{Author's Note: I really wanted to make this two chapters, but I could not for the life of me figure out how to split it up, so you get an uber long chapter this time I guess.}

Peter sat on the ledge of a window in the dining hall, his crutches—the bane of his existence—propped up against the wall beside him. Once again his stupidity had led him to become reliant on two glorified metal poles to hold him up.

The irony was not lost on him.

He'd initially gone to the kitchen to clean up his mess from the night before, only to find that someone—he guessed Hank or Erik—had already taken care of it, which made sense. It probably wasn't a good idea to leave broken glass (or alcohol) lying around in a school full of children, which yea Peter knew that when he had his first drink, but he definitely forgot by his last. And he hadn't exactly bothered to keep track of how much time had passed since he'd managed to shake off Erik and escape to his own room after he had—much to his own horror and humiliation—hurled all over Erik's feet, but apparently it had been plenty long enough to keep Peter's most recent indiscretion under wraps.

Don't get him wrong, he was glad the evidence of him failing at adulthood—and life in general really—had disappeared, but now he felt like even more of a failure since not only had he gotten shitfaced, he'd left the aftermath for the actual adults to clean up.

He'd have to make it up to them somehow, or, more realistically, just live with the guilt because he had no frickin' idea how to do the former. He supposed he didn't really have to make it up to Erik because the guy had missed every other poor decision in his life, so his dad seeing him for who he truly was, was probably a step toward putting them on even footing.

But Hank had been nothing but good to Peter without any genetic obligation pressuring him to be so, so he should probably do something for him in return. Maybe he would tell Hank about his 24/7 insomnia. As reluctant as he was to share the fact about himself, giving the man another odd thing about him to study would probably make Hank happier than any thank you card Peter could pick out.

Peter sighed, pulling at his hair with both hands, letting it run through his fingers until he reached the end. It was getting long-er again. He could almost hear his mom telling him he needed to get a haircut before it grew past his eyes and he couldn't see where he was going when he was running, no matter how many times he reminded her that with whatever weird physics were happening when he was using his powers, his hair never seemed to get in his way, and he usually had his goggles to help him see anyway.

That line of thought brought him back to the second reason he'd finally ventured out of his room, which he had eventually retreated to after he'd sobered up enough to walk with crutches with minimal risk of falling over and Erik had finally passed out in the chair next to the hospital bed in the basement that Peter was starting to become way too familiar with. Guess it wasn't so easy to chuck off the 'loser who lived in a basement vibe' as he'd hoped.

Peter leaned his head back against the window pane, staring down at the phone through half closed eyes that sat on the window ledge in front of him, trying to will one of his hands to reach out and pick up the handset.

He needed to call his mom, he knew that, but still his hands refused to move.

Obviously, he'd called her since he made it back to the school. He wasn't that much of an asshole to let her think his cold dead body was trapped beneath a toppled building somewhere.

As a matter of fact, he'd called her as soon as he could—once they got a working phone set up—when they'd gotten back from Cairo to reassure her that he was in fact still kickin', and she hadn't lost another kid; but the conversation had been brief. All of the students who had friends and family that cared about them—which, surprisingly, quite a few kids did have that—wanted to make a call too to let their loved ones know that, despite the near-world ending events, they were also alive and well.

But still, the call had been long enough for his mom to burst into tears at the sound of his voice. Of course, Peter hadn't told her the extent of his injuries—or how exactly they had happened—just that he'd hurt his leg, so he couldn't run long distances for a while, which meant no coming home for the time being, but he was fine, really. She didn't seem to believe him—because, just like Wanda, she had always been able to see through his bullshit—but, although he said he was at a school for people like him, he hadn't given her the address. He'd always kept the 'Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters' card hidden from her, tucked away at the bottom of his sock drawer, never quite acknowledging his fear that if his mom ever found it, she would have used it as a way to finally wash her hands of her remaining problem child. Even though he knew that fear was an irrational one, he could never quite shake it. His mom had been on his side from day one, no matter how much he fucked up, and he supposed that was a parent's job; but still, even now, he worried that one day he'd cross some invisible line and when she looked at him, she'd no longer see her son, and instead she'd see the man that left her or at least the freak he'd left in his wake.

But the point was, his mom couldn't really call him out on his sugarcoating of his injuries (and the situation as a whole) when she couldn't see him.

So, point to Peter.

