Aw! Love you guys too! :)
I'm sorry this is late, I just started college a little over a week ago (!) and I am SUPER busy! Chapters will be scattered but I promise, I will keep updating whenever I have time.
Let me know what you think!
Chapter Three: To Tell Her (November 1973)
BANG!
Four voices at once: "ANYA!"
"I DIDN'T DO IT!" This said while twelve-year-old feet sprint away from the general direction of the lab. I roll my eyes and sigh, getting up with a groan from the couch. A bushy mane of wild auburn curls goes flying by me, trailing the thick smell of smoke behind her. The Professor only makes her cut her hair if she manages to burn it into uneven patches, so I guess it's another embarrassing trip to the mall with my little sister and another embarrassing explanation to the stylist why Anya's three-feet-long curls have six inches missing from one side.
Though I did get to pick up that pretty brunette the last time… What can I say? Big brothers are apparently hot.
I get to the lab just as Bozo is leaving it. "What'd she make blow up this time?" I ask. I'm not even really sure how she does it most of the time, but always she makes technology defy its nature and have epic suicides in the lab. Bozo glares at me and paws at the burn pattern on his arm.
"You don't want to know," he says darkly.
"C'mon, it can't be as bad as when she tried to fix the toaster! Least you've still got your eyebrows this time!" You'd think after she burned most of the fur off his face with that particular incident he'd ban her from being in the lab altogether. But as seems to be the norm for Lehsnherr's baby girl, none of us can deny what she truly wants. Flash of those big green eyes and a small pout from those peachy lips, and we're all scrambling to do what she wants... within reason.
It should be more disturbing how she has us wrapped around her little finger like that, but after a year of it, we're kind of used to being enslaved by a twelve-year-old.
Charles rolls by the lab, an amused twitch to his lips. "Was the fire extinguisher neccessary this time or should I just call the fire department?"
"Put itself out," Hank mumbles. "Low grade explosive. Very unstable but not a lot of it, thank God."
"Showing a knack for chemistry," Charles laughs. "Should be worried when she starts figuring out formulas."
"No, we should run away. As fast as possible," I say bluntly. Charles laughs again. It's good to hear him laugh. He doesn't very often anymore - only around or about Anya it seems most days. Then again the twelve-year-old doesn't treat him like he's going to shatter into a million pieces, or like he's disabled.
He's her biggest hero next to me.
Charles nods his head and gestures for us to follow him. "Have you made any headway on the compound you found in those mutants, Dr. McCoy?" he asks. Hank shrugs which I guess means 'no.' A year later and we still have no idea what was in those people that made them act like killers. We don't really talk about that night much, except for the drug; Anya always gets really quiet, and Sean looks green at being reminded that he killed somebody. It's nearly as taboo as Anya's parents and Cuba. And that Moira mysteriously has no clue about any of us anymore. And Erik and Raven.
There's a lot we can't talk about in the mansion.
"Yo! You guys coming?" Sean shouts from the living room. "It's going to come on in a second!" Hank hastily gets behind Charles' chair and wheels him while I follow at a jog. Sean is sitting on the couch with a big plate of cookies, courtesy of the Beast, while Anya practically hides beneath it. Charles stops his chair and gives the spot where Anya's curls are clearly visible a hard look. Sheepishly she crawls out from underneath and offers a meek smile. They do that weird telepath talking thing, Charles' fingers at his temple and Anya's eyes narrowing slightly like she's concentrating really hard, and then Anya smiles brightly and Charles raises an eyebrow.
"Understand?" Charles asks, a hint of that impish grin I haven't seen in a year tugging at his mouth.
"Yep!" she says, bouncing next to Sean on the couch. "Gimme a cookie."
"Anya."
"Please."
"Prof, what did you tell her?" I ask. Hank looks equally worried while Sean just snickers into his plate. Anya snatches a few cookies off the plate, making sure the Prof gets one before diving into her own set. We're all convinced she's going to go through a massive growth spurt soon with the way she eats but never seems to get over a hundred pounds.
"Nothing of importance," Charles says breezily, which makes me scoff and Hank cringe.
"Professor she's going to make it in my lab, whatever it is!" Hank protests.
"And Sean's going to set it off in my room," I add.
"Only if you're a pain in the ass."
"Sean, language."
"Sorry Professor."
"I'm not that bad." This from Anya, who has that indignant expression on her face that usually spells trouble for all of us.
"Yes you are," the rest of us say at once. She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, pouting slightly. I chuckle and drop into the spot next to her, facing the little TV over on the wall. The announcers are preparing to show the President over in Texas, talking rapidly and in an almost dazed excitement that's a bit contagious. Handing more cookies to Anya, the Professor makes himself comfortable next to her. Without thinking about it my little sister stretches out so her head rests on Charles' shoulder over the arm of the couch, with her legs draped over my lap and her toes prodding Sean in the side. If she could she'd probably stretch until she could brush her big toe across Hank's fur, but she's not quite long enough to do that yet.
