eyes on him, Peter shrugged and kept stuffing eggs into his dry mouth. "I just… It's weird hearing someone else has your powers. I'm… not as unique anymore, I guess."

"You're just as unique as you always have been!" Charles protested. From the corner of his eyes, Peter saw Erik settle back against his chair. "Emma Frost and Jean have telepathic powers, and I am not any less unique, aren't I?"

Peter glanced up at the concerned parental figure. "Yeah, you're right." He finished off the plate of eggs. The sugar in his blood was making his nervous heart sing. He tried to pull away from the chair, but the ankle cuffs held him in place. He looked to his father. "Uh, can you let me up now? I feel like my arms and legs are gonna die unless I start running around."

Erik rolled his eyes and took Peter's dirty plate to the sink. "Maybe I should make you sit there as punishment for sneaking so much sugar."

Peter's eyes widened, and his limbs vibrated against the idea. He briefly considered throwing his weight backwards and rolling out of the room.

Erik turned back to his son and swiped a hand through the air. The cuff on Peter's right ankle fell free.

"Please try not to break anything today," Charles politely requested.

Peter nodded and looked expectantly to his father.

Erik gave him a final look. "Don't overdo it."

Peter nodded quickly. And the second cuff dropped open. Peter sped out of the room like a bat out of hell. He turned into just a streak, causing a gust of wind to hit the adults as he fled.

Cherik exchange a solemn look.

"I'll keep an eye on him," Erik vowed, shoving away from the counter and stalking out of the room.

While Charles focused on Jean's blossoming powers (she seemed to have a nightmarish episode every other night), the mansion was distracted from Peter.

Everyone but Erik. Peter had felt an extra pair of eyes on him ever since that night with Jean. Which was heart-warming. But not at all ideal.

Until the next weekend, the weekend before Peter's birthday.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Erik stared at Peter.

Peter gave him a charming smile. "Of course, Daddy-o! I've been in tip top shape for, like, weeks now. You don't need to worry about a thing!"

Erik sigh harshly as he shoved the last of his clothes into his suitcase. "Your enthusiasm is what concerns me."

"Am I not the best son you've ever been blessed to have?" Peter asked, turning on the angelic smile.

Erik was not fooled. "If you break another of Charles's vases, you'll be paying for it with extra chores."

Peter grimaced and made a mental note to avoid all vases.

"And stay on the grounds."

Peter made a mental note to take that as a vague suggestion.

Erik looked to his watch, and his suitcase snapped shut of its own accord. "I'll be back tomorrow night."

Peter gave a salute. "Good luck catching Emma." Because if Erik couldn't do it, Peter would.

Erik pulled his son towards him, kissed the top of his silver head, and then marched from the room. "Be good, Pietro."

Ha.

Erik strode down the hallway, down the stairs, and straight into Charles's study without a knock.

Charles quirked an eyebrow but otherwise did not stop writing at his desk. "Yes, by all means, come in."

The door behind Erik closed. "I have a lead on Azazel. I'm going after him."

Charles stopped writing and assessed Erik. "Where? What's the intel?"

"Miami." Erik gave him a look. "Azazel's appearance isn't exactly inconspicuous."

"Erik, the CIA wants to bring in Emma desperately as well," Charles tried to reason. "I could send Moira with you, get you access to their resources—"

"You're as far as my assistance extends," Erik cut him off crisply. "Any luck with Cerebro?"

Charles rubbed his temple. "No. She's managed to block me from her mind. And Azazel's."

"Angel?"

"She's a stripper in Berlin now, actually," Charles said with a false sense of ease. "After you slaughtered Riptide, Emma thought it best that she wipe Angel's mind of any interactions. She doesn't even know you or I exist."

Erik scowled and folded his arms. "Please tell me you aren't going to offer her a teaching position here."

Charles gave him a look. "I hardly think that would be appropriate for multiple reasons." He leaned back in his chair. "No, I think a life on her own will suit her just fine."

Erik didn't acknowledge that.

"Which means," Charles said, leaning forwards with a severe look, "you mustn't go after her, Erik. She's innocent in this now. Any retribution you demand from her has been absolved with her memories."

The skin on Erik's knuckles tightened. "I can't let her live freely after all that she has abetted."

"That girl in Berlin has done nothing against us," Charles insisted. "I can't allow you to target her."

Something twitched in Erik's jaw, but he eventually relented. "If I ever encounter her again, Charles, I won't hesitate."

Charles stared back, knowing that that was the best response he would be able to weasel out of Erik Lehnsherr.

Erik glanced at his watch. "I'll be back tomorrow night."

"Please, take the jet," Charles said when Erik turned towards the door.

Erik gave him a suspicious look.

Charles gave him a knowing grin. "Of course, the jet does have a pilot accompanied with it."

Erik's gaze hardened. "I will not—"

"Ready to hit the road, Professor L?" Hank called cheerfully as he popped his head into the study.

Erik's head snapped towards Hank.

Hank shrank back a bit. "OK, I'll cut back on the nicknames. I'll wait for you in the jet."

As Hank pulled away from the door, Erik looked back to Charles. "You were communicating with him during our conversation."

"He's assisting you, Erik."

Hank shut the door and left them to it. He figured Charles would either convince the crazy metal-bender or Hank would spend the weekend as planned: tinkering with the ray gun until it finally shot straight.

"Hey, Hank!" a silver-haired blur yelled out when Hank stepped into the foyer.

"Oh, Peter!" Hank called, digging a hand into his bag. "I've got something for you."

The blur appeared before him in the form of a twelve-year old boy. This boy had eager eyes glued to Hank's hidden hand. "Yeeeeees?"

"Well, since it's your birthday on Tuesday," Hank said, "consider this an early birthday present."

"I don't really celebrate those anymore, but I'm up for free stuff," Peter said and held out his expectant hands.

Hank stopped and narrowed his eyes on the kid. "Wait. You only get this if you tell me if you're the one who shatter the core to my ray gun."

Peter smashed his lips together and looked around. "Hmm... Yes, I did." And then he shot out and grabbed the present from Hank's hand before the professor could react.

"Neato!" Peter cheered as he turned the goggles over in his greedy mitts. He made sure he stood a considerable distance across the foyer from Hank as he examined the present.

"No!" Hank shouted. "You broke my ray gun! You don't get to have those!"

Peter looked at him with faux innocence. "But you said that I could have them if I told you that I broke your toy. And I did." He snapped the silver-lined goggles over his eyes and grinned.

Hank scowled and leapt towards the preteen. Peter was on the other side of the room before Hank landed.

"Do I look like an aviator?" Peter asked, looking around. "I feel like an aviator."

"You look like a swimmer," Hank told him with an eye roll.

"Huh. I don't even know how to swim," Peter said as he zipped around the foyer. He then stood in front of Hank with a large grin. "These are awesome! No more wind to the eyes! I can probably go, like, twenty times faster now that I can totally see where I'm running."

Hank relented his grudge to brag, "They form an airtight seal without suctioning your eyeballs. And they tighten to fit your head without creating excess rubber because you'll be going so fast that it would be likely to hit you in the face. These took so long because I've been trying to program a database program like Cerebro into the lenses that would activate maps when you saw street signs, but I haven't gotten far enough in the program to really install—"

"These are perfect, Hank!" Peter enthused, hugging the man tightly before jetting around the small area. "I'm unstoppable!" He laughed, the sound swirling and echoing all around Hank.

