ERIK POV
Unlike the night before, this time, Erik woke up on his back, so the first thing he saw was the ceiling—unblemished and unbroken, so easily put back together where so many other things could not be fixed at all.
Erik sat up, smoothing his hair back from his face with both hands, not that it was really long enough to be out of place. He hadn't had what could be called 'long' hair in any sense since he was a boy, younger than Pietro. It was ironic; before he had watched most of his friends and neighbors die, he had watched them lose their homes, then the rest of their possessions, then their hair, and finally their lives, but Shaw had let him keep his hair because he was special. Or perhaps simply because Shaw didn't want to stare at a cue ball all day during their torture sessions.
Maybe that was why one of the first things Erik did when he was free of that man and that place was cut his hair as short as possible and had never let it grow longer than a couple of inches.
Erik took a deep breath, why must he still be haunted by Shaw even now when there was so much more to haunt him? He was haunted by enough without his creator occupying so much space in his mind. It scared unsettled him to realized just how deeply Shaw had dug his claws into the monster person Erik had become.
Pushing the man from his mind—or at least locking him away for another time—Erik debated whether he should attempt to go back to sleep or once again rise early as he had the night before, but when he glanced over to the bed where Pietro was meant to be sleeping, the decision was made for him.
Because the bed was empty.
Erik immediately jumped to his feet. He knew he shouldn't panic every time his son and daughter were not where he expected them to be. He knew it was irrational to be so anxious; surely not all parents worried this much over their children. But was it so absurd of a reaction, given everything that had happened to Erik's children? Was anything irrational at this point?
Still, Erik forced himself to take on an outward calm that he did not feel and think logically. Pietro's crutches were gone, so that pointed to him having left the room on his own accord. Perhaps he had just wandered to the washroom or to the kitchen for a late-night snack, but when Erik checked the former, he found it empty.
With his first attempt at finding his son unsuccessful, Erik fled to the hallway, not bothering to change out of the borrowed sweats and t-shirt that had somehow come into his possession and currently served as his sleepwear. His steps were hurried and probably too loud for walking through a school full of sleeping children, but he couldn't help it.
Not for the first time, his son was missing, and he had to find him.
Before he headed to the kitchen, Erik decided he would first check Nina and Mila's room for Pietro. Maybe his son had decided he would sleep better knowing his sisters, rather than his disappointment of a father, were less than a stone's throw away.
But again, when Erik opened the door to Mila and his daughter's room, there were only two children within, not three.
Erik gripped the door handle, unconsciously contorting the metal in his hand. Tomorrow Mila would notice its misshapen shape, but would not bring it up. They were all struggling. She'd break door handles too if she could.
But in that moment, it was not Mila who discovered him.
Erik felt a hand on his shoulder, and he reacted.
He didn't see anything, blind with rage, or perhaps he saw too much: every person who had ever taken something—someone—from him. Shaw. Stryker. Apocalypse. They were who stood before him, and he caught them round the throat and squeezed.
He could blame it on lack of sleep, on his worry for Pietro, on grief, but really, those were but excuses. Erik needed this—something to lash out at and lash onto. Something—Someone—into which he could channel all of his anger.
But the release did not last. Jean pushed him away, both physically and with an unseen telekinetic force that propelled his body away from her and across the hall, and in the aftermath, they both struggled for breath.
"E-Erik." Jean choked out. "A-a-re 'ou ok-kay?"
"Am I okay?" Erik asked breathing heavily, as though it had been his windpipe that had been crushed and not the teenager's that stood over him. "I'm the one who nearly killed you just now, not the other way around." He said, though he could barely bring himself to look at the girl, ashamed as he was. Erik had attacked achild—a powerful child—but still a child. Someone that meant him no harm. Someone who cared deeply about his children. Someone he had already asked to do too much, and who had done an unspeakable act at his request precisely because she could not stand to see her friend in pain.
"I'm—I'm f-fine." Said Jean, but her voice shook, and she rubbed her neck clearly still in pain.
My god. If she had been Raven—still recovering from Apocalypse's death grip—he would have killed her.
Erik could try to push some of the blame onto Jean for startling him. As a telepath, she should have known not to catch him unawares, but he could not. He knew his mind all too well. He was always angry. Always just a step away from lashing out, so how could she have known when his mind likely felt no different than usual?