It's a habit she's developed; she always seems to need to touch one of us when she's relaxed, an unconscious need to feel our body heat and know we're there. None of us ever talk about it, except to acknowledge that she is more damaged than she would like us to believe. Or rather, admit. The Prof and I have stayed up with her whenever the nightmares come back, Hank is basically her walking teddy bear/safety blanket, and Sean is… Sean. Sometimes I think he's the only thing that can make her laugh.
"Y'know, I think that JFK is probably a mutant."
Like now.
Anya snorts and starts chuckling. "He's been a jerk to all mutants since last year! He ordered a strike in… where was it? Anyway, you guys probably saw it. There were these mutants and they were trying to help or something and then he was an asshole."
We all go still. The Professor doesn't even reprimand her for language.
Did I forget to mention that when we don't talk about Cuba we... neglected to tell her we were the group there?
Anya of course, notices. She lifts her head from the Professor's shoulder and opens her mouth to ask a question - the question I know her genius little twelve-year-old brain is slowly figuring out - but I shift quickly so she slides down into the back of the couch. sean, catching on quickly, pins Anya's toes before she can get the "oof!" out, keeping her feet hostage. And the Professor leans over so that she loses her last escape, not being able to wiggle free over the arm without knocking him out of the chair.
This leaves Hank to gently tickle her - and distract her.
"HEY! Stop… why… cut…" She laughs so hard that her face turns red and she struggles to breathe, but we don't let up. Anya shrieks and giggles and threatens when she can and struggles with surprisingly developed muscles, until finally she gets a foot loose in her squirming and nails Sean across the cheek. A look of absolute horror crosses the features so much like Erik's and we all sit back, letting Sean get up with a groan so he can clutch his face. "Oh my God, Sean, I am so sorry!" she exclaims, leaping over my lap and nearly striking my groin with her knee. Hastily I sit up fully and draw my ankles in to protect myself. "Are you alright? Do you need ice? I can go get ice!" She's up before any of us can stop her and bolting downstairs to the kitchen, intent on finding probably a bunch of ice cubes she'll mostly spill on the floor in the race to get back to us.
"Anyone else think it's weird that Erik's kid hates hurting anyone?" Sean asks around his fingers. The Professor's jaw tightens but he answers the question quietly anyway.
"Erik… Erik did feel concern for those of us he deemed worthy… of it." I can practically feel the pain those words must cause him, the subtext within them that grates across my emotions in a way that is still raw, still bleeding. A year later and we still can't find our elusive teacher and fellow student. Charles has tried but that helmet…
God, Erik most likely doesn't even know he's got a kid.
He hasn't checked on any of us.
We're not worthy of his concern.
… And it hurts.
I elbow Sean in the ribs hard enough that he groans. "Alex, that was inappropriate," the Professor says half-heartedly. I duck my head but I can't feel ashamed for it. Sean looks upset now that he actually gets what he said, and lowers his head too.
But Bozo is the one who finally says what needs to be asked.
"Should we tell Anya?" he says, wringing his furry fingers together. "About her dad."
Charles' response is a gunshot. "Absolutely not. She doesn't need to have her impression of him determined by us."
But that's not true. Because Anya already knows what she thinks of him.
Charles just doesn't want to believe it.
"Prof, she's not stupid," I say lowly. Charles actually glares at me. I cringe but keep going anyway. "Look, she knows something's up. It's been a year and we still haven't found him. She mentions Cuba, or 'the guy who shot you,' and we go quiet. She hears about a terrorist named Magneto and she sees our reaction. And…" The hard one.
"She hasn't asked about her dad in nearly seven months," Sean finishes quietly. The red marring his chin only makes his somber look more grim. "Just mutants. Just what her powers could be, and when. Not if they'd be like him."
It's a bit of a surprise that Sean finished that thought, but there's the crux of it. Even Sean notices. The Professor looks like he's been slapped.
No one dares speak in the hushed silence. No one even really moves except to watch the progression on the television, President Kennedy waving merrily from the back of an open limo while crowds cheer in Texas for him. It's grim in the room, heavy, pressing; no one wants to keep talking about the inevitable, yet no one really wants to back out either. Because backing out is not going to help the young girl who sees us as her family, nor help us patch ourselves slowly together again. We need to acknowledge this, that Anya is making choices just like her father did, only in a different way that could have horrible consequences later.
Because what if he finally comes back and Anya hates him? Wants him as far from her as possible?
I watch the Professor out of the corner of my eye, the drawn expression and tight lips speaking volumes his telepathy even can't. I wouldn't have a problem with Magneto never setting foot in our lives again, but I'm not completely stupid either. Charles… well, frankly, he cares about the bastard in a way that gives hope for humanity even as it makes your chest ache with loneliness because no one sees you like that. And he loves Anya like she's his own flesh-and-blood daughter. If she doesn't want Erik around…
It'd be like choosing between a spouse and a child.
No wonder Charles doesn't want to talk about it.
"What the…?" Hank's exclamation draws my eyes from Charles to him, where he's watching the TV in horror. The president is leaning forward on the grainy picture, clutching his throat while his wife hovers around him. A spike of fear shoots through me even as confusion muddles my brain. I don't understand the mix of emotions clashing in my head and making my eyes pulse. But in a way I do.
