{Author's Note: FYI, this chapter depicts heavy drinking, and discusses alcoholism.}
"What on earth are you doing?" A voice asked, as the kitchen light switched on, and Peter looked up from his haphazardly crafted campsite on the floor to see his father standing over him with a look of what Peter—in a fit of optimism—would describe more as shock than disappointment.
"I think it's pretty obvious." Said Peter, taking another long drink from the glass bottle in his hand, and then plastering an insincere smile on his face, reflecting an emotion he didn't feel. "And we have to stop meeting this way." Then he mumbled to himself too quietly for Erik to hear, " 'spose it's better than meeting in a closet though."
"Is this about what happened yesterday?" Erik asked, his features morphing into a look of concern as he began to take in the scene more fully—Peter sitting on the cold kitchen tile, his back against the wall, his shirt untucked, his hair untamed, his legs kicked out carelessly in front of him. For some reason, he was barefoot. Bottles—too many to quickly count—both full and empty, were spread out around him equally as recklessly as his body.
"What happened yesterday?" Peter asked, feigning thoughtfulness as he blew on the top of the bottle in his hand so that it resonated slightly, before he continued. "Oh, do you mean me finding you and Raven hooking up in the closet?"
Erik sputtered, clearly not anticipating that response, and, to Peter's amusement—thanks solely to his mildly buzzed state—Erik's cheeks colored slightly. "No. And we were not doing any such thing. We—"
"It's fine, man. You do you—or Raven I guess. Raven's cool. It's cool. I'm cool with it. Yadayadayada. I panicked earlier, but it's all good now. I'm good. I mean, just look at me, perfectly composed, and fan-freakin-tastic." Said Peter, lifting the bottle in his hand further into the air in a 'cheers' manner, before finishing the drink and adding it to his discard pile, which wasn't really a pile at all, since the next bottle he grabbed was supposed to be from the 'full' pile, and yet, sadly, it was already empty. Fortunately, his second choice had the good-sense to be unopened.
For a moment, it looked to Peter like Erik was going to make another poor attempt at denying that anything was going on between him and Raven, but gazing down at his son in his current state, Erik seemed to realize that now was not the time or place to debate his love life.
"I was referring to whatever your friends said to you when I happened across you on the lawn. You and the Summers boy appeared to be having a rather heated argument . . . . Am I wrong?" Erik replied, still judging Peter silently from above, even though Peter was pretty sure that if he were the one in Peter's place, getting drunk—or attempting to—in the middle of the night in a school full of children wouldn't even fall within the top ten terrible things his father had done, so who was he to judge?
"I wouldn't say they're my friends exactly, 'specially not Scotty. I'm pretty sure they only tolerate me most of the time because they feel sorry for me because I'm the weird adult that never figured out how to be an , currently, my only friends are two fine gentlemen by the name of Mr. Jim Beam and Captain Morgan." Said Peter, once again downing some more alcohol, but then he looked down at the bottles around him with a frown and a shrug. "They might have brought some friends of their own I guess, but I bet I'll get acquainted with them too before the end of the night, so no one will be left out."
Erik stared down at Peter with a frown. "You are again placing a level of worth on yourself that is much less than you deserve. Do not let one foolish boy tear down the relationships you are building with the others. . . . And I know he said something to upset you, but no matter what it was or how it made you feel, this is not a healthy coping mechanism."
"And what would you suggest?" Asked Peter boldly, blinking his father back into focus. "Murdering Nazis? Assassinating the president? World domination? All three? I wouldn't exactly describe those activities as Healthy. Coping. Mechanisms."
Peter never would have made such a retort if he had been completely sober, but thanks to the fact that he was still on the mend from his recent confrontation with and reminder of his very real mortality, Peter's body wasn't yet back to its finest state of efficiency—which may or may not be related to him more or less ignoring Hank's 'get well soon' regimen—so a significant amount of rather potent alcohol had actually worked to dampen his inhibitions.
Though Peter thought his nostrils flared slightly, Erik's face hardly changed at Peter's retort. It merely reflected a cool façade.
Man, someday Peter had to ask him how he managed that . . . if Erik ever spoke to him again after tonight that is.
Nope.
Peter didn't like that train of thought, better silence it with some more alcohol.
"You're right. I've never dealt with strong emotions well, and I likely never will. But I'd like to think that if my own experience has taught me anything, it's the ability to identify self-destructive tendencies. Now, what did he say to you that has caused you such distress?" Erik asked, crossing his arms across his chest. And if Peter had his wits about him, there was no doubt that he would have better understood the feeling he got at the sight of Erik looking so much like a concerned dad.
"Doesn't matter if he's caused me distress if what he said is true." Said Peter with another resigned shrug.
"Whatever he said to you, I promise it isn't true." Said Erik, now looking like he wanted to break something, and again, part of Peter had the wherewithal to know that if his head was a little less foggy, the look on his father's face might have made him feel a bit apprehensive.