Before he'd hung up that day, he'd given her the school's number, but whenever she—or his younger sister—called, he'd make himself scarce, which he knew was an asshole move, but he couldn't help it because he knew she'd ask questions—questions that he wasn't ready to answer.

He did try at a poor attempt to make up for his assholery by calling his momevery few days to continue to let her know that he still walked among the living, but . . . he hadn't really had a conversation with her because he may or may not have strategically been placing his calls when he knew his mom would be working. So she'd get a short message on her answering machine from her wayward son—'Hey mom, guess I missed you. Try you later.'

But an actual conversation?

Nope.

Magda Maximoff hadn't gotten the chance to have a real conversation with her son since the day that she had (most recently) warned him to stay away from his father . . . .

Which yea, was the main reason why he hadn't called when he knew his mom would be home—because he could imagine what she'd say when she found out that not only had he not steered clear of the man responsible for half his genetic makeup, he'd also revealed their relation. So two strikes there probably, and Peter wasn't exactly sure what the third strike would be or if he'd possibly already made it.

And the worst of it was that his mom would probably have a lot of good points that would make him at least consider high-tailing it away from his dad as quick as Peterly possible.

But, the thing was . . . the more he got to know his father, the more he didn't want to have to choose between his parents . . . .

Still, the fact remained, if it came down to it—no matter his developing feelings for Erik—if he had to, Peter knew he would choose his mom. Yea she had her flaws, and she probably wasn't ever going to win any mom of the year awards, but she'd raised him, and loved him, and put up with so many things that would have sent any other normal person running for the hills . . . and also, she hadn't like murdered people or tried to take over the world, so . . . there was that too.

Peter licked his lips, wishing he'd grabbed a snack from the kitchen. It hadn't taken him long to get over his nausea from last night (morning?) and have a healthy breakfast—in terms of size, not necessarily nutritional value since said breakfast came from a package of Oreos he found under his otherwise useless bed—but per usual, it also hadn't taken long for Peter's stomach to scream at him that it needed more food. But even so, he didn't make a move toward the kitchen because he was afraid that if he left the vicinity of the phone, he'd lose his nerve and once again put off talking to his mom for another day.

So instead of tracking down some sustenance, Peter picked up the phone handset, digging the fingernails of his free hand into his palm and wishing at the same time that there was a more isolated place to make a phone call, but tucked into the corner of the dining room between meals would have to do. The only other option would be to ask Charles if he could use the separate line in his office (or sneak in and use it), but he didn't particularly want to do either of those things. He'd take a random student intruding on his conversation than another favor from Charles, or worse, Charles trying to psychoanalyze every word of his exchange.

Peter took a deep breath, working up his nerve, and, after a few more seconds, he finally dialed home.

His mom answered on the first ring, as if any time she was home, she was right by the phone, waiting for him to call, and Peter felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over him at the thought.

"Hello?" His mom's voice was clear, each syllable neatly articulated. She'd worked hard—even harder than Peter—over the years to hide her accent, but like Peter, she tended to slip out of the carefully constructed façade, when she was upset or when they were at home and it was just family around.

Peter knew he should speak.

He should let his mom know that he was there, miles away but just on the other side of the phone, but at the sound of his mother's voice, Peter's throat suddenly felt very tight.

"Pietro?" His mom asked into the void, her accent resurfacing as she used his birth name. "Is that you?"

Peter cleared his throat and then finally answered. "Yea, hey it's me. . . . Hi Mama."

"Oh baby, it's so good to hear your voice. I've missed you. Are you doing okay? How's your leg?" Mrs. Maximoff asked, accent back in full force as her concern bled through the receiver.

"I-I've missed you too. And yep! I'm—good! Leg's good. Everything's good!" Peter answered, even as he stared down at his now rebandaged foot. Well, his leg was good, mostly, so not technically a lie. "Um howareyou?"

"I'm okay, hon." And then his mom added more gently. "But I'd be better if my son didn't lie to me. I know you've been avoiding talking to me, and that's okay. It is. You're allowed to have your own life, and I'm glad you're forging your own path; but you can tell me anything, sweetheart. If you're struggling, please please tell me. Don't keep those feelings to yourself. And if you tell me where this school is and you need me there, I'll leave right now. I promise."