Erik stepped into the foyer, Charles right at his side. After a brief witnessing of his son, Erik turned to Charles with a dry stare. "Keep an eye on him."

Charles placed his slightly amused face into his hand. "Hank, what have you done?"

Hank looked away with a guilty smile. "Ready to head out?"

Erik stepped towards the foyer. "Pietro."

With a bright grin, the boy skidded to a stop in front of him. "Yeah, Dad?"

Erik lowered himself to get a better look at the goggles. He ran his thumbs over the silver plastic and rubber to ensure the quality. His powers alerted him to some sort of metal that lined the inside of the plastic. Knowing that metal certainly wasn't necessary to mold the accessory, Erik gave Hank an impressed look.

Hank looked abashed. "I figured he didn't need full control of those."

Peter zipped out of his father's hands and began running circles around the men. Erik could feel the metal in the goggles, reassuring him exactly where Peter was at all times. It was… calming. He looked back to Hank, letting his gratitude sway him. "Let's head out." He strode down to the basement for the X jet's hanger, letting his suitcase trail after. Hank quickly followed him.

"Bye, Hank!" the swirling child called out. "Bye, Dad!"

"Pietro?" Erik pressed as his head ducked out of sight.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be good," Peter grumbled.

"Stay on the tile or put on a jacket to run outside," Charles advised with a warm smile. "I don't want you burning through the carpet again." He began to wheel himself towards the kitchen.

"You got it, boss!" Peter said, flying up the stairs to his room for a jacket.

The blur of him was streaming for the door in the next moment.

"Stay on the grounds, please!" Charles ordered.

And, again, Peter decided to take that more as a polite request rather than a command.

That night, Charles had insisted on a board game night with anyone who desired to play. Alex, Jubilee, and Sean wanted to play; Peter didn't. But, apparently, Peter's presence was not optional.

Peter had whined and threatened to cheat (because this was his night to sneak into the city!). Charles returned a breezy smile and a promise to know if he tried to cheat. So Peter was stuck, grumbling and cheating his night through Monopoly. Charles caught him every time.

With a weak hope, Peter daydreamed about testing his goggles out in the city the following night, before his hovering father returned.

And then something magical happened: Jean lit the mansion on fire.

"Thank you, John," Charles said to the young Hispanic teen. He brushed his hand through his shaggy hair, pushing the water out of it.

While Jean stared in horror at the burnt, soggy kitchen walls, John smirked. "Anytime, Professor!" John strutted out of the drenched room, wearing a victorious smile.

"What the hell happened?!" Scott demanded as he skidded into the room. He took one look at Jean's wet hair and clothes before ripping off his jacket and rushing towards her. He wrapped the jacket around her, looked her over, and then looked to Charles for answers.

"A small incident," Charles assured him as he fished a pile of hand towels out of a drawer.

"My powers are getting worse," Jean admitted with a small, unamused smile. She looked to Scott before staring back at the table.

"They're merely developing, Jean," Charles assured her as he handed the majority of the towels over. He ran one down his face and through his hair. "There was no harm done."

"I set the mansion on fire!" Jean sputtered in disbelief, pointing towards the scorched, black splotches on the walls. "I could've killed everyone!"

"Psh, I totally would've gotten everyone out in time," Peter said, appearing by the fridge and biting into an apple.

Charles threw the boy a look. Jean's shoulders slumped as he face fell into her hands, and Scott placed comforting hands on her back.

"I shouldn't stay here," Jean mumbled into her palms. "I'm endangering everyone."

"Hey, don't talk like that," Scott chastised worriedly.

"That is out of the question," Charles said. "You are my charge, and your best chance at mastering your powers is to continue training your mind with mine."

Jean turned her head to stare desperately at her professor.

"So, like, when all the kids come here, they automatically become your charges?" Peter asked, finishing his apple. "Like, even Scott? And do I only count on the weekends my dad is gone, or is that, like, an all-the-time thing?" He decimated the last bite of apple.

Charles slowly turned to face the inquisitive boy. "Peter, perhaps we can pursue this line of questioning at a more opportune time."

"What?" Peter chucked his apple core into the trash and then looked between the mutants. "Oh. This is a dramatic moment. I see that now." He took measured steps backwards. "I'm just gonna go run around and stuff." Like in New York City. To fight axe murderers and the likes. Details.

Charles absent-mindedly waved the boy off and returned to consoling Jean.

With a grin, Peter booked it up to his room, tugged on his shoes and jacket, and then grabbed his goggles off his nightstand. Oh, yes. These beauties were going to add a whole new dimension to his A-game.

Peter's window opened and shut with a flash, and the boy was in New York City within a minute.

The goggles were working wondrously. Peter could see everything without having to squint against wind-speed. He saved an old woman's purse, a gambler from a biker gang, a woman from an abusive boyfriend, and a little dog that was being hideously mistreated. Peter Lehnsherr was the freaking best, if he did say so himself.

But these helpful duties couldn't detract him from the Ultimate Operation: taking down Emma the She-devil Frost. So, Peter sped around the city, saving these individuals while he searched for any signs of mutants.

He found a couple. A crazy-strong chick on Forty-Ninth Street and some wall-climber on Eleventh. Both knew nothing about the She-devil and suggested in blunt terms that Peter get lost.

And then he found gold.

"Tell me why I should keep you alive if you've proved useless to us?" the red-skinned man growled. He held a panicked man with multiple piercings against the alleyway wall.

"I'll get you the passports, man!" the man blubbered, pulling futilely at the red tail wrapped around his throat. "Please, just give me a few days!" The tail tightened its grip, choking the man's words away.

"You've been loyal, Herbert," Azazel said darkly. "And for that, I'll make your death swift."

Herbert's eyes widened in fear as the tail's sharp edge drew back to strike.

But a rock flew at Azazel's head, knocking his attention away from Herbert. He turned with a glare to see who would dare strike him.

Peter Django Lehnsherr stood a few feet away with raised fists and eyes glowering behind goggles.

Azazel almost laughed. So the child had lived. "Little Erik. Glad to see you're not dead."

"Let him go," Peter commanded with a scowl.

"Or you'll punch me?" Azazel raised an eyebrow. "Boy, you—" Peter launched himself at the red man, punching him right in the mouth at a super speed.

Azazel stumbled back, clutching his jaw in angry disbelief, but he didn't release his hold on Herbert. "You have nerve, boy. But you're inexperienced."

In the time it took Peter to recognize what he was doing, Azazel and Herbert flashed out of sight. Peter turned wildly around, seeing the suspect a couple blocks down. Azazel slashed Herbert's throat with his tail just as Peter darted towards them.

Herbert sputtered blood, and Peter knelt beside him. But there was nothing to do; this man was nearly dead already. Peter glowered up at Azazel.

"I disagree with Emma," Azazel said flippantly. "You may not be necessary, but I think you could be useful."

"Oh, yeah?" Peter challenged angrily, rising to his full height. "Then why don't you take me to her?! I'd be happy to take you guys both down at once!"

Azazel gave him the same look typically offered to delusional, rambling children. "I'll give her your regards."

"I'm gonna take you down!" Peter said, rushing at Azazel. Azazel appeared on the other side of the alley, and Peter bounced harmlessly off the wall. Peter pushed himself up and glared at the other mutant. "My dad killed Riptide, and I'm gonna finish you and Frost!"

Azazel's eyes sparked with something. "Riptide's attack won't be forgotten. You can tell your father that." His eyes roamed over Peter. "Maybe I should leave Erik a physical reminder?"

