ERIK POV

The next morning, despite being the last one to bed, Erik was still—unsurprisingly—the first one awake in their room.

The morning sunlight spilled across his face, a touch of warmth where everything else felt cold. In a very uncharacteristic moment for someone who was not accustomed to lying in bed when he was not inclined to go to sleep, Erik rolled onto his side to stare at the bed across from him, or—more specifically—the people on it.

Pietro had not moved much from his position the night before, but with one leg in a cast from toe to hip and an arm in a sling, a whole lot of movement wasn't really expected or possible. And though Pietro's face was fortunately calm with sleep, it was still slightly unsettling to see him in such a rigid position, given that when presented the opportunity, Pietro normally took up as much room as possible in sleep. As had become routine, when Erik made his nightly rounds at the school to check in on his children, he never knew quite what to expect when he looked in upon Pietro. The boy might be tangled in covers, limbs going every which way, or even sprawled horizontally across the bed. But very rarely was he neatly tucked within it, unless he hadn't yet actually passed from the waking world to wherever it is one goes when they fall asleep.

Behind him, Erik could just make out the top of Nina's head—a soft tuff of hair just peeking out from where she had nestled against Pietro's shoulder. Looking at them, Erik felt another stab of guilt and inadequacy. A proper parent would have made sure she at least, if not Pietro also if he were up for it, had brushed their teeth and changed into something more sleep appropriate than jeans and a t-shirt before bed.

But even before, during what was likely the calmest period of his life. He had never been good at that. Magda had always been the enforcer, while Erik gave in to Anya's pleas of 'Papa, please just one more story!'

And more recently, more often than not, Charles had been in charge of encouraging all the students—including Erik's children—to go to bed in a timely manner and with all their nightly chores taken care of.

Of course Erik had dabbled a little in such tasks, but despite her young age, Nina was already quite good at completing those necessities on her own and without being told. And Wanda was (or had been) plenty able to take care of herself and made sure Pietro did the same, so Erik's existence didn't quite fall into that role.

But still . . . he felt that it should have; however, by the time Erik collapsed into the other bed last night in an exhausted state that didn't feel like it was from physical exertion, Mila had already straightened out the blanket over the two younger kids and tucked a pillow under Pietro's injured arm and leg so that they were better supported.

Speaking of whom, Mila had also opted to join in their impromptu sad little sleepover, laying horizontally across the bottom of the same bed as Pietro and Nina, rather than in her and Nina's own room. She lay on her stomach with her arms hugging the pillow under her head. The position sparked a memory of his little Anya.

As soon as she learned to roll over, his baby girl would constantly flip over in her crib during the night from her back to her tummy. Despite Magda's insistence that he was worrying too much, for the first week or so, Erik had stayed stubbornly by her crib all night long just to watch her breathe. He had been terrified that she would suffocate in the night and he wouldn't be there to save her, and in the end, he had been right . . . just not in the way he expected.

Erik had to tear his eyes away from the girl to dispel the memory and with that unbidden trip down memory lane, he found he could no longer stay in bed. He needed to move, so with his children still asleep and not in immediate need of attention, he went to the ornate and overstocked washroom, where his body ran through the motions of showering and other necessities while he desperately tried to keep his mind blank.

Someone had dropped off a basket of clothes of varying sizes. Some looked like they were meant to fit him and others for Pietro. He was grateful for them, though still unsettled by the fact that someone had been in their room, no matter how briefly, and no matter that it was likely someone he knew and trusted.

When he was finished, Erik didn't linger, finding no reason to stare at himself in the mirror and ask questions to which his reflection would offer no answers.

When he returned to the main room, he expected to find everyone still sleeping as he couldn't have been in the washroom for more than ten minutes, so it was quite the surprise to see Pietro sitting up with his good arm gripping the nightstand next to the bed, as if he were contemplating whether—with the other arm in a sling and a cast on one of his legs that nearly went to his hip—he could somehow still manage to stand up.

Erik must have stepped on a loose floor board or made some other kind of noise (maybe one of panic) because Pietro lifted his gaze from the floor to his father, and they stared silently at one another.

It was Erik who broke the silence. "What do you need? Let me get it for you. Are you thirsty? Hungry?" Erik asked quietly, cognizant of the room's still sleeping occupants, as he stepped cautiously closer as if Pietro were a deer that would dash off if he moved too quickly.