Peter twirled the phone cord around his free hand, pulling it just a little too tight than was comfortable. "I . . . I guess I might not be at my best." Peter admitted finally. The other end of the line was silent, and Peter knew his mom was giving him a chance to continue if he wanted to. "I was pretty messed up after Cairo," physical and mentally "but it's not—I'm not—I'm not Wanda. It's not like that. You don't have to worry about me."

Magda laughed sadly. "Kiddo, I'm always going to worry about you. That's my job, no matter how old you get."

"Yea, I figured." Peter said, and then he bit his lip, while unconsciously pulling the phone cord even tighter around his hand, debating how much to tell his mom. In the end, he knew he couldn't lie to her, not about something so huge. She might've been able to keep The Truth from him for 17 years, but he couldn't do the same to her, even if the part of him that resented her just a bit for that, wanted to. "Mom. . . I've—I've got something else to tell you, but you're not going to like it."

Peter could just barely make out his mother's sigh. "Honey, there are a lot of things you've done that I haven't liked. But I'm always going to like you, no matter what you do, so please tell me. I'd rather know."

Peter nodded, even though he knew his mom couldn't see him, and then, he spoke. "It's Erik. He's here too, and I—" Peter swallowed, fidgeting with the phone cord so much that he was lucky he didn't break it. "I told him that he's—ya know."

There was silence on the other end of the line for moment, and to Peter, it felt like an eternity. "Oh Pietro." Peter's mother replied finally, and Peter could hear the worry slipping further into her voice.

When she didn't say anything more after a few more seconds had passed, Pietro couldn't take it. "Say something. Please."

"What do you want me to say, Pietro? You know how I feel about him—how I feel about you knowing him and him you. He is dangerous, Pietro. Dangerous and reckless and I am afraid—as I always have been—that he will take you away from me, away from your life . . . away from this life."

What life? Peter wondered. For ten years or more he'd gone nowhere. The few high school friends he had, had grown up and moved on and his best friend . . . she never would, and it seemed that neither would Peter.

He was just stuck.

"I thought you were happy I'd finally gotten out of the house." Peter tried, forcing a little levity into his voice.

"I am, you shouldn't stay with me forever, but it's different when it's your choice to leave." Magda replied, and there was a bit of bite in her voice.

"When—if I stay with him or go with him or whatever, it would be my choice, Mom. I'm not five, anymore. He can't just take me where I don't want to go." Peter tried again, knowing that even though she really did want him to live his own life, part of her was still terrified every time he stepped out of the house.

Once again, her silence spoke volumes—she didn't believe him. Perhaps with the way his parents had left things, she never would.

When it was clear that she wasn't going to say more, Peter pressed on.

"It's okay, Mom. Really! I think—I think he might, like, really care about me." Despite Peter inadvertently doing his best to push his father away—up to and including vomiting on his feet—the man hadn't high tailed it out of Westchester yet, so that had to be a good sign, right?

Although she was miles away, Peter could practically see his mom pinch the bridge of her nose. "Pietro, I didn't want you to stay away from him because I thought Erik was incapable of loving you. He loved Anya more than anything in this world. I knew he would love you too. That was always inevitable from the moment he found out about you. I wanted—I still want if I'm being honest—you to stay away from him because his love always comes at a cost, and I'm not willing to see you pay the price for it."

"What happened to Anya wasn't his fault though." Peter reasoned, tapping his good foot rapidly against the wall.

"No. It wasn't . . . but what happened after was. And everything that followed . . . it's not all been because of him, but we all make choices, Pietro; and he's made some terrible ones." Her voice broke and his mom paused for a moment. Peter heard her take another breath before she continued. "Despite everything, you're still so trusting, and I love that about you, baby. I do, but just because someone loves you, doesn't mean they won't hurt you. And sometimes it means they'll hurt you even more than if they hated you."

Peter hesitated, probably not long enough for her to notice, but still long enough to wonder if he dared ask the question that he what he was about to. "Is it wrong that I still want to know him, despite all that?" Peter asked quietly, afraid of the answer, as he flipped the face of his 'new' bracelet open and shut.

"No, honey no." Magda replied, unlike Peter, with zero hesitation. "Nothing you want is wrong. I know you've always wanted to know who your father was and know him. And . . . I shouldn't have kept his identity from you for so long, at least so that it wouldn't have been such a shock . . . I guess I hoped that Oleg could that be for you. . . . maybe if he had lived longer he could've been. But I always knew you . . . and—and Wanda needed more than I could give. You needed someone that understood what was happening to you. I was—I am selfish for keeping that from you, for not being strong for you. I should've been better."