"You're not. I nearly killed you." Said Erik, closing his hand into a fist and curling it into his chest, there was not even the echo of a tremor running through it. And why should there be? Killing was easy; it was keeping people alive that was difficult, or at least, keeping the people he wanted alive was nearly impossible. Those he wished dead seemed to have an uncanny ability to remain among the living.
Jean coughed a little. "I'm fine." She said, making a point not to stumble over the words, though her voice was still hoarse. "But you're clearly not."
No. He wasn't, but then, he hadn't been for a long time, had he? Not really. Any peace he had managed to find during his short time at the school with Nina, Pietro, and Wanda turned out to be little more than an illusion, so easily and quickly dispelled.
But still, he had not lost everyone just yet, which brought him back to what had drawn him from his bed in the first place.
"You're l-looking for Peter." Said Jean, filling the silence before Erik could and perhaps pulling the thought directly from his mind. "He's okay. Or . . . I mean, he's not worse. I—I heard him get up." She gestured to her head, indicating that it was not necessarily the sound of Pietro's trek through the mansion that alerted her to his restlessness, but rather the sound of his mind. "He's outside. He said he wanted to look at the stars."
"The . . . stars . . ." Erik repeated for it seemed both completely out of character for his son—who normally could not sit still long enough to finish a meal he desperately wanted to eat let alone sit to stare at distant cosmos that for all intents and purpose appeared frozen in space—and yet directly on point. For someone who had also been a prisoner (on more than one occasion), Erik knew how reassuring it could be to look up and see the night sky above, instead of the blank ceiling of one's cell.
"D-don't worry. He didn't go far. You'll see him if you s-step outside." Jean added, and turned to go, probably wanting to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man who had just nearly choked her to death. But then, she paused and made one final comment. "I think he's ready to talk to you."
With that, Jean was gone, and Erik was left alone with only his thoughts for company.
Jean was right. Erik didn't have to go far to find Pietro. He was no more than fifty yards away from the front door, sprawled out on his back, looking up at the night sky.
Erik would have been worried to see him in such a state—lying prostrate and unmoving on the ground—if Jean had not informed him that Pietro intended to stargaze. But she had, so Erik approached with careful footsteps—quiet so as not to disturb the boy, but loud enough to let him know that he was approaching—rather than the panicked ones he had been using up until his encounter with Jean.
As he drew closer, Erik could see that Pietro was lying on top of a blanket, which made him wonder whether Jean had helped him out here and spread it out for him, for it would certainly have been difficult for him to manage on his own with his still injured arm.
It would be just the sort of simple—but thoughtful thing—that the girl would do.
As he made the final steps toward his son, Erik expected that he would have to be the one to break the silence, as Pietro tended not to start up conversations anymore, but to his surprise, Pietro spoke before he could.
"I wonder how many are dead." Pietro said, still gazing upward at the night sky as his father stood awkwardly beside him.
"What?" asked Erik, confused and more than a little concerned. Pietro had barely spoken since Wanda's death, and now he was suddenly starting a conversation but said conversation involved death.
"The stars." Said Pietro, pointing upward, his hand a pale beacon in the night. "Some of them are dead. We just don't know it yet because they're so far away; but eventually they burn through their core or explode or something like that, and we're just seeing the aftermath because the light is still traveling to earth. . . . so I was just thinking about that, wondering how many are already snuffed out and we just haven't realized it yet. Like, we look at them and think they're still out there all hunky-dory, burning brightly, but in reality, they're just . . . gone. And we're only see an echo or a shadow of their former self. A bright shadow, a convincing shadow, but still a shadow. Something dead."
Erik kneeled down next to his son as he spoke, and the longer he went on, the more Erik wondered if he was really talking about the stars.
Pietro continued, still not looking at Erik. "I bet Wanda would know—how many are dead—or she'd have a better guess than me. That's for sure. Even though she dropped out, she was always better at school, or at least, she had more patience for it." Pietro took a breath, slowly for someone with his abilities. "But I didn't ask her. I didn't ask her about the stupid stars or where she went when she left home. We just talked about me because I was the one that needed taking care of, not her. And now I'll never get to ask her any more questions." Pietro let out a humorous laugh. "Or, I guess I can ask, but she's not going to answer, is she? Never again because she's dead. Just like the stars."
