Out That Door

by heyjupiter

Sometimes you find things you didn't know you'd lost. Some character study, and Erik his kids.

Title: Out That Door
Rating: PG
Category: Erik angsty gen
Words: 2373
Summary: Sometimes you find things you didn't know you'd lost. Some character study, and Erik + his kids.

And they tell you that being a parent changes everything, and I had never believed it.

But upon seeing my daughter for the first time... seeing her tiny perfect toes, and feeling her grab my finger... and hearing her screams as she burned alive in the building, and being unable to do anything to help...

Yes. It does change everything.

Perhaps the less said about that, the better.

And my one foray into parenting thus ended, and my wife dead these long years, I could hardly have been more surprised to find myself the father of twins.

Wanda and Pietro. Pietro and Wanda.

My children. My daughter and my son. My son and my daughter.

But the strangest part of my sudden fatherhood is that they were, so to speak, under my nose this whole time. I do believe Charles when he says he had no idea, when he says the Polish orphanage only just found the paperwork-- and the letter-- and forwarded them to him.

The letter from Magda, the letter which stated her final request: that I never see my children.

And I believe Charles when he says he agonized, and finally decided to put the decision into Wanda and Pietro's hands. They had been students at the school, once, but had opted not to become X-Men, and instead had made their way into the world.

So Charles had told them that they did, in fact, have a father, and that their mother had not wanted them to know me. He told them that I was by all accounts an evil, bad man. And then he said the choice was up to them.

And they had chosen to meet me. Their father.

I do not know how to articulate what I feel about this. Here is a door of my past which I had thought to be slammed and locked, the key buried with my wife. And now it has been blown wide open by a letter.

Nor do I know what to expect from this meeting. Certainly, no great love from these people whom I have never met, had never known of until a few days ago. The best I can hope for is an open mind from them: that they will not judge me by my past, by what they have heard about me.

The best I can hope for is more than I deserve.

The silence is getting to be more than I can bear. I have been waiting in this room for twenty minutes, and they are not yet late.

Is it possible that the bravest thing for me to do would be to walk out this door? That, if I truly cared about these children (who are no longer children, I must remind myself), I would not let them become entangled with me?

Perhaps. But I have never been brave. There. That's something most people do not know about me. That makes it no less true. No, I am not brave. I am an old man, greedily clinging to the remnants of a life. Yes, I tell myself that I am fighting for mutantkind. That I only want to prevent another genocide. That I am a savior.

And sometimes I believe myself. But deep down, I know that if that were true, I would have died that day on Liberty Island.

It is easy enough to appear brave when you are nearly invincible. But the fact remains: if I were courageous, I would have died that day.

So no, I am not what I seem. But I do have a remarkable talent for staying alive. I made it though the camps, through the death of my daughter, through my wife calling me a monster and leaving, even through being kept in a plastic prison by that despicable man.

And that is what makes me feel so conflicted about this meeting, I fear. I admit that I am curious to meet these remnants of a past life. But. Do I want to risk their lives? More to the point, do I want to risk my own?

Attachments make one weak. When you have something, you have something to lose.

But in spite of that, I am here. Waiting.

Waiting in this room in the house of Charles Xavier, once my friend, once my lover, once my enemy, and now my... my what, exactly?

The room is tasteful, yet luxurious. There was a time when I would have been disgusted to know that the price of the fine Persian rug adorning the floor would have fed a family for a year. And now I simply admire the weave.

I look at the clock on the wall, as I hear the door open behind me. I momentarily debate over whether or not to turn around, and I decide in favor of it. A young man and woman are standing hesitantly in the doorway. The woman-- Wanda, I remind myself, my daughter-- is dressed in red. She has Magda's eyes. And Pietro, my son, Pietro, has prematurely white hair and an angry, hopeful look in his eyes. "Hello," I say, standing up to greet them.

Wanda smiles and comes forward to hug me. Pietro hangs back and I step forward, extending a hand. He ignores it, crossing his arms over his chest.

And I have no idea what to say, where to go from here. It is Wanda who sits down across from me, who smiles and says, "Isn't it funny, you being friends with Charles all these years and never knowing about us?"

"Yes," I say, "I suppose it is."

Pietro, still standing in the doorway, says, "Yes, and isn't it funny that you never thought to look for us before?"

"Pietro!" hisses Wanda.

"I am sorry. But I did not know... your mother... made it very clear that she did not wish to see me again, and did not tell me of her pregnancy. And long after... I learned of her death. I had no reason to think that I-- we-- she-- had any other children." I look at him and hope that he can see my sincerity.

I sigh. "I'm sorry. This must be as difficult for you as it is for me. But I do not know what to... I don't know how to be your father."

Wanda reaches across and squeezes my hand. "We'll help you."

"This is such bullshit," Pietro exclaims. "You two are sitting here talking like it's some happy father-child reunion and you're totally ignoring the fact that our dear father," he made the word sound like a curse, "is a maniacal terrorist."

For a minute I make eye contact with him and am saddened to see his hatred. It's a look I recognize from the guards at Auschwitz, from Charles's students... but it startles me to see it from him. And then I wonder why it should surprise me. Is there any reason in the world why he should feel any attachment for me, besides our blood ties? And I of all people should know that blood is just liquid protein.

So I shrug at him. "I did what I thought was best," I say.

"Best for who?" Pietro asks.

"For our kind. For mutants."

