{Author's Note: Do I know where this is going? Not really, but here's another chapter. *throws chapter at the interwebs and runs away to hide for a few more months*}

The morning after Peter inadvertently outed himself as his father's son, Erik was still at the school.

He was there the next day too.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

A week later, he was still there.

One week turned into two, two into three, and so on, but despite having adamantly declared that he was leaving during their first late night chat, still the metal bender remained. And with each passing day, Peter dared to allow himself to believe a little bit more that perhaps the reason Erik remained was because of him.

Peter didn't know when, if ever, he would have enough evidence to fully convince himself that his father decided to stick around because of him. But still, for one reason or another, the fact remained that Erik stayed at the school, and, every day, Erik sought Peter out. The time of day was never the same, nor the place, but at some point throughout the twenty four hours Peter was awake, Erik would find him, and every time he did that little seed of hope that said maybe Erik cared grew just a bit bigger.

They talked about nothing and everything. Well, not quite everything. Certain topics were avoided like the plague. For example, though it was never a spoken agreement, deceased family members were strictly off limits. Sure, Peter had told Erik that his twin sister had died, but he wasn't ready to share yet how or—or why. And Peter's source of information on his half-sister's death was still limited to what had been in the news, which wasn't much.

And yet . . . they darted around such subjects like soldiers avoiding landmines, just waiting for them to go off with one false step—or word.

Erik asked if Peter had siblings—dead ones excluded obviously—and Peter told Erik about his little sister who was in college—the first one in the family to make it there, though maybe you could consider his 'classes' with Hank a sort of pseudo college?—and, as a rule, went back and forth so frequently between idolizing Peter and being utterly embarrassed by his mere existence that even Peter got whiplash.

Given that Erik's entire family sans Peter—if you could categorize him as such—was dead, it was a bit harder to find safe topics to ask Erik about, so most of the time Peter did the majority of the talking, which, shockingly enough, was pretty normal for him when it came to conversing. But unlike some people, Erik didn't seem to mind that their conversations were a bit one-sided, and Peter could deal with it too; but still . . .

Peter wished Erik would share more about himself without Peter having to pry it from him like a hammer removing a nail from a wall. Peter's life was boring. He might be able to travel across the country faster than anyone else in the world, but that didn't mean he actually did that. Mostly, he had just circled the same haunts for years. Erik was the one who was out there doing stuff (minus the time he spent literally underground).

Granted, Peter wasn't sure he wanted to hear about everything Erik had done. But a highlight reel would be nice. He wasn't asking for a five hundred page autobiography, maybe just a short op-ed. He'd even accept something akin to the little 'about the author' that they put on the back of books that no one ever reads.

Instead, Peter was the one getting the third degree—when did he come to America? Have they been in D.C. the whole time? Was his mother still married to the Maximoff fellow? What is that horrid graphic on his t-shirt?

Again, it's not that Peter really minded, he'd take talking about himself with Erik over not talking with his father anytime, but nevertheless, he wished he had the courage to ask Erik some questions of his own—When did he come to America? How did he know JFK was a mutant and what the hell was his mutation, charisma? How old was he when his powers developed? What were his parents—Peter's grandparents—like? What was Nina like?

Peter had started to accept that he was probably never going to get his questions answered—at least not any time soon—but then, in the middle of one of their walks together, Erik put a hand on his arm, guiding him to a stop.

"I have something for you . . . if you want it." said Erik, removing his hand from Peter's arm.

"You do?" Said Peter turning to face his father. "Um, I don't have anything for you. Did we say we were exchanging gifts? If we did, sorry I totally forgot." The only thing Peter had given Erik that day was a long-winded overview of Star Wars, which surely he hadn't found that interesting, but he'd still let Peter rattle on and on about the trilogy. Peter wasn't completely sure how he had gotten into discussing—or more like preaching about—Star Wars with his father in the first place. He was pretty sure that Erik had at some point asked about his interests, and of course Peter had somehow made a beeline from music to Star Wars, completely losing track of the conversation, but there was also a chance he had just brought it up out of the blue because he was weird like that.

Erik smiled kindly at his son, but for some reason the older man looked uncharacteristically anxious. Peter didn't know what he had to be anxious about. Peter was the one that forgot they were exchanging gifts.

"No. We had no such conversation. . . . And you don't ever need to give me anything. And it's nothing extravagant, just something that's been in my family for . . . some time. I gave it to my daughter—to Nina—before, but . . ." Erik cleared his throat, looking away for a moment. "You don't have to accept it. I know you have no reason to."