"Peter . . ." Erik started, and at his name—or the Americanized version of it—Pietro finally looked over at his father, but he kept talking before Erik could decide what to say, turning away again as he started to speak.
"Wanda and I used to look at the stars sometimes just like this." Said Pietro, switching topics again, as if he hadn't just expressed the sad reality of a life without his twin. "Before either of us had powers, we'd sneak outside at night and look up at the stars. They weren't always easy to see in the District, but sometimes it was enough just to pretend. I think Marya knew we snuck out, because weather appropriate clothing was always laid out by the back door even if it wasn't there when we went to bed. I bet she stayed up and watched us too just to make sure no weirdo snuck into the yard at night. She was overprotective like that . . . kinda like you." A half smile appeared on Pietro's face as he recounted the memory, even as his eyes watered. "We probably only saw like one real shooting star in all of the times we did that, but we'd still make wishes on imagined shooting stars. . . . Wanna know what I used to wish for?"
Erik swallowed, looking his son in the eyes, for he had turned back to face the man as he asked the question.
"What did you wish for?" asked Erik. His voice was quiet because he had a feeling that he'd rather not know the answer.
"My Dad."
And Erik had no response to that, but he didn't need to answer. It seemed that now that Pietro was finally talking, he couldn't stop.
"Or a dad, I suppose. It's not like I knew who you were. I just wanted one. I wasn't going to be picky. Really, I'd set the bar pretty low in my mind, I think. All they had to do was be better than Bryan, which isn't too difficult I don't think." Pietro let out a breath through his nose. "Maybe it was shitty of me to wish for a dad instead of my mom back, but I understood death enough to know that she wasn't coming back. And it was easier to wish for something I never had. And then, one day I find out that you're my dad, and we both know I didn't take that very well at first. At least, I don't think I did. . . . the details are fuzzy now, but anyway, it worked out. Sort of. It didn't seem like it would at first, but I'm flawed and you're flawed, so we had more in common than I thought. But now . . . with Wanda gone and—and Marya too, I wonder if it wasn't a wish, but a trade. A life for a life. Isn't that how it always is in books and movies? I wished for a dad, and I got a dad; but I lost a sister. Sisters, technically, though I didn't know Lorna, so I'm not sure how she'd feel about me calling her that . . . And I know that's a bogus theory because if the life-trade-thing was a thing, then what were Marya and Lorna's lives then? Just extra collateral?"
Erik looked up at the stars and then back down at his son "I wish it were a trade. Then perhaps I could bring them back for you. Make a trade of my own."
Pietro chuckled without mirth. "Wow. And I'm the one everyone is afraid is going to slit my throat. Looks like I'm not the only one in the family with a death wish. I don't want that either, Erik. Weren't you listening? I've literally been wishing for a dad my whole life. Why would I want to lose you too?I want all of you. I want Wanda. I want Marya. I want my mom. I'll take Lorna and Anya too, even though I didn't know them. Why is that too much to ask? Why do so many shitty people get to go on enjoying their lives and their families, while our family keeps dropping like flies?"
"I . . . don't know." Erik said slowly, somewhat stuck on the fact that Pietro he wanted Erik in his life. "I've asked myself that same question for a very long time, and I've never come up with a good answer."
Pietro sniffed and wiped his noise in one fluid motion. "That's because there isn't a good answer, but maybe there is an answer. Maybe there's some grand cosmic reason for Wanda's death. We know there's at least one other universe out there. And in that one, I'm the dead twin. Or a version of me. Maybe Wanda's death was just God balancing out the scales of the universes. Maybe she was doomed as soon as the other version of me died, so it's my fault she's gone one way or another. But if there's two universes, don't you think there's more? It can't just be a balancing act, right? There's gotta be a universe where we're both still alive, so why can't I be in that universe? . . . or is one of us always destined to die?" asked Pietro finally, and this time, he sat up to look over at his father, moving so rapidly that Erik flinched back a little before settling down off his knees so that he was sitting beside Pietro on the blanket and facing him.
"I don't believe in destiny or fate. There might be infinite universes, but you, Pietro Django Maximoff,are my only son. If there are other Wandas and Pietros out there, they're the echoes of you. Not the other way around. You, our Wanda, Anya, Lorna, Nina. You are all irreplaceable."