Pietro walks forward and puts his hands on the table, leaning into my face. "And you think making people afraid of us is the best way to do that?"

Wanda sits quietly, staring at her hands.

And I stand up, meeting Pietro's gaze. "Yes," I say, "I do. If we sit by and take whatever humanity wants to give us, we'll all end up behind barbed wire with numbers on our wrists."

"Or behind plastic sheeting?" he asks, taunting.

I take a deep breath. "The war is here, Pietro. Both sides need to use whatever advantage they have. In their case, it is their numbers, and their position in legitimate governments. Our advantages are, of course, our gifts, as well as our own position outside of legitimacy. We have mobility and flexibility. And we must fight."

Pietro looks at me disdainfully. "You really believe that this war is going to happen?"

"It has already started."

"Professor Xavier says--"

"Oh yes, tell me what Charles said. What does he know about war, about human capacity for hatred?"

Wanda glances up from her study of the table and says quietly, "He knows more about the human capacity for hatred than you'd like to think. But he also knows about the human capacity for kindness, for courage, for compassion. And that is why he does not fear an all-out war against humanity."

I am proud of my daughter for speaking up-- her earlier silence had made me wonder if she was a bit of a shrinking violet-- but at the same time I am disappointed that she has bought into Charles's naivete.

"The compassion of the few will not prevent the ignorance and hatred of the many from prevailing," I reply, my jaw set. "In Germany, in Poland-- there were a few good men and women who risked their lives to help Jews escape to freedom. But that didn't stop six million from being killed."

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" she asks. "You think another Holocaust is coming."

"I have seen what humanity is capable of," I say, calmly.

Pietro looks at me, curiously. "What was it like... in the camps, I mean?"

Now it is my turn to study the table. I pause long enough for him to say "Never mind," just as I begin to speak. "Words... cannot describe the horrors," I reply. "Cruelty... from the guards, living in constant fear and constant hunger. We..." Suddenly I do not want to talk about it any longer. I look away. "It is not a time I like to remember."

Wanda takes my hand. "But don't you see? You almost killed every human in the world, more quickly and efficiently than Hitler could have imagined."

I recoil and slap her. Pietro places himself between she and I before I can blink. "Don't you touch my sister!" he says.

"I'm sorry," I say. "I... do not take kindly to being compared to Hitler."

"But she's right," he says, defiantly. "You hate humans. You tried to kill all of them. How is that different from Hitler's Final Solution?"

"It is different," I reply, tersely, "because I am acting to protect mutantkind."

He shakes his head. "No. Hitler acted to protect the German people. Admittedly, as defined by him. But just because you think you're acting as a savior is not sufficient to distance your attempted genocide from his attempted genocide."

"You don't understand. This registration act, the ever-increasing hate crimes against mutants... this is how it starts! How much longer must we wait? For another Kristallnacht? Until we are no longer allowed to own businesses? Until the first of us are taken away? It has begun. If we do not fight back, it will all end before it has begun. And we, we are the next step in human evolution. We are destined to overtake humanity."

Wanda looks at me with pity. "Just like the Aryans, huh?"

I sigh, and mentally reach out for the stately metal lamp on the table in the corner. I bring it over to the center of the room, then peel off an outer layer and re-form it into a butterfly. I am showing off. "We are the next step, Wanda. And we must fight."

She shakes her head and stands up to leave. "It was nice to meet you, father, but I've had enough of this. Pietro?"

He hesitates. "I... I think I'll stay awhile longer. I'll meet you back in the dining room for dinner?"

Reluctantly, she nods. "Okay."

And I am as confused as she, though perhaps I should not be. The anger Pietro has been showing-- it could, perhaps, be useful.

Wanda walks out the door, glancing back over her shoulder at her brother before she leaves.

"You two must be close," I say.

"I always thought our mother would like to know that I was... taking care of her," he replies.

And I reply, "She would," wishing that I had been able to take care of them. But that door has long since closed, and instead I'm running towards another door, trying to wedge my foot in before this, too, slams shut and I never see my children again. It is hard, though, when I am also throwing all my weight against another door, trying hard to makes sure that my children-- that no children-- live through what I have. No mutant children, I suppose Charles would have me clarify.

Pietro is looking at me intently, intensely. He has unsettling eyes, old beyond his years, and tired. Too, they seem to be watching everything at once. "That's what you think you're doing, isn't it?"

I tilt my head at him, wanting him to continue. He does.

"You and Xavier both, trying to mother the world. Just going about it in an entirely different way."

I have to laugh. It comes out rather more bitter-sounding than I had intended. "I suppose," I say. Because he has, really, hit the nail on the head, so to speak. Both of us, so sure we could save mutantkind. Both of us, so unsure of what saving mutantkind would really mean.

"I want to help you," he says.

"Do you?" I ask.

"Yes. I... I believe you. And I admire you. Your dedication to this. I had to see you, to know... I was afraid you were just... crazy. Or self-serving. But you know what's coming, don't you?"

I am uncertain what to say. Certainly, I want his help. Do I want to remove his illusions about me? Do I want to risk his life? The brave thing to do would be to tell him to walk out that door. This is not his fight. And yet it is his fight, isn't it? Isn't it everyone's fight, all of us? Even if I am not willing to sacrifice myself, I do believe that.

And I have never been brave. So I shake his hand and I say, "Welcome to the Brotherhood, Pietro."

-- fin