Erik pulled the object in question from his pocket.

It was small—obviously, since it fit in Erik's pocket.

At first Peter thought it was a watch. It was clearly metal, forming a silver band about a half inch wide like you might find on a watch. But the band itself was much more intricate than any watch band Peter had ever seen, patterned with swirling designs, including the star of David, and instead of a dial, there was an oval shaped center also adorned with an intricate design.

"It's a locket, or it was. But you don't seem like the type of person who is into lockets or necklaces at all for that matter, especially with your speed, and I imagine a necklace might even be a hinderance to you, so I thought a bracelet—or an arm band if you prefer—would be better, but the face of it still works just the same." Said Erik, opening the small circular chest to reveal two old black and white images of a man and woman inside. "They were my parents."

Peter swallowed, looking at the small piece of jewelry on his father's outstretched hand that had clearly been crafted to fit perfectly on Peter's wrist.

It was hard to tell because the photos were so old and in black and white, but Peter thought that just maybe, the woman—Peter's grandmother—did in fact have his eyes . . . or more accurately, Peter had hers.

Suddenly, Peter felt a heaviness in his chest that he couldn't quite explain.

"I—I don't think I can take this." Said Peter finally. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he saw his father's face fall, but the man quickly schooled his features into an emotionless calm.

"Of course. I shouldn't have expected you to accept or want—"

"It's not that." Said Peter, quickly interrupting. "It's not that I don't want to accept or want it, it's just . . . I don't . . . I don't understand why you would want me to have it. I mean, this is important to you, and I'm practically a stranger."

Erik gave small choked laugh, his eyes crinkling slightly. Peter thought it made him look softer somehow, like he hadn't been to hell and back, maybe just to purgatory. "You're not though, Peter. I know we don't know each other all that well yet, but you're my son. That will always—and has always—been true, whether I knew it or not. Yes, it's important to me, but I want you to have it because you are more important to me."

"Oh." said Peter, feeling a lump forming at the back of his throat, and then he held out his arm. "O-kay then. If y-you're sure."

"Very." Said Erik, lifting the bracelet and fixing it around Peter's thin wrist.

Just as Peter suspected, it fit seamlessly on his wrist, neither too tight nor too loose.

Maybe he should have found it a bit strange that Erik had observed him well enough to know the size of his wrist, but he didn't. Instead, Peter just felt seen in a way he hadn't since Before.

Once it was secured, Peter turned his hand over and back, testing the weight of it on his arm. It felt good. Like it belonged there. Like it was made for him, which it more or less was.

When Peter looked up, he found his father watching him with a curious look on his face, one that was similar to a look he'd sometimes catch on his mom's face when she looked at him.

Peter gave him a small cautious smile. "I think it fits."

Erik nodded, also smiling slightly. "I thought it might."

And with that, they continued their walk, as if nothing particularly significant had—literally or figuratively—passed between them.

Although they'd now become a regular part of Peter's routine, each interaction with his father was still a shock to his system, like a pool filled with cold water on a hot summer's day—refreshing, but still somehow unexpected. So given that he never failed to be surprised when Erik sought him out, Peter genuinely never expected anyone else to notice how much time they were spending together, especially with their varied and spontaneous schedule, but even though he didn't know him that well, Peter should have known that a certain telepath would take interest, as he did with anything Erik-oriented.

Even so, when Charles inevitably called Peter into his office, he didn't have a clue as to why. Honestly, it could have been for a number of reasons—'Borrowing' the popcorn machine from the movie theater in town, accidentally dying all of Hank's white clothes pink when one of Wanda's old shirts somehow ended up in the laundry, transplanting all of the furniture in Scott's room to the roof that one night he was really bored . . . .

But Peter had thought that Charles expected and accepted his hyperactive—and sometimes not completely legal—antics, so what pushed him over the edge to finally give Peter a talking to was a mystery to him . . . or, at least it would remain so for a few more seconds.

"Why don't you sit down?" Said Charles, nodding to the chair in front of his desk.

Welp, they were already off to a bad start. Charles asking him to sit implied a lengthy conversation and an assumption that Peter would be able to stay-focused for an indeterminate period of time.

A bold assumption in Peter's opinion.

Still, Peter couldn't really think of a reason to refuse, so in a flash, he took up the offered seat, setting a useless orb back down on its rightful shelf and abandoning his inquiry into whether it was made of real crystal. If Peter were a betting man, he'd say yes.

