The plane ride to Japan was long, probably made worse by the simple fact that Erik's team consisted of people he selected purely based on fighting skills. It has nothing to do with their ability to talk to him or, in most cases, glower. They were very good at the latter.
Mystique was busy in the cockpit, her flying abilities enough to get them there. If there was any serious turbulence they would have to rely on him to keep the plane afloat. He wasn't looking forward to it.
At the same time, Logan didn't seem to be particularly good with flying. This seemed to be a new aspect to the man, and one that he found particularly galling. Logan had finally taken enough whiskey to get into some sort of sleep: good since they had another ten hours ahead of them. He doubted it was enough to give him a hangover though. Being off his game wasn't something Erik thought Logan was willing to risk.
For the first few hours though, every slight dip and turn had Erik wanting to do something unpleasant with Logan's claws. With every passing minute, he'd expected Peter to make some sort of remark. The situation seemed like it would present an endless source of mirth for him, since he seemed to enjoy the misery of others.
However, the boy had been strangely quiet during the ride. His eyes seemed to be fixed on another space. He didn't even seem to be moving around or twitching as much as he normally did. It would be interesting, or worrying, if he cared.
As it was, he didn't, something he kept reminding himself of. Yes, Peter had been one of the few members of the school who had gone out of their way to speak to him. Charles maintained a hopelessly optimistic view of who he was or could be, but that was to be expected. Peter had seemed more than willing to take a bullet with him, and to talk without judgement or righteousness.
Not, at least, until Kevin's birthday. Then it had reared its ugly head in a way that had made him want to flip the table over, break his damn legs all over again. Peter had said things he had no business meddling with. No one did. The only living soul who had been there that day was him. He was the only one who knew of his failure, of the way his wife always seemed able to surprise him when he came home, Nina's sweet laughter. These were secrets that would die with him.
Erik shuffled in his seat, trying to banish the thoughts. They were both dead, the dirt and maggots slowly seeping into their flesh. It was a courtesy his parents never had, but a bitter, cruel one all the same.
He closed his eyes, trying to sleep, trying not to picture decomposition happening miles away. It didn't work, just like it never did, never would. Inside him, something deep cried out, both in pain and longing. He wished he had just brought the bodies back into the house and tucked them in, safe and warm. Burying them had been too much, because he could remember just how cold their flesh had been.
And what was the point of burying the dead if they stayed with you?
"I think that when my stepdad left my mom hated me."
He paused, every muscle twitching in annoyance.
"I know you're awake, so you know, listen, don't listen, whatever," Peter said.
"I don't really give a damn about anything you have to say," said Erik.
"You know, that was what I figured you'd say," said Peter, "But I thought about it, before you spoke, and I think I'll keep talking. See, that was the first time she really, truly hated me. It didn't last. She's pretty good, my mom. She just had a lot to deal with, that's all."
Erik opened his eye a crack, and noticed Peter was staring straight ahead, his hands in his lap, not even looking at him. Perhaps he should tell him to shut up again. The long pauses were making him wonder just what the boy had to say though and, even if he told him to shut up, he had no way of enforcing that without violence.
Considering the size of the plane, and what had happened last time he'd done that, it seemed like a poor idea. Besides, despite it all, he didn't really have the urge to hurt Peter enough to make him stop talking. It had passed that day in the lab and, for everything that had happened and been said, he was glad Peter was fast. It had gotten him out of the room fast enough to avoid injury.
Short of hiding in the plane's bathroom, he didn't have too many options.
"So, I mean, basically, what I'm getting at, is that I didn't know he wasn't my actual dad until he left," Peter said, "There was a fight, and he came storming out. I came down the stairs to watch him leave. Didn't try to stop him. He'd been such an asshole for so long, that I didn't think there was anything he could do left to hurt me."
For the first time, his voice faltered. Peter was blinking rapidly now and, even though he hated it, Erik found a sliver of concern worming its way in. Why was he telling him this, and why now? Had he been sneaking Logan's whiskey when Erik wasn't watching?
"And then, just before he went out, he turned, and he looked at me, and he told me everything," said Peter, "I just...stared at him. I was fifteen, and I was just learning that I could talk faster than anyone. But what do you say to any of that shit anyway? Then he looked at me, and he said that shit about wishing mom miscarried and I realized then that, he didn't just not like me. I mean, I knew that."
"Peter," Erik said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "I have no desire to speak to you. I simply don't. That being said, I feel the need to repeat a single word: szambonurek. That was what your father was."
"No, I know he was a dick," said Peter, "An absolute dick. Worst I ever met. But that's not what I'm talking about here. Not the normal asshole dick stuff."