Pietro didn't answer for a moment, considering, as if he didn't want to ask for help, despite his obvious need of it. And it was at that moment that it hit Erik how angry his son might be at him.

Based on his questions back at the hospital, Erik knew that Pietro was aware that his memories weren't all there, but nevertheless, they hadn't had a conversation about Erik's role in that, nor was Erik quite sure how Pietro had gotten some, if not all, of his memories back, other than he assumed Apocalypse had something to do with it.

But no matter if it was now or later, the truth—that Erik had essentially forced Jean to take Pietro's memories—would come out, and Pietro would be angry. He should be angry. No matter his reasons behind it, Erik had taken something precious from his son, without knowing for certain whether it could be given back.

And as they stared at each other, Erik thought perhaps he did know already, but then Pietro spoke and it became evident that that did not appear yet to be the case.

"I have to use the bathroom." He mumbled quietly, not looking directly at his father.

"Oh." Said Erik, relief washing over him despite his son's obvious embarrassment at having to admit that he could not get from the bed to the washroom by himself, but Erik would take that mild discomfort over his son's anger any day. That said, Erik had no intention of hiding the truth of what he had done from Pietro, but it need not be addressed at this exact moment when it was still so early in the day.

"Right." Said Erik. Foregoing the wheelchair that was tucked into one corner of the room, Erik strode over to Pietro intending to simply carry him bridal style, but Pietro stopped him with his good arm.

"Don't. I can walk. I just need help." Said Pietro so brusquely that Erik reconsidered his position on Pietro's knowledge of Erik's deed.

Erik opened his mouth to argue that it would be much quicker to just let himself be carried, but it would be cruel to take away the little control his son had in his life and besides, as much as he hated the thought, Erik wouldn't always be there to carry him.

"Alright." Said Erik carefully draping his son's good arm over his shoulder—hunching down a bit to compensate for their height difference—and helping Pietro stand on his good leg, though Erik still took most of his weight. It seemed wrong to be grateful when Pietro had suffered so much, but he was appreciative in that moment that Pietro had injured opposite limbs, otherwise giving his son some semblance of independence would be a lot more difficult.

It was a bit awkward with their height difference and Erik had to make an effort not to just completely lift Pietro off the ground, but, by Erik's standards, they still made quick work of the short trip. Still, Erik felt every second of the silence during journey.

When they reached their destination, Erik carefully helped Pietro lean against the granite countertop.

"Thanks." Said Pietro, surprising Erik who hadn't expected any unprompted conversation.

"Do you er need—" Erik started, but Pietro quickly cut him off.

"Youcango." He said, flushing in embarrassment as he gestured to the door, the movement which nearly sent him toppling over.

Erik grimaced, but nodded. He wasn't going to argue with him. He knew it would be a challenge doing . . . well whatever he needed to do, with the counter not exactly in the right position to help balance him.

Without a word, Erik reached out his hand behind him, easily pulling one of the extravagant gold towel racks across the room from the wall and manipulating it into a make-shift crutch. They should have grabbed a real one (or two for when Pietro's arm healed), but the boy hadn't exactly been walking at the time, so it wasn't something Erik had thought to grab, nor had anyone else it seemed. But this would do for now.

Erik offered it up to his son, and Pietro took it, almost cautiously, balancing carefully on his good leg as he curled his pale slender fingers around it. In doing so, Erik's eyes went next to his palm, which, along with his other hand was still neatly bandaged. Erik reminded himself that those injuries would need to be checked today and most likely rebandaged. With Pietro's healing factor, it was possible that the cuts on his hands were well on their way to being healed by now, but given that he hadn't had a proper meal for a while, Erik doubted it.

Pietro cleared his throat and Erik was shaken from his thoughts. "Sorry. I'll just—I'll be right outside, if you need me."

"I'm not running a marathon." Pietro retorted, but his voice was flat, lacking the normal jesting tone that would be there if the circumstances were different. Then again, if the circumstances were different, Pietro wouldn't be balancing precariously on one leg in a strange hotel room in front of the father who had failed him.

"Right." Said Erik for the second time, gently closing the washroom door behind him as he exited, knowing when his presence was unwelcome.

"Morning." Said a voice behind him, and it was only Erik's years of constantly living on edge that kept him from flinching in surprise. He turned to find a sleep-deprived looking Mila standing in front of him.

She blinked at him, pulling on a strand of bedraggled hair.

