Chapter Text
"Couldn't sleep?" A deep voice asked from the black.
"Jesus Christ!" Peter half-shouted, nearly jumping out of his skin in alarm at the sound of the voice from the darkness.
As was one of his not-super varied routines, Peter had ventured from his room sometime between dusk and dawn to get a nighttime snack, crossing his fingers that the little tikes hadn't cleared out the two cartons of ice cream that Peter knew were in the freezer as recently as that morning because that was Peter's task for the evening; thank you very much.
But said task was rudely—and abruptly—interrupted by the aforementioned voice.
Peter whipped around to the source of the then-unidentified voice to find his father sitting silently at the kitchen table.
Alone.
In the dark.
The more time Peter spent around Erik—which admittedly wasn't much because he tended to get severe anxiety if the man even so much as glanced in his direction, simply because Peter had no idea how to act around a man who was his father but didn't know he was his father—the more Peter was starting to understand why he himself was such a weirdo.
Exhibit A—his dad liked to sit in solitude . . . in the dead of night . . . with zero lights on . . . probably contemplating world domination or murder, which may or may not include the dude (aka Peter or on occasion Pietro) who interrupted his nighttime brooding due to an attempt to keep himself from going into hypoglycemic shock.
"I didn't mean to startle you." Said Erik, contemplating Peter with a calculating stare. "I didn't think that was possible actually."
A slight upturn to the man's lips accompanied that calculating stare, which made Peter doubt that Erik was telling the whole truth when he said he didn't mean to startle him. It seemed to Peter that the man had actually gotten somewhat of a kick out of his over-the-top reaction.
"Sure. Yea. No worries." Many worries. All of the worries. Worries everywhere! "I just didn't realize anyone else was in here, or up for that matter. Usually it's just me."
"I can see that." Said Erik in a tone that, for the life of him, Peter couldn't tell whether it was said in good-humored mockery or just plain-old mockery.
"So, uh, do you often sit alone in the dark?" Peter asked as he put the ice cream back in the freezer and shut the door, abandoning his nighttime snack for now even though—from the weight of the containers—it felt like there was plenty left to sustain him, but Peter didn't think he could manage multitasking at the moment—eating or conversing with his father, one of them had to go, and, unfortunately for Peter's stomach, and possibly his blood sugar, conversation won out.
"Yes, when the mood strikes me, or the occasion calls for it." said Erik in all seriousness.
O-K then. He and his dad were definitely both weirdos, drastically different versions of weirdos, but . . . maybe that didn't matter? A connection was a connection right?
Erik didn't elaborate, and Peter dared not ask a follow up question to that answer. But still, despite their mutual eccentricity, Peter was seriously questioning how they could be related given that Peter typically couldn't sit still for a minute straight, let alone however long his dad had been sitting there motionless in the dark. But maybe that skill was more a product of being trapped under the ground in a small room for ten years than an inborn trait . . . or, maybe it was a learned habit from when Erik used to sit in the dark waiting for Nazis to return home to an unwanted surprise.
Thanks mom for that waking nightmare.
"You didn't answer my question, though I suppose the answer is rather obvious." Said Erik, leaning back in his chair a little.
"Oh, um what was your question? Sorry, I don't have a very good attention span with my mutation being what it is and all, ya know?" said Peter with wave of one hand as he leaned back against the fridge.
"Don't apologize for your gift." Said Erik sternly, any sign of a smile vanishing from his face. "And I simply asked if you were having trouble sleeping."
"Oh, I can never sleep." Answered Peter casually with a shrug.
Erik nodded. "I know the feeling." He said, his voice much softer, a dark look coming over his face.
"No, I uh, I literally never sleep." Peter clarified, and like an idiot, he followed his response up with some nervous laughter.
"At all?" Erik asked, raising one eyebrow.
"No-pe." Said Peter, popping the 'p'.
"Never?" Erik asked again, rather shocked.
"Corrrrrrrect." Peter answered with a thumbs up.
"That's . . . unique." Erik replied after a beat.
"Yea, it's something alright." Said Peter swinging his one good leg a little as he moved off the fridge to balance on his crutches.
"Has that always been the case for you? The not-sleeping?" Erik asked, looking genuinely curious.