"Try it!" Peter shot back, rushing at Azazel again.

Azazel appeared on the other side of the alley with a chuckle. "Pietro Lehnsherr, would you honestly try to kill me?" His white teeth flashed behind red lips.

Peter's fists balled as he glared. "If prison doesn't cut it, I guess I won't have a choice."

Azazel nearly rolled his eyes. "You could never take a life; you're not your father. In fact, I think the idea of death frightens you." His eyes glinted wickedly, and then he vanished.

Peter grunted his frustration and sped around the blocks, trying to find him. "Come back, you coward! I'll knock your ass so far—"

At the end of the street, Azazel appeared, holding a frantic woman by her throat. The few loitering the street scattered with screams.

"She's very beautiful, isn't she?" Azazel called as he ran a large finger down her creamy throat. She tried to writhe away from him, but he held her fast. "How would it make you feel, child that will take me down, if I were to open her up?"

Peter bolted towards them, his hand reaching out for Azazel's dangerous one. He grabbed nothing but a puff of smoke. Peter whirled in frustration.

Screaming behind him made him zip a few blocks left. He found them at the end of the street, but they would disappear and reappear consistently out of reach. The woman never stopped screaming.

"Shh, the boy is afraid of death," Azazel said into the woman's hair. He smiled at Peter. "It would scare him so much if he heard you screaming before you died."

"Let her go, Azazel!" Peter yelled as he continued chasing the man. "She's innocent!"

"And so are you!" Azazel called back in amusement, disappearing and reappearing randomly—on top of buildings, in apartment windows, in the shadows of back alleys. Peter continued chasing him. "You're an innocent mouse, and I'm the cat with all the cards." Azazel appeared in the window of the middle of an apartment complex, leaning out with the panicked woman. He turned and gave her throat a final caress. "Give him a good scream, would you?"

A couple streets down, Peter could see her dangling from the window. "No!" He sped towards them, but Azazel's tail jutted in and out of her throat. Peter reached the building just in time for the bleeding woman to smack the concrete with a cracking thud. Peter stumbled back in horror, but his eyes didn't leave the woman. She was in a nightgown, giving Peter a good view of her unnaturally bent leg, her blood-drenched torso, and her sliced, twisted neck. Her eyes stared at nothing, but Peter felt they were accusing him.

"You would be so powerful if you would ditch the whole innocence thing," Azazel said, appearing beside him. He followed Peter's gaze to the distorted corpse. "If you can't stomach the sight of a common Homo sapien's death, then how will you be able to take down Emma or me?"

Rage rolled through Peter, fueling his muscles. In a flash, he leapt towards Azazel and wrapped his young hands around the red throat. He throttled the man. "You're disgusting! How could you steal someone's life and just not care?!"

Azazel flashed out of existence and reappeared a few streets over, but the sudden jolt in existence didn't shake Peter. Peter clung on to the man, gripping Azazel's neck with everything he had.

With a furious shove, Azazel was able to throw Peter to the street. But Peter was back on his feet in an instant, ready to leap on the man again. Azazel was ready, and he waited until Peter was in the air before kicking him back to the ground. Peter wheezed up at the dark sky, and Azazel used this opportunity to deliver a harder to kick to the boy's abdomen. All of the air left Peter's lungs.

"You're young," Azazel spat down at him. "You're naïve. Once you've gained control of your powers and can stomach the blood—maybe you'll stand a chance against me."

Peter's wet eyes stared up at the man, and air finally came back to his gaping mouth.

And then Azazel vanished with a puff of smoke.

Peter laid on the cold pavement as breathing transformed from tight to aching. He blinked up at the thick clouds as small flurries of snow began to drift towards him.

Azazel had been right. He wasn't strong enough. He didn't want to kill people—of course, he didn't want to kill anybody. But maybe… maybe his moral against murder was preventing him from doing whatever it takes to end Azazel and Frost.

When enough snow stuck to Peter, he pushed himself up off the concrete. He heard sirens whirr down the next street, and he zipped around the corner. People screamed and rushed towards the contorted woman.

Peter hadn't been fast enough. That was the simple truth in his mind. He could never be fast enough, because he would never devote everything he had to the cause. Because he couldn't kill Azazel or Frost.

Could he?

Peter sped back to the mansion with dried blood staining his hands. He considered his father. Erik had been capable of killing Riptide, and he was a considerably lesser bad than Azazel or Frost.

Why couldn't Peter be like his father?

Peter reached the mansion too soon. He had too much energy churning in his body. He needed to run. But, more than that, he needed to be better. He needed to be faster and stronger and more willing to do whatever it takes to bring the bad guys down.

Peter did laps around the mansion, becoming a silver blur along with the flurrying snow. He ran and he ran and he ran, but he couldn't escape the self-hatred. Because maybe if he'd just been a little faster or just a tiny bit stronger, that woman would be asleep in bed, warm in the arms of someone who loves her.

Loved her. Because now those arms would shake in grief at the touch of her cold, dead skin.

And what the hell had she even died for?! Nothing! Azazel had no reason to kill her, except to taunt to Peter.

So Peter had to be better! He had to be stronger!

Peter ran around the mansion, but it wasn't enough. He had to prove to himself that he was fast, and he was strong, and he could bend the laws of nature to achieve his goals.

The frozen pond caught his eye. Peter rushed towards it—then hesitated. He couldn't swim; he'd never learned how to swim. And it was below freezing. If he fell in…

But that was the point, wasn't it?! Peter was capable of anything—even running on fucking water! So Peter brushed the snow off of his goggles and ran across the frozen pond. Then he ran back across it. And again.

And the ice began to crack.

Peter ran again and again, and the heat his shoes generated was enough to melt and crack the ice. In less than a minute, the ice had parted, and Peter was doing it: he was running on water.

He almost smiled. But then he thought of Herbert, and he thought of that woman. This wasn't a victory; this was a penance. He would run, and he would run to prove to himself, to prove to Azazel, that he could do anything to stop the evil coursing through the veins of this world.

Peter continued to run back and forth across the water, and his mind began to drift. He remembered Father… Whatever-His-Name-Was. How he referred to Peter as Simon Peter. Peter had looked that churchy guy up in one of the books of the Xavier library after all that. He remembered that Simon Peter was a saint.

Peter didn't think he was a saint, especially after sucking so bad tonight. But he did think he had something in common with the first Pope: he could walk on freaking water.

Peter pushed himself faster, thinking that maybe he could fly over the stupid pond if he wanted to. Maybe he'd be able to fly after Azazel, and then that stupid bastard would choke on his own blood.

That image made Peter falter. Because even if it was Azazel, even if it was Frost—he didn't want that. He didn't want to see anyone else's blood. He just wanted to help people. He didn't want anyone to die.

Maybe that was why Peter would never be able to succeed; he'd never have what it takes to stop all the bad in the world. Azazel was right; he'd never be like his father.

A wave of hopeless lethargy washed over Peter as he ran, and it was just enough to trip the boy's feet. He faltered, and then he panicked with flailing limbs.

And then he splashed through the icy water.

The cold hit him like a million pin pricks. He immediately inhaled before he sunk under completely, and then he beat at the water with unpracticed arms. He didn't know how to swim. He didn't know how to get out. He kicked his legs frantically, but he couldn't rise out past his waist. He slipped back down into the water, and the ice cold ate his muscles alive.