"Maybe." Said Pietro as he held up his hand with his palm facing away from him, staring at it almost like one would admire freshly painted fingernails. But Erik knew that Pietro's bare and nearly transparent nails were not what had caught the boy's attention; rather, he was examining his hand as if he were trying to puzzle out whether it truly existed. Whether he truly existed and whether he mattered at all. "Or maybe I'm just an aftershock, a ripple across a universe from the other Pietro's death. From Wanda's—the other Wanda—brother's death. Or maybe we're all just an offshoot of her grief, trapped inside some realty of her creation. Maybe one day I'll wake up, and I'll be someone completely different. Someone who never had a twin to lose."
Erik began to reach out to his son, but thought better of it and let his hand drop to his side instead. "I don't believe that. You, and everyone here, we each have a life all our own. You are not an aftershock, an echo, or a shadow. And even if you were, it wouldn't matter because you're not that to me . . . and you certainly weren't that to Wanda."
At that, previously un-spilled tears begin to fall from Pietro's eyes, and this time he didn't bother to wipe them away. "You made me forget her. Jean might've been the one to carry it out, but you asked her to do it. You made her do it." said Pietro finally confronting his father about the act that had hung over them since Pietro had acknowledged Wanda's death while half out of his mind with pain in Cairo, but at the same time, turning his face away from Erik once more.
"I'm sorry. I know that is not enough. I know it will never be enough. I know it's a terribly insignificant word, and it doesn't change the past and what I chose to do. But I am sorry all the same." Erik said, and he reached out toward his son once again, this time clearly telegraphing his intention to place his hand on Pietro's shoulder, so that Pietro could turn away and avoid the touch if he wanted to. Not that Erik truly had to move slowly for Pietro to see him coming. Erik could have reached out as quickly as was possible for him, and Pietro would still have nearly all the time in the world to decide that he didn't want his father's touch. But surprisingly, the boy didn't move out of the way. He let Erik's hand connect with his shoulder, and Erik gave it a gentle squeeze.
God, he still felt so boney beneath his jacket, so young and small and breakable.
Erik removed his hand after a moment, letting it fall back to his side. He did not wish to test the depth of Pietro's tolerance for his presence, let alone his embrace.
Pietro bit his lip and looked away from Erik. He did not look up at the stars. He did not look at his father. He merely looked away into the distance, lost in his own thoughts or perhaps his distorted memories.
"I know I didn't want to remember, but—but I didn't want to forget either. I just—I just wanted her back. And now, I can't even remember her right. It's all jumbled, like a book that's out of order, upside down, and in a language I should recognize, but can't quiet translate correctly. Like—like the thing with the stars. Now that I think about it again, I wonder if we didn't start stargazing until we were teenagers; or maybe I just dreamt that memory up after Wanda left . . . because that I remember—not the details of her leaving or what exactly Marya told me when I woke up to her gone, but I know she left. Because I remember missing her. And I don't mean I remember missing her like now—like a part of myself is dead—but I know I still missed her at some point before, even if it didn't hurt half as much as this."
Erik's jaw clenched in shame. He did this to his son. All he ever wanted to do was help his children and make sure they had a better life than him, and all he ever ended up doing was hurting them. "I've talked to Charles. . . . He's willing to take a look at your mind. He won't do anything without your consent, and it's not something he would dive into quickly; but he may be able to help. His power might not be equal to Jean's, but he's had years of practice to finetune his abilities and . . . he's well-versed in tending to my mistakes."
Pietro sniffed again but gave one slow nod. "I'll think about it. I don't know if I want anyone else messing with my mind. Enough people have done that already. And besides, it's chaotic enough with just me in there."
Erik nodded, his guilt failing to dissipate at his son's words.
"You wanna know what the worst p-part is?" asked Pietro his voice shaking slightly.
No. Erik did not want to know. He wanted to pretend that his son had no troubles, no sorrow, no pain. But that wasn't a reality he could live in. He had to be a father to his son and that meant taking on his child's burdens.
"What . . . is the worst part?" asked Erik quietly, just like before, as if he didn't speak too loudly then the worst part would cease to exist.