"Uh no not always. I was pretty normal—or at least passably so—when I was little, but I haven't slept since I was fifteen when my powers manifested." Said Peter rubbing the back of his neck uneasily with one hand.
"That had to be a shocking discovery I imagine." Said Erik, crossing one leg over the other.
"I mean, yes and no. Compared to finding out I'm basically Barry Allen minus all the cool perks, the no-sleep thing wasn't all that alarming." Said Peter, switching from swinging his leg to scuffing his heel against the tiled floor.
"Who?" asked Erik, brow furrowed.
"Barry Allen." Peter repeated unhelpfully. "The Flash." And then when Erik continued to stare at him blankly, he added "Um he's just a comic book character that's really fast. Like me."
"I see." Said Erik, though Peter was pretty sure he didn't. "I don't think I've ever read a comic, unless you count the Sunday comics, though I can't say that I seek those out when reading the newspaper. And as for the comic books, my girls weren't into them . . . or . . . they never got the chance to be." Erik added after a pause.
Yikes. That conversation took a dark turn really quickly. How was Peter supposed to respond to that? 'Sorry your daughters are gone, and all you have left is a son you never asked for? Surprise!'
"They're pretty good," said Peter after a moment and very intelligently. "Or they used to be. I haven't really read any since the whole—well um—mutant coming out extravaganza. Kinda afraid to find out if they've turned all the superheroes into villains."
"Yes, well, there's much more to worry about than that I'm afraid." Said Erik, looking a little guilty, and Peter wondered if he had remorse for the whole terrorist plight or if he was just feeling bad that Peter lost out on a past time. Probably neither. More likely, Peter just imagined the guilty look.
"Yeayeayea for sure. You're probably right about that." Said Peter and the silence hung heavily in the air, but when it reached the point that Peter couldn't take it anymore, he tried to bring a little more levity to the topic, and unsurprisingly, he failed miserably. "Like, I know I've got a watch out for Hank! I'm afraid if he finds out I'm even more of an oddball than previously publicly known—given the no sleeping thing—that he'll make a pincushion out of me or something, so if you could like not tell him about that, that would be great."
"Hank isn't the one you need to worry about." Said Erik, the dark look quickly returning to his face, "but I can't fault you for your caution with Hank's track record for experiments with mutations. Your secret is safe with me."
"Thanks." Said Peter awkwardly, letting his hand that had wandered to play with the sleeve of his shirt fall back to the handle of his crutch, as he began to rock back and forth slightly on his crutches merely to give him something to do.
But on the plus side of all the awkwardness, he and Erik shared a secret now. He and his dad shared a secret. Course, they still didn't share The Secret, but baby steps were still steps.
"It must be nice to have the extra time," said Erik, and then he added with a faraway look in his eye, "I suppose no sleep means no bad dreams too."
Erik's voice pulled Peter from his own head, "Uh yea, I guess, or it would probably be nice for most people to have the extra time; but me plus extra—or extra extra—time on my hands is not always a good combination . . . I mean, just ask my mom or the cops assigned to my neighborhood." Said Peter tapping one finger rapidly against his crutch, like all his nerves had gathered there. "Plus, sure not having nightmares is all well and good, but I also can't dream. At all. And trust me, daydreaming is not the same thing. And the thing I remember most about dreaming, is having the chance to see people who are gone. Like, I know the subject of a dream is not something people can generally control, but still, isn't not even a possibility for me. And, well there are people or . . . just one really . . . that I'd like to see again, even if it's just in a dream. Honestly, I'd like to see them even if it were in a nightmare. But I can't. For me, there's no escape from reality, and there never will be."
For a second, Peter thought he had shared too much, rambling like he always did when he was nervous, and Erik would peace out, but for better or worse, after a moment Erik replied.
"I hadn't . . . thought of that. I'm sorry." And he really did sound sorry.
"Notyourfault." Said Peter quickly. Though, if you wanted to get technical about it, on some level, it probably was Erik's fault, given that he was undoubtedly the reason Peter was a mutant. But, Peter could hardly hold that against him. "Yea people usually don't think about that, not that I've really told a whole lot of people that particular factoid about myself given that it's kind of a downer, and sometimes I'd prefer not to be a freak, or at least not the freakiest person in the room."