Peter's head dunked under the water, and through his goggles, he saw nothing but dark. Under the water, it was nothing but darkness all around. The cold, the water, the dark—it was all over him, closing in on him. He felt trapped, just like he did in Stryker's cages. Panic hit him anew, and he flailed and sucked in a large breath of ice water. He choked and thrashed against the watery prison, but he couldn't get up because he was trapped. He didn't know which way was up, and he was drowning.

He was dying.

Peter flailed against the water. He didn't want to get kidnapped and shot thrice and break into the Pentagon just to drown in his own backyard! He pushed against the water, and he got his head to break through, and he coughed. And then he sucked in air, and he sucked in another breath of burning cold water.

Peter's limbs were twitching, but he couldn't feel them anymore. It was too cold, and he needed more air. But he couldn't… He was too… He was underwater…

His arms swiped once, twice, and then stopped. His legs stilled their kicking. Peter was so cold, and there wasn't any air, but he… Where… He could feel his mind begin to float with his body.

In the darkness of his mind, a large hand wrapped around Peter's upper arm. He felt it tug, and then something was pressed up behind him. Maybe that's what happens when you die; you get pulled into the afterlife. Peter idly wondered if Jesus did that for Simon Peter when he died.

Something slammed against his back. And again. And again—painfully hard. Choking on water woke Peter up, and he vomited and spat up freezing water into the snow. He was dimly aware of firm hands supporting his bruised torso and shoulder. And he was sitting on snow. Huh. He thought he was in water. Or dying. Or something.

"Answer me, Pietro!" An angry voice demanded in Polish.

Peter blinked. Through a numb tongue, he mumbled, "Haven't heard Polish ina while…" He slumped tiredly back, and he felt himself hit something solid. Large arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer to the solid thing, and frantic kisses began to dot his hairline. There was a whole lot of languages jumbled to his ears, but he heard a lot of German prayers and Polish curses.

He almost smirked as he filed away the last curse for future use.

"We need to get him inside. You, too. You're both going to die of hypothermia unless we get you out of those clothes now."

The snowy ground was pulled away from Peter, but he realized he couldn't feel it. He only felt the sensation of moving through the air. "How come it's not cold…?"

"I'll carry him," Hank said.

Peter felt himself be jerked towards something solid, and those firm hands supported him.

"I've got him," his father growled. And then Peter was marched through the blizzard, and then he was suddenly… in the mansion?

"Bring him to the med bay," Hank commanded.

And then Peter was suddenly in the basement, where Hank always worked. It was like they could teleport. Maybe they had powers like Azazel and just never told him?

The warm air in the room made Peter's skin prick. He just wanted to curl up on his side and sleep.

But the firm hands had other plans for him. They latched onto Peter's jacket and zipped it down. They then began jerking the material off of Peter's torso and shoulders before trying to get it off his arms. Peter weakly tried beating the hands away because he just wanted to sleep.

"You will not be sleeping until we have you in some warm, dry clothes, Pietro," his father's stern voice said.

Peter pouted. That sounded like too much work to be worth it. He was tired.

His goggles were ripped off his face, and he cringed against the warm air that hit his eyes. Something was shoved into his mouth while the firm hands succeeded in yanking the jacket off his arms.

The thing in his mouth disappeared.

"He's at ninty-three point eight," Hank said in a worried voice.

The firm hands reached for his wet t-shirt, and then the firm hands disappeared.

"Erik, stop!" Hank said. "You're going to send him into cardiac arrest if you keep manhandling him like that!"

Peter lolled his head to the side; he was so tired.

"Get out of your own damn clothes. I'll take care of Peter."

"Dear God," a British voice said as it came closer. "What in the hell happened?"

Peter's shirt was pulled and then fell open down the middle. That was weird. It hadn't been able to do that before.

Wet clothing sloshed to the tile.

"I thought you were going to keep an eye on him!" Erik accused furiously. More damp clothes hit the tile as Peter's socks and shoes disappeared.

"I was attending to Jean!" Charles defended as Peter felt his jeans fall away.

This was really weird. How could his t-shirt and his jeans just fall open? Peter opened his eyes just in time to see Hank grab onto the lining of his underwear, flexed to pull.

"Oh, God," Peter mumbled, knowing he would never be able to get the image of Hank ripping off his underwear out of his mind for as long as he lived.

Hank had the decency to blush. "You can't stay in these clothes." And then he ripped the underwear off.

Peter closed his eyes as towels covered him.

"He's hypothermic," Hank said to somebody. "I need to raise his core temperature before his heartrate gets any weaker. Or erratic."

"Then fucking do it." That was Peter's dad.

The firm hands returned, running a towel through Peter's icy, drenched hair.

"I'll ask Alex to bring down clothes for you both," Charles said.

Both. Peter peeked an eye open, wondering if his dad was really walking around in the nude. Nope; Erik had tied a towel around his waist. Peter reclosed his eyes.

"This might feel like it's burning you," Hank cautioned, "but it isn't. You're just cold, OK?" And then something dropped across Peter's neck and chest.

Peter gasped. He thought he was being burned. Or maybe his blood was spilling out and warming him up, just like Herbert's neck slashed open neck. Peter fumbled for the heating pads, not sure what was real.

The firm hands caught his and held on tight. Wow, those hands were really warm.

"Drape this across your neck too, Erik."

"I'm not hypothermic."

"Erik, please. Hank is doing everything he can for you and Peter. This would all be horribly worse if your condition deteriorated as well."

Erik grumbled.

"It's too hot," Peter mumbled, reaching for the pads again. They were sending pinpricks throughout his body now.

The firm hands caught his again. "Shh, Pietro. Don't touch them; they're warming you." Something scratchy and flexible and hot draped itself across Peter. It started tucking itself under him.

"It hurts," he whined. He had fire ants nipping at every inch of his skin now. And his chest was too hot.

"Well, that's what you get for being an idiot and running through the frozen pond." Erik let out a sigh and leaned his forehead against his son's. "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I can run on water," Peter explained weakly.

"Not well enough." Erik's forehead left his. "This stunt was stupid and careless. You're not allowed to use your powers for at least a week after this."

Peter kept his eyes closed while he frowned.

"Erik, perhaps we can serve up the punishments once he's not knocking on death's door," Charles said.

"I brought the clothes," Alex said as he entered the room. "What the crap happened?"

"It appears our quick friend isn't as fast as he thinks," Charles answered.

"I'm faaaaaaast," Peter protested weakly.

The firm hands left his, and he heard the rustle of clothes being pulled on.

"Let's keep your clothes off for now," Hank told Peter. "I don't want to let out any of the heat that the wool blanket has trapped."

Whatever. Peter could think of worse things than being naked under a blanket.

Like a warm towel being wrapped around his head. It was too hot.

"No," Peter protested faintly, blindly swatting his hands up. "'s so hot."

The firm hands returned to his and pinned them against his sweltering chest.

"What's his temperature?" Erik asked.

The stick thing slid back into Peter's mouth. Figuring it was a thermometer, he decided to be a good boy and keep it under his tongue.

The thermometer disappeared, and Hank answered, "Ninety-five point three."

The pricking was everywhere, but those firm hands wouldn't let him do a stupid thing about it. And he was still so tired. Maybe he should just sleep.

A soft hand stroked across his head. "Rest, Peter," Charles said.

And so Peter drifted to sleep.

Peter didn't know what time it was when he woke up. He just knew that he felt tired. His joints were stiff, his muscles ached, and his skin felt like it was vibrating against his nerves. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

"Each and every time I trust him with you, something disastrous happens!"