"I'm not just sad, I'm mad at her too—at Wanda." Said Pietro and with his reply, he stared straight back at his father, and Erik could see that it was true. "I'm furious. Because she promised me. She promised that she was going anywhere this time, and I was naive enough to believe her when we both should have known that was never going to be in the cards for us because things always fall apart."
Pietro dropped his fist to the ground in anger with such force that Erik automatically reached out to make sure it was okay, but Pietro pulled away.
"She didn't want to leave you, Peter." Said Erik through the growing lump in his throat, giving up on trying to check Pietro's hand. "It wasn't a choice. Someone took her from us. She never would have left you behind if she didn't have to. And I know I wasn't there when she left home, but I'd like to think I came to know her enough to say that without a doubt, even then, she only left because she thought she was protecting you."
"I know that. Don't you think I fuckin' know that?!" Pietro spat. "Even when she was dying, she was still worrying about me, trying to protect me by reassuring me that I would be okay. Who does that? I should have done something instead of just w-watching her die. I should—I should have—"
Pietro buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking, and Erik didn't hesitate this time, instead he reached out and pulled his son into his arms.
"There was nothing you could have done, Pietro. By the time you got there . . . it was already too late." Said Erik over the top of Pietro's head. He could feel his son trembling in his arms, and he felt the boy shake his head.
Pietro pulled away and rubbed his eyes furiously. "You don't know that. You weren't there. I should have been faster or stronger or-or—"
Pietro trailed off unable to figure out just what he could've done to save his sister.
Erik wrung his hands together, looking down at them and then after a deep breath, over at his son. "Did I ever tell you . . . how my mother died? Not just at Auschwitz, but specifically how?" Erik asked, though he knew he never had, and Pietro's shocked face confirmed as much. Erik rarely talked about his past. And he never talked about his family before his children.
Erik sighed, running a hand through his hair. "They tried—they did separate us. I found out later that that is what was always done. They—the Nazis—separated the women from the men. The young from the old. The weak from the strong. I never did find out what group I would've been put into, but I was old enough then that they probably meant to put me to work. But that didn't happen, at least not the way anyone expected. I was only a little younger than you, and I was terrified. I didn't know where they were taking my family or where they planned to take me, and I didn't care to find out. But the reaction I had was instinctual rather than purposeful for I had never used my powers before. I reached out for my mother, and as I did, the metal gate separating us began to bend. I think I would have torn it off its hinges given the chance, but a soldier struck me in the head with his rifle and knocked me on my back."
Erik paused clutching his wrist with one hand. He could feel his pulse racing, and he took a few deep breaths to try to keep it under control. Even now, so many years later, what happened that day and all the days that followed until he grew bold enough to escape from Shaw's clutches still shook him.
"I didn't really understand what had happened." Erik continued. "Nor do I think did the Nazis, except for one that is. . . . His name was Sebastian Shaw, but he was going by Dr. Klaus Schmidt then. He saw what I did and knew exactly what that made me because he was one too—a mutant, though I didn't know what that meant at the time. I didn't even know what I was. . . . But Shaw looked at me, and he saw untapped potential. . . . To tap into that potential, he asked me to move a coin with my mind, a simple task now, but at the time it seemed impossible. He might as well have asked me to move a mountain."
Erik took a breath and went on. "But he wasn't deterred. According to him, I just needed a little motivation, so he brought in my mother, and he gave me to the count of three to move the coin or he would kill my mother. . . . but of course I couldn't do it. . . . You can imagine what happened next. Shaw stayed true to his word and he shot her. He killed my mother for no reason other than that I couldn't move a tiny little coin. But he got what he wanted when he did that because then I destroyed every piece of metal in that room. And he was so pleased."
And the saddest part is that a few short weeks later I would crave his approval even as I craved his death. Erik thought to himself but couldn't managed to say aloud.
"Once I was free of Shaw, I told myself that I would never be powerless again. So I refined my ability until I could move a thousand coins, or turn a satellite, or even transplant a stadium." Said Erik with a sad half quirk of his lip. "But no matter what I can do now, I was still powerless to save Anya, Wanda, and Lorna. . . . I don't mean to equate my loss to yours. My point is merely this—sometimes there is no stopping a chain of events once set in motion. Sometimes, things happen because of other people's choices, and you cannot control that. You can only control what you do. And sometimes, that means admitting that what you can control, will never be enough. "
"That's—that's not—it—it—that's different. What's happened to you is different, then my failure to save Wanda." Said Pietro. "Anya was already gone when you got to her; you weren't anywhere near Wanda; Apocalypse killed Lorna; and you were just a kid when they killed your mom."