"You're not a freak." Said Erik, looking oddly distressed.
"Right. Of course. Mutant pride and all that jazz." Said Peter as he swung his fist in the air in kind of a golly gee gesture.
"You are not a freak, Peter. It's important that you know that." Erik said again, getting up and walking over to lean against the counter right next to him. Like literally right next to him. If Peter wobbled too much on his crutches, they'd bump shoulders.
Important to who? Me or you? Peter wondered, but still Peter didn't know if he'd ever heard Erik use his name—his Americanized one anyway—before. It was nice—a bit pathetic that all it took for Peter to gain a warm feeling in his chest was his dad finally calling him by his name, but it wasn't even the most pathetic thing about himself, so . . .
Speaking of which . . .
"Do you often disparage yourself?" Erik asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked over at the younger man.
"Only on days I don't get enough sleep." Said Peter with a smirk and a self-depreciating laugh. Erik pursed his lips, and Peter again got the sense that he was upsetting the man for some reason. "Relax man. Sarcasm and humor as a defense mechanism is just one of my many talents. Don't stress yourself about it. I don't." Much. "It's not a big deal."
"It is a big deal. I don't appreciate that you have been made to feel this way, undoubtedly by your human peers, and given that, I'm not sure that living full-time under the thumb of Charles' sunny perspective on human-mutant interactions is the best environment for you. I don't know where I'm going to go after this, but should you decide that you don't share Charles' views, you're welcome to join me."
"Hey, don't knock all the humans, I mean, I get that that's your thing and you have reasons for it—like pretty good ones—but my mom is human, and she is one of the best people I've ever known. Besides, give it enough time, I'm sure everyone here will discover I'm a maniac too. There are always gonna be jerks no matter where you go. . . . Just look at Scott—kidding! Obviously. It's just too easy to push his buttons. Don't worry, I'm like this too his face too, so it's fine." Replied Peter, not letting himself think about the fact that his dad basically just gave Peter the option of traveling with him.
"I'm not 'knocking' all the humans." Said Erik, completely ignoring Peter's attempt at lightening the mood by throwing in a dig at Scott. "It is simply our—mutants'—reality that humans are the majority, and historically, the decisions they have made have impacted the minority, id est, mutants. Case in point—yourself and your self-esteem."
Peter shrugged. "Yea, okay, I get that, but your making generalizations too, man, and also, you're really helping that self-esteem of mine right now with all this talk."
"My apologies." Said Erik taking what seemed like a deliberate step back—or sideways. "That was not my intention. No one—myself included—should have the power to belittle your self-worth."
"'No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.'" Said Peter. "a human said that."
"Eleanor Roosevelt. I know." Said Erik, looking impressed by Peter's ability to quote a First Lady. "You are right that there can be some decent humans. I know that." And Peter wondered if Erik was including his mom in that group or only his most recent wife. "But we can't rely on mankind to make decisions for mutantkind. In either case, the late first lady's sentiment stands. You are remarkable person, Peter, mutant abilities and all."
Peter swallowed, and looked away from his father for a moment, while attempting to clear a sudden tightness in his throat.
"T-thanks, Mr. Lensherr. That's—thanks." Said Peter finally, his voice cracking embarrassingly on the first word.
"You can drop the 'Mr. Lensherr.' I don't think anyone has ever called me that. Erik is fine please. Given our history at the Pentagon, I think we can be on a first name basis. If our paths cross again when I leave here, I'd really much prefer to hear you address me as Erik, rather than Mr. Lensherr. "
And with that comment, Erik smiled. He actually freakin' smiled! Not gonna lie, his smile was kind of terrifying, but still! He smiled! At Peter! But then Erik continued, and Peter nearly short-circuited.
"Even if I am old enough to be your father."
Peter—who wasn't drinking anything, wasn't eating anything, and wasn't even trying to talk—choked, doubling over while coughing incessantly on a non-existent object blocking his airways.
"Are you all right?" Erik asked, his smile morphing into concern, which did not help things.