Peter's ears perked up.

"Erik, he is nearly thirteen; I can hardly be blamed for not keeping a constant eye on him, especially when I have a school to run!"

"And when he was six?" Erik challenged. "When he ran away? When he was kidnapped? When he was shot, when he was shot again, when he ran away again?!"

The metal of Peter's bed began to rattle.

"Yes, I have regrets, Erik! I wish I had been a better provider for him!" Peter's heart sank with guilt at that. "But he is also an independent boy—I couldn't force him to stay, short of brainwashing him."

There was a pause before Erik's hard voice muttered, "I can't trust him with anyone else."

Charles snorted. "And where were you when all of these events occurred?! You may believe that you were doing what was best for him, but if you had just come to me for help and swallowed your pride, he wouldn't have—"

"I did what was best!"

"I hardly think you're the poster child of good decisions, Erik!"

The metal rattled harder and then stopped abruptly.

"I'm sorry for what I have done against you, Charles," Erik said. "But I will always do what is best for Pietro."

Charles's tone became vaguely amused. "Yes, because murdering Shaw and slicing Riptide open were for Peter's benefit."

"I am protecting him."

Peter had heard enough. "How 'bout you protect him by being super-duper quiet?" He cracked an eyelid open to see Cherik turn their heads towards him.

As Erik rushed towards him, Charles gave Peter a nod. "Our apologies, Peter. How are you fairing?"

Peter grimaced as Erik ran a hand over his cheek. "I feel like poop."

Erik's hand tightened against his skin. "Hypothermia will do that to a person." Erik's eyes narrowed, and Peter braced himself against the oncoming storm. "Why would you act so irresponsibly, Pietro?! I know you have a brain because Charles says he can feel it whirling, but after tonight, I'm beginning to believe that you have nothing inside your skull but manure!"

Peter wrinkled his nose. "Gross."

Charles rolled closer to the boy. "Why were you running on the pond, Peter?"

Peter looked down at the wool blanket cloaking him. "I… wanted to see if I could."

"And it couldn't wait until you had an adult to support you," Erik accused as the metal began to vibrate again. "And it couldn't wait until the pond was above freezing in a snow storm, and it couldn't wait until you learned to swim!" He took a deep breath through his nose, and the metal quieted. "If Hank and I hadn't returned right when we had—" He cut himself off to grit his teeth and stare at the blanket.

Peter swallowed, realizing that he had been seriously stupid. "Yeah… Sorry…"

Erik's eyes flashed up dangerously, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"I think we can all agree that you acted recklessly tonight," Charles cut in, throwing the other adult a significant look. "And your actions deserve consequences. Fortunately for you, we believe that your recovery will coincide nicely with your punishment."

Peter groaned. "Please don't tell me you were serious about the whole no-powers-for-a-week thing."

"Deadly." Erik stared hard at his son.

Peter looked between them, trying to find a way out of it.

"And if you believe I won't know you've been using your powers," Charles said, placing two fingers to his temple, I'll know.

Peter blanched. "You… you'd go into my mind?" His heart accelerated because if they found out about his vigilante nights, he was gonna die.

"No need," Charles responded crisply. "I can feel the presence of your accelerated mind; I'll know if your body is moving about faster than it should be." Charles's eyes locked on Peter, probing inquisitively.

Peter jerked his eyes away.

Erik's fingers brushed against Peter's scarred, left wrist. "I ought to fashion you another bracelet so I can know where you are."

Peter closed his eyes against the memories that flooded him and moved his hand away.

"That won't be necessary, Erik," Charles said. "My tracking of him will suffice."

The tightness in Peter's lungs began to ease.

"My son needs to rest," Erik said suddenly.

Charles could take a hint. "Of course. I'll check back in soon, Peter." Charles patted Peter's wool-sheathed leg before rolling out of the medical bay.

His departure left the Lehnsherrs in a thick silence. Peter kept his eyes glued to the white tile, and Erik remained motionless.

After a minute, Erik did move. He grabbed a metal chair without a touch and set it down beside Peter's bed. He sat in it and then leaned his elbows against Peter's mattress.

Maybe this was Peter's cue to go to sleep, but he felt too wired from their conversation. So he forced himself to remain as still as his father.

"Pietro," Erik said softly after a while, "would you like to talk about it?"

Peter licked his dry lips and looked at Erik in confusion. "About what?"

"Tonight. The years with Stryker. Anything that will cleanse your pain." Erik's expression was nothing but heartfelt sincerity. Peter realized that he was probably the only person on earth that received this look from one of the most dangerous men alive.

"I've already told you about Stryker," Peter deflected.

"It helps to talk," Erik reminded him. When his son stayed quiet, he admitted, "I used to stay up late with Charles and ramble on about my time in the concentration camp."

"Really?" Peter's dad rarely talked about how close Charles and he were. Or about his time as a Nazi's slave.

Erik picked at the fraying strands of wool. "He stayed up many nights, just letting me cry into his shoulder." He met Peter's eyes then, emphasizing that he had no shame in being weak for those he loved.

Peter ground his teeth and let himself feel what he had felt earlier that night. How he had let Herbert die, how he hadn't saved that woman. How Azazel taunted his insecurities. "I guess… I guess I was running on the pond 'cause… I wanted be fast."

Erik rested his chin into his propped hand. "Of course you're fast."

"Faster, I guess," Peter muttered. "Because you're, like, mega powerful and can do anything." Like taking down Azazel if he appeared. "And I wanted to be powerful too."

Erik stared at him, trying to understand.

"Anyways," Peter mumbled, "I guess I'm not because I tripped up, and I fell into the water. And then I had one of those stupid panic attacks because I felt like Stryker was trapping me in the water, and… and I couldn't…" Tears flooded his eyes, and his lips trembled.

Erik reached up and pulled his son against him. He held him tight as Peter released a sob. He held his son as he ran a comforting hand through his hair, down his back.

Peter's balled fists pressed into Erik's back, gripping him close. "Why do I suck?" he blubbered through a sob.

Erik pulled back enough to give his son a reprimanding look. "You are one of the most powerful men on earth, Pietro Lehnsherr. You are comparing yourself to adults who have spent longer than your entire life mastering their powers. Do not belittle your perception of yourself because you've skewed your sights."

Erik was right; Peter knew that he was right. And he also knew that they were just words that didn't change anything. But, God—they made Peter's chest feel so much lighter.

Peter gasped air into his lungs and breathed it out slowly as his sobs subsided.

Erik ran his thumbs down Peter's wet cheeks. "You believe me to be one of the most powerful men in the world."

Peter rolled his watery eyes in a well-duh manner.

"But I have a weakness, Pietro," Erik insisted. "And that weakness is you. So, by default, that makes you in control of one of the most powerful men in the world."

Peter's mouth trembled into a smile, and his father pulled him back in for a hug. "I missed you. I missed you so much for so freaking long."

Erik's eyes closed as a rickety tower of pain mounted in his chest. "I know. I'm sorry. I thought of you more than you know." A tear escaped down his cheek.

Peter took a deep breath, and the men pulled apart.

"You need to rest, Pietro," his father said softly as he reclaimed his seat in the metal chair. He leaned against the bed.

Peter closed his eyes and pushed away the tears with the heels of his palms. "Are you gonna sit in that hard chair all night?"

"I can't be moved."

Peter let his lethargy wash over him as his father's consistent presence lulled him. And right as he drifted off, he felt firm hands remove the blanket on his head to comb through his hair.