"You'vealways been enough, Mom. Always." Peter rushed to reassure his mom. "This isn't about that. I know you did—and do—your best. You're amazing, Mom, and you always will be."

"I'm not, sweetie, but my beautiful boy grew into a wonderful young man, despite my flaws, and that's what matters."

"Mom—"

"It's okay, hon. Please don't placate me even if you believe what you're saying. I won't make you promise to stay away from him because I know you won't, but just promise me this, promise that when it comes to Erik, you'll be careful." Magda begged, and if Peter had to guess, he'd put money on the fact that his mom was probably gripping the phone just as tightly as he was. "You don't owe him anything. Do you understand? And if you get to know him and decide he is not someone you want to be around, that's okay. And if you have to, you run. Okay?"

Pietro sniffed, and rubbed at his nose quick. "I promise, Mama."

"Thank you, Pietro." Magda responded, and Peter could hear in her voice just a tiny bit of tension leaving her body.

Peter took a breath, prepared to say more, to try once more to convince his mom that she didn't need to worry about him, but he knew that she would no matter what he said, it was like she'd told him, she always had and always would, and ever since After . . . well, sometimes she looked at him like he was going to disappear.

But ultimately, he didn't have to decide what to say because, in the distance, he heard his mom's doorbell ring.

"You should get that." Peter said, feeling guilty that he was somewhat relieved at being able to have an excuse to hide from his mom a little longer, and avoid more tough conversations.

"I'm just going to check to see who it is. Don't hang up, okay?" His mom replied, sounding like she was already moving away from the phone.

"Okay." Peter said quietly, and then his mom was gone. Peter wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve, readjusting the phone in his hand at the same time. With nothing else to do, he looked down at his foot dangling over the side of the window ledge, and noticed a bottle just barely sticking out from underneath the overhang.

Another wave of shame passed through Peter as he bent down and picked up what was clearly an empty bottle of liquor that Hank or Erik had somehow missed. It must have been one of the first ones he had. He vaguely remembered wandering into the dining hall before deciding for some illogical reason that the kitchen floor looked more comfortable and an easier place to spread out his haul.

Peter was pulled from his spiral by the sound of his mom back at the phone. "It's Debbie, Pearl got out again."

Pearl was their elderly neighbor's little schnauzer that Peter was surprised was still getting around because she had to be like fifteen years old. She was also half blind, but—for as long as Peter could remember—still somehow managed to get free from her leash or her yard about once a month and, even more miraculously, always returned home safe and sound.

"You better go help her. You know Mrs. Matzen will end up getting turned around and then you'll be looking for both of them if you don't." Peter replied, thinking if he was there—and was back at one hundred percent (or at least like ninety percent)—he could have easily swept the neighborhood in a manner of seconds and saved little old Debbie Matzen some heartache and his mom a headache. It's what he had done for the past ten years or so, and surprisingly, every time Mrs. Matzen was extremely grateful for the assistance and, unlike most, never questioned the uncanny speed at which Peter was able to track down her canine, even when he disappeared and reappeared in a flash of silver right before her eyes, despite his mom's constant reminder to be more careful with his powers.

"I can go see if George"—another neighbor—"is home quick. He might help."

"Mr. Reilley isn't going to help. You know he's a cat person, and I don't think he leaves his house for anything other than the newspaper. It's okay, Mom, go help. I'm fine." Peter encouraged.

Peter could almost see his mom biting her lip—one of the few habits he had picked up from her—debating. "Alright, but call me again, okay? And your sister. And please every once and a while try to call when you know I'm not at work, but otherwise, call anytime, alright? Any day, any hour. You don't have to bend to everyone else's schedule. Not with me."

"O-kay. Thanks, Mom." Peter replied.

After that, they'd both said rushed goodbyes. In the background, before he hung up, Peter could hear Mrs. Matzen calling out for Pearl, like the woman had wandered into their house, expecting the little grey dog to appear around a corner.

Peter set the phone down. The heat of the sun through the window, usually welcome because he was so often cold, felt uncomfortably hot on his back, and he wiped at his eyes again, fingers coming together at the bridge of his nose and, for some inexplicable reason, they came away wet.

"Is this heaven? 'Cause you must be 'n angel."