Erik shook his head in dismay. "It's not, Piet—Peter. It's not different. And no matter how powerful you are, you are a still child. And so was Wanda. I was only a couple of years younger than you when my mother was murdered. But it makes no difference whether you are 15 or 40. Either way Wanda's death would never be your fault. Please please believe me—It. Wasn't. Your. Fault."
It was mine.
Mirroring his father, Pietro shook his head, curling his hand into the grass at the edge of the blanket and tearing up a fistful. There wasn't much wind, so when he let go of the blades, they fell mostly onto the blanket and Pietro's legs, but he didn't seem to care.
"You're good at speeches; I'll give you that. But no matter what you tell me, I know you blame yourself, so I don't see why I can't feel guilty too." said Pietro, but before Erik could answer, Pietro changed the course of the conversation abruptly once again. "I wonder if Wanda thinks we both died down there."
"What?" asked Erik, caught completely off guard by his son's dismissal of Erik's pleas and the previous topic of conversation.
It was often difficult for Erik to follow his son's train of thought, which seemed to skip stations more frequently than Erik skipped Tefillah, but it was not the speed at which Pietro changed subjects that worried Erik; rather, it was the fact that he simply went from one dark topic to the next and could not be convinced that his sister's death was not his fault.
Pietro turned his head toward his father and swept back a swath of hair that had fallen into his face. As he did so, Erik notice that his hand were shaking.
"The other Wanda—older alternate universe Wanda," Pietro clarified. "I wonder if she thinks Wanda and I died in that ship. If she thinks we were stuck, forever doomed to be entombed in it at the bottom of the ocean."
Erik inhaled sharply, horrified by the very thought of such a thing. "No. I think she knows that your sister saved the both of you." Said Erik quickly, though in reality, he had no idea what the other Wanda thought. He knew Steve had followed him into the ocean, but he didn't know how close behind him he was or what he had witnessed. Perhaps he had seen them all disappear, perhaps not, but even if he had, would he know or would he have been able to guess what it meant? Or would the other Wanda be able to work it out? She did seem to have a connection to his twins, but how deep that connection ran, Erik couldn't say. Nevertheless, he was not about to share that with Pietro and let him think that someone who could have been his sister in another life grieved for them too.
Pietro nodded. "I hope that's true. I hope she thinks you, Wanda, and I are all alive and . . . and happy. . . . but mostly just alive."
Erik could not help but notice that that statement implied that the boy was not currently happy and did not care to be without Wanda, but of course how could he be when his twin had died, and his father was ill-equipped to bring joy back to his life?
"Sometimes though . . . " Pietro continued. "I wonder if it would've been better if we hadn't made it out; if we'd just died down there. Together."
"Don't. Don't you dare say that." Said Erik, chilled to the bone at the idea.
"But I was r-ready." Said Pietro, his voice cracking on the last word. "And we were together, so it would've been okay."
"No, it would not have been okay. Wanda dying or you dying will never be okay, not until you've lived a long, long life and I've been dead and gone for years and years." Said Erik and he reached out and pressed his palm against the boy's cheek, gently forcing Pietro to look at him.
"That's the thing though isn't." said Pietro, pulling back from his father's touch for what felt like the hundredth time that night. "Assuming no one tries to murder me again, I am going to live for a long time, not just because I'm a mutant, but because I'm me."
"What do you mean?" asked Erik puzzled. Though it had become more and more obvious the longer he spent around mutants, that they aged more slowly than humans, he didn't think that was exactly what his son was referring to.
"I heard Hank and Raven talking about me." Pietro said quietly, and Erik stiffened, immediately concerned that the two adults had said something insensitive in front of his son.