"Well that's presumptuous." Said Peter, doing his best to raise one eyebrow, but he wasn't sure if he managed it or if he just ended up raising both and only accentuated his freaky demon eyes. "What if he'd said I was the coolest dude he knew, and he desires nothing more than to grow up to be just as awesome as me."
Erik took a moment, staring at and almost through his son, before calmly responding, "Is that what he said?"
Despite the question, Peter knew Erik did not truly believe for even a second that whatever Scott had said to him had been anything resembling adoration.
"Obviously not. I said he told me the truth, and none of that's true. Ergo—that's not what he said." Peter replied, proud of his logic. He followed up his response with an eye roll, and as he did so, the room seemed to spin with him.
Erik sighed, and then crouched down next to his son, so that their eyes were at the same height. Judging by the way Erik's knees popped as he took up the position, it didn't look like a very comfortable stance, and it contrasted starkly with the many images Peter had of his father lording over others and prepared for battle. "You, Pietro Django Maximoff, are the coolest dude I know." Said Erik, rather quietly, but also, Peter thought, quite seriously without any hint of sarcasm.
Peter took that in for a second, not really sure how to digest that statement, and the amount of alcohol in his system certainly didn't help, but eventually he shook his head, though he regretted it immediately when it brought unwanted pressure to the middle of his brow. "Well, even if that's how you really feel—which I doubt—you don't know very many people, so you've got a skewed sample."
"I think my sample size is fine." Said Erik, pressing his lips into a hard line, and getting to his feet again. "You know, if you tell me what Scott said, I could judge for myself whether or not it is true."
"That's not how the truth works, man. Something is either the truth or it's a lie. Fact or fiction. Reality or imagination." Said Peter, taking another swallow of his drink and scrunching up his face as the liquid burned his throat on its way down. "But again, it doesn't matter anyway. Even without Scotty's comment, I would've ended up here eventually. You've already hit the nail on the head—with me, all roads lead to self-destruction."
"So this . . . is a common occurrence for you?" Erik asked, and Peter could tell by his hesitance that Erik was afraid of the answer he would receive, so Peter did his best to ease his anxiety–Peter couldn't erase his own anxiety, so he might as well do his best to knock his dad's down a few pegs—but shockingly his reply was the truth.
"Nope! First time! Like, it's not my first time drinking, I'm not a teetotal—teetotaler—teetotalee—whatever the word is, I drink sometimes, but before now, only if it tasted good because most of the time it does diddly squat for me. Like, even all this probably wouldn't do much to me normally, but thanks to the Blueberry—the ancient one, not Raven or Hank—my body's still all out of whack, so at this point, if I give my body a little poison, it's like, 'yes, that is poison' rather than its usual 'is that all you've got?' mantra. Make sense?"
At that pronouncement, Erik's forehead creased with deeper concern. "If that's the case, then that's just one more reason that I really must insist you refrain from imbibing in any more alcohol."
"Too late, man. I can't let this go to waste." Said Peter, gesturing to his plentiful bounty. "Feel free to join though, if you want."
"I would like nothing more than to share a drink with you, Peter . . . but not like this." Said Erik with a forced calm.
"Alright, well, suit yourself. Assuming I don't like die, you'll probably have lots of opportunities to drink with me because I'm pretty sure this" said Peter, again gesturing to his loot and this time also himself. "is a product of my DNA, just like the X-gene."
At that statement, Erik's face twitched slightly and he paused a good few seconds before he replied, and when he spoke, his voice sounded strange, kind of like Peter's had when he'd snapped at his dad before he took off after his fight with Scott. "You don't have to be defined by your connection to me." Then more quietly he added. "You don't deserve that."
Peter scrunched his eyebrows together in confusion, looking not so different from his father. "What? Oh you mean the DNA thing? Nah man, I wasn't talking about the weird shit you passed onto me. I meant my mom. She's always been a little heavy handed with the alcohol on her bad days."
"She drank around you? Frequently? " Erik asked, going back into his disapproving mode.
"Hey! No. You don't get to judge her!" Said Peter pointing his finger at his father, which—unlike with his confrontation with Scott—wasn't very intimidating given that he was currently sitting on the floor, and even had he been standing, his dad was still taller than him, so it would've hardly made an impact either way. "You weren't there! She's had a lot on her plate, okay? Dead parents. Dead kid. Dead husband. Another dead kid. Plus, I was little shit even before I got my powers. You'd drink too if you had to be around me all the time. Besides, addiction is a disease, dude, not a choice. And it wasn't all the time, just, you know, hard days, and even when she got drunk, it wasn't like she's one of those people that becomes a different person when they're drunk. She's not a reckless drunk or an angry drunk. She's a sad drunk. Like me apparently. And we had some of our best late-night talks those days. I wouldn't trade those for anything . . . . well maybe one thing."
Peter added as he finished the bottle in his hand and this time literally tossed it. It broke, scattering glass across the floor. Shit. He'd probably have to clean that up later.
Fuckin' vacuuming.
Peter picked up another bottle, popping it's top with the random pair of car keys he was using as a makeshift bottle opener.
Peter didn't know if the broken bottle was the last straw or if it Erik finally had a clear enough picture of Peter's psyche, but whatever it was, his father had clearly had enough of the whole event.