At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, Peter whipped around quickly—too quickly. His foot protested painfully, and even his leg throbbed slightly, despite the fact that he hadn't really moved much faster than a normal person. It was just that he had happened to turn in exactly the wrong way.

"Easy there, cher. Looks like you're 'bout to topple over."

Peter stared at the man who had spoken and was grinning devilishly at him, as Peter tried to make sense of his unexpected appearance. He was tall, not as tall as Hank, but probably his dad's height, and maybe a few years or more older than Peter—though it was always tough to tell with mutants, which Peter guessed he probably was given his presence at the school—and he was wearing a duster and a fedora of all things.

"Uh oh, what's wrong cher?" The man asked, tracking Peter's red eyes and then going to his bandaged foot. "Do I need to give someone a good shock?"

"Nothing." Peter replied quickly and defensively, pushing the phone away, standing up, and wiping his sleeve against his face for what felt like the hundredth time, hoping he'd finally cleared away any lingering trace of tears. "And what was that supposed to be? A pick up line?"

"Depends, mon ami, you legal?" The man asked, scrutinizing Peter's face closely, before tilting his head at the empty bottle that Peter forgot he still had gripped in his hand. "Or do I need to take that off your hands?"

Peter felt his cheeks heat up and he scowled in protest. "Given that your idea of an introduction was basically straight out of a soap opera, I'm not sure I want to answer that. But, for the record, I'm old enough to drink thanks, and you're too late anyway." Peter replied, tipping the bottle over to show that it was empty.

"Ah next time then." The man replied with a wink. "You a student 'ere? Or if you're old enough to drink, then a teacher perhaps? Either way, I think Remy would remember you."

Peter shrugged. "Sort of a student, I guess. And who's Remy? And who are you? I haven't seen you before either."

"Helpful. And my humble apologies. Name's Remy. Remy LeBeau." Said the older man stepping forward and taking his hat off of his head, while he completed a full bow, like Peter was the queen of England or something, and then holding out his hand to the speedster.

"Peter." Said Peter, reluctantly shaking his hand before quickly pulling it away after an acceptable amount of time had passed.

"You prefer that or got a nickname?" Remy asked, and, as if sensing Peter's unease, he took a step back, though not quite as far as he had been.

"Why?" Peter asked, suspicious.

"I like addressin' people the way they wanna be addressed. Least 'til we're more comfortable around each other." Remy replied with another wink and a smirk. "Remy's been called a lot o' names over the years, and 's not something he takes well."

"Why do you keep referring to yourself in third person?" Peter asked, wondering if that was a rude question. "And you already called me something besides my name, remember? And Peter is a nickname, basically." Peter replied, going to cross his arms, before realizing that he'd drop at least one of his crutches if he tried, so, regrettably, he let them fall back to his side.

"Well, I didn't know your name then, Pete-er. And I truly can't be the first to mistake you for a heavenly being, can I? Anyway, as I said, I like knowin' what people prefer to be called. Doesn't mean I won't sometimes throw out a friendly nickname. But tell Remy to stop, and he will. So . . . What's Peter short for? Didn't realize it could be a nickname." Remy commented, putting his hands in his pockets.

"C'mon, ange, don't leave me in suspense." Remy added with a grin, taking a small step forward when Peter didn't answer right away.

Peter opened his mouth to reply, even as he did so, not sure what he was going to say, but before he could say anything discernable another voice broke the silence.

"Step away from him." Erik growled out from the dining room doorway, an empty glass held tightly in one hand and a small rectangular box tucked under his other arm.

"Well, well, if it isn't the world's most wanted mutant." Remy replied unfazed, crossing his arms across his chest, though, as requested, he did take a step away from Peter to lean casually against the wall. "Fancy meeting you here. Guess the rumors were true—you and Charles really do have a history. And we were just chatting, ain't that right, beau?"

Peter hesitated, suddenly very aware of both their eyes on him. "Yea. We were just introducing ourselves. This is . . . well, I know your name, but I'm not exactly sure who you are yet, we hadn't gotten that far."

"I don't like labels, but all you need to know is that good ol' Chuck lets me stop by on occasion when I'm in need of a place to rest my head. And in exchange, I help out with d'e enfants while I'm here." Remy answered, crossing one leg behind the other.

Erik looked like he was about to make a comment at that, but before he could, Peter realized exactly what was in the box Erik held.

"Isthatforme?" Peter asked timidly but rapidly with some excitement, pointing at the box at Erik's side. He knew it had to be because, although they had eaten ice cream together, a sugary prepackaged snack just seemed like one step too far for Magneto.