The way he's gasping in pain…
It's like when Charles was...
"Hey what did I -"
Anya comes back into the room just in time to see the second bullet pierce Kennedy's skull and spray his brain over the limo.
Charles is shouting at me to cover her eyes but it's already too late. I'm bounding over the couch and grasping her in a bear hug, the bag of frozen peas squished between my chest and her palm, and a scream already tearing out of her twelve-year-old throat. Charles wheels over as fast as he can, grasping at Anya's hands and demanding that Sean turns off the TV. Dimly I hear the noise cut off, leaving a room full of people who just watched the leader of their country die on live television.
I don't think it can get any worse.
Only it does.
Charles guides us all into the kitchen while Hank sprints to the lab, probably calling up whatever friends he has in D.C. or to turn on a radio where Anya can't hear. I usher my distraught sister into a chair and Charles immediately grasps her hands, saying soothing words both aloud and silently. Tears stream down Anya's face and she looks like she might faint.
And suddenly I get it.
Her parents.
Shit.
Sean shakily collapses into the seat beside Anya, slinging an arm around her shoulders but looking very much like he might throw up any second. When Charles takes a second to comfort my "brother" I gather up Anya in a reassuring hug and hang on as tightly as I can.
"You're okay, you're safe hey, shhh," I repeat over and over, my anxiety rising as the shaking gets worst and worst. Eventually Charles places his fingers against his temple and Anya slumps into blissful unconsciousness before she can upgrade to a full panic attack. I pick her up and carry her down to her room, laying her on the bed adorned with more pillows and blankets than she even really needs.
This hasn't been the first time Charles has had to knock her out before she ended up shrieking and hurting herself in a fit of remembered panic. The worst time she sliced her arm open with a falling vase trying to hide under a table about three months after she got here. It wouldn't have been bad - it was a fairly shallow cut - but she managed to nick an artery in her wrist, so by the time I got to her, she was limp with exhaustion and minor blood loss. The Professor simply renders her unconscious now when she reaches those dangerous levels.
I sit with her for a while, stroking her wild curls back from her face and taking her hand in both of mine whenever she begins to shake again. It's not a true sleep, but she'll wake up without the shadows plaguing her every step and with a sense of calm now that the worst is over. It's the most we can do really.
Eventually there's a knock on the door, and I get up to answer it. It's Hank, looking more drawn and worried than I've ever seen him before. "What's up?" I ask quietly.
"How's Anya?" he counters. I shrug because what else can I say? She's not exactly stellar, but she's not going to accidentally kill herself right now.
"Going to wake up soon, so hurry up Bozo -"
"It was Erik."
What?
The shock on my face must show my question, because Hank nods and shuffles his big feet. I glance out the big window composing one wall at the rapidly darkening sky. Already they know? "They caught him trying to flee the scene. Apparently the bullet curved." There's a dark shadow hanging over his furry face that makes him look beyond intimidating in his mutation. "There's evidence that he was planning to be there at that time, at that place, with a loaded gun."
Oh God.
I want him to say it's a joke. Some fucking prank he and Sean came up with. But Bozo doesn't prank and this… Even Sean wouldn't think it's funny.
"Does the Professor know?" I whisper. Hank just gives me a look. Of course he does.
I hate Erik a little bit more for that.
I sigh and thunk my head against Anya's door. "Shit."
"Very much so," Hank mutters. I groan and rub a hand over my face.
"What do we do now?"
But even the genius looks lost.
Hank leaves to go talk with Charles and tell Sean, and I turn back into the room to check on Anya. But she's awake, and watching. And I know she heard enough, if not all, of that exchange.
And the look on her little sharp face…
"It was my dad, wasn't it. He shot the president." Not a question, which hurts more than I can say. I wince and Anya takes that for a yes. Her green eyes are so much older than her twelve years, jaded with pain and anger only the truly traumatized can fully understand. I know she knows the answer even before she asks the question we've been dreading for over a year now. "Who shot Charles, Alex? Who put our father into a wheelchair?"
"Anya, it's not that simple," I try. I'm floundering, because oh God she's too young, and Jesus Christ I'm going to fuck this up. She will hate her father forever if I don't do this right. And Charles, kind-hearted, loving Charles, will never forgive me if I turn Erik's daughter against him. And that thought terrifies me, halting my usually aggressive vocabulary on the blonde shit who left our family and took Charles' sister with him, leaving us broken and with his daughter to put back together too. But Anya just grimaces and buries her head into the pillow.
"It was him." She's decided already.
I can tell her. I can tell her about how her father grew up, about how this hatred for humans developed. I can tell her about her father's ideals. I can tell her about Cuba, and all we lost there. I can tell her about Shaw, and Cerebro, and Charles and Erik and Raven and the first class and Moira and the pressure of being a mutant and how we don't want her to hate Erik because that's not fair to her or to Charles or to (and I can't believe I'm even thinking this) Erik.
I can make her see that people are not as full of greed and hate as she is slowly coming to believe of the world outside our family.
But all that comes out is, "It's not that simple," again.
I can't really tell her, maybe because I don't even really believe that myself.
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