"Sooooooo what's up, Professor? Whatever it is Ididn'tdoit. Probably not anyway. Okay, maybe I did, but whatever it is, no one's dead or seriously injured, right? That's a good thing. Let's keep that in mind." Said Peter, tapping his foot nervously. He should probably stop that. He hadn't had the cast off for very long, and Hank—or the vein in his forehead—kept reminding Peter not to overexert himself.

Peter switched his tapping to the other leg.

There. Problem solved.

Charles gave him an amused smile, "You are correct, Peter. No one is dead or injured, and please relax. You're not in trouble."

"I'm not? Cool. Coolcoolcool. Uh then why am I here? Not that I don't want to chat, but like, we don't really chat because I kinda exhaust you, so . . . ." Peter said waving his hand through the air unnecessarily.

"You don't exhaust me Peter." Charles quickly denied, trying to reassure him.

In response to Charles' blatant lie, Peter just raised an eyebrow.

"Well perhaps a little," Charles admitted with a guilty smile, "but all my students do in their own way."

"Yea but I'm not even your student, not really." Peter pointed out, biting one of his nails before a voice in his head—that belonged to his mom, not Charles—reminded him that was a horrible habit, so instead he stuck his hand beneath his armpit and held it close to his chest.

"No, but you are studying here even if you're not in my classes." Charles replied. "Hank told me you're picking up the mechanics of engineering exceptionally quickly, which really shouldn't surprise any of us, I suppose, given how quickly your mind works. I believe he'll be glad to have your help when he starts rebuilding the jet."

"Nah, I'm sure Hank doesn't want me around anything that can have the potential to explode. I'd just make him more nervous than I already do." Said Peter dismissively.

"I think both can be true—that he finds you intelligent and nerve-wracking at the same time. He's found you fascinating since our first meeting." Charles said with a small chuckle.

"Maybe. That is probably how my mom would describe me, along with some other choice words." Said Peter with a shrug, still feeling uncomfortable. Hank was nice enough, but sometimes he felt like maybe Hank was just a few small steps away from putting Peter in a glass box to study him, for the sake of science of course. "Um, so again, not that I don't want to shoot the shit with you, but if there's something you wanted to talk to me about, can we just get to that, so I can stop freaking out about it?"

"Of course. Of course. I really don't mean to make you anxious, Peter . . . . . It's nothing of terrible import. I just . . . ." said Charles, hesitating as he searched for how to best approach the impending subject, seemingly oblivious to the fact that every second he waited was taking years off Peter's life. "I've noticed that you've been spending an awful lot of time with Erik recently."

Peter felt his stomach drop, and his foot, which had stopped its tapping for a moment, picked up again. "Have I?" Said Peter, feigning thoughtfulness. "I mean, I guess. We keep similar hours."

Which was not a lie. After Peter, Erik definitely slept the least of those at the school. Plenty of their interactions took place at night while the rest of the school was dead to the world.

"Yes. I think I've seen you together almost every day for the past several weeks." Said Charles, giving Peter an appraising look.

"Hmm. Hadn't noticed." Said Peter, even though he obviously had. Peter looked forward to his time with his father—Every. Single. Day. He didn't know why he was deflecting so forcefully. Despite Erik's questionable past, Peter didn't think he cared if people knew who Erik was to him, . . . but at the same time . . . Peter never had a father before, not really. His kid-sister's dad had been a good man, according to his mom, enough so that she'd taken his name and given it to Peter and Wanda too, but Peter had barely had time with the man before he was torn from their lives. . . . So yea, maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to keep his dad to himself for a while longer.

"All the same, might I ask, what it is you discuss?" Charles asked, staring at Peter intensely, so much so that Peter thought he looked like he was trying to force his way into his mind, which—with a start—Peter realized that very well might be his intent, but Peter reassured himself that the Professor wasn't able to handle the hurricane that was Peter's mind.

"You know, stuff and things." Said Peter, again waving his hand unnecessarily, and the moment he realized that, he stuffed both hands under his armpits, failing to realize the resulting pose might look rather defensive.

"Stuff and . . . things?" Charles repeated, dryly. "Such as?"

"I don't know, just stuff and things. Shared hobbies and shit." Peter replied, wondering if he was going to leave a hole in Charles' rug with how rapidly he was tapping his foot. He tried to force his leg to stop, but it seemed to have a mind of its own.