"Yes." Erik answered, pulling the box out from under his arm and glancing over at Remy almost self-consciously, before giving Peter his full attention.

"Nice." Said Peter, forcing a smile. It wasn't that he wasn't happy about the gesture, it was just that as fast as Peter was, he couldn't outrun the feelings his mom had stirred up as quickly as he wanted to. But at the same time, it crossed his mind that his dad had observed him long enough to realize that Twinkies were one of Peter's favorite snacks. And as that realization passed, something ached in Peter's chest again, and his smile became more genuine.

But then Peter noticed that Erik was no longer looking at his face. Instead, his eyes had fallen to the bottle in his hand, and his father's face pulled into a deeper frown.

"It's empty." Said Peter, turning it over again. "Fromyesterday." He quickly clarified, lest his dad think he had gone on a second bender in less than twenty four hours.

"I see," said Erik, but his eyes were still scanning Peter's face closely, perhaps looking for a hint of a lie there.

To avoid his father's gaze and claim his offered snack, Peter zipped over to Erik's side.

"Dang these are good, thanks." Peter said, downing two Twinkies that had been within the already opened box faster than anyone—other than Quicksilver—could track and before his dad could call out his late night escapades in front of someone he'd just met.

"Are there more? In the kitchen maybe?" Peter asked, but he didn't wait for a reply, instead, he sped away into the adjacent room, leaving Remy and Magneto alone in the dining room.

"Now that could be fun." The former mutant commented with a whistle.

Erik glared at the other man. "You must be Remy LeBeau."

"The one and only." Said Remy, uncrossing his arms and holding his hand out to the master of magnetism, unperturbed to be meeting one of the world's most wanted men. "I'm flattered that you've already heard of me, given that your reputation precedes you."

Erik looked down at the offered hand, and chose to ignore it in favor of following the path his son had taken into the kitchen. He didn't look back to see if the other man would follow, and frankly he hoped he would not.

Inside the other room, Erik found Pietro sitting on the kitchen counter, crutches leaning off to one side of him and the empty bottle gone.

"I didn't find any more." Pietro said sadly, and god, if he didn't look and sound just like Nina in that moment.

Looking at Pietro, Erik felt as though someone had put a chain around his heart and squeezed, and it took all of his effort to respond normally. "That was the only box, but I can get Hank's protein bars—"."

"Ugh no thank you," Pietro replied before Erik could even finish his statement, no doubt now doubly turned off by Hank's calorie heavy concoction given that he'd so recently regurgitated them.

"Alright. Well, I will have Hank add Twinkies to this week's grocery list." Erik offered, feeling entirely inadequate. He couldn't even do something so simple as running to the store to get his son's favorite snack without risking being recognized and causing—at the very least—a ruckus. "In the meantime, perhaps you'd like something more substantial. I could make you a sandwich or perhaps some soup."

"No thanks," Said Pietro, shaking his head. "You don't have to. I'm good. Those two Twinkies were enough of a pick-me-up I think. Thanks though."

"If you're still hungry, you should eat." Erik pressed, marveling at how the world had taken his young daughters from him and given him a grown son and yet, it seemed he was still going to have days filled with fussy eaters.

"He's right." Said Remy, who, to Erik's displeasure, had decided to follow him into the kitchen, and now stood leaning against the doorway. "Remy's learned the hard way, never to turn down a free meal."

Once again, Erik ignored the strange mutant, though in this instance, he shared his sentiment. "And you shouldn't do that—the running." Erik continued, referring to Pietro's earlier exit from the dining room. "Not until Hank gives you the all clear."

"I shouldn't do a lot of things I do. That's how I ended up with the this, remember?" Pietro replied, lifting his injured foot into the air slightly in front of him, before squeezing his eyes shut momentarily as though he had a headache. "Look, sorry D—man—Erik, I really appreciate the offer, but I really don't feel hungry anymore. I think I just need like some air . . . alone."

With that, Pietro—at a normal speed this time—hopped down off the counter onto his good foot, only slightly wobbling when he landed.

"Well, good to meet you I guess, Remy, and if you're sticking around for a while I suppose I'll see you later. Erik, thanks again for the Twinkies, and—"

"Don't run." Said Erik, catching Pietro's arm when it was clear he was about ready to make a break for it.