"Good! A-all good." Peter answered, through choked breath, raising both hands in a placating manner, for Erik had approached him once more, and God forbid, if his father patted him on the back or made so much as fingertip of contact with him, Peter might lose it, not because he was repulsed by the man, but because he'd been 'dreaming' of his dad finding him and giving him a hug since he was like five years old, and Peter knew that they were nowhere near hug territory in their—I broke you out of prison that one time, so maybe we are more than acquaintances but probably not friends—relationship.
"Are you . . . sure?" Erik asked again, looking doubtful.
"Y-yep. T-totally good now. Just choked on my own spit. Went d-down the wrong way. I'm a k-klutz. It's fine, so" said Peter quickly changing the subject, ignoring the burning of his cheeks, "You're going to leave? But you really don't know where you're going or what you're going to do when you go? Are you going to get the band back together? Or just get a band together I guess.. I don't know if you ever had a band. You definitely had groupies. Everyone raved about Raven—haha pun—but a lot of mutants were definitely in your corner after '73 too."
"Yes. I'm leaving. Charles and my views are . . . too different for me to ever stay here for long, but beyond leaving . . . no I really haven't thought about what's next for me. Charles says he's negotiating some sort of deal with the government to get a plot of land that can be a safe haven for mutants, myself included allegedly, and a pardon for me on top of that, but given that that prospect involves the U.S. government, I'm not counting on it coming to fruition. . . . So, I imagine you are still hungry?" said Erik clearly ending that topic of conversation. "You came to eat, did you not?"
Erik didn't wait for Peter to answer, instead, he simply pulled two bowls down from the cabinet.
Wait. Was his dad really going to eat ice cream with him? Did his dad even eat ice cream? Peter couldn't picture the man eating anything that sweet.
"Chocolate or vanilla?" asked Erik, stepping past Peter to reach into the freezer.
"Um both?" said Peter hesitantly as he went to sit down at the counter.
Erik chuckled. "Should've guessed." He said as he started to scoop a sizeable portion of both into one bowl. The other bowl he kept to a much more respectable portion, but Peter's heart did a happy little dance when he saw that Erik also took both flavors.
Even if they had nothing else in common—besides being weirdos—they were similar in that at least.
Peter thought about saying that he shouldn't bother with the fuller bowl. Peter usually forwent bowls altogether because he could clean out a third and quarter full gallon of ice cream easy peasy, but he didn't want to look like a pig during the first meal he shared with his dad, so he decided to present a more civilized front.
Erik set the bowls of ice cream aside, returned the cartons of ice cream to the freezer, and reached into the fridge, coming back out with a bottle of chocolate syrup in one hand as he floated—so cool—a jar of strawberry sauce somebody had made the other day (that happened to have a metal lid) over to the counter.
"Chocolate syrup too I presume?" asked Erik with one eyebrow raised.
"You know me so well." Said Peter, even though that was obviously not true, given that 1) he didn't even know he was Peter's father, and 2) he hadn't met Peter until he was seventeen years old, and then they'd only reconnected ten years later.
Erik once again added substantially more to the bowl likely meant for Peter than he did to his own, which Peter appreciated.
As Peter watched Erik neatly decorate the bowls with the chocolate topping, he felt like a little kid at Christmas (or Hanukah). His dad was making him a bowl of ice cream! Was this real life or was it all a fantasy? Because Peter was sure that if he could still have dreams, this would've been one.
"Strawberry sauce?" Erik asked as he used his powers to unscrew the jar, once again not waiting for an answer but assuming Peter would be all for the extra calories.
"Oh, I can't actually. Um, I'm allergic to strawberries." Peter hadn't said anything when Erik pulled out the jar of sauce from the fridge because he figured that the man had retrieved the jam for himself. After all, it wasn't a super popular ice cream topping.
Erik stopped what he was doing, and the floating lid fell on to the counter with a clatter, causing Peter to flinch. Peter could've used his speed to catch it if he had been closer or not on crutches, but maybe not even then, because he was very distracted by the odd look that had come over Erik's face.
"My eldest was also allergic to strawberries." Said Erik, emotionlessly.
"Anya was? Mom never mentioned—"
As Peter realized what he was saying, he felt like he was having an out of body experience, watching a plane as it was about to crash and burn.