"Give that to me." Said Erik holding out his hand expectantly.
Instead of doing as his father asked, Peter simply slapped the outstretched hand with his own, knowing even as he did it that he must've been at least somewhat tipsy because there was absolutely no way he would've done such a thing completely sober.
"No can do Pops. Again, there's plenty more if you want to join me, but I'm currently working on this guy." Said Peter, spinning around on the floor so that he was sitting cross-legged with his face to the wall and his back to his father, which, in hindsight, was a pretty stupid thing to do.
And then, as an afterthought, Peter added over his shoulder, "Sorry."
"This is absurd. How did you even get all of this?" Erik asked, and too Peter's annoyance, he saw out of the corner of his eye several unopened bottles that must have had metal in their lids fly away from him.
Even though he knew his dad couldn't see him, Peter still put an exaggerated pout on his face before he responded. "You're absurd. Who wears a cape in real life? You're not Superman, and you're definitely not Batman because I refuse to be Robin in this sitch-ia-tion. And I'm perfectly capable of getting alcohol on my own. Twenty-seven, remember?" Said Peter, even though he had by no means paid for any of the liquor in his possession. "Or did you forget because you've been around for less than one percent of my life?"
There was only silence in response, and in any other situation, Peter would been mortified and terrified by that, but fortunately, his brain was just foggy enough not to care.
"I think you've had quite enough." Said Erik after a beat, his voice suddenly laced with an emotion that hadn't been there a moment before. Then Peter felt hands on his shoulder, and for some inexplicable reason, Peter didn't stop his father as he spun him back around.
"Relax. It barely even affects me. Remember?" Said Peter, going to take another drink, only to find his hand stuck three inches from his face. Peter frowned, crossing his eyes to look at his hand. Oh right—metal bracelet.
"Well, you've had enough at this point to cause an effect I'd say." Said Erik, as he went to remove the bottle from Peter's hand. Yes Peter saw Erik's intent from a mile away, and yes he easily could have stopped him or he could have moved, but in that moment, it just seemed like so much work to do either. And, for never being able to sleep, Peter suddenly felt extremely tired and without the energy to do either action.
Still, Peter frowned at the older man as he started gathering up Peter's well-stocked collection of alcoholic drinks, setting them on the counter. Peter imagined that as soon as he left the kitchen and was out of Erik's sight, he would never see the bottles again.
What. A. Waste.
"You don't need to tell me what's upset you, but whatever escape you are looking for, I promise you, you will not find it at the bottom of a bottle." Said Erik, Crossing his arms again as he looked down at his pathetic excuse for a son.
"Well, not with that attitude you won't." said Peter, feeling quite clever at managing such a retort. "Besides, you don't know that for sure."
"Trust me. I do." Erik replied with a sober expression on his face. "I think you need to go sleep this—go lie down for a while."
Peter laughed cruelly, without any humour.
"You forgot for a second, didn't you? I can't sleep it off because I can't sleep! Not for one night, not for one hour, not one minute, or even one second! One day just bleeds into the next in a continuous motherfuckin' loop until the day I take the ultimate sleep." Said Peter, getting to his feet, and oh, shit, did the room always spin like that?
"You're right. I did forget. I'm sorry." Said Erik, trying to take hold of Peter's elbow, maybe to keep him from attempting to run away or maybe simply because he wanted to get Peter into a more balanced stance because Peter felt like he was leaning dangerously to one side, but nevertheless, he quickly shrugged off his father's hold.
"Yea, whatever, man. It doesn't matter. I'm going to go to my room and not sleep, so don't need to worry about me falling into the lake or something. And you can go back to wishing you had your other kids back, instead of me." Said Peter, and he was going to leave, but then he put his foot down right on the shards of broken glass he had 'discarded' not so long ago.
"Fuck!" Peter half-yelled, picking up his injured foot and dropping to the floor, fortunately—by sheer luck—avoiding any more glass shards. But he wasn't planning on staying down for long, needing desperately to escape his father's line of sight.
"Don't move." Said Erik quickly, somehow reading Peter's mind. "You'll make it worse. Hang on, I'll get something."
"I'm fine." Said Peter, getting awkwardly to his feet—or foot, since he couldn't put his injured foot down without painfully jamming glass further into its sole. But due to a combination of alcohol and the fact that the leg Peter was balanced on was the one that Apocalypse had snapped and was therefore still a tad weak, he had barely been up for more than few seconds, when he started to wobble again.
"Peter, please, you're bleeding." Said Erik, oddly pleadingly. He caught Peter again, having rushed back over to his side, when it became evident that Peter wasn't going to sit patiently and wait for his father to go find medical supplies.
"Oh that's a lot of blood." Peter breathed out, looking down at the state of his foot and tipping sideways again into Erik.
It was at that moment that Hank walked into the kitchen, looking blurry eyed and only half-awake.
"Erik? Peter? What the hell is happening here?"
{Author's Note:
Peter: *exists*
Me: Okay . . . but how about we add pain?
}