"Wasn't going to. I do have some self-control." Said Pietro, slightly irritated now, as he looked down at his arm where Erik had grabbed hold of him, but more referring to the tug Erik knew he could feel on his jacket's metal zipper and the newly acquired bracelet he wore on his wrist. "You gonna let me go?"

Erik immediately let go, slightly ashamed of himself, and a second later, the slight pull coming from the metal on his body disappeared.

"Well—Later." Said Pietro to his father, and then to Remy. "Dude."

The latter raised a hand to his fedora and gave Pietro a small salute. "It's been a pleasure, 'One Who Goes By Peter.' "

And then, Pietro hopped away on his crutches, fortunately slowly—at least for the speedster—this time.

Erik watched him go, feeling like if he was a better father, Pietro would be happily eating a meal Erik had prepared for him, instead of going off alone to do who knew what.

"Bit possessive of him, aren't ya?" said Remy, drawing Erik's gaze away from the door. Erik turned at the comment to find the younger mutant facing him with an irritating smirk.

"I don't know what you mean." Erik said, striding past him toward the kitchen sink, where he deposited his empty glass.

" 'course not." Remy replied with a chuckle, following him further into the kitchen. "Grabbin' someone when they try to leave the room is completely normal behavior."

Erik said nothing, choosing to ignore the other man for what felt like the thousandth time as he started to clean his glass.

"So what's with the possessiveness? Do you just lay claim to all mutants? Or is he your kid or somethin'?" Remy questioned, sliding into the older mutant's peripheral vision.

Erik didn't mean to, but, for just a moment, he stiffened at the last question, and the other mutant—raised on the streets to calculate, to steal, to observe—noticed.

"Merde, he is, isn't? Speedy's your son." Remy spouted, sounding genuinely shocked by the revelation.

"He's not." Erik replied, but not quickly enough, because it pained him to lie, but to be labeled Magneto's child . . . that did not allow one to live for long.

The denial, in addition to being too slow, was made too forcefully, and once again, the other mutant noticed.

"Non, he is! I can see it in the cheek bones." Remy replied, grinning as he drew a line down the side of his own cheek bone with two fingers. "And you have the same angry face."

At that flippant response, Erik, exhausted from the previous night, worried about his son, and frustrated at Charles, made what was probably not the best decision if—at least for appearances sake when it came to this stranger—he was trying to distance himself from Pietro.

With barely a thought, he pulled a curtain rod from the window, wrapping it around the other man's body, pinning his arms to his side before he could make any move to escape.

"Easy, man. Buy a guy a drink first, why don't ya monsieur." Remy choked out with a pained grin, reflective of a man who was clearly uncomfortable, but who had also been in far worse situations.

"You don't know what you're talking about, and I don't care if Charles vouches for you, if you go spreading rumors, you will not live long enough to regret that choice." Said Erik, fuming.

"Relax, comrade," Remy breathed out, shifting as best he could as the metal around him squeezed tighter. "I ain't heartless. I'm not gonna put a target on that boy's back. And, threatin' me all ya want, but I don't need Chuck's protection. Remy's been lookin' out for himself for a while now. And you're not as terrifying as you think you are." Remy added, with another upturn twitch of his mouth, and as he met the metal bender's gaze, the mutant's eyes began to glow as if with purple fire.

Erik didn't know what would have happened next, but it was very likely that the school was just barely saved from another explosion by the fact that at that moment, Raven walked into the kitchen.

She entered the room, wearing nothing but her own skin. Raven looked between the two men for a moment, and didn't even bother to roll her eyes at the scene she had interrupted.

"Oh good. You've met." Said Raven as she strolled past them toward the fridge. "If you kill each other, I'm not cleaning that shit up."

"Well, it wouldn't be the first time you've had to clean up after me, Mystique." Remy replied, by way of greeting, grinning more easily now despite the fact that he still remained trapped in Erik's clutches.

This time, Raven did roll her eyes as she grabbed a container from the fridge, sniffed it, and seemed to find it pleasant enough because she closed the fridge door without returning it. "What did you do to piss him off anyway?" Raven asked, turning around to gesture at Erik with her head.

"Oh if I knew that I don't think I'd be in this situation." Remy answered, trying and failing to shrug.

Erik, let out a breath through his nose, regrettably or not, Raven's presence had released some of the tension in the room, and Erik let the metal around LeBeau loosen ever so slightly.