He cut himself short, not finishing the sentence, but it was too late; the damage was done.
"What . . . did you say?" Erik asked. His face had gone pale. Not as pale as Peter, that probably wasn't physically possible, but extremely pale all the same.
"Nothing, nothing. Ididn'tsayanything. I've never spoken a word in my life." Peter said stupidly, and glanced at the door, wishing he wasn't stuck in a cast and that he could just run away from what was happening. But Erik stepped in front of him, not giving him the chance to try, even if he could somehow get around the metal bender in his current state.
"How do you . . . . what's your mother's name?" Erik asked somewhat breathlessly, like he had just run a marathon and each word was a struggle.
Peter hesitated, eyes darting toward the door again and then back to his father. "I feel like . . . I shouldn't say." Said Peter quietly, glancing down at the spoons that were now bent at odd angles in the forgotten ice cream bowls.
"Tell me." Erik said rather harshly, and Peter, anxiety building, watched the metal objects in the room vibrate and bend further out of shape. But then Erik seemed to center himself a bit, for the vibrating lessened, the bending of metal paused, and he added much more gently, "Please."
Peter swallowed, still looking for an escape, or someone to rescue him, but when it was clear there was none and no one was coming to interrupt their impromptu conversation, he finally answered.
"Magda. . . . Magda Maximoff. But—uh, she used to be Magda Koralov."
Erik stared at him without blinking. Peter could experience time differently than others, but even at a normal pace, the amount of time between when Erik had last blinked and the present was concerning.
"Magda Koralov." Erik repeated finally, more to himself than to Peter, like it had been years since he'd heard the name, which, to be fair, it probably had been.
"How—how old are you?" Erik asked. The color still had not returned to his face.
Peter gritted his teeth, as if anticipating pain. "Twenty-seven." he said, looking anywhere but into Erik's eyes. He couldn't watch him do the mental math that at that point they both knew was unnecessary.
"You're . . . twenty-seven," Erik said very slowly, blinking once—just once. "And your mother's name is—or was—Magda Koralov."
"Yes." Said Peter barely above a whisper. His knuckles had turned white gripping the edge of the counter, and he was bouncing his good leg at such a rate that it was a wonder he didn't fall through the floor.
"I—I think I—I can't—I have to—that is—I—I—I need a moment." Erik finally managed to get out, looking like he was about to pass out, throw up, or both. And then, without further ado, Peter's long-lost father abruptly left the room.
Peter wanted to leave too, not to chase after Erik—no thank you—but because he too felt like maybe that was the best way to handle the situation. They should both just leave; go their separate ways and pretend what had just been revealed was still unknown, or at least still in some Schrödinger's cat situation where Peter existed simultaneously both as Erik's son and not.
And besides, Peter didn't know how long he could sit there—alone—staring at the now distorted cutlery and appliances before he promptly pulled all his hair out or did something even more drastic. But if he left the room, he'd probably only run into his father, which wouldn't help anything, so instead, he sat, and he waited like an idiot, fully expecting Erik not to return.
Peter wouldn't blame the man if he fled the country. To be honest, that's probably what Peter would do if he found out that he had a kid that was a spastic, kleptomaniac, freeloader. Anyone would run for the hills; well, anyone that wasn't his mom, but she'd grown attached to him over the years for some inexplicable reason, so she didn't really count.
Peter put his head in his hands, allowing himself just a moment to feel a little bit sorry for himself. He'd earned that hadn't he? He couldn't go to sleep and pretend this night had never happened, so he could at least sit quietly for a second and pretend the world hadn't collapsed around him.
But he couldn't sit there forever, eventually, time would pass . . . even for Peter.
So, with one final sniffle, Peter took a deep breath and let it out, trying to compose himself and gather the strength to get up and not go to bed, all while pretending that the tears in his eyes and his runny nose could somehow all be attributed to a nonexistent cold.
Peter rubbed his eyes once more with the heel of his hands, then he let them fall back to the counter, and he went to stand up, but as Peter lifted his head, his eyes trailed over to the doorway. . . .
And there, they found Erik, staring back at him and filling the space like St. Peter at the pearly gates, or maybe more like Cerberus at the entrance to the underworld.
Peter froze, and the two men stared at one another.