Erik considered locking himself in the bathroom. The confession was making him uncomfortable in a way that Peter's earlier details about his family hadn't. There was something so raw, so pained in it that reminded him too much of himself.
The only difference was, he'd told Charles these details over a long period of time. Most of them he still didn't know. The only one who came close to knowing it all had been his wife, and even then, he'd edited.
For whatever reason, Peter wasn't editing. Not anymore.
"This was something...new," Peter said, "Because, when he looked at me, I realized I was this big fat mistake to him."
The word 'mistake' felt like a punch to the face, bone-shattering and heavy.
"Then I went back, and asked my mom if it was true because I mean, I needed to know, more than I needed to know if she was okay," said Peter, "And she had all this smudged mascara, tears running down her face, and that's when, for however long, she hated me. Hated me because I was the wrong guy's son, because I'd screwed up her marriage. Because I wasn't the pregnancy she needed to have a normal, good life. And that's the only time she called me a mistake. I was a mistake."
Peter's blinking was becoming quicker, his light lashes blurring to the point where it looked like there was a small cloud of dust gathered around his eyes.
"You know, one of the things I love about the Professor and Moira, is how they talk about the baby," he said, "See, she wasn't expecting to get knocked up at this point in her life. They weren't married or shit, or anything else, and this baby has really, really complicated things. Even now, she's got some sort of weird baby disease that might kill her, but you know what? I don't think she's angry at the baby about that. I don't think Prof is either. Even Kevin isn't, and he's goddamn nine."
One of Peter's legs was twitching. Erik had sat up and was openly staring now, but Peter was still talking, his words coming out thick.
"Because, when I heard her talking to her CIA buddy on the phone, she said the baby was a surprise," he said, "Not a mistake, a surprise. And do you wanna know the funny thing about that? I believe them. A surprise! People like surprises!"
He made a strange, jerky gesture with his hand. Erik noticed there was a kind of strange cadence to his movements now. Almost all at once, he realized Peter was trying not to go running, because there was nowhere to run.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he didn't want to leave.
"And there's a difference," Peter said, "Because that baby is being born to people who love and want it, and always have, and always will. So it's not a mistake. A mistake is a person who you see as this goddamn disease in your life, something you wanna just cut out. Like gangrene, or those bullets Hank pulled outta Kurt. They just wanna get rid of it, because it hurts them and it's making everything worse. They never asked for it, never wanted it."
For the first time, Peter looked at him. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his eyes rimmed with pink, not from tears, but stress. He was scared, and Erik could see that. But not of him, not exactly. It was something else.
"You don't...the way you talk about them, or, let's be honest, the way you don't talk about them, they couldn't have been a mistake," he said, "You wanted them, and you got them through the Prof's way. Yeah, it went to hell, and that's terrible. But...I just...I wish I was like the Professor, or Kevin, because I could make you see what that damn look he gave me was. And you would know if they saw you as a mistake, because I'm willing to bet everything that they never looked at you like that. Not once."
Erik stared at him, the pieces falling into place, the way Peter tensed up when the word mistake was used. He wanted to leave now, but not because of Peter. Not because of what he was saying, or what he had said, but, for the first time in a long time, he thought of his family, alive. Wanted. Loved. Happy, at least for a time.
For all his faults, he'd found a place there. It was fleeting, as he'd discovered, but it had been his.
"Don't try to use shit words like mistake, okay? Because it's not fair to them," Peter said, "So like, hate me, and be all intimidating and shit, but don't think of them or you as a mistake, because you're not a mistake if they wanted you."
"They really shouldn't have," said Erik.
"Well that's not your choice, is it?" snapped Peter, "That was theirs."
Peter wiped the back of his nose with his jacket, suddenly sullen, and glared out a window. Erik leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. God, what a mess. What a screwed up world they had all been born into, that Charles was trying to show the light.
And in the middle of it all, people like Peter got screwed.
"Is now the part where you throw me outta the plane?"
He opened his eyes and turned. Peter was looking at him again, almost as though daring him to do it. It amazed him how he could go from pained to defiant all in the blink of an eye. It was as if his own emotions had been reflected and sped up, both by youth and impatience.
"No," Erik said, "We still have a mission to get through."
"The way back then?"
"Possibly," said Erik.
Almost without meaning it, and certainly not wanting it, his tone lightened slightly. Peter cracked a broken grin at him.
"Hafta catch me first," he said.
Unbidden and foreign, a grin spread into his lips. Now, more than ever, Erik could see what Charles had seen in the boy. He could see what it was that drew children to him like a magnet, that same kind of guileless innocence mixed with adult strength and bravery.
And, more than ever, he realized both Peter's fathers were szambonureks. One for telling him he wished he'd been miscarried, and the other for never knowing him.