"Don't worry." Pietro continued as if he had read Erik's mind. "I didn't hear them talking about me going off the deep end or anything like that, though they and everyone else in this place is no doubt thinking it. They were talking about my powers and how I have accelerated healing, and I guess Hank has been comparing my DNA or whatever to Raven's, and he said—well I didn't understand most of it—but the gist of it was that I have decelerated aging that probably started to kick in when I got my powers. And he said that though it worked differently, effectively, and I quote, 'my decelerated aging might even rival Raven's regenerative abilities.' Anyway, you've gotta admit it's kind of ironic that I'm barely going to age given my hair color." Pietro added with a short humorless laugh. "So that's just my luck, isn't it? Assuming there is an afterlife, who knows how many lifetimes I'll have to wait to see Wanda again unless—unless I . . . ."
Pietro didn't finish his thought, but he didn't have to for Erik to know what he was thinking—he wouldn't see Wanda for a very very long time, unless he did something to end his life early. And Erik couldn't let Pietro entertain that thought for even a moment.
Erik reached out to his son again, gently, but firmly, gripping him by both shoulders. "Don't you think that. I know that time can be a curse, but if what Hank suggested is true" and Erik thought it was likely to be because he remembered what the man from the future (i.e., Logan) had said to him back on the plane—'Met him back in '95. He didn't really look much different than he does now…' "then you have time to live for you and for Wanda." And Lorna, Anya, Marya, Magda. Erik didn't add. "You can do all of the things she wanted to do and then some. You have so much living to do."
Erik tried to impart as much strength into his son as he could through those words. But if Hank was right, the unfortunate reality was that one day, sooner or later—probably much sooner in some cases—Erik would be gone, Charles would be gone, Mila, Hank, Alex, even little Nina would be gone and eventually who would be around to pull Pietro from the depths of his despair?
"But I don't know everything she wanted to do! I—I know some things, but—but there was so much we never talked about! That I never asked! And I—I can't help how I feel." Pietro said, going from nearly shouting to saying the last bit barely above a whisper as he blinked back tears.
"I know—that's not—I'm glad you told me. I'd rather you tell me how you feel . . . . I just wish you didn't have to feel this way. . . . I don't have all the answers for you, Pietro. I wish I did, but I don't. Not about what Wanda would have wanted, not about the universe, not even how many stars in the sky are still burning. But I know one thing . . . if I had . . . ended things when I was at my lowest point, then I never would've met you or Wanda or Nina or Lorna, nor would any of you exist. So don't check out before your time is up. Please. Or you'll miss out on so much."
It was at that point when Pietro pulled the collar of his shirt up over his face to wipe his eyes that Erik noticed that there were no familiar earbuds hanging around his neck.
"You don't have your Walkman with you." Erik commented when Pietro didn't respond to his plea to live for his siblings who couldn't after a minute or so.
"I left it in my room." Pietro answered in a voice that was muffled by his t-shirt as he raised his other hand to touch one ear as if he were searching for the phantom limb that were his headphones.
"On purpose?" Erik asked puzzled.
Pietro nodded. "Yea. I knew you'd come out here eventually. And I decided that tonight it was finally time we talk rather than me simply listen."
Erik looked into his son's eyes, unconsciously twisting the fingers of his right hand around the ring finger of his left, searching for his own phantom limb—a ring he had forged himself and for a time had represented the love he had for a woman who gave him his son and two of his daughters, but unlike his locket that ring was long since gone, left behind the same night he left his grieving wife and his lifeless first child.
"How did you know I would come?" Erik asked finally.
"Because," said Pietro with a sad half-smile. "You always find me when I need you."
Erik felt something in his chest twist at Pietro's words, for if that were true, he would never have suffered as a child for being different; he would never have been taken by Stryker; and Wanda would never have been killed. But before Erik could attempt to correct his son, Pietro was laying back down on the blanket and tugging at his father's sleeve. "I think I'm all death-talked out for the night, so . . . want to watch for shooting stars with me?" Pietro asked, his dark eyes reflecting the stars above as he looked at Erik questioningly. "Even if we don't see any, it's kind of humbling, and—and calming, just looking at them, knowing how small we are."
"I haven't watched for shooting stars for very long time." Said Erik, but even so, he laid down on the blanket next to his son.
"That's okay. It's not like it takes any skill, and like I said, it's okay to pretend. Sometimes if you pretend long enough, it'll become a reality."
{Author's Note: Um . . . unless something really unexpected happens during the writing process, there is one chapter left. **Cue Owen Wilson's 'Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow.'** Don't know how we got here, but we did. Now please excuse me while I count down the days to the premier of Loki.}