He should say something, probably, break the tension in the air, but for the life of him, Peter couldn't find one single thing to say.
In the end, he didn't need to, for Erik spoke instead.
"Are you—you're my—you're my son? Mine?" Erik asked the superfluous question; his voice wavering on each word.
"I—I—" Peter tried, his voice shaking even more than his father's. "I—I—don't. I don't have . . . to be. I didn't mean to drop this on you, at least not like this. I was waiting until you were ready. Or, I guess until I was."
Erik let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "I never would have been ready."
"Oh." said Peter looking down again. "No—yea, I get it. I'm—I'm a lot. Obviously."
Peter grabbed for his crutches, meaning to hightail it out of there as fast as he could, but his hands were shaking and instead he knocked the crutches over. He closed his eyes and flinched prematurely, expecting to hear a resounding clatter of the crutches making contact with the tiled floor, but the noise never came; and when Peter opened his eyes, his father was in front of him and the crutches were clasped in his hands. He put them aside, and took another step forward so that they were no more than a foot apart.
Other than earlier that evening, Peter didn't think he had ever been this close to his father, at least not since the infamous prison break. He could see every pore in his face, every line, and every scar. His eyes were nothing like Peter's, steel grey to Peter's nearly black. But as he gazed upon the face of his father, he thought . . . just maybe . . . that he could start to see some of his own features reflected back at him, and he wondered—he wondered if Erik could see the same.
"Peter . . . . " said Erik, cautiously like he thought the younger man might run away if given the chance (which yea, he totally would have), "You are not a lot. You are . . . I don't even have words. I didn't—I never expected . . . after I lost my parents, I never thought I would have a family again, and each time I've by some miracle managed to create one, it hasn't lasted . . . . and . . . I never wanted a son."
Peter nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the floor and forcing down the burning in his throat. "C-course. Yea. Understandable. Why would you? I was an accident. I know that."
"That's not—" Erik started, and Peter braved a glance up at his father's face only to see that he looked to be struggling to speak just as much as Peter. "I don't mean to be cruel. What I mean is that even when I wanted to start a family, having a son was always my biggest fear. Of course, that changed when I was staring at my home going up in flames with my daughter inside. But even after that, before Nina was born, I was still terrified of having a son because—because I thought if I had son, he could only turn out like me . . . . but you're proof that I was wrong."
Peter shook his head. "I'm pretty messed up actually. I steal things, like, a lot of things. For no reason. I don't always think before I speak, which is ironic because I've got a lot more time to form my thoughts than other people. I'm terrified of change, which is probably why I still lived in my mom's basement until recently and why I took so long to tell you that you're my father, and I didn't even mean to do that. I've definitely got ADHD. And all that's just the tip of the iceberg because—"
"Peter." Erik spoke, cutting off his son. "I promise you that is nothing compared to my own demons. I don't understand how you could have possibly come from me. I never understood how my daughters could have any part of me either. But I look at you . . . and I see them. Nina she has—had—the same eyes. My mother's eyes. You have them too."
"I do?" Peter asked. He obviously knew his eyes had to come from somewhere, but given that he knew they weren't from his mom's side of the family, he figured he'd never find out for sure where he got them because he never imagined he'd ever get the chance to ask his father.
"Yes. Just the same." Erik replied softly, his mind drifting to a faraway place for a moment before he came back to himself with a deep breath. "You should know, Peter, that I'm—I'm not prepared to be a father again, and in all honestly, I don't think that's ever going to change."
"That's—it's—that's fine." Said Peter with a half shrug/half shiver, though it wasn't, and Erik clearly knew that based on his response.
"No. It's not. You deserve a father. You do. But I can't be that for you. I would only fail miserably as I have time and time again." Erik reached out, like he was going to touch Peter's hair or his face, but he hesitated at the last moment, and instead, he dropped his hand onto Peter's shoulder after an awkward pause. "But the fact that you wish to claim me as your father, well that—that's given me more reason to get up in the morning than I could ever have imagined experiencing again."
Despite Erik's words, part of Peter still wanted to dart away, and pretend his secret was still just that, but Erik's eyes were glistening and the heavy hand on his shoulder kept him in place.