Wanda used to do that. Erik noted with a twinge in his chest, and some distant part of his brain wondered if that was a habit inherited by nature or one born from their shared upbringing.

"Peter in the bathroom?" Mila asked quietly, mindful of Nina's sleeping form not so far away.

"Yes." Erik replied just as softly. "He insisted that he could manage on his own."

Mila nodded. "Sounds like him." And she smiled briefly, still the sad one. "Tell me he's not attempting to shower or anything like that. I don't think I could take seeing him with one more injury if he'd slip and hit his head."

Oh god. Erik hadn't thought of that. Not the fact that Pietro would attempt to shower; he didn't think he would, and a quiet flushing sound followed by that of a faucet turning on, told him that Pietro wasn't attempting such. But he hadn't thought of how they'd deal with that when it inevitably got to the point of needing to be done. He'd cleaned him up a bit at the hospital when he'd been passed out, but even with his healing factor, his leg and arm wouldn't be healed tomorrow.

How did one even go about keeping a properly casted leg dry while showering? A plastic bag of some sort he assumed. When Pietro had broken his leg before, the 'cast' he and Al had put together was not a proper plaster or fiberglass one, but rather, something that could be removed, so getting his leg wet before hadn't been an issue.

And surprisingly, Erik had never encountered a broken bone—at least not one of his own—that had been serious enough to require casting, or perhaps one or two had and Erik had simply gotten very lucky in that his bones had healed properly. But even during his time with Shaw, the man had never broken bones to draw out his powers. He hadn't needed to. There were other ways to inflict torture that were just as effective. More effective even.

He supposed there was probably some student with water-manipulation abilities that they could utilize, but he doubted Pietro would acquiesce to that. But they would figure something out. Although the method of Pietro's injury had to be unique, he certainly couldn't be the first person with a cast from toe to hip.

"No, I don't think that's in his plan this morning." Erik said finally. Behind him he could still hear the water running, but nothing else. And his chest clenched again as his brain scrambled to remember if there was any sharp objects in the room. "Pietro—Peter, are you . . . are you alright?" Erik asked after he gave a soft knock on the door, knowing even as he asked it, when you looked at the big picture, Pietro would never be alright again. Erik knew that because, though he had never lost a twin, he had lost his parents, his neighbors, his friends, almost all of his daughters. And with each lost, he had felt part of his humanity go with them.

Pietro wasn't like Erik. Pietro was good. He wouldn't lose his compassion for others with Wanda's death, but he would have lost part of himself all the same.

"I'm—I'm fine. I just, I need a minute." Said Pietro, his voice was higher than normal and he sounded decidedly not fine, but Erik didn't want to barge in if he really just needed some time to himself. He was a traumatized teenager, but he was still a teenager.

"O-K. A minute." said Erik, deciding he would give Pietro his space, but he noted the time on his watch, vowing to check in again at exactly the minute mark. Because for Pietro, a minute could be an eternity, and even if Erik had convinced himself and Mila that Pietro was going to keep moving forward, Erik still didn't think he was in a good mindset to be alone for very long.

"I'm going to grab us some breakfast." Said Mila after a moment. "I know someone would probably bring us food again, but I need to . . . do something. Any requests? You look like you could use some coffee."

Erik felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "I wouldn't turn down a coffee."

"Thought so. I'll be back soon." Said Mila as she slipped out of the room closing the door behind her.

After her departure, Erik returned his attention to the other closed door within the room. "P—Peter?" Erik asked quietly knocking on the door once again.

He placed one hand on the doorknob. He wouldn't even need his powers to open it, unless Pietro had somehow managed to hop across the room to lock the door, which Erik doubted.

Behind the door he heard a crash.

"Peter!" Erik called out alarmed and was just going to open the washroom door when it opened of its own accord, and there was Pietro, standing before him, leaning on the make-shift crutch, breathing a little heavy but like he was trying not to. His eyes were a little red and his hair messier than when he'd woken up, but otherwise, physically he looked fine, or at least, no worse than before.

He clutched the crutch beneath his armpit and held up his good hand as best he could, which wasn't very high.

"My bandages came off." Said Pietro staring emotionlessly at Erik.

"Okay." Said Erik, making to take the crutch from Pietro and take his weight again, which he did, when Pietro failed to object. "I can fix that."

It was about the only thing he could fix.


{Author's Note: Next time, Peter's POV, so you'll get to see a bit of what's going on in his head. }