"He . . . ran his mouth unnecessarily." Erik replied, purposefully vague.

Raven snorted. "Yea that sounds about right."

"I'll have you know that Remy's been told by someone in this room that his mouth is one of his best qualities." Said Remy, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as he smirked at the shapeshifter.

"Yea, I didn't mean when you were using it to talk. So are you two done or do want to take this outside because I need in that drawer." Raven replied, unmoved, pointing at the cabinet Erik had backed Remy up against.

Erik hesitated just a moment longer, but finally, he released the younger mutant from his metal prison.

Once free, Remy rolled his shoulders, one of which gave a small pop. "Oh yea, Remy's gonna feel that in the morning." Said Remy, stretching once more. "Well, I think I know when I'm not wanted, but pleasure as always, Mystique." Then to Erik, eyes glowing slightly again, "Magneto."

With that, Remy took his leave, and Erik—surprisingly—let him go.

"Always making friends, aren't you?" Raven said as she finally retrieved a utensil and started in on her mystery meal. "So what did he actually do that had you putting him in a death grip? I mean, I know it's Remy, but I don't think he's even been here an hour yet and already you want to kill him. I can't say that's a new record, but it's probably close."

Erik ignored her first question, but did deign to answer the second. "He made a comment . . . about Pie—Peter."

"What sort of comment?" asked Raven, putting her food down on the counter to cross her arms.

"He . . . recognized my and Peter's relation, and he—I didn't like the way he was looking at him." Erik grumbled, feeling defensive for some reason.

"Jesus, Erik." Said Raven, shaking her head. "What did you do, try to put Peter in a child leash? Sure Remy's more observant than most, but I just warned you that you needed to back off or people were going to figure out what's going on between the two of you, and it looks like I was right because it took Remy all of two minutes to put two and two together. As to the latter, it's Remy. If he was making googly eyes at Peter, don't take it personally. He's like that with everyone."

"I did not put him on a leash." Erik grumbled, though he would admit to himself—but not to Raven—that what he had done wasn't far off. "And I don't care how he treats everyone, I care how he treats Peter. And it may have—it was my fault that he realized who Peter is to me, but if he so much as hints at our connection, I will make sure he never has the chance to do so again. I won't lose another child. I c-can't."

Raven's face softened and, to his discomfort, Erik saw pity, or at least sympathy, in her eyes. "Look, he's a pain in the ass most of the time, but Remy's not going to tell anyone. He doesn't spill secrets. That's not his style. If he wants to hurt you, he'll hurt you, not Peter."

"I should have listened to you. I should stay away from Peter." Erik said, more to himself than to Raven.

At Erik's comment something in Raven's eyes darkened. "It's okay for you to want to spend time with your kid, Erik. I don't know if there's a right answer here. You could leave him behind, and he might need you. You could stay with him and bring him unwanted attention. I'm not going to pretend I know what you should do. But maybe you should just talk to Peter and figure it out together."

"I have talked with him, but . . . I don't know if he knows what he wants, and—and I think no matter what he wants or what I do, I'll only make his life more difficult." Erik admitted, opening up to Raven more than he thought was possible.

"I don't think it's supposed to be easy. Would things be easier if Peter didn't know he was your kid, and you could just let him go about his life without you in it? Yea, maybe." Raven replied, looking past Erik for a moment and out the window as if she were thinking about something else, "But, maybe not. And maybe that wouldn't be the best thing for him either."

Raven paused, letting that sink in, as the two mutants stared, not quite at each other, but not quite at anything else either, before she spoke again more softly.

"It's tough, isn't? Having a fully formed person out there? You want to protect them, but they've got their own thoughts and feelings, and you want to help them, but you can't even keep your own life on track?"

"I don't think my life was ever on the track to begin with." Said Erik bluntly.

"I wasn't talking about—" Raven started but then stopped herself abruptly. "Never mind."

"It is difficult." Erik admitted after a minute, spinning a coin absentmindedly between his fingers.

"But it is better than the alternative." Erik finished, and the coin fell still.

{Author's Note: I hope Remy's random French dialogue didn't come off too poorly. I didn't know he was going to actually pop up in this chapter before I started writing it, but lo and behold he did. Maybe we'll see him again, maybe not. Good news, I think I've finally figured out where I want to take the main plot of this story—been kind of winging it so far—so that's somewhat exciting (as long as I don't change my mind, which I have been known to do).}