"And you have quite a few of those, do you?" Asked Charles, and it was his turn to raise the eyebrow.

"Yea, sure we do." Peter said quickly, too quickly, thinking desperately for something that wouldn't be a lie—because those were hard to keep track of—but also wouldn't be very revealing "Uh, we're both Jewish for example. Or I mean, I'm half-Jewish; I guess."

Charles looked back at Peter thoughtfully. "I see. And you talk about that shared characteristic for hours on end, do you?"

Hours? Do they really spend that much time together? Peter wondered. It always seemed to go by so quickly.

"Well, no. I mean, we haven't actually discussed that all that much actually. We, well, today—or err—" Peter realized maybe he shouldn't have admitted to already having hung out with Erik that day, though he didn't know why his instinct was to feel guilty about that fact, "Today I told him about Star Wars."

"Star . . . Wars?" Charles asked in disbelief. "And, Erik was . . . . interested in that?"

"Well, not like particularly, but I was just doing my civic duty. Everybody should know about Star Wars. And Erik barely even knew that they existed, so I had an obligation to give him some context. Not that I gave out any huge spoilers." Said Peter thinking of one plot point in particular in the Star Wars franchise that hit a little too close to home. "But I just gave him like the set-up, ya know?"

Charles continued to stare back at Peter, looking more baffled than ever.

"You don't believe me, do you? I swear, we did talk about Star Wars today." On a more serious note, they had also broached the subject of Peter's real name. As it would turn out, Pietro was one of the names his mom and Erik had considered for Anya, if she had been a boy. When Erik had told him that—breaking their 'no dead relatives talk' rule—Peter got the impression that his father was saddened by the fact that he rarely, if ever, used his real name anymore. But Charles didn't need to know all that, and he definitely didn't need to know that he now wore Erik's family—Peter's family too he guessed—heirloom around his wrist.

"No, no. I—I do. It's just . . . I didn't expected Erik to stay around as long he has and, what's more, Erik isn't typically one to seek out the company of others, so it just surprises me that he is keeping your company so often, unless . . . perhaps you've talked about more than just movies?" Charles sighed, and Peter tensed. Sure he should be used to people responding to him in exasperation, but truthfully, some things still hurt no matter how many times you experienced them. "You know, Peter, it is easy for me to forget because you are so amicable, but you are very powerful. That won't have escaped Erik's notice. So if he's putting ideas in your head, or if he's asked you to join him in some foolish endeavor, you can always come to me."

Peter stared back at Charles, anger pooling in his chest, replacing the hurt for the time being.

"Wow. Aren't you guys supposed to be friends? Or at least civil nowadays? He's not the devil, and I'm certainly not Jesus. He's not taking me out into the desert every day in an attempt to get me to join the Dark Side. Even if he did, I'm a grown-ass man, Chuck. Give me some fucking credit. I'm not going to go around murdering humans because he asks me too, if that's what you're worried about, which—for the record—he hasn't by the way. And you know what? I don't think it's really any of your business what we talk about it—whether it's movies or world domination."

Peter didn't realize it, but at some point he had stood up and pointed at Charles, his 'new' bracelet adorning his outstretched hand and glinting in the light. It drew Charles' attention, but Peter did not notice, too caught up in his own rage.

"Peter—" Charles tried to interrupt Peter's rant, but younger man didn't let him.

"No. I'm not done. Don't forget, Professor, you're the one that came to me to break him out, remember? And then you guys just took off! And I was supposed to what?! Pretend it never happened? Pretend like the rest of high school and beyond wasn't shit because the rest of the world finally had a word for what kind of weird I was? And let's not forget that all of your students are only alive because of me! And you know what's funny?" Peter asked as he laughed a bit manically to himself, and paced—a little more quickly than looked natural—across the room, "if they had died, I wouldn't have even lost any sleep over it! Not one minute! But still I'm not my—I'm not Erik, but if I want to be like him that's none of your concern. Still, His choices. Your choices. They aren't mine. Only I get to make my choices, so you can get off your high horse and leave me the hell alone about it because who I spend time with and what we talk about is really none of your fucking business."

Peter stood there shaking. Vibrating. Losing control in a way he hadn't since he first got his powers. He hadn't realized how much anger he had been harboring until he started talking. It just poured out of him, and he couldn't stop it, but, for all intents and purposes time did. Charles sat frozen, mid recoil, clearly taken aback by Peter's outburst, but also looking rather contrite. Peter hugged his arms around himself, trying to calm down, simply trying to breathe, and though his body never left Charles' office, for a moment, his mind went elsewhere.