February 24, 1970, North Salem, New York

Peter spent the entirety of his Monday cooped up in his bed, wearing pajamas, and ditching school. At least, until Charles had brought him his missed assignments. That was the problem with living in your school, he supposed.

And when Tuesday came, Peter was ready to get out of bed, strap on his goggles, and burn off his accumulated energy.

A knock at his door at six in the morning stopped him in the middle of pulling the goggles on. He turned towards the door curiously, leaving the goggles strapped around his long, silver hair. "Uh… come in."

Who was coming into his room before the sun was even up?

Charles pushed the door open and wheeled in with a smile. In his lap sat a large piece of frosted, chocolate cake. "Happy birthday, Peter!"

Peter felt his muscles stiffen and his typical grin slowly slid downwards. He looked to the cake and then to the Professor's large smile. Peter dragged a smile back up his mouth. "Cake for breakfast, Charles? What would Daddy Stickler say?"

Charles kept his grin, but he recognized something was amiss. "It's your thirteenth birthday; he needn't know."

Peter took the fork and plate of cake, shoveled a large bite into his mouth, and then set the cake down on the nightstand. "Thanks, Charles."

Charles eyed him, seeing that something was obviously upsetting the boy underneath his façade. While he could give himself a headache and try dipping into his mind, he decided it would be best to ask. "Peter—"

"Hey, since it's my birthday, can my punishment be lifted?" Peter cut him off. He jerked his goggles over his eyes. "I haven't been able to test these bad boys out all that much."

Charles decided to let it go, and he straightened in his wheelchair. "Well, that would be up to your father."

"Cool, thanks, Charles!" Peter sped out of the room in a flash.

Charles rolled his eyes and threw the abandoned plate of cake a final look before wheeling himself out of the room.

Meanwhile downstairs, Peter burst into the kitchen. Where Erik was cooking French toast with a hand towel over his shoulder. …Crap.

"Your punishment hasn't ended, Pietro," Erik reminded him as he flipped a piece of toast on the stove.

Peter frowned. "Don't I get an exemption for today?"

Erik's answer was a stern look.

Peter huffed and dropped into a seat at the kitchen table. He yanked off his goggles and tossed them on the table.

The goggles drifted up off the wood right after, floating over to Erik before tucking itself into his back pocket. Erik continued cooking nonchalantly.

"I could totally steal those back," Peter grumbled, his cheek pressed against his folded arms on the table.

Erik turned off the stove, grabbed the plate of French toast, and headed towards the table. "Not without using your powers." He gave his son a thin, victorious smile and set the plate of French toast down in front of Peter. "Happy birthday."

Peter scowled as he dug into the toast. "Ugh, for my birthday, I want everyone to pretend it's not my birthday."

Erik narrowed his eyes.

"Don't you have to wait until your thirties for that kind of talk, little girl?" Alex sneered as he walked into the kitchen. He threw Peter a smirk and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. He was drenched in sweat from his morning run.

"At least I don't sweat like a pig when I run, you wuss!" Peter shoved a large bite of toast into his mouth and then looked up to his father's disapproving stare. "What?!" he spluttered around the toast. "He called me a girl!"

"Happy birthday, little, non-sweating girl!" Alex called with a laugh as he jogged out of the room.

Peter turned his dad with large, doe eyes. "Please. Just one quick use of speed to give him the worst wedgie of all time."

Erik rolled his eyes and went to clean up the dishes on the stove.

"Morning!" Hank said brightly as he stepped into the kitchen. "Hey—happy birthday, Peter!"

Peter groaned and stabbed more French toast into his mouth.

Hank gave him a weird look before turning to Erik for an explanation.

"Apparently, my son wants to pretend it isn't his birthday," Erik said and then threw Peter a look. "Even though it is."

"I know it is," Peter grumbled to his plate. "I just don't like birthdays, OK?"

"Well, I haven't been able to celebrate your last six with you," Erik said as he dried the frying pan. "And I'll be damned if this one slips by unrecognized."

"That's the point," Peter said, glaring up at his father. "Half of my birthdays were the freaking worst, so I just don't want one, OK?!" He shoved himself out of the chair and went to flash out of the room, remembered his punishment, groaned loudly, and settled for stomping out of the kitchen.

Hank looked down meekly while Erik glared at nothing in particular.

Peter appeared back in the doorway with a scowl, muttered, "Thanks for the French toast," and then stomped back out of the room.

Charles rolled into the kitchen with a confused look. "Have either of you spoken to Peter this morning?"

"Uh…" Hank grabbed an orange, jar of peanut butter, and loaf of bread before backing out of the room.

Charles looked to Erik.

Erik put the frying pan away and projected the last few minutes' memories into Charles's mind.

"Oh." Charles blinked. "I suppose it wasn't my poor baking skills that made him frown at his birthday cake, then."

Erik ran a hand down his face and leaned against the counter. "I don't know how to help him, Charles."

Charles pondered. "Peter has had horrid experiences in the past around his birthday. Perhaps, he fears that one with the ones he loves will cause further disaster?"

Erik gave him a disgusted look. "Don't be irrational, Charles."

Charles rolled his eyes. "Then you need to go speak with him. You won't be able to help him unless you unearth the root of the problem." He rolled over to the cupboard and began preparing himself a bowl of oatmeal.

Erik opened his mouth and then hesitated. He clenched his jaw, trying to force the words out. But he couldn't do it. So he sent the mental plea: would you help me talk with him?

Charles froze in surprise and then looked up to see Erik's anguished face. He truly hated asking for help, and his displeasure made Charles grin. "I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch that?"

Erik huffed and spat out, "Would you help me talk to Pietro about this birthday nonsense?"

Charles smiled and brought a pot of water to the stove. "Why, Erik, I would be delighted."

Erik rolled his eyes and, to show his gratitude, ripped the pot and can of oatmeal from Charles's hands. Erik began to prepare the breakfast.

Charles blinked, feeling something warm and forgotten coat his heart. He turned away and wheeled to set the table before he could dwell on it.

OK, yeah, Peter was upset. But Peter wasn't an idiot. He wasn't about to let that giant slice of cake just go to waste.

Which is why when Cherik knocked on his door before entering, they found him with a face full of chocolate. Erik folded his arms while Charles wore a delighted grin.

Peter choked down the bite filling his mouth. "I couldn't let it go bad!"

"That's nearly half of an entire cake," Erik grumbled. "Whoever offered you that has their proportions severely distorted."

Charles and Peter shared a conspiratorial look that Erik missed.

"I don't need you dropping into a sugar coma at dawn," Erik said, marching towards the plate.

It was like the Hostess debacle all over again. As Erik went to grab the plate, Peter hurriedly shoveled forkful after forkful of cake into his mouth as fast as he could. By the time Erik wrenched the plate from his hand and used his powers to steal the fork, there was only a tiny square of cake left.

Erik stared disapprovingly, Peter smirked as he chewed a mouthful of cake, and Charles hid a smile behind his hand.

"Go wash your face," Erik commanded.

Peter's chocolate-smeared mouth titled downwards. "But it's my birthday."

"Peter," Charles said, "you can't denounce your birthday and then demand its entitlements."

He swallowed back the last of the cake as his frown deepened. "But it's my birthday."

Erik tossed the plate onto the nightstand with a clatter. "So you don't want a birthday, just the excuse it offers you."