"Do you—would you still let me join you? When you leave?" Peter asked hesitantly, dropping his eyes to the floor as he asked the question, afraid to see the answer in his father's eyes before he spoke.
Erik removed his hand from Peter's shoulder, and ran it through his own hair, looking for a moment like he wanted to tear it out. "There is nothing in this world that would make me happier than to have you by my side, to wake up every day and know you were not far . . . but knowing what I do now—that you're my son—I don't want that. I can't want that, because if you are by my side, then you will never be safe."
"What if I don't care about that?" Asked Peter, wringing his hands together. "I'm pretty good at getting into danger on my own anyway."
Erik smiled sadly back at him. "I'm sure you are, but being on the law enforcement's radar for a bit of petty theft and being the most wanted man in the world are not quite the same thing . . . but if you wanted to leave with me . . ." Erik hesitated, as if he wished he could stop himself from finishing his sentence, but couldn't quite manage it. "I don't know that I'll be strong enough to turn you away."
That statement hung in the air, and neither man seemed quite sure what to do with it.
"I looked for you." Said Peter, playing with the end of his sleeve. "Ten years back, when my mom told me who you were after the incident with the president, I thought I could find you . . . but it turns out that when you're not showing up on the news, you're actually pretty good at not being found. . . . I think you could be good at it again, and I know I stand out, but I don't have to. I—I'm pretty sure I could be good at not being found too."
"I have no doubt that you can do anything you put your mind to, but whatever you decide—to come with me or not—I'll never hide again, not from you. I will always let you know where I am, if you wish to know."
"Really?" Peter asked, finally looking directly into his father's eyes.
Erik nodded. "Really."
Erik took a seat by Peter, reaching over to the now partially melted bowls of ice cream. He straightened the spoons without touching them and then slid one bowl over to Peter.
They sat in companionable silence as they ate, and for once, Peter didn't feel the need to chatter away relentlessly.
A while later, Peter took a final bite of ice cream and went to lift the bowl up to his mouth to drink the remaining melted sugary goodness, but he hesitated, suddenly feeling self-conscious again and childish. He glanced over at his father, but Erik—bowl of ice cream finished—was merely watching him with a warm look on his face, like he was the eighth wonder of the world, so Peter threw his self-consciousness to the wind and downed the liquid ice cream in one fell swoop.
Peter set his bowl aside, letting it rest by Erik's now identical vessel.
"Thanks for the ice cream." Said Peter tentatively, giving one bowl a tentative little spin with the tip of his finger.
"Believe me, it was the very least I could do. I owe you much more than that. And the ice cream wasn't even mine to give." Said Erik, clearly alluding to the fact that Charles paid for everything in this house, down to the clothes on their back, or at least the clothes Peter didn't confiscate himself.
"Well still, it was the best ice cream I've ever had, so you get bonus da—bonus points for that." Said Peter with a cough, covering up his near slip up in calling Erik the D word, even if it would've been indirectly.
"I appreciate that." Said Erik with a stoic nod.
Erik was silent after that, and Peter chanced another look over at him. He appeared to be wrestling with saying something, so given that the shoe had been on the other foot all night (or morning now), Peter decided to throw him a life boat.
"What is it?" asked Peter, worrying his lip a bit.
"Hmm?" said Erik, still lost in his own thoughts.
"You just . . . you look like you want to ask me something or say something at least. I mean, if I go with you, I know we'll have lots of time to chat, and on top of that, I definitely talk too much anyway; but if you've got a question for me, might as well start now. If—if you want to." Said Peter, digging his nails into one hand so fiercely, he wouldn't be surprised if he left a permanent mark.
Erik looked over at his son, and Peter noted that he was grasping one forearm with his opposite hand, possibly as tightly as Peter was closing his own fist.
"Who did you lose?" asked Erik, no hesitation in his voice this time.
"I—what?" asked Peter dumbly.
"You said . . . you said you miss dreams—even nightmares—because you can no longer visit someone? So, who is it that you lost?" asked Erik, his voice somber.
Peter took a breath, not expecting the question, but realizing that they'd have to broach the subject at some point, even if Peter had long since buried her—both literally and figuratively.
"Her name was Wanda . . . She was my twin."