He was in his childhood bedroom—his and Wanda's—a real room, not the makeshift one he had made in the basement After.

Wanda was beside him, so it was clearly Before.

Both of their legs were kicked up onto the wall with their backs on Wanda's bed. He still had one too, though he hadn't had to sleep in it for months.

Their mom would have a fit if she caught them with their feet up like that—as she had many times before—because neither had yet bothered to take off their shoes.

"What did they do this time?" Wanda asked, voice resigned.

Peter took a deep breath, not wanting to tell her, but knowing she'd get it out of him eventually anyway. She always did.

"Nothing that original. They just took my cleats, so I had to run in my Converse. It's not a big deal. I could lap everyone in slippers if I wanted. And they're idiots because if it would've impacted my running, then it would've only hurt the track team as a whole, not just me. But anyway, like I said, it's not a big deal."

"But they don't know that you don't need cleats to run at your best, so it is a big deal, Pietro." Wanda replied, turning her gaze from the wall to look at him.

"Nah, I'll just swipe some new ones later. I could've stolen some before the race, but that would've just led to more questions with people wondering how I found a replacement pair so quickly and all that jazz." Said Peter, not looking at his twin, even as he continued to feel her eyes on him.

"That's not the point, 'Tro, and you know it. You shouldn't have to steal, and you shouldn't have to put up with that crap." Said Wanda, poking him in the shoulder until he did finally turn his head to look at her. Her cool grey eyes stared back at him.

"Yea, but the reality is that I do have to. What's the alternative? If I went speeding around as fast as I can, they'd kick me off the team for cheating, and everyone would know I really am a freak." Said Peter with a sigh.

"So what? I mean, I don't want you to get kicked off the team, but it's just not fair. We shouldn't have to pretend to be something we're not. And we don't need anyone to tell us who we are. We know who we are, and what we're capable of. And when the world figures that out, they better watch out." Said Wanda with a slightly disturbed grin.

With a jerk, Peter was back in the present. The ghost of his twin sister's face and the eyes she had shared with their father still nearly blinding him.

When Peter came back to himself, he realized Charles was repeating his name, so Peter knew that he had to have been out of it for long enough to be noticeable to the naked eye.

"Peter?" Charles repeated, and there was no anger or judgment in his voice, only concern.

Suddenly, Peter realized that maybe he shouldn't get on the bad side of the person who was currently bankrolling his food, clothing, education, and shelter for little more than a bit of glorified babysitting that no one really expected Peter to do, mostly because everyone seemed to forget that he was technically an adult and had been for some time.

Peter rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers, took a deep breath, and then, in a flash, he came back over to Charles' desk and sat in the previously vacant chair once more, causing Charles to flinch backward slightly.

"Look, I didn't mean to snap, I just—" Peter started.

"No, no. You're right, Peter. It's not entirely my business. I just . . . you know that you can talk to me about anything. I'll listen . . . I'd hope just as well as Erik." Said Charles, who had leaned back further in his chair, as if to put Peter more at ease by keeping some distance between them.

Peter nodded, feeling a bit calmer, but now that he was aware of it, he still felt that anger in his chest, just waiting for an excuse to escape now that it had gotten a taste of freedom. But even though his most recent suggestion implied otherwise, Peter got the feeling that Charles was much more worried about what Erik was telling him, than what Peter had to say. After all, Peter remembered all too well that Charles hadn't always been the clean cut guy that he was now.

But Peter recognized an olive branch when he saw one, so he took hold of it.

"Thanks. Look, you don't have to worry about Erik being a bad influence on me or whatever. First of all," said Peter raising one finger, "the ship that should've shaped me into an upstanding citizen left the harbor a long time ago, but I have no intention of landing on the FBI's most wanted list. And second," he lifted another finger to join the first. "I'm not interested in uh—getting into public speaking, sooooo are we done here?"

"I—well I suppose—"

"Great! See you later, Chuck!" said Peter, and then he zipped out of the room, leaving Charles to stare at an empty chair.

{Author's Note: And so it continues. Again, I don't really know where I'm going with this, but I know that I don't plan to turn this into a huge multi-chapter endeavor, but I anticipate that there will be a couple of more chapters after this one. Also Wanda's last quote is adapted from MCU Wanda's quote in WandaVision.}