Peter shrugged and zipped into the ensuite bathroom. The faucet ran for a moment, and then Peter reappeared on the bed with a clean face.

"Peter, must we remind you of your punishment every hour?" Charles asked as his forehead fell into his hand.

Peter squinted. "I thought I could use them for stuff that you guys told me to do."

Erik's smiled was menacing. "No."

"Ugh." Peter flopped back onto his bed. He hoped God would just strike him dead if Cherik ever found out about the vigilante thing.

Erik leaned against the bedpost while Charles drew his chair up alongside the bed.

Peter looked up at the two of them. "Is this an intervention? It feels like an intervention."

While Erik struggled with the words to respond, Charles stepped in. "Your father and I are here because we are worried about you. It's quite alright to experience anguish over your traumas, Peter, but shoving them under the rug won't make them go away."

Peter scowled towards the ceiling. "What if it's a really good rug?"

Erik rolled his eyes and dropped down to sit on the bed.

"We would like you to elaborate on your aversion towards your birthday," Charles said in a soothing voice.

"Oh, Satan on broomstick," Peter muttered, throwing his hands over his face. "That's the voice you use when you're trying to calm down Jean."

Erik squinted. "Satan… on a broomstick?"

Peter dropped his hands back to the bed. "Well, you wouldn't let me cuss; I had to get creative."

"That's actually rather amusing because witches were always depicted as riding broomsticks as an innuendo for riding a phallic symbol of the devil, so Satan riding a broomstick is…" Charles's smile faded as he looked between the two. He cleared his throat. "…rather inappropriate and irrelevant to this conversation."

Peter lolled his head to look up at his father. "Can I leave now so Charles will stop talking about penises."

"No, and I think Charles is done talking about penises." Erik gave Charles a look.

Charles grinned sheepishly. "Of course."

Peter huffed. He figured that he was trapped in this conversation, he might as well rush it. "OK, my birthday sucks, like, every year. I mean, when I was with you guys, it was probably fine; I don't really remember. But when I turned seven, I was living on the streets, trying to find Dad. And I don't even remember turning eight or nine or ten because I never had any clue what freaking day it was. And my eleventh birthday was spent with Emma the She-devil Frost and her minions, so that's just awesome. And last year, I was on my own, and I just didn't celebrate." Peter shrugged and looked at his nails. "I think it's just one of those things we should forget about and move on at this point."

Charles and Erik sat in silence, digesting this.

Peter sighed noisily. "Something crappy is always happening around my birthday anyways, and I keep stupidly thinking that maybe I'm just, like, bad luck or something—oof!" Peter's shirt was gripped and yanked, pulling the boy swiftly against his father's chest.

Erik wrapped his long arms around his son and held him close. "I'm sorry. I'll always be so sorry for everything you were forced to endure because of what I've done."

"It's not your fault, Dad," Peter mumbled against Erik's black turtleneck. "Life just happens to suck sometimes. And usually around February twenty-fourth."

Erik pulled his son back to look at him.

"Peter, life's circumstances are not based on a calendar's schedule," Charles explained. "Despite the coincidences of horrific incidents, having or abandoning a birthday won't influence them. Well, unless the incident is something like a horrific birthday party."

Erik threw his friend a look.

"Yeah…" Peter rubbed his eye. "I guess… I don't know. Having a birthday thing now kind of just makes me think of all those years life sucked on February twenty-fourth."

"Which is why we will replace those years will new, fonder memories," Charles offered with a warm smile. "When you look back on your life, you will regret never having a birthday more than having a few disastrous ones. I promise."

Peter bit his lip and looked to his dad for confirmation.

Seeing that his son wanted his input made Erik's cold heart warm. He smiled softly. "Charles is always right."

It was Charles's turn to have a warming heart.

"Ugh!" Peter rolled dramatically across the bed. "You're so in love with him, it's screwing up your view of the world!"

Cherik looked to each other before quickly looking away.

"How 'bout ice cream?" Charles spouted suddenly, trying to change the subject.

While Peter's head popped up in eagerness, Erik gave his friend a wide-eyed, no look.

"And by ice cream," Charles deterred the suggestion messily, "I meant homework… and presents." He turned back to Peter's deflating expression with a smile. "Peter, would you like to come downstairs and see your present? Assuming you do accept the existence of your birthday."

Peter leapt of the bed, staring at Charles with a hungry look. "Depends. You got something good?"

Charles narrowed his eyes with a grin. "You'll have to have a birthday to find out."

"Bleh, fine." Peter rushed out of the room at the pace of typical teen. "Beat ya there!"

"No powers!" Erik reminded him sternly.

Already downstairs, Peter called back, "I'm not!"

Cherik began following in the teen's wake.

"Thank you," Erik said, glancing down to Charles as they reached the elevator. "For being there for him and… knowing just what to say." He stepped into the elevator without another look.

"It isn't a problem." With a wry smile, Charles followed him in. "It's rather easy, considering I'm always right."

The elevator doors closed on them just as Erik jerked his head to look at the cheeky man.

Peter's first present of goggles spent the entirety of his birthday in the back pocket of Erik's pants. (It was insulting, really, to Hank's kindness and Peter's self-control.)

Charles had brought the young teen down to his study to give him a gift of every instillation in the Batman comic series. While Peter gaped and looked through them all, Charles smirked and said he thought two hundred graphic novels may entertain him for an hour—if they were lucky.

And when school started for the day, Alex had offered Peter the same gift he extended to every student on their birthday: the role of PE teacher. As the birthday kid, Peter became their god. He could be praised as a hero and have everyone sit out for the day. But these kids couldn't retaliate against the boy with super endurance… With a malicious grin, Peter forced the students to do what he loved and run for the entirety of the hour as he ran alongside them (without the super speed, of course, if Cherik were to hear of this.)

With a lollipop in his mouth, Peter meandered around the mansion with a grin. He decided that maybe having a birthday wasn't so bad after all.

And then the doorbell rang.

Already in the foyer, Peter slowly took out his sucker and glanced around. Everyone else was busy (or slow), so he headed towards the door. His dad had been really on his case lately for answering the door for everyone, but it was his birthday, and he was closest to the door. So, it was fine.

Peter swung the door open to see a man in his late teens holding a box and a piece of paper. The delivery boy squinted at the paper and asked, "I have a delivery from a Miss Darkholme for Perdy Len-shear?"

Close enough. Peter stuffed the lollipop back into his mouth and snatched the box into his greedy hands.

"Wait, I need you to sign," the deliverer requested, pushing the paper towards him and pulling a pen out of his pocket.

Peter quickly scribbled on the paper and then slammed the door. He held the box, feeling its significant weight. He ripped the lid off and froze.

Nestled inside deep blue tissue paper was a large glass bottle of Bourbon. A crisp, white card was folded into the corner of the paper. Peter picked it up and read: Happy birthday, Quicksilver. Sorry I'm not there for your entrance into adolescence, but I thought I'd send a little present from 1913. I'd suggest chugging it before the adults catch it.

A grin spread across Peter's face. Raven was so cool. He grabbed the bottle, dropped the empty box, and then fished the lollipop from his mouth. He twisted the cap off the bottle and then hesitantly smelled it. He was surprised; this bottle actually smelled sweet, not like the usual tart smell that Peter had encountered on those homeless alcoholics.

Peter raised the bottle to his mouth.

"Peter, your father is going to extend your punishment if you continue to answer the door after—" Charles stopped wheeling as he saw the teen standing in the foyer with a bottle of Bourbon to his lips.

Peter hadn't let the liquid hit his mouth yet, but now he was torn between throwing it back and ditching it altogether.

"Pietro," Erik said sternly as he came out of Charles's study, "if you were the one—" He stopped at the sight as well.

Ah, to hell with it. Peter was dead meat anyways. He jerked the liquid to pour into his mouth. Just as the sweet liquid coated his tongue, the bottle was jerked out of his hands. Peter coughed.

Across the foyer, Erik was glaring down at the bottle with a metal-rimmed nozzle. "Who in the hell offered you a bottle of Bourbon?"

Peter blinked, realizing that Bourbon tasted really good and really familiar.

Erik turned his glare on his son. "And why in the hell did you think it would be intelligent to drink it?!"

Charles swiped the bottle from Erik's hand and examined it. He gave the open bottle a sniff and then, being the resident alcohol aficionado, grinned. "Ah yes, the most lethal of all alcoholic beverages." He took a swig from the bottle while Erik glowered at him. "Apple juice."

Peter blinked. Oh. So that's why it smelled familiar.

Erik swiped the bottle bag and took a whiff. With a disapproving stare, he looked back to his son.

"Psh, I knew it was juice the whole time, man," Peter lied breezily. He stuck the lollipop back into his mouth.

Being it Peter's birthday, Charles decided to let his slide.

The metal-bender was less forgiving. With a trained stare and point, he took measured steps towards his son. "The next time I catch you with alcohol, you will relish in the memory of your current punishment."

Peter gulped. "But it's just juice."

"I don't give a damn if it's water stuffed inside an empty bottle of vodka," Erik spat. "Do it again, and you will regret it deeply."

Peter muttered a "yes, sir" and looked to the floor. He caught sight of the white card that he'd dropped and noticed there had been writing on the back. He snatched it up and continued reading: God, I hope that played out as wonderfully as it did in my mind.

"Screw you, Raven," Peter muttered under his breath and finished reading: Happy birthday, kid. There's a wad of cash for you under the tissue paper. Raven. P.S. Don't be stupid.

Peter stared at the last line. She'd underlined and bolded the words "don't be stupid." As if she thought Peter was doing something stupid. Icy fear clawed up his spine. Did… did Raven know what he did on weekend nights?

The card was taken from his hands for Erik to read. He made quick work of the card before gritting his teeth. "Raven. Of course."

Charles was rubbing his forehead and smiling with faint amusement. "My sister has always been fond of theatrics."

Peter looked at his dad, wondering if he thought it was weird that Raven has emphasized the final line. But Erik showed no hint of understanding, only annoyance for Peter's almost-aunt.

Charles rolled over to read the card and handed off the bottle of apple juice. "Happy birthday, Peter."

Peter rolled his eyes and accepted the bottle back. He fished the box off the ground and dug through to find the wad of ten dollar bills. He leafed through them with a grin, realizing there was around $130 there. When he looked back up, Erik was calling out to the passing-by Hank for allowing a student to answer the door. And Charles was staring at Peter.

Staring directly at Peter.

Peter quickly looked away, holding his bottle, box, and wad of money. "I'm gonna go see if Gabe wants to binge on my comics with me." He scurried away before Cherik could try talking to him again.

Charles looked up to Erik with a distant look.

Erik scowled down at him. "What?"

Charles blinked, clearing his mind as he glanced down to the card in his hand. "Raven is an intriguing woman."

Erik rolled his eyes. "'Pain in my ass' is more fitting."

Charles glanced up at the high-strung father. "Care to join me for some tea and a game of chess?"

Erik stiffened. "We haven't played in… years."

Charles began wheeling himself down the hall, towards his study. "It seems Peter's birthday is full of surprises."

Erik blinked and then jerked his feet to carry him after the telepath.

Late that night, Peter was lying in bed with his nose in a Batman comic, many other graphic novels scattered across his comforter.

There was a knock at the door before it opened. Peter glanced up to see his father walk in.

"For wanting me to have a birthday so freaking bad," Peter said as he turned the page, "you never even got me a present."

The door shut behind Erik as he pulled a silver-wrapped box from behind his back. "Your birthday isn't over, you ungrateful child." He grinned.

Peter smiled, threw down his book, and grabbed the extended present. He went to take off the lid before he looked at his dad suspiciously. "Wait, how come we never celebrated yours or Charles's birthdays?"

Erik sat down at the foot of the bed. "We did; we had cake."

Peter rolled his eyes. "I think you guys should have a party this year. Like, giant party with piñatas and multiple cakes and balloons and strippers."

Erik narrowed his eyes.

"OK, maybe not the strippers. Isn't Angel a stripper now?"

"Open your present, Pietro," Erik said.

Peter brought his sights back to the box and ripped off the top. And there, nestled in carefully folded newspaper, was something leather and metallic. Peter pulled it from the box and stared in awe at the silver, leather jacket. It was flashy and just Peter. And on the inside, Peter's childhood silver cape had been stitched into the lining.

It was perfect.

Punishment be damned, Peter used his speed to launch himself at his father. Erik grunted in surprise as his son's small arms wrapped around him and squeezed with all they had.

"It'ssocool!" Peter gushed. "Thankyou! I'mgonnalooksoflippin'awesomewhenIrunaroundinthisthing! Ahaha!"

Erik smiled and gently hugged back his son. "I'm glad you like it."

Peter jumped out of his dad's hold to yank the jacket on. It was slightly too big for the slight boy, but Erik ensured that with purpose; it was small enough to easily fit the teen but big enough that Peter could grow into it.

Erik gave a small, fond smile to his giddy son. He thought about how this day had been a painful burden on his heart for the past six years. He thought about how today had almost been the impossible burden, had he not saved Peter from the icy waters two days prior. How he had lost one child to fire and nearly lost the other to ice. He imagined laying that silver jacket on the lid of a coffin rather than the silver box.

"Saturday is the last day of my punishment, right?" Peter asked as he examined his jacket in the mirror. He twisted to get a better look at the metallic-colored back. "Because I'm gonna totally be Quicksilver in this thing."

Erik blinked back tears. "Yes. Sunday will be the dreaded day you can return to destroying the mansion."

"I can't wait!" Peter turned towards his father with a giant smile, and Erik couldn't help but return it. Peter bounced back up onto his bed, jostling the mattress and making books fall to the floor.

Erik shoved a pile of books to the carpet and laid back on the bed beside Peter.

"Are you gonna tuck me in?" Peter asked cheekily as he scooped up his previously abandoned book.

Erik closed his eyes and tucked his interlocked hands behind his head. "How about you read to me instead?" He didn't give a damn what the hell Peter read or did; Erik just wanted to sit in the presence of his son.

Because he had a son. His was alive, alive, alive, and here. Erik had his son, and it was his son's thirteenth birthday. These were the nights that he would cherish for his entire life.

"Eh, it's too hard to read these aloud without you seeing the pictures," Peter said, settling back under the covers but never removing his silver jacket. "But, hey, I'll just describe the pictures and read the words, and you can just, like, picture it."

Erik hummed his acceptance.

"OK, so all of Gotham is throwing birthday parties because it's the anniversary of Batman, right, and all the parties are supporting charities, so, of course, Batman and Robin agree to go and, like, support them, but it just got weird because…"

Erik let himself relax as he listened to his excited son monologue the happenings of Gotham. For the first time in many years, Erik felt truly at ease.

And for the first time in many years, Peter had